A friend had told me about it: Our House. A grief support group where people gather to speak of their losses, to share their grief. Last night was my first meeting. I looked around the group, women and men from different walks of life, all gathered together linked by this common denominator. The room was silent, there
Mike was a carpenter. He loved doing projects around the house, especially wood working. His favorite pastime upon retiring was to make things – our bed frame, a ‘window’ between the kitchen and the pantry, my jewelry box. I was always impressed by the time and care he took with the details, it was his
Quivering, shivering, Hummingbird heart. Shoulders tight, breath quick, Belly clenching and wrenching. This was no leaping from a plane, no diving from a cliff. This was ‘simply’ my dread at the thought of travelling back from Corvallis, Oregon to Los Angeles, California. It was intended as my first solo flight, Portland seemed like
Several friends have likened the process of grieving to surfing. I understand the analogy. At times the waters are relatively calm and we can ride along. At other times, we are buffeted by tsunamis that threaten to drag us under. Yesterday, I discovered a third way – diving into the wave. For as long
What is the jumping point for this writing? Where do I begin? You are joining me mid-chapter. So perhaps I need to bring you up to date. On May 8, my husband Mike went in for a simple surgery. Two and a half hours and a thousand sorries later, they told me he was gone.