Dealing with the Death of a Loved One

I have always been a real basket case when it comes to losing someone close to me. I was 14 the first time it happened. My grandpa died after three days in the hospital from a stroke. I saw my mom and dad moping around with long faces and knew from the conversation that he was gone. But it just didn' t seem real to me. It wasn't until I saw him in the coffin at the funeral that it began to sink in. He didn't look so bad, not really. I was hoping he would climb out of that box and tell me stories like he used to. Then there was the long drive to the cemetery 120 miles away. He was going back to the ground he was born on, next to the original family plot. March in Wisconsin is cold and windy. We stood on the snow covered ground with the wind biting at our faces and listened to a minister tell us we would see him again some day. I looked at that cold, dark hole in the ground and at the casket and I knew this was it. My grandpa was not going to be in the house the next time we went to visit. No more stories, no more messing up my hair. He was gone! I felt a numbness, not so much sad, just numb. After a luncheon at the home of one of the cousins who still lived up there, we made the long drive home. We escorted grandma into her house and asked if she would be alright. I went to the living room and looked at grandpas chair. He wasn't there. He wasn't going to be there tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. That's when it hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat down in HIS chair and bawled like a baby. My parents came to see what was wrong. When they saw me sitting in grandpas chair they understood it had taken me that long to comprehend the circumstances of his death.

Writers block

I have been trying to finish a short story for almost two years now. I have nine chapters finished and only two more to complete. The problem is, when I open the finished chapters in the hope of spurring some tangible thought I find aspects of what I have already written that I dislike.

Shift, right arrow, delete.

And I begin correcting my heinous errors all over again so that I never get to the two unfinished chapters. I hear the clock on the wall chime its three bongs to inform me it is now three-o'clock in the morning and wonder how it could take me so long to accomplish so little. My finished chapter now has new dialogue but is only a few words longer than before.

I have read stories of people who get on a train or bus and by the time they get to their destination a few hours away they have written a complete song that will reach the top ten on the charts (ala Jimmy Buffett-Margaritaville) or a short story that will become a best seller. And I am amazed. I envy those people, hate them, wish I could be like them.
Is it that way for you too???