The music stopped.
Guests gathered around us, their expressions filled with fear.
I knelt beside my husband and touched his face.
“Karl, sweetheart, can you hear me?”
He didn’t respond.
I kept calling his name.
I remember emergency responders arriving and beginning treatment.
I remember their urgent voices.
I remember standing helplessly beside them, praying Karl would open his eyes.
One responder told me they suspected cardiac arrest.
He was transported to the hospital.
Later, a doctor confirmed that my husband had passed away following a heart attack.
I couldn’t believe it.
Only hours earlier, we’d promised to spend the rest of our lives together.
Now I was being told that our future was over before it had even begun.
Four days later, I buried him.
I handled the funeral arrangements because there seemed to be nobody else willing to take responsibility.
Our friends attended.
My family came.
