Your grief for what you’ve lost holds a mirror up to where you’re bravely working. Expecting the worst, you look and instead, here’s the joyful face youve been wanting to see. Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralyzed.
On March 28, 1941, shortly after the gruesome onset of WWII, Virginia Woolf filled the pockets of her overcoat with rocks, treaded into the River Ouse behind the house in East Sussex where she lived with her husband, author and political theorist Leonard Woolf, and drowned herself. She had succumbed to a relapse of the
WARNING. THIS POST CONTAINS SOME HARSH LANGUAGE THAT SOME OF YOU WILL FIND OBJECTIONABLE. WE APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE IF YOU CHOSE TO READ IT AND ARE OFFENDED. Comedian and actor Patton Oswalt’s wife, writer Michelle McNamara, died last year one week after her 46th birthday from a combination of prescription medications and an undiagnosed heart
I stumbled upon this quote in a novel by one of my favorite authors, Jeffery Deaver, best known for his Lincoln Rhyme series, especially The Bone Collector which was made into a movie starring Denzel Washington. It is a dialogue about grief between an adolescent girl who has lost her mother tragically in a case
My brother passed away Everything has changed. My brother passed away suddenly a few days before Christmas. He was in his thirties. He was born with Cystic Fibrosis, and four years ago, had a double lung transplant. We always knew time with him was precious, but everything seemed normal. It was a heart attack. I always