Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119093 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
The kids, evidently too worried and scared to argue, run off.
“Bree, I need you to call 9-1-1.” Peter’s face is ashen, and his voice is breathy, like it’s hard to even speak. I grab my phone from the end table and then do as he says and call the emergency number. As I’m telling them all that I know—my husband is having chest pain and says it’s his heart—my eyes stay on Peter, praying they get here quickly. I’m giving them our address when Peter looks at me with tears in his eyes, mouthing I love you.
His eyes close, and I scream into the phone to hurry. They ask me to stay on the line, so I put them on speaker, so I can use two hands to grab my husband’s shoulders and try to wake him up. “Pete, please, wake up. Help is on the way. Just hang in there…”
His body jerks slightly and then goes still, and I don’t know how I know, but I know his heart is no longer beating. I can feel it, as if my own is connected to his. As if our souls are one and he’s taking mine with him.
I lay my head on his chest, trying to hear something, even the faint thump, thump of a heartbeat, but there’s nothing.
“Pete, please don’t do this,” I cry, begging my husband to come back. Unable to sit and do nothing, I try to press my palms against his chest like I’ve seen them do in those doctor shows.
But nothing happens.
The paramedics arrive, and everything from that point is a blur of chaos. They try for so long to resuscitate him, but it’s clear he’s already gone. My husband—the love of my life—and my children’s father, isn’t going to wake up. As realization settles in, I break down, sobbing uncontrollably. One of the paramedics pulls me into her arms to comfort me while another explains that they will be transporting Pete to the hospital since that’s standard procedure.
The paramedic asks if there’s someone she can call, and that’s when I remember our kids are here. I pull out of her embrace and run into Miles’s room first, where I find both kids huddled together, my son’s arms wrapped protectively around his sister. Both are crying softly, and when they look up at me, I can see it in their eyes—they know.
But still, I say it—more for me than them. As if I need to say and hear the words to accept that they’re real. “Daddy’s gone,” I tell them, dropping to the floor and pulling my babies into my arms. “He went to heaven,” I choke out.
The kids and I sit together in our silent, tear-filled grief for God knows how long, until my grandma shows up for our traditional Christmas breakfast.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, concern etched in her features. “Was the ambulance leaving from here?” From the time I was five years old, my grandma—or as my kids refer to her, Nana—raised me as her own when my parents were deemed unfit. Since grandpa had passed before I was born, it was always just the two of us up until the time I met Peter.
“Nana!” Evie cries, getting up and running to her. “Daddy’s gone!” She throws her tiny arms around her great-grandma’s neck and sobs. “His heart hurt him, and he went to heaven.”
My grandma’s eyes meet mine, liquid filled to the brim, and I nod in confirmation before my own tears well up again and I hide my face in Miles’s neck, wanting to go to sleep and wake up to find all of this was a nightmare.
Bree,
If you’re reading this letter, that means I’m gone, and for that, I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry for leaving you, and I’m sorry for breaking your heart.
This is my second letter to you since finding out about my heart condition. That first letter has since been destroyed, replaced by this most current one. My plan was to write you a new letter each year, and I had hoped to write more than just two. Apparently, God…or fate…had a different plan.
It sucks writing this letter to you as much as it sucked the first time I wrote one, but it means that I was given another precious year with you and our kids, and for that, I am extremely grateful.
I know what you’re thinking… What heart condition? When I first experienced some exercise-induced symptoms, I mentioned it to my doctor and he had me go in for testing. Once my heart condition was confirmed, I debated telling you—and it tore me up not to—but I didn’t want you to have to carry the weight of my diagnosis on your shoulders. I expect you’re angry with me for keeping you in the dark, but every day, I had to live with wondering when my last day would come, and I didn’t want you to live with that same fear.