Purpose of
Pray for Marion Facebook Page

I never imagined that Friday, February 10th, 2017, would mark the end of my normal life. That morning, as usual, I prepared for my day at the public library where I worked. Marion, my husband, had taken a day off from his retail pharmacy management job to visit the chiropractor. Conveniently, the chiropractor was near my library, so Marion picked me up for lunch. Afterward, he dropped by the library to see the baby chickens we hatched for a children's program.

​

Our evening was typical and comforting in its routine. Marion cooked cheese tortellinis and sugar-free peanut butter cookies. We watched a movie rented from Redbox and returned it just before the due time. As Marion left to return the DVD, I busied myself with laundry and cleaning.

When Marion came back, he tended to his eBay business before joining me in our bedroom, where I was watching "11.22.63" on Hulu. The series, based on Stephen King's book, was part of my preparation for the next book club session, themed around books adapted into movies.

​

Marion played on his phone in bed, complaining about his tablet not charging. I read aloud a funny text from a friend, then settled back to watch my show. Marion, already asleep, hadn't removed his contacts or brushed his teeth. I nudged him awake for these nightly rituals. But as I turned to him, he suddenly collapsed to the floor.

​

My first thought was concern for his back pain, worsened by the fall. I leaned over, shaking his shoulder, expecting a typical delayed reaction to minor injuries he'd had in the past. But this was different. In a panicked attempt, reminiscent of a cartoon, I splashed him with water from a cup on my nightstand, only to realize the horror of the situation.

​

Marion's eyes were open, yet unseeing. His breathing was an unsettling mix of snoring and gurgling. And then, the chilling realization: I was standing in a warm puddle not caused by the cold water I'd fetched. My 40-year-old husband, who had just been joking and laughing, lay dead before me.

In a frenzy, I dialed 911, unlocked the security door for the responders, and changed out of my nightgown. As first responders worked on Marion in our living room, I watched in disbelief, struggling to grasp the reality of his bluish, lifeless body.

​

My mother arrived, and we raced to Memorial Hermann Northeast. I posted a plea for prayers on Facebook, reaching out to close friends and Marion's hard-of-hearing mother. At the hospital, the chaos continued. Marion was whisked away for emergency procedures while I waited, surrounded by family and friends.

​

Doctors tried everything – CPR, defibrillation, advanced life support – but Marion's condition was dire. They prepared me for the worst: even if he survived, he would likely be in a vegetative state. I sank to the floor, overwhelmed by grief and the crushing weight of impending widowhood at 30.

​

The hours stretched on, marked by anxious prayers and the arrival of more loved ones. Marion was transferred to a more advanced facility, requiring LifeFlight, another expense to worry about. Back at home, I gathered essentials for an extended hospital stay, haunted by the medical debris left from the efforts to save Marion.