Grief struck me hard and early in life. At 34, I found myself widowed with a 5-year-old son. My wife, Stacey, died two months ago in what was termed as a sudden and sad accident. I kissed her farewell, the aroma of lavender still lingering on her chestnut hair. A few hours later, a call from her father altered my life forever.
My entire universe came to a stop. I couldn’t understand the words. “No, that’s impossible,” I recall responding, but the brutal reality soon sunk in. Stacey had been involved in an accident caused by a drunk motorist. She was gone, just like that. I barely remember the flight home or walking into our empty house. Her parents had taken care of everything, and the funeral was already over by the time I got back.
“We didn’t want to wait,” her mother explained, her eyes diverted. “It was better this way.”
I was too numb to protest, and too stunned to wonder why I hadn’t been given the opportunity to say my final goodbye. I should’ve pushed harder. But grief has a way of impairing your judgement.
