The terrible, horrible dream.

Last night I had a terrible nightmare about Mike dying. He got an emergency call about a construction worker who was entrapped at a work site, someone who was stuck inside a big hole of dirt. When he got there, the illegal Mexican immigrant was just climbing out of the big dirt hole. He was afraid of being deported or facing jail and criminal charges... and he was waving a gun around. He shot Mike in the chest, right next to his heart, and Mike was killed immediately.
(Mike said that in real life, this kind of non-emergency "rescue call" situation would have been a police problem, not a paramedic problem. But it was just realistic enough to have me good and scared, and really sad.)
He went to work that morning, and never came home again. I was beyond devastated. In the dream, I saw it all happen a little later, through the grainy black-and-white videotaped recording from a police cruiser. It was so, so awful. I had to make funeral arrangements. Then I had to speak at the funeral. I said something like "seven and a half years isnt nearly enough time to love someone, when you are supposed to be together for a lifetime." Then I had to bury my husband, and figure out how to be a widow and a single mom with two, but very-soon-to-be three, little kids. How was I going to have another baby without Mike around to help and love and support us? How were we going to make it without him? Pay the bills? Keep our house? What were we going to DO? I spent days and days locked in my room, hiding under blankets, bawling my eyes out, wishing that my heart could be ripped out, too.
Then I woke up, and knew it wasn't real.