For three and half days she was in ICU after I found her unconscious in the bathtub early that Sunday morning. I initially had some hope that she would recover, but even that was stolen away when I was told I would soon have to make a decision about whether or not to keep her on life support. I was sure this had to be a nightmare. I’ve never seen anyone attached to more machines. I’ve never seen so many IVs in one person. She regained consciousness a few times, but she couldn’t talk with the ventilator. The only communication we had was her squeezing my hand in response to my voice.

So much of the last few hours of her life is a blur, but I will forever be haunted by what I saw in that room. The person I love most, laying there helpless and hopeless. When she was gone time stood still. I heard horrible, ghastly wailing cries and it took me awhile to realize that those sounds were coming from me. As if my screams could somehow bring her back. But they couldn’t. The hospital staff let me stay with her for about 2 hours. When they finally came to take her away I had to pry her hand open to take my hand out of hers.

I’ve been alone now for 4 months. I know it's March, but somehow I'm still stuck in November. I can’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time. When I do sleep I’m tortured by nightmares. I wake up confused, and panicked trying to find her, and then I remember.

My days are monotonous and agonizingly lonely as I sit and stare at the wall. On a good day I might read for a little while and escape to some other time and place. I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel crippled and stripped of my identity. I feel like I failed her. Friends call occasionally to ask how I am. I’m never sure how to answer that question so I just lie and say, “I’m okay.” But I’m not okay; I don’t even know how to begin to be okay. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to be left alone when I’m only 33. We only had 8 years together.

Not a single day has gone by that I don’t long to be with her. I hate being stuck in a world where she isn’t. I hate living in a place where people say, “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.” She was my friend, my best friend – but it was much, much more – and it angers me when it seems as though others are minimizing the extent of my grief. They have no idea what this feels like.

Every nerve in my body feels raw, screaming out for relief and begging for an end to come to the torment. But it doesn’t end. I’m starting to doubt that it ever will.