But the moral of the story is: you get back up.
You step into the shower, letting the steam and hot water wash over you, your tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes. You stand there and take deep breaths and hold back more tears and try to wipe your mind clear. You dry off, put on fresh clothes and you go downstairs. You let your husband hold you like child, you talk on the phone to your sisters who encourage you, inspire you, comfort you, make you laugh.
You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. You let them warm your heart. You let yourself be happy. You remember all that you have to be thankful for.
Then comes sleep. No dreams. Just blackness, breathing, a knowledge that morning will come soon enough. You will rise again and face it all, and you will take it all in stride. You will overcome with kindness and with hard work. You will find a way to warm your own heart, and to move on and let a big change become the norm. Constantly moving forward until it's hard to remember things being any other way.
You get there by letting yourself be sad, crying all the tears you can manage, reminding yourself to take deep breaths and then managing a laugh—even if you have to fake it at first—just long enough to tell yourself you're going to be OK. Everything's going to be OK.