h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I did not plan it that way. I really just wanted it to be a normal day; dull, even.

Imagine you're 35. Your youthful-looking husband is 49. He snores, so you've nagged him about having it looked into by a Doctor. After about five years nagging, you move to the room across the hall because you decide that ONE of you might as well have a good night's rest.

By the way, a good night's rest is better than good sex if you have trouble getting it (the rest, that is).

I got up and prepared for my morning shower. I noticed a few lights on in the house that normally wouldn't be left on. I called out to my husband. I went looking for him. He was sitting on the couch in the family room, his head leaning back against the top of that couch. He wasn't snoring. He was too pale. He did not shake awake, and he was cool to the touch under his sweatshirt.

I don't remember hearing the sirens as the emergency medical technicians arrived. The 911 operator remained cool enough for me, too. I tried CPR, but I could tell that the air wasn't getting to his lungs; the pressure would build up in his mouth like trying to inflate a balloon, but it wouldn't give. I have no faith in my ability to do CPR. The 911 operator told me that help was there, to let them in. I threw the door open to the garage, and hit the button to open the garage door.

The EMTs started in before the door was all the way up. They had their large cases of equipment. One asked my husband's age, if he'd been sick, if he took medication, and if he was allergic to anything. I don't know how I was able to answer him, heaven knows that's not the kind of thing you practice. They went to work quickly, rolling him to his side and putting some kind of sticky pad on his back. When I ran to get the phone, I knew that because he was cool to the touch, he was "probably" beyond help. I knew it when I tried CPR. None of this means you stop hoping; the paramedics were working hard. One of them told me I could go get dressed. He called me ma'm.

I quickly threw on the sweatpants and sweatshirt I'd worn to do homework the night before, got into my slippers, and grabbed my wallet. I thought that if we were headed to the hospital, I'd need my insurance card. For him. I ran back out to the family room, and stood between the dining room and it. I hopefully asked if I could do anything to help. I felt pins and needles everywhere, face, hands, everything. My ears were ringing.

The paramedic with his back to me had somehow been chosen to tell me. There was nothing they could do. He sounded as though he expected me to be mad at them. I wasn't. I was glad they came; I'd explained to the 911 operator that he was cool to the touch. I'd done that because I knew he was gone, that no amount of hurrying would help; but they had hurried anyway. All I could say was "No, I know; thanks for coming."