Six months. Twenty-six weeks. One hundred eighty-two days. Four thousand three hundred sixty-eight hours.
That’s how long my husband survived after collapsing in the Madrid airport when an aneurysm in his brain ruptured.
Six months of ricocheting between hope and despair, never sure if he would make it through the day.
Twenty-six weeks of advocating for the very best care possible and hoping for a medical miracle.
One hundred eighty-two days of battling emotional, mental and physical exhaustion, desperately hoping he could be saved, only to learn there was no hope for any meaningful recovery.
Four thousand three hundred and sixty-eight hours of unspeakable heartbreak.
Six months. Twenty-six weeks. One hundred eighty-two days. Four thousand three hundred sixty-eight hours.
That’s how long Number Four and I have been together after meeting early this summer.
Six months of exploring a new relationship.
Twenty-six weeks of allowing myself to open up to the possibility of love again.
One hundred eighty-two days of melding two lives, two families, and many friends into one shared life.
Four thousand three hundred and sixty-eight hours of an absolute abundance of joy and happiness.
Both six-month periods will be forever etched in my psyche. They stand in sharp contrast as the most difficult and the most surprising periods of my life so far. They symbolize endings and beginnings, letting go while still holding close, trying again while still honoring the past, grief and joy, the past and the future. 
They have taught me more about myself, my family, and the world around me than I ever could have imagined possible.
These two blocks of my life are a constant reminder to me that none of us knows where our life will take us. They’ve helped inspire me to live each day without regret, to make time for those I hold close, and to savor life. Above all, they have taught me what it means to love and be loved, and as difficult as it has been, I’m grateful for both experiences.
