Grief is a weird thing. After six years, ten months of being without my son, of course, the acute pain has lessened.  His death is part of the fabric of my life.  I don't get quite the same jolts when something triggers a memory.

Lately I've thought about Paul more often, probably because fall is here and the death anniversary is approaching.

But I think, honestly, it's because his daughter is facing some behavior problems in school, and growing up...and he's not here.  Not here to see, of course, but also not here to be her Dad, to make the decisions I'm forced to make.  I do wonder what his view would be, as he would understand her way of thinking much better than I do.

As I drove yesterday, I was overcome by a deep, overwhelming longing to see his face, to hear his voice.  How empty I felt, how lost.

One more time?  No....I want a lifetime of seeing his face & hearing his voice.

Denied.

Robbed.

letter

I was asked to write a letter to the hospital in which my son died. This letter was to thank the hospital for their work in organ transplantation.

I was glad to write the letter, to share our experience.  It's the only positive thing I can point to in Paul's death; that his donation gave some people longer, healthier lives.  

But it's always hard to re-write the hospital experience and why he was in there.  Fall is coming, anyway, looking to the 7th anniversary of his death.

My feelings are jumbled.  The emptiness is gaping, the hole will never be filled.  There is a huge place in my heart and my life that can be filled only by Paul. And he is gone.

But as he did in life, he helped others in his death, and so I can be proud that he was that type of person.

So I told our story, thanked the hospital, and said a prayer for those whose lives he helped.