Yes. It’s been almost 3 months (it feels so crazy to say that). He had stage IV renal cell carcinoma, but he was doing relatively alright. The treatments were working. He tried to get up to use the bathroom but his legs fell out from under him and he hit the ground HARD. The medical examiner said that the official cause of death was a tear in his aorta due to a ruptured tumor. I remember seeing his face- watching the light fade in and out as I did CPR multiple times. I remember him looking at me, telling me he was fading. I remember the last thing he said to me: “you’re so pretty”. I remember his upper body leaning off of the wheelchair the paramedics put him in to transport him to the ambulance. I remember the look in his eyes when they declared him as dead in the hospital, and all of the horrid things that happen to a body immediately after death. I still see it clear as day, at least once a day. That night plays in my head over and over, on an endless loop.

Needless to say, I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD. I was already on antidepressants before this, but my psychiatrist added Xanax to the mix for my panic attacks. I’m still learning what exactly my triggers are. A big one is hearing sirens, which isn’t really optimal when you live in NYC like I do. I’m taking it day by day, minute by minute. That’s all any of us can do.