Home again, home again...

... jiggity-jog.

The trip home yesterday was all kinds of interesting, but it's over. And I'm sitting here in the shambles of my house, trying to get my feet under me.  I won't bore you. Started off with the usual "TSA is uh... interesting". Then segued to "being cramped on a plane with 300 of my closest strangers sucks". Followed by "baggage claim woes". It all ended in sushi with friends and home to my kids and my dog and my mess to straighten out, so I feel like I'm the clear winner here.

But under all that busy-ness is an ache that I don't know how to deal with yet. I know how this whole process works so you don't have to tell me the stages of grief thing. I started shaking my fist at Heaven when she was diagnosed, and I got to the real Anger part of that whole thing before she even died. I know people mean well and are trying to help in the only ways you really can, and I do my best to remind myself of that repeatedly.

So I'll spend the next quite-a-while trying not to respond sharply to people when they try to comfort me with our societally-approved irrelevancies like "she's in a better place". Sure, she could be in Heaven or Nirvana or Gehenna or One with the ALL. What the heck do I care? It doesn't matter. That place isn't here with me, and I can't go there yet myself to see her or talk to her. That's what I'm mourning. Someone says "she's not suffering anymore" and I want to scream either a) How the heck do you know!? You've never been dead! or b) If she'd gotten well she wouldn't be suffering anymore either!

But that's not right. She'd be on my case if I did that, and she'd be right to do so. Me hurting others because I'm hurting doesn't help a stinking thing.