http://nymag.com/news/features/cancer-peter-bach-2014-5/
It turns out that Hollywood has grief and loss all wrong. The waves and
spikes don’t arrive predictably in time or severity. It’s not an
anniversary that brings the loss to mind, or someone else’s
reminiscences, nor being in a restaurant where you once were together.
It’s in the grocery aisle passing the romaine lettuce and recalling how
your spouse learned to make Caesar salad, with garlic-soaked croutons,
because it was the only salad you’d agree to eat. Or when you glance at a
rerun in an airport departure lounge and it’s one of the episodes that
aired in the midst of a winter afternoon years earlier, an afternoon
that you two had passed together. Or on the rise of a full moon, because
your wife, from the day you met her, used to quote from The Sheltering Sky
about how few you actually see in your entire life. It’s not sobbing,
collapsing, moaning grief. It’s phantom-limb pain. It aches, it throbs,
there’s nothing there, and yet you never want it to go away.
A bit emo, but this is reality. This is something everyone must face one day, including me (unless we die first). Death will come, but to have Hope is how you make it through each day after.
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