The morning my husband passed away, I could tell something was off. He seemed to be struggling a bit. I’d gotten his meds for him, rubbing his back until we both dozed back off. An hour or so later I was up and moving. He was sitting on the side of the bed, and we were fussing back and forth as I got ready for work.
I wish I had been more insistent on him getting up and going to emergency. 🤷🏾♀️
Deep down I know my husband better than anybody else but God—even his older kids, who did not see him as a man but “dad” and “Bishop”. Even his ex wives who knew him early but not as long; certainly they didn’t decide to stay with him despite how he could be.
Regardless. I knew him and what he didn’t want? Was to go to bed at night in a hospital. I know he sat there and when the Lord called His name, THIS TIME he responded, “Gladly.”
I can’t be mad nor bitter about the call.
Still. I regret not being insistent. He always caved when I was insistent. He knew it, too.