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Permalink Reply by Richard Rivera on June 5, 2017 at 11:49am

Today's the 5th of June and I'm sitting outside my building with nothing to do it weep and beg god or my Annette to come get me.

My fridge is empty so there's no food except a large bottle of seltzer. My body has gotten more grotesque as the fluid has increased.

I tried to walk but wound up leaning against every car as "I walked."

The feet I did walk felt like a blowtorch was lit up inside me. The pain was astonishing. I suppose i was in denial about my health and wanted to prove was normal.

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Permalink Reply by dream moon JO B on June 5, 2017 at 4:51pm

hear u 

im so fuket up i am coz of loss my heds mest up 

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Permalink Reply by Nora on June 5, 2017 at 5:41pm

Richard, I know it hurts.

You were not healthy before You are right you convinced yourself you were healthy. You created some normal life with Annette, taking care of her and loving her.

Now you are hurt and lonely, and on top of this pain, you have to deal with all those health and legal matters right away. You have no time to wait but you are so hurting, in so much pain.

I wish I could help, I wish I could find one word that miraculously can help but I cannot do anything.

You developed a deep depression and need help. Its very hard to find help in the USA unless you go to church. You mentioned God and Lord some times - maybe you can go to any church nearby and let them show how good Christians they are?

I think the grief will not go away - we have to live with it.

I found a blog here that was posted about 2 yrs ago. It is sad but true. I don't find it beautiful though as talking about pain, loss and death are not beautiful ever...

The day when we stop grieving - also read comments below.

This is just one passage from it

Grief brings humility as a housewarming gift and doesn’t care whether you want it or not.

You are forced to face your inability to do anything but feel it all and fall apart. It’s incredibly difficult in those quiet moments, when you realize so long after the loss that you’re still not the same person you used to be; that this chronic soul injury just won’t heal up. This is tough medicine to take, but more difficult still, is coming to feel quite sure that you’ll never be that person again. It’s humbling to know you’ve been internally altered: Death has interrupted your plans, served your relationships, and rewritten the script for you.

This is the cost of sharing your life with someone worth missing.

Two years into my walk in the Valley I’ve resigned myself to the truth that this a lifetime sentence. At the end of my time here on the planet, I will either be reunited with my father in some glorious mystery, or simply reach my last day of mourning his loss.

Either way I’m beginning to rest in the simple truth:

The day I’ll stop grieving—is the day I stop breathing.

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