I shift my legs and kneel to the side, my thigh pressing against the cold tile of the kitchen floor. I sat just like this in his hospital room next to his bed when I was too tired to stand. As Debbie paced back and forth telling me exactly how things were going to go after I told the doctor to stop resuscitation efforts. I don’t remember the exact things she said; all I know is it sounded like the white noise I heard earlier at the bar tonight. Muffled musings drowned out by the sound of a monitor flatlining.

After he died, it wasn’t exactly like planning a wedding—even though you call some of the same types of vendors (flowers, caterers, etc.), it’s expensive, and there’s a lot to organize. And I wouldn’t go as far as saying Debbie enjoyed making Decker’s arrangements, but she certainly plowed through them in a way that seemed like she was worried about what others would think if she chose an ill-fashioned urn or just a run-of-the-mill mausoleum for her one and only son.

I take my finger off the engraving and realize then that it has gone tingly. In fact, all my fingers have. Like pins and needles poking and prodding my extremities.

No, no, no, I say to myself, refusing to go there right now. There being fetal position on the floor where Casey will eventually find me when she gets up to refill her water, probe me with questions, and vow never to leave me alone again. AKA: the thing I’ve wanted to avoid since day one with her as my roommate.

Though I’m not there yet, the last bad episode I had, I was in the grocery store getting lunch meat for the week. Just out of nowhere, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been on an airplane when oxygen masks had to descend, but I imagine what I felt is similar to that: a change in cabin pressure followed by pure panic. I ditched the roast beef and cheese on a shelf in the chip aisle and ran out the exit, where I proceeded to sit on the curb and tuck my head between my knees. I rocked back and forth, ignoring all the people who asked me if I was okay. Eventually I got back in my car, popped one of my prescribed emergency pills, and the little black spots I was seeing started to go away. Once the meds fully kicked in, it was off I went to pick up my dry cleaning. A relief? Sure. I had errands to run. But scary to think the pills made it feel like my panic attack never happened; like it wasn’t real.

I lay the urn back on the packing peanuts for the moment and grab my purse off the counter. I haven’t tapped into my “emergency stash” in years because I’ve been good—really good—since the grocery store meltdown. But today, my world has changed. I’m scared I won’t be able to stay glued together much longer. So I unzip the hidden pocket in my purse and pull out the last two now-expired antidepressants to my name and wash them down with the wine on the counter from earlier in the night. My tongue puckers and I wipe my wine-stained lips with a dishrag.