Time to Grieve

Annie's memorial is over, the extended family has returned to their respective states and towns, and now there is time to mull over the events of the last few weeks. Or years. I am looking forward to this quiet time alone to think.

Family caregivers who have lost their jobs through their charge's death have a gift. It's called Time. Time to mentally sift through what happened, time to thank God for helping them through the pressures of medicines, doctor's appointments, therapies, and illnesses--and time to look forward to when they'll see their loved ones again. That's about my favorite part, right now. The anticipation of Annie talking to me is better than being a 6 year old one week before Christmas.

In some ways, I feel like I've been here before. A little over ten years ago, I lost my job as Bill's caregiver. Of course, it was a completely different experience--a happy one--because he was miraculously healed overnight of the Parkinsonism, PSP. One day he was sick, the next day he was healed. One day he was sick, the next day he had an opinion about everything. We didn't need the disabled parking card anymore. We had a bunch of medical equipment in the garage we needed to get rid of. But after I wasn't his caregiver anymore, Bill was still here.

Now with Annie's death, there is a heaviness, a weight of sadness that hangs over our house, and sits with us in our living room. It looks out from her bedroom when we walk down the hall, and silently stares through her books and toys that lie motionlessly on the floor. The soft, heavy quiet of her absence.

Jean

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4