Mouth-Breathing Is Better Than Not Breathing

Last week I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.
How annoying, I thought, but then I realized it was much too quiet so I laid still and listened.

Now, it's not that Brett is a loud breather. When he is upright, moving around, you'd never know he was breathing at all but when he lays down, you can hear the oxygen fighting it's way through his nose-hairs while he's sleeping.

I laid still and listened to the nothingness in our dark house. I didn't like it. I almost gave up my curiosity to try to fall asleep again when I realized I didn't hear the methodical, deep nasal inhale of my sleeping giant.
Is Brett breathing? I asked myself.
I waited as long as what I thought to be a full cycle of a resting inhale-exhale before fear started to bubble in my stomach. I didn't hear his breath. I put my hand on his chest and it did not rise or fall. Blinded with panic I screamed, "Brett!" to which he responded with a very casual, "Yes?"

Relief and anger washed over me.
"Ugh. I thought you were dead." and I rolled over on my side facing away from him.
"Nah." he exhaled and lazily pat my shoulder before drifting off again seconds later. I listened to his noisy nose breathing while waiting for my adrenaline wear off. What would I have done if he was dead? I wondered. I keep a pair of pants on the floor by the bed for emergencies just like this one. I've always worried about having to escape a fiery blaze or fight off an intruder in my sleeping loolies. While I thought these things, he stopped breathing again. I craned my neck to look over my shoulder at him and I listened. I'm certain he wasn't breathing. I rolled over to face him and I stared at his silhouette, waiting for the rise of an inhale but it never came.

A tiny surge of worry ignited and with much annoyance I said, "Brett, you're not breathing."
"Yes I am."
"No. You're not. You're breathing funny."
"It's ok. I'm fine." and then he conked out again. I decided I would just have to let him die because I certainly couldn't wake him up every six minutes. He had to work in the morning.

So instead I laid wide-awake and thought about the trajectory of my life after my husband died just five months into marriage. A widow at twenty-eight. A single mother of two hairy girls. Then I made myself sad because not only did I think about having to date again (yick), I thought about life without Brett. I've lived most of my life without Brett, so I knew exactly what to imagine; homesickness.

He woke up happily the next morning, as he always does, and padded around the bedroom, doing his "morning dance" for the girls. He writes a new pup-themed tune each morning and performs it for an unimpressed audience. I laid in bed, exhausted from a night full of terror. Loving too many more creatures so much just might be the death of me. I've just got too much to lose.