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Grief gets an expiration date, just like us
Grief gets an expiration date. Just like us.
I imagine a makeshift consensus group clad in tweed in some back room at a Psychiatric conference deciding on the shelf life of grief over coffee and Costco muffins, like it’s yogurt that’s starting to curdle. When Jake laughed at my stupid jokes every time I told them; when he got irritated because I pushed too hard with the nib of his fine-tipped pen, but still lent it to me anytime I asked; when he reached out to squeeze my hand whenever I felt anxious, that wasn’t just love—that was how I built the mental model of my life. Other days, grief waits till I’m performing a physical exam on a patient and their wet cough reminds me of the way I would awaken in the middle of the night to hear Jake choking on his own saliva.
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