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The last thing I ever said to him was "I'm falling asleep." I met Dave Goldberg in the summer of 1996 when I moved to Los Angeles, and a mutual friend invited us both to dinner and a movie. When the film began, I promptly fell asleep, resting my head on Dave's shoulder. Dave liked to tell people that he thought that meant I was into him, until he later learned that — as he put it — "Sheryl would fall asleep anywhere and on anyone."
Dave became my best friend, and L.A. began to feel like home. He helped me become a bit cooler by introducing me to the internet and playing music I'd never heard. When I broke up with my boyfriend, Dave stepped in to comfort me, even though my ex was a former Navy SEAL who slept with a loaded gun under his bed.
Dave used to say that it was love at first sight for him, but he had to wait a long time for me to "ditch those losers" and date him. Dave was always a few steps ahead of me. But I caught up eventually. Seven and a half years after that first movie, we married.
My husband was my rock. When I got upset, he stayed calm. Like all married couples, we had our ups and downs. Still, Dave gave me the experience of being deeply understood, truly supported and utterly loved. I thought I'd spend the rest of my life resting my head on his shoulder.
Then in 2015, 11 years after our wedding, we went to Mexico to celebrate a friend's birthday while my parents babysat our son and daughter in California. Friday afternoon, we were hanging out by the pool playing the game "Settlers of Catan" on our iPads. For a change, I was winning, but my eyes kept drifting closed. "I'm falling asleep," I admitted, and I curled up on the floor. At 3:41 p.m., someone snapped a picture of Dave holding his iPad. I'm asleep on a cushion in front of him. Dave is smiling.
When I woke up more than an hour later, Dave was no longer in that chair. I joined our friends for a swim, assuming he'd gone to the gym as he'd planned. I went back to our room to shower; he wasn't there, but I was not concerned. I called our children, then walked out to the beach and joined the rest of our group. Dave wasn't there either. I felt a wave of panic. Something was wrong. I shouted to Dave's brother, Rob, and his wife, Leslye, "Dave isn't here!" Leslye paused, then yelled back, "Where's the gym?" I pointed toward some nearby steps and we started running.
We found Dave on the floor by the elliptical machine, his face slightly blue. We all screamed. I started CPR. Rob took over from me. A doctor came and took over from him.
The ride in the ambulance was the longest 30 minutes of my life. When we finally got to the ER, they carried Dave behind a heavy wood door, refusing to let me through. After what felt like forever, I was led into a small room. The doctor came in and sat behind his desk. I knew what that meant.
And so began the rest of my life. It is a life I was completely unprepared for. Telling my children that their father had died. People speaking of Dave in the past tense. People telling me, "I'm sorry for your loss."
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