Web Exclusive: Not Drowning Our Sorrows

In October of 2004, I had nine years and nine months sober and wouldn't have given you a plug nickel that I would see ten. My fiancé, who had 31 years sober, had just died of a massive heart attack at our apartment. He had woken with pain in his upper shoulders and back but refused at first to let me take him to the doctor. When I finished my pre-work shower, he called out to admit that yes, he probably did need to see the doctor and at that point I called 911. Thirty minutes later, while taking him down the stairs on the gurney, Bob's heart stopped—and my world came crashing down around me.