A hospital’s old-fashioned wall clock’s blood-red second hand seems to circle faster than a Daytona racecar. Or in the dark of the darkest night at home, a blue, glowing digital number blinks from one second to another with an agonizing sluggishness. Time roars by. Time grinds to a halt. Time marches on. Time freezes. Time is our friend. Time is our adversary. Time never stops. It’s never the right time.
- How long will it take for her to die? I don’t want Grammy to suffer anymore.
- The doctor said Daddy has six months or less to live. Is that true?
- This grief is horrible, and I can’t sleep or eat. How long before I’m “normal” again?
- Some friends don’t like to spend time with me because I still want to talk about my spouse. And it’s only been a year since the death.
- My boss gave me two weeks off for bereavement, but will I ever be ready to return to my desk?
- Who can grieve with so much work to do? (And if I keep working all of the time, I can avoid my feelings.)
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Many years ago, I headed to the public tennis courts to play a few sets with a buddy. Though early in the morning, we weren’t the only ones there. A man and woman were several courts over, already deep into a match. As my friend and I warmed up, we heard the other players announce the score after each winning shot, saw them protect the net or drift back for lobs. It looked like an equal contest and I wouldn’t want to bet against the woman or the man. I was impressed, more than a little awed by their skill and energy. Both were obviously in their seventies. Read More →by