Our last normal day was a Friday.

I drove our daughter to preschool and Ted rode his bike to work downtown. I had a freelance proofreading assignment to finish so I made a second cup of coffee. I wanted to get the work off my plate because we were leaving for a week-long trip to Hawaii on Sunday. My to-do list for our family trip to Hawaii seemed manageable — my sunglasses, caftans and bikinis were packed. As I was counting the swim-shirts and sun hats, I had the strangest feeling that we wouldn’t be needing these things.

I don’t remember what I cooked for dinner that night, although I do remember we ate together, like we usually do. Our daughter was excited for a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese the next day. Maybe Ted gave her a bath, or maybe I gave her a bath and he put her to sleep. We probably read The Rescuers, her favorite book, and she fell asleep.

After Mabel was tucked in bed, we adjourned to our sacred chillout time. I was perched on the edge of our sofa when Ted said “I’m going to the emergency room tomorrow.” I remember the look of concern on his face. I remember I was drinking tea. I remember being annoyed that he would be at the E.R. all day, because that’s how it goes, and that I would be the one to take the dog to the sitter.

I knew in that moment he was right to take charge of his health. After sleeping next to a sweaty, sleepless partner for weeks, I knew how bad his nights were. I wanted Ted to feel better. A resident in the E.R. could see something his physician hadn’t. Soon enough we’d be paddle-boarding and eating Spam musubi and drinking mai tais, just like we planned.

But that’s not what happened. There was no paddle-boarding, no Spam musubi, no mai-tais. Instead there was a text message late the next afternoon that said “Call me when you’re not driving.” Of course I was driving. I parked the car on Ocean Avenue and when Ted answered the phone he said “It’s bad.”

It was a rainy Saturday around dusk. Our normal days had already reached their end.