Pulling the plug.

It's been 542 days...

I know because I've counted every single one of them.

& now I have the biggest decision of my life...

Ironic, that decision is whether I should end yours.

I'm sitting here trying to decide which moment of all of this has been the hardest.

Perhaps it's waking up every single day realizing it's not a dream.

Maybe, it was the night it all happened, waiting for you to come home for the dinner I was prepared to surprise you with. In an attempt to start over. A chance for us to let go of all the fights we were having. A chance to move on from losing our baby.

I remember the sound of your voice on the phone that night, I remember the anxiety in your voice. You reminded me that you'd be a little late from work, but I waited.

I waited. For what seemed like forever. Turns out it was.

Maybe it was the feeling of my heart sinking to the bottom of my stomach as blue and red lights flashed in our driveway.

Or the sense of hopelessness as we passed by your mangled Volvo on the way to the hospital. I was too shocked to think. I had too many questions and so little answers. Why were you driving so fast? Why were you in the east side of town?

It could be days three to 145. The days where all those unfamiliar faces would pop up during visiting hours. Telling me how much of a good person you were, or at least, thought you were..

I just wish they'd piss off, they don't really know you.

Yeah I understand they're trying to comfort me, and I know that's not how you'd want me to respond but I don't know if you're here.

I don't know if you're really here, and I don't know how to do it without you.

I'm sitting here, in this stupid hospital trying to pinpoint the exact moment that has been the hardest in all of this.

Maybe it was days 24, 76, 132, 250 and 310. Those days where God seemed to be playing tricks on me. Making me think that you might've wiggled your toes or moved your index finger.

Making me think that there was hope only to be completely discouraged a few days later by the lack of brain activity in your scans.

What are these doctors here for anyway? There isn't anything they can do but hope, just like me. And it seems like I'm the only one who's been hoping for something...for anything...

Maybe the hardest moment is deciding to let you go, and always wondering what if I should've held on just a day longer. Or 2 days, or another 542...

I don't know if I can live with myself without you, I don't know if I want to. I don't know if you'd want me to.

I'm really trying to figure out the hardest moment in all of this. I figured if I can pinpoint a single moment that I've already overcome, then perhaps I should keep going. And keep hoping.

Part of me wants to keep hoping. I mean for goodness sake, you're my wife. You're everything.

But then part of me, part of me knows the truth.

The truth that maybe day 358 might've been the hardest day..

That day I was looking for something as simple as the insurance card, but I ended up finding something more complex..

A letter. Quite a few letters.

You were writing to Jackson again...

But it was different this time. It didn't sound like just a letter. It sounded like everything. Those days where you shut me out, you opened up to him.

I decided to go through those letters. Looking for things that I didn't really want to see, but was just unable to stop myself from searching for.

You talked to him more than you talked to me...

You told him things I never knew. Like the fact that you were feeling lonely even though I was around.

Or how you felt so lost after losing the baby.

These letters reveal so much more than secrets. It was a portal into the life you lived behind closed doors.

And most of all, it gave me the thing I needed the most. Answers.

Like the real reason you were coming home late...

And why you were on the east side of town the night this all happened...

And the question I never thought to ask until now. Was our unborn baby....ours? Or just yours?

I'm sitting in this hospital and I think I've figured out what the hardest moment has been. And it's right now, looking at you, laying there. I know who you're supposed to be, but I don't recognize you.

You're not my wife. You're just a shell of the woman who spoke the words "for better or for worse."

& although you're here being kept alive by these machines, I think you died long ago.

I loved who you were but I don't know who you are. So I'm letting you go.