I keep thinking of poor Natasha Richardson’s family and having to make the decision of pulling the plug. I keep thinking of how her birthday is the day they took Jon off of life support and the last time I saw him alive (technically, anyway), as they wheeled him into the operating room for organ donation.

I cannot begin to describe how incredibly difficult it is to watch someone breathe because of a machine, and then know that you’re sending them to a certain death by taking them off of it. To have to accept their death but not really accept it until you see them like a wax figure, lying in a casket you picked out because it was something you think they’d like.

Right now, Liam Neeson knows how I felt last May, when they told me that my robust, youthful husband of only 10 months was gone. That’s how the doctor said it. He came into that stupid little room, asked who the wife was, sat down next to me, and then said, “He’s gone. I’m sorry. He’s brain dead”

I already knew. But I didn’t believe it.

I still don’t. Even if I know that Jon is dead. Even if I live my life in his memory all the time…I don’t believe he’s gone. I don’t know if I ever will.

And I’m sure Mr. Neeson feels the same ache; the same sink-hole feeling in his chest that I did then, and still do now. And I am so sorry for it.