Monday, March 27, 8:30 PM. Amy.

Brewer fell this morning and he hasn’t woken up. I’m afraid he’s not going to wake up.

It happened outside the barn as he was brushing down Wizard. The horses got spooked—it was a dangerous moment—but Claire regained control of them and put them back in the barn.

He’s fallen a few times in the last few months. The lights just sort of go out and he crumples down. But he was stronger then, his symptoms were less obvious, and he would wake back up in a few minutes.

This time, he wouldn’t wake up. It was in the low 60s but he was sweating rivers. We wiped his face with ice water and we pinched him and shouted. No response.

We had to get him inside but he’s too heavy even for all of us to carry. Garrett made a sort of stretcher with two garden carts and some plywood. Claire took care of Beth while I set up an air bed in the office downstairs. We were able to wheel him into the house and lower him onto the bed.

I suppose he should have an IV or something. I don’t know how he’s going to drink or eat.

I’m sitting beside him in the office. He’s breathing evenly. He seems like he’s just sleeping. Beth is sleeping on my chest. She doesn’t seem to mind the little movements I make as I write.

He soiled himself when he fell, and keeping him and his bed clean has occupied much of my day.

It’s like a funeral home in the house. The kids are handling it well, but the air weighs heavy with deep sadness and grinds the knife edge of fear. No one has said much today, just: “How is he?” “Will he be okay?” “When will he wake up?”

I wish I had hope. I’ve run out. I think this is it.

We’re not ready. This is 100% wrong and we’re 100% not ready.