This is it

I remember that exact moment, “this is it”.

Everything blurred together — flashing lights, muffled voices, the buzz of panic in my ears.
My head was spinning.
The room was a flurry of stethoscopes, beeping monitors, and urgent voices shouting:
"No vitals!"
"Start a line!"
"Who came in with this patient?"

"The wife — get the wife!"

I stepped forward, clutching my giant bag of medical records like some kind of lifeline.
"He’s a DNR," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
And just like that, every head in the room snapped toward me — startled, bewildered — like I had said something they weren’t expecting.

"He’s a DNR. What’s your plan? Do you have vitals?"

Someone — a nurse, maybe a doctor, I don’t even know — asked if I was sure.

Was I sure?

Of course, I was sure.
We had talked about this moment for months.
We had walked through every heartbreaking “what if,” laid every fear bare, and made every plan together.
This was it.

I remember the female ER doctor pulling me aside, gently but firmly.
She explained the numbers:
Blood pressure of 42/24.
Core temperature of 92 degrees.
Dangerously low. Dangerously cold.

I rattled off the backstory — our crash course in MSA, the search for a genetic marker, the biopsy for amyloid in his liver and heart, the non-stop battle with orthostatic syncope.
I recounted the last few hours:
Blood pressure dropping, passing out with the slightest movement.
Ticking off every moment like I was reading off a report — all while trying not to crumble inside.

She asked a few more questions.
I answered them all on autopilot.

“Let me try one more x-ray”, she says. “I think I know what the problem is. Can we do that?" I looked over to my love and he gives a slight nod. “Hurry …”

And then?
"We need to insert a central line. The nurse will escort you out."

Escort me out?
Are you kidding me?
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to stay.
But I knew — I had to trust them now.

The waiting room at 1 a.m. is a whole different kind of lonely.
The world outside is asleep.
Inside, you sit — staring at bad TV talk shows, cheesy infomercials, ancient magazines — trying to piece together a new version of your life you don't want to face.

You start running the emergency list in your head:
Who do I call first?
Who wakes up the kids?
Who calls the rest of the family?
Everyone had an assignment, a name to reach out to.
It was all organized — until it wasn’t.
Until sitting there made it all feel real.

And that slow, warm wave of panic starts creeping up your spine...
"Don't cry. Don't cry. Crying means the panic wins."
You coach yourself through the breathing, the shaking hands, the pounding heart.
You think about the dog — Should Hazel be here?
You question everything you thought you were prepared for.

It’s chaos.
And it’s crushing.

Then — music to my ears:
"Mrs. Shearer? He’s stable for now. Come on back. The doctor will see you."

I don't remember standing up.
I just remember moving — getting back to him as fast as I could.

I leaned over the bed, trying to wrap myself around him, to shield him somehow.
I whispered in his ear, "I'm here. It's okay."

His eyes — wide, confused, trying to piece it all together — locked onto mine.
And then, out of the blue, in that beautiful, quirky way that only he can, he says:

"I just realized... I never wrote out directions for you for the TV, the surround sound, and all the remotes."

Even in the middle of his own battle, he was worried about me not being able to run the man cave.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

I made him promise — right then and there — that he would write it all down as soon as he felt better.

(And just for the record?
It’s still not done.)