I cry for the pain my wife felt in her last hours, for the personal indignities and violations of medical treatment and death.
I cry for the things my wife saw and did and will see and do no more.
I cry for what she did not live to see and do.
I cry for myself and the vast desolate emptiness that is left of me.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
run
One can only run or bike so far, or work so hard, before thoughts catch up. One can't run away, not for long.
On the bicycle, when that feeling rises from my chest I can punch up the tempo and run from it -- which is probably what that feeling is, a call to fight or flee -- but I can't keep it up. A minute or two and I am gasping for breath. It helps, but not for long.
Just about everything and anything in my home, my environment, city or in the news starts it, and if I do not hunker down on the floor and sob then I have to run.
On the bicycle, when that feeling rises from my chest I can punch up the tempo and run from it -- which is probably what that feeling is, a call to fight or flee -- but I can't keep it up. A minute or two and I am gasping for breath. It helps, but not for long.
Just about everything and anything in my home, my environment, city or in the news starts it, and if I do not hunker down on the floor and sob then I have to run.
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