10/15/2026
**Three years ago today, I watched the love of my life and best friend take his last breath.**
And there are moments from that night that I don't think will ever leave me.
For two weeks, I sat in a hospital watching my husband fight for his life.
Two weeks of fear. Two weeks of exhaustion. Two weeks of holding on to every little bit of hope I could find.
My husband, Dale, had asthma. His greatest fear in life was not being able to breathe. He knew that feeling of suffocating, of desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.
And there I was, watching him experience the very thing he feared most.
There are some things in life that you simply cannot prepare yourself for. Watching someone you love struggle to breathe is one of them.
After two weeks, his pulmonologist told us it was time to intubate him.
I remember seeing him afterward.
For the first time in two weeks, he looked peaceful.
My husband was finally resting.
And as much as I wanted to feel relieved, there was this unbearable sadness underneath it all. Because I knew that peacefulness had come at a terrible price.
I sat beside him with our kids.
People had started sharing their favorite memories of Dale on Facebook. Stories about the things he'd done, the laughs they'd shared, the friendships he'd built, and the impact he'd made on their lives.
So I started reading them to him.
One after another.
I wanted him to hear how loved he was.
I wanted him to know how many people cared about him.
And maybe, somewhere deep inside, I was hoping those stories would give him something to hold on to.
I don't know if he could hear me.
But I read them as though he could.
And I tried so hard not to cry.
Our kids were sitting there with me, and I felt like I had to be the strong one. Like somehow, if I could just keep my voice steady, I could hold all of us together.
The nurses tending to Dale were crying.
The doctors were crying.
And I just kept reading.
I swallowed the tears. I steadied my voice. I kept going.
Because if my husband could hear me, I didn't want him to hear me falling apart.
I wanted him to hear love.
That evening, after so many nights sleeping in a hospital chair, I finally decided to go home.
Just for one night.
I told myself I needed to shower. I needed to sleep in my own bed. I needed a few hours to rest so I could come back and keep being strong the next morning.
I went home. I showered. I got ready for bed.
And then I sat down on the couch.
I remember staring at the wall.
Just staring.
My body was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep.
I can't explain what happened next.
There wasn't a phone call. Nobody told me to come back.
But suddenly, I was on my feet.
I grabbed my things and drove straight back to the hospital.
Something inside me knew I needed to be with him.
When I returned, the doctors handed me the do-not-resuscitate paperwork.
I knew what those papers meant.
I knew they wouldn't be asking me to sign them if they believed he was going to get better.
And somehow, after spending two weeks desperately hoping I could bring my husband home, I was being asked to sign papers acknowledging that we were nearing the end.
How do you prepare yourself for that?
How do you accept that the person you planned to grow old with is about to leave this world?
I signed them.
About an hour later, Dale's heart began to fail.
And shortly afterward, the medical team came in to turn off the ventilator.
I held his hand.
The same hand I'd held through our life together.
The hand that had held mine through so many ordinary days I never imagined I'd give anything to have back.
And I watched my husband take his last breath.
**His last breath.**
The man whose greatest fear was not being able to breathe.
The man I would have done absolutely anything to save.
The man I loved.
Gone.
I have replayed that night in my mind more times than I can count.
What if I had stayed home?
What if I had fallen asleep?
What if I hadn't listened to that feeling telling me to go back?
I don't know why I couldn't stay on that couch.
But I have always felt that somehow, Dale was calling me back.
That he didn't want to leave this world without me there.
And that somehow, I knew.
There's something else about that night that I haven't been able to shake in three years.
Two nights before Dale died, I noticed a tiny gnat flying around his ICU bed.
I remember looking at it and thinking, *How is there a gnat on the seventh floor of a hospital?*
Such a strange, insignificant little thing in the middle of something so enormous.
I didn't think much more about it.
Until the night he died.
As I held Dale's hand and watched the color slowly leave his body, that little gnat appeared again.
It flew around my face.
Then it landed on my right cheek.
And then on my lower lip.
Right there.
In the moments I was saying goodbye to my husband.
And here's something about Dale that makes this even harder for me to put into words.
**He had a tattoo on his arm that said, "Just Breathe."**
Just Breathe.
Of all the things he could have chosen to permanently put on his body.
A man who had spent his life afraid of not being able to breathe.
A man who had just spent two weeks fighting for every breath.
And the very last thing he did was breathe.
I have spent three years trying to make sense of those moments.
Maybe some people will think the gnat was just a gnat.
And maybe it was.
But when you've loved someone with your whole heart, and you've watched them leave this world, you hold on to the things that feel like pieces of them.
You hold on to anything that makes the distance between you feel a little smaller.
And today, three years later, I'm sitting at my computer writing this.
Crying. Remembering. Missing him.
I haven't seen a gnat in months.
And just now, as I was writing about him...
**One appeared.**
I just sat here looking at it.
Three years later, and somehow that tiny little thing can bring me right back to the seventh floor of that hospital.
Back to his bedside.
Back to his hand in mine.
Back to the last moment I got to be his wife with him still here beside me.
And through the tears, all I can think is...
**I miss you too, Dale.**
For those of you in Maple Grove who never had the opportunity to know my husband, Dale was the man who started Farrell's eXtreme Bodyshaping in our community.
He built something that has become so much more than a gym.
He brought people together. He created friendships. He gave people a place to challenge themselves, believe in themselves, and encourage one another.
And after losing him, I began to understand just how much that community mattered.
Because when your world falls apart, sometimes you don't even know where to begin putting yourself back together.
You lose your routines. You lose your energy. You lose pieces of who you were.
And sometimes you feel guilty for even trying to find happiness again.
There have been days when walking into Farrell's and spending 45 minutes moving my body has been the only time I could get out of my own head.
Days when I didn't need anyone to fix anything.
I just needed somewhere to go.
Somewhere to feel normal.
Somewhere to be surrounded by people and remember that there was still life happening around me, even when part of mine had stopped.
If you've ever lost someone you love, you probably understand that grief doesn't end when everyone else goes back to their lives.
It follows you into the quiet moments.
Into the holidays.
Into the changing seasons.
Into the smell of the air on a particular morning.
And sometimes, three years later, it finds you sitting at your computer, crying over a tiny gnat.
I share this because I know I'm not the only person in our community carrying this kind of loss.
And if you're struggling to find your way back to yourself, I hope you give yourself permission to start somewhere.
You don't have to be strong every day.
You don't have to have it figured out.
And you don't have to become the person you were before your loss.
I'm learning that myself.
Today, I continue to carry on the community Dale started. Some days that responsibility feels like a gift. Other days, the weight of missing him feels almost unbearable.
But every time I see people encouraging each other, laughing together, or showing up when life is hard, I see a little bit of what he left behind.
And I hope he'd be proud.
**Three years, Dale.**
Three years since I held your hand and watched you leave this world.
Three years of missing your voice, your presence, and the life I thought we'd have together.
I wish I could have one more conversation with you.
One more ordinary day.
One more chance to hold your hand without knowing it would be the last time.
I miss you more than words will ever be able to explain.
That little visitor today was your way of reminding us that we 'haven't gotten rid of you that easily' ;)
**I miss you too, Dale. ❤️**
*Just Breathe.*
