Grief Digest Articles

It’s no fun to be struggling to stay alive and be positive about life, when our heart is broken and we feel overwhelmed and lost with the death of our loved one. Even though we are making progress and have promised ourselves to “hang in there,” to go through our grief rather than choosing to avoid it, we still have to deal with the excruciating bad days that can suddenly appear without any warning.When my two oldest children, 21-year-old Denis and 19-year-old Peggy, were killed in a 1986 car acc …

It's 2 a.m. in San Diego, and I've been up for an hour. I can't sleep. I am bleary eyed, but wide awake.
I always miss my son, and I will until the day I die, which goes without saying, Lately, I don't know, the pain is deeper, the longing to see him, to hold him, to laugh with him is overwhelming. It's like a hunger that will never be satiated, and I'm starving for my son. Does that make sense?
I believe it's true, that we’re numb for the first year, and then the foggy, fuzzy brain begins to sh …

We gotta stop this somehowthis idea that a personwho is dead is ‘in a better place now’We gotta stop saying that!If they are in a better placethen what in the hell are we doing here?Grief is hard enoughwithout people telling the grieverEssentially – you got left behind.that’s garbage! No matter howmuch we believe it - no one grievingneeds to hear that, even though it may be true,Grief is hard enough.We oughta be talkin’ insteadabout how to make this place -the place where we are livingin - a bet …

Mason jars are popular these days and the uses are almost endless. People are using them as flower vases, holders for homemade cookie mixes, and holiday decorations. I use wide-mouth jars to store leftovers and food products, such as rice, small pasta, and crackers. Author Elizabeth Gilbert uses a giant jar to document her happiness.When she felt happy, she jotted a few words on a small piece of paper, dated it, and dropped it in the jar. When the year ended, Gilbert read her notes, put them awa …

As I slowly faded away on the couch with the T.V. blurring to white noise and Aurora’s, our 13-year-old Maltese, furry back arched against my leg, Sue whispered softly into my ear, “Why don’t you go up, babe.” I gradually opened my eyes but in the haze I didn’t see her. For a brief moment I was confused. So I dragged myself up the stairs—Aurora following right behind—and slid into bed. Sue would repeat those words almost every night as she spot-checked me to see if I was still awake. She, on the …