A reader writes: I have been reading a wonderful little book called Healing After Loss by Martha Hickman. It contains brief, one-page daily reflections to help people work through their grief.
Today's reading centered on this thought: "Sometimes the best choice is to be in my grief, sometimes not."
The author suggests that we can become so accustomed to living in a grieving state that, in some ways, it feels more comfortable than making the effort to step away from it.
A reader writes: My heart is breaking. My partner died some time ago, yet it still feels as though it happened yesterday. I've recently received some very bad news about my own health, and more than ever I find myself needing my partner to be here with me. I feel as though my heart can bear no more. My soul feels empty without her. Everything about my life feels different, and it is so hard. I need to find other lesbians who have lost their spouse.
I attended a grief support group yesterday, and it was painfully difficult. During the introductory "check-in," the member who spoke after me said she would not be able to continue if I were allowed to stay in the group. She said lesbianism is a sin.
A reader writes: I am at a loss with things right now and I really need some help. My partner's dad is dying and on the advice of his doctor he has been placed in hospice care. My mom passed 4 months ago today and I am still numb from that. I'm still not knowing how to handle my own grief, and now here I am with my partner and his family going thru this themselves.
A reader writes: I am married and the mother of three children. I have been told by my doctors that I have a rare and terminal illness. My husband and children love me and need me, and they do not know that I am dying because I cannot tell them.
How can I tell the ones who count on me that I won’t be here for them? How can I tell them that I brought them into the world with love and tears, and now I’m leaving?
My husband and children don’t know. I won’t let them know.
Accepting help is its own kind of strength. ~ Kiera Cass
A reader writes: My wife passed away in hospice five weeks ago. Since then, I've gone home and had very little support from outside sources, partly by choice. I've done almost everything alone. The hospice staff have called and sent literature, but I just couldn't accept my wife's death enough to respond.I was her caregiver and, basically, her nurse for years, with very little outside help. It was all left up to us. I know she would have died much sooner if we hadn't fought so hard to get her the treatment she needed and keep her out of nursing homes. I wasn't planning to do much with hospice, although I am seeking counseling on my own, which should begin in the next few weeks.
I happened to look up "grief" on the computer, and yours is the first website I found.
A reader writes: How does one deal with the overwhelming grief at 14 months and 9 days? For me it is harder and more painful now. Am I crazy, Marty? I have not dreamed of my beloved since he went to Heaven, except for a nightmare the night he died, that they lost him in the tunnels in the hospital. I can't feel him. No one will say his name, and I am trying desperately to understand all of this. Does it mean that since I cannot dream or feel him, I did something wrong? I feel that way.
My doctor/therapist told me that the second year may be harder, and she was so right. Am I the only person who feels this way?
Tears have a wisdom all their own. They come when a person has relaxed enough to let go to work through his sorrow. They are the natural bleeding of an emotional wound, carrying the poison out of the system. Here lies the road to recovery. ~ F. Alexander Magoun
A reader writes: My only sibling and big brother passed away six months ago. He was 30 years old. I used to be able to cry. I mean, I would cry at work when things got stressful, cry after fighting with friends, or cry when I was frustrated. My brother passes away, and no tears. No tears at the funeral home. No tears at the hospital. No tears at the funeral. And no tears six months later.
A reader writes: I recently lost my father, and I am unable to handle my loss. I don't know why, but I want to dig him up and bring him back to life. I am so sad and lonely without my father, and I have never experienced anything like this before. I don't know if this is a normal reaction or not, but I do know that I need help. I do have people around me who love me and are there for me, but it just isn't enough. Can you please write me back with any advice as soon as possible?
When I think of Memorial Day and what it means to me, I think of how blessed I am to live in this country, where freedom still rings, even though at times we may take some of our freedoms for granted. I think of the fallen soldiers who paid the ultimate price so that we might continue to live free. I also think of the families, friends, and loved ones of the fallen — the unsung heroes struggling to survive in the face of unspeakable loss. I cannot imagine the depth of their pain. I don’t know how to thank them for their sacrifice except to say that I am deeply grateful, and that I promise to remember them, holding each and every one of them in gentle thought and prayer.
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