The last thing I ever saidto him was “I’m falling asleep.”
When the film began, I promptly fell asleep, resting my head on Dave’s shoulder.
Dave became my best friend, and L.A. began to feel like home.
Dave was always a few steps ahead of me.
But I caught up eventually.
Seven and a half years after that first movie, we married.
My husband was my rock.
When I got upset, he stayed calm.
Like all married couples, we had our ups and downs.
Still, Dave gave me the experience of being deeply understood, truly supported and utterly loved.
I thought I’d spend the rest of my life resting my head on his shoulder.
For a change, I was winning, but my eyes kept drifting closed.
“I’m falling asleep,” I admitted, and I curled up on the floor.
At 3:41 p.m., someone snapped a picture of Dave holding his iPad.
I’m asleep on a cushion in front of him.
When I woke up more than an hour later, Dave was no longer in that chair.
I joined our friends for a swim, assuming he’d gone to the gym as he’d planned.
I went back to our room to shower; he wasn’t there, but I was not concerned.
I called our children, then walked out to the beach and joined the rest of our group.
Dave wasn’t there either.
I felt a wave of panic.
Leslye paused, then yelled back, “Where’s the gym?”
I pointed toward some nearby steps and we started running.
We found Dave on the floor by the elliptical machine, his face slightly blue.
Rob took over from me.
A doctor came and took over from him.
The ride in the ambulance was the longest 30 minutes of my life.
After what felt like forever, I was led into a small room.
The doctor came in and sat behind his desk.
I knew what that meant.
And so began the rest of my life.
It is a life I was completely unprepared for.
Telling my children that their father had died.
People speaking of Dave in the past tense.
People telling me, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
