Another Grief Observed

possibilitas est metaphysica, vel physica, vel moralis   I can't move on, and I can't stay here. I can't be excited about God, but I can't not cling to Him. I can't see— really see—how the hope we believe in surpasses what I had, yet I can't abandon hope. I can't let go of the suffering, and I can't be thankful for it. I can't go back into society, yet I can't be an island. I can't talk, and I can't be silent. I can't live in the past, and I can't care much about the present or the future. I can't see much reason for daily action beyond duty, but I can't abandon duty. I can't find—or seek—joy of any depth, but I can't refuse the surface presentation of it. I can't focus on this all the time, but I can't not want to focus on this all the time. I can't be without Heidi, and I can't be with Heidi. I can't imagine life without her, but I can't be with her in life. I can't remember our days w...

Hi, Heidi. How are you doing? Are you... happy? In the fullest sense of that term? If I knew you were happy, that would make it easier for me to bear your absence. For a time at least. I miss you. I wish we could talk one last time—together, that is, with both of us talking: me hearing your voice. I also wish it could have happened at the hospital, one last time. But our actual last conversation, before you were intubated, was as good as can be. Peaceful and pleasant. Looking back now, it doesn't make sense that it was so. Of course, we were still hopeful then. But you had also received the last sacraments. We knew this was a possibility. How did we hold it together so peacefully and pleasantly then? I don't understand it. Then, you slipped away into unconsciousness. Then you were intubated, which required being sedated. As far as conversation goes, I guess we quit while we were ahead. The kids and I are managing, as far as everyday practical matters go. It is my guess that you...