April 8, 1989. I had just returned to campus in Chico from spring break in Ensenada, Mexico.
Tan, rested, ready to party, my roommate and I headed out for a night on the town.
Bob and I met that night. Fell in love that night. Haven't been apart since that night.
After college, we got married. We had two beautiful children. We bought a house. We took vacations.
And now, I have to figure out how to do this without him --without the other part of me.
Without my We.
As I lie on this godforsaken chofa bed in a hospital room Bob won't get to leave, I can imagine millions of scenarios, but none of them are my life without my husband. None are my children without their father.
And this precarious position between keeping him comfortable and having him coherent is a level of hell Dante neglected to mention.
I used to worry about children not coming with instruction manuals. Now, I wish there was one for life and death.