My husband died a half-hour ago. The hospital called to tell me.
I had attempted to end a call with his parents, to tell them he had 
pneumonia, his second bout, and he wasn't likely to recover. I had
visited him two hours earlier: he was conscious, but he was on oxygen
and wasn't eating his dinner. I held his hand, I kissed him on the 
mouth and on his hand and I told him I loved him.

I texted his parents while I was getting the news from the doctor.
I told our son. 

The doctor asked on three occasions if I wanted to come by. At this
hospital the visits are limited to essential, and both my son and
I visited separately, as per hospital rules, as per the first 
request.  The second occasion came shortly after we returned from
dinner, we were ambivalent but willing. The third occasion we 
were less willing, the doctor told us lots of people don't come by
for a postmortem viewing. I had some to drink anyway.

My husband was 52. He died of pneumonia, a complication of 
metastasized pancreatic cancer. We miss him.