Today, February 5, it has been one month since my beloved husband let go on January 5th. I stayed the night with him the night before at the Hospice, holding his hand all.night.long. They kept telling me all day the 4th that “your husband is ‘close’ and not to expect him to live much longer.”

But as usual, my testadura — the ever stubborn — defied prognostications. He lived through the night, and died the next morning when I had to let go when the nurses needed to adjust him in his bed.

Today, one month on, how am I doing?
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One month ago, Thursday, December 31, which is usually during non-pandemic times a festive party time, instead, I arrived at the hospital at 7am to be with my husband. He had been hospitalized since the Sunday before with a nasty internal bacterial infection. I finally broke through the “Covid no visitor” policy since my husband was close to death.

I found him in really bad shape, even worse than when I left him the night before. He was having a lot of trouble breathing and he had a nasogastric (NG) tube in his nose, down his throat.

Where did that come from? Why was that there? Thus began a terribly difficult and fateful day of decision-making.
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