Grief Defined

I feel like I have been pushed out of a moving airplane without a parachute. The agony and terror of falling 12,000 feet through the sky is nothing compared to the crushing impact of hitting the ground. Surprised I’ve survived, here I lay – every bone in my body shattered, every organ smashed, my skin now just quivering ribbons of bleeding flesh. The first response is shock and numbness – the body’s own measure of self-preservation. When the feeling begins to return, the pain is so intense, so suffocating, that I cannot move. Even if I could move, if I could muster up enough strength to crawl away, to where would I crawl? I’ve landed in a vast wilderness in an unknown country. I can’t even find North, let alone a hospital.

That’s how I am today and every day since this ordeal began. Each hour is different, bringing with it an array of emotions ranging from lonesomeness to indignation which is added to the pain described above, like some sick brew of misery. There are brief moments of happiness, if I can call it that, but they are like a mist quickly disappearing in the sun. My mind is in a perpetual tornado, my spirit pulverized.

My only relief comes when asleep (unless I have a painful dream) and when groping for thoughts of the coming paradise. Being wrapped in the arms of someone I love brings temporary relief, but how long can I do that? The yearning to be in my daddy’s arms has swallowed me whole.

Does that answer your question?