The anatomy of grief

Three weeks ago, my heart went into emotional ventricular defibrillation. The tricuspid valves flapped uselessly and pumped only grief, and the mitrals went insane sending out frantic semaphore messages of loss and hurt and pain and mourning. All senses failed Nothing worked. The world went on. But I was not part of it.

Then, two weeks ago, three days after a phone call that did not, and would never, come, my brain kicked in and kickstarted my breathing again in brazen defiance of that one final wound. Heart rythmns reestablished. I can laugh, I can breathe, and I can walk and talk and follow conversations. Miss C said I sounded strangely normal when I spoke to her.

But what the waking mind can ignore, the dreaming mind cannot, and it waits to ambush me at night so I claw myself out of sleep, reaching for the cigarettes on my nightstand, to burn away the visions.

Forgiveness is going to be hard-won this time.