At first, she said she was dizzy, but 10 minutes later, she couldn't stand.
The ambulance came quickly, but not quickly enough.
It had started normally enough.
***
I still remember sitting in that hospital hallway, watching doctors rush past while my mother held Emma, our youngest daughter, against her shoulder.
Then a doctor walked toward me with that look people recognize before a single word is spoken.
Sarah was gone.
Afterwards, everything became a blur.
My mother handled almost everything. She organized the funeral, made meals, helped with the kids, and kept telling me not to worry about anything except grieving.
Sarah was gone.
At the time, I was grateful because I could barely function.
I was so deep in grief that I wasn't eating properly, and I barely slept.
At Sarah's funeral, my oldest son, Mason, had to grab my arm because my legs nearly gave out while I was walking toward the front row. But life kept moving whether I was ready or not to be a widower with five kids.
The kids still needed breakfast.
Homework still had to be signed.
So I learned how to survive.
Mason, had to grab my arm.
I learned how to braid my daughters' hair from online videos, how to cook proper meals, and how to rock my youngest son after nightmares when he cried, asking for his mom.
Every day felt exhausting.
