The flashbacks are constant.
The one I’m reliving now is my husband coming home from shul Friday night, finding me in tears as I read. “Suri, put that magazine away. Why do they have so many sad articles? They should call it Meis-pacha,” he would joke.
It’s hard to believe it’s been two years. Two years since I found myself alone in a hospital waiting room, two years since the doctor told me that my husband hadn’t had a pulse for over an hour. My baby was only 21 months old and my oldest was only eight, I argued; somehow, they had to figure out how to get that pulse back.
People constantly ask me how I’m doing. (Maybe that’s why I’ve become less social….) I wonder why they ask: Do they want to be assured that their husbands won’t suddenly die on them? Do they want to feel that at least someone has it worse?
A glimpse as to how we’re doing….
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