One morning in 2015, I was at work while my husband was at home washing dishes. He had the day off. Suddenly, he felt as if a ball was stuck in his throat.
He called me and said, “Something is wrong. You need to come home and take me to the hospital.”
I rushed home in ten minutes and found him standing outside with the door locked, waiting for me. We drove straight to the ER. Doctors discovered his aorta had ruptured, and only a blood clot was keeping him alive.
He was taken into an eight-hour emergency surgery. The doctors told me he would most likely not survive.
The next morning, after spending the night at the hospital, I went home to rest. When I entered the kitchen, I saw a card on the counter. On the front were the words, “I love you! Always, Ray.” It felt like the message a dying man leaves for his wife. Inside, he had written:
“I’ve been feeling like this for some time now. I don’t know what it is, and I always thought I could handle it. But how I feel this morning makes me think otherwise. If I survive this, I’m never going to keep anything to myself again. I’ll see the doctor often as well. But if I don’t, you continue living like I never existed. I did this to myself, so don’t ever feel bad for me. You have access to everything, and I’ll continue to love you if there’s a chance to love anyone beyond this world. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I know you’d give the kids the best. I love you all.”
The next day, he was confirmed dead at just 37. It was the saddest day of my life.
It’s been ten years, and it still feels like yesterday. Aside from leaving everything to us, he surprised me with so much. He took out policies and made investments we are still benefiting from. That’s how much my Ray loved me. I visited his grave this afternoon and felt the need to share this memory. I still love him, and I hope we meet again.
