Mr. J’s voice provides me with momentary relief each night during our scheduled call – a promise of a sense of normalcy after I wake up from this nightmare. My heart pangs for our home and our happy and simple life; free of any legitimate concerns.
I feel guilty clutching onto this solace, with none to offer the other members of the grief squad. I struggle with these feelings of selfishness; I lash out at Mr. J. He can’t understand the gravity of my grief from across the ocean; as he sits in our perfect home and lives our perfect life. I scrub my dead aunt’s bathroom floor until I am nearly asphyxiated by a mixture of extra-strength Vim, tears and rage.
I torture myself with thoughts of Mr. J dying; certain that I would not be able to withstand this grim scenario. My anger at him turns into sheer panic of losing him; I cling on tighter to the thought of him.
I am too tired to be angry – all I am left with is a sparkling washroom and brittle fingernails. I let myself fall asleep to the thought of Mr. J; because as selfish as it may make me feel, it is the only thought keeping me from going crazy.