In the days after leaving San Francisco, I spent my days holed up in the back room of the house, most of the time listening to music and writing about her. Waiting for her to be able to be moved down to UCLA. I wrote her countless letters, telling her how much I love her, to reminiscing about our lives together. These days were not normal. I rarely remember looking at the time, and only figured out the time based on when I would receive reports from her family about how long she had gone between seizures. She had suffered so much brain damage that she was constantly seizing, and I just remember when we were all just focused on waiting for the doctors to tell us that they were able to control the seizures. When I heard for the first time that she had gone 15 minutes without a seizure I actually smiled, and felt confident she would be alright. 15 minutes. I was happy that she did not have a seizure for 15 minutes. Saying I wasn't ready to accept the severity of what happened would be quite the understatement.