The dungeon is very cold today. 68 degrees feels like 40 when your office is on the lower level. I try to dress warmer on office days, but it would be silly to wear winter clothes in the summer time! Where would I be if I didn't have any fat on my bones? Brrrr!!!

This weekend I planted most of the remaining flowers. I also went and planted flowers at Mom's grave. My dad said something to me this morning about picking out flowers and I told him I already did it. He was pleased. I think he is happy knowing that even if he were not here I would take care of it. I am thinking about asking T about grass seed for shade since the lawn there hasn't filled in as I'd like. Dad asked the city manager (the cemetery is city run) why this other section is watered and has such nice grass when the rest of the cemetery does not get watered. Apparently the families in that area pay a service to come do this! Nobody in our section does that, so I'm looking for some hearty grass seed. I also will need to work out a watering schedule for those flowers!

When I'm at the cemetery I see the graves that are cared for and think how much that person must have been loved. I see the super old grave stones and think of how it will be when there is nobody left to care for the old graves. I have never been to my grandparents graves since their funerals. It is strange to think of that since I'm such a cemetery person now that my Mom is there. I like to go there. I drive by her headstone and just seeing it brings me comfort -- I don't even need to get out of the car if it is cold or raining. I just drive slowly through the cemetery and feel bad for the new neighbors moving in. Their families have such fresh pain.

I must be a sick person, but I believe fresh pain is the worst pain. Having lived with chronic pain since 2001 I am accustomed to discomfort. I don't like to take a pain medicine for a new injury because it masks the pain from my old injuries. If I mask that pain I realize what it is to be without the pain and I want that kind of life. I want the freedom from pain, it is like I can taste what it would be like to be normal. I can't have that kind of life. I have a good life and mostly manageable pain. To have a day without pain makes me crave more pain free days. The only way to achieve this is through pain medicines that numb me or drinking (which also happily numbs me). I want to live my life fully and feel joy. I can't be joyful when numb, so I don't want pain medicine. I want life. If I have to have pain let it be with me every day at a manageable level. To have a day off is to start to hope and dream for what you can't have. I think this is what breeds bitterness. Acceptance of the reality is a much better thing. False hope is cruel and that is what makes you bitter.

The horror of fresh grief is that you still remember clearly what life is like without the pain. You wake up and think that person you love is still here. Then the pain of the loss sears through you. The shock of the grief is still new and raw. I think of the newly bereaved families and I remember that immediacy of that new pain. I remember feeling like someone had cut off one of my limbs. I remember hating the world for going on. The one thing that time does for you in grief is that it allows you to get used to the pain. The pain of loss is still there with you, but it becomes familiar. You don't wake up as often thinking that it must have been a dream. You no longer are waiting for your loved one to come back from a long trip. You have the pain of grief, but it is familiar. The familiarity of the pain dulls it's effect.

The thing that is strange to me is how chronic physical pain and grief are so similar. You learn to shut them off enough so that you can function, but they are always there. What is more difficult than the everyday pain is the new pain. Every day pain doesn't make you hope for relief. Fresh pain screams for relief, and there is none when it comes to grief.

Boy, the above sounds super depressing. The fact is, I think it really is a hopeful thing that the grief becomes familiar. You go on, you laugh again, you cry again. You live. That is the hope and the promise that comes from the intimate knowledge of loss.