The last time I saw my husband. His whole body was cold. Except where his heart was. I put my face on his chest where his heart was and I just held him.

I touched him all over. His lips, his hair, his skin. I remember consciously doing it. I wanted to remember him. And exactly how he felt and looked and smelled. I was trying to take him all in. It was my last chance.

When I drove to the hospital, I had no gas in the car. I barely made it. But I did. The car died right when I pulled in front of the ER. Driving there, I was thinking maybe he lost a leg. That we could get through that. He'd be miserable and hate being immobile but I would stand strong with him. I would help him. I would take care of him.

He was invincible to me. I never worried about him when was on the bike. I never thought twice before riding it.

When I got to the hospital, this social worker was already waiting for me. I didn't know she was a social worker at first. She told me that my husband was in emergency surgery. So I asked her for what? What kind of surgery? What were they operating on?

She wouldn't tell me. She said a doctor would be with me shortly. That she was not authorized to tell me. No one told me anything. They refused to. I remember looking around that room they had put me in, thinking to myself that this wasn't an abnormal waiting room. It was a normal suite with intentionally uplifting hand-painted murals on the walls.

I tried to call everyone - my family, my friends - while I was waiting for the doctor. Yes. I had to go tell everyone. No one was answering their phones. I couldn't reach anyone.

I kept trying to call my mother-in-law and my mom and his father and my stepdad and finally I even tried his sister, who was not my biggest fan. She answered. She was in the car with the kids. I could tell I was on speaker phone.

I told her "Dayna. Pick up the phone. Take me off the speakerphone" so she did. I told her she needed to find CC. That Josh had met with an accident and we were at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. That he was in emergency surgery and they they needed to come. All she said was, "I need to call my mom." And then we hung up.

It took forever for the doctor to see me. The social worker was running all over the place searching for any doctor that she could to come and calm me down. I was upset obviously. I was on the verge of becoming violent.

The doctor came in before my mom or anyone else showed up. The doctor who told me. She looked super young. She was this tiny Asian girl. With small hands. In scrubs.

She said, "We tried for over an hour but unfortunately, he didn't make it." Confused and offended, I said, "What do you mean he didn't make it?" She said, "He passed away."

I couldn't see anyone after that. Everything became blurry. I guess I started flailing or something because I remember her putting her hands up and backing away from me. Then she just disappeared. I never saw her after that. She left me with the two social workers and I sat on the floor, cried for a while. I don't know for how long. It could have been 5 minutes, or it could have been an hour. And then I sat there alone for a long time.

Alone in the middle of what I now knew as a room designated for this purpose. They just sat there and watched as this human being in front of them shifted into a hollow and meaningless vessel. They were fascinated as they witnessed my heart and soul become glazed over by permanent darkness.

This was despair. Everything inside me and everything I was, changed in those minutes. Forever. I've never been the same again.

I don't remember what I did until my mom showed up. Everything just... stopped. They sat and watched me disintegrate until my mother flew through the door, frantically making a dramatic grand entrance, and her face did that thing she does when she's feeling like a victim. That appalled, shocked and hurt look she has perfected over the years. I've only seen that look a handful of times in my life. It's the look of fear.

Desperation and fear. His mother came a little bit after my mom showed up. My mom came with my brother. I had never seen my brother that way before. He was vulnerable. He's never vulnerable. He's a smooth talker with a huge ego. But that night, he had no ego. He had frantic uncertainty in his eyes.

I just glanced up and looked at her, and said, "He's dead." 

We had to go down the halls. And down the elevator. Through more halls. To the lower level where no one goes. Or wants to go. I felt like he was there. I was talking to him in my head. It felt like we were going together. He was walking with me to visit and identify his body. It wasn't pretty. Just steel doors all over a wall. Bodies on top of bodies. Storage for discarded humans basically.

Nothing about the way his body was treated was okay. It was so dishonorable. It was harsh.

If I saw him in a room in the hospital, it would have been different. There would have been more care. Kindness. Sensitivity. But seeing him down there. He was just a number to them. Just like the cops. Just another one who bit the dust. Just an object. It disgusts me that their behavior implied that his life had little meaning and value. He was so much more. He was worthy. And honorable. He deserved respect. And I did my best to instill that in people. But people are disgusting.

I wanted to represent him well. His life meant everything to me.

Blunt trauma. They said they worked on him for an hour before they called it. His chest and stomach. They didn't really give a lot of answers or information at the hospital. But you know me. I made it my mission to understand it.

I made my mom track down the paramedics who were first on the scene. And then I went to talk to them. And I read their reports. Then, I eventually had my lawyer get the doctor's reports and official medical reports. And I studied them for weeks.

Blunt trauma to his chest and stomach. His liver was punctured. His lungs were collapsed. He had a heart attack basically. And something cut his arm very badly and his torso. His intestines were coming out a little. And his lower leg was "disfigured".

The car turned left in front of him. And he hit the car and flew over the top. And the bike kept going. It slid 50 ft they said. It was found 50ft away from his body.

They tell me he didn't feel any pain. That he went quickly. But I don't feel that. I instinctively felt that it must've hurt. That he suffered. Whether or not he was conscious enough or at the time people got to him, I don't know. But I don't feel that he didn't feel anything.

No. They took him to the hospital and opened him up to work on his heart. And then found all the other things. The lungs, the liver. They said, it was too much. None of it makes sense.

He didn't go quickly. He suffered. And they are just lying. That's the only thing that makes sense.

My husband was 5'11 and 200 lbs strong, tanned, sleek muscle. He was 46 years old but didn't look a day over 35. He had an insatiable love for life and a genuine passion for people. He was a superman to me. And he wouldn't have gone easily or without one hell of a fight. When the unbreakable break, it's never painless.

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