Grief Mansion Part 3: A Room Called Physical Pain

     I left Busyness and hurried down a dark corridor, crashing into a sharp dysmorphic something. “OUCH!” I tumbled to the dusty floor. “Great,” I lifted my foot. “I’m grieving and now I have this horrible pain to deal with!” Slowly, I pulled up along the wall and continued on my way, limping, until I felt the outline of a door. I turned the knob and fell into a room called Physical Pain. 

     A hospital bed stretched before me with a blue and white gown laid out upon it. A nap sounded good. I donned the gown, then scrunched between starched sheets, trying to ignore medicinal smells. I rested my head on the pillow. No sleep came. I stared at the ceiling thinking about my sore foot. My throat felt raw too. And… Did I ever get the results back from that ultrasound?

     I obsessed about various other pings and pangs, knots and not rights in my body. I’d been worried about Steve for so long. What if…? 

     Concerns for my health led to a barbaric biopsy and an operation.

     After surgery, with my foot wrapped in a bulky dressing, iced, and elevated on pillows, I experienced the side-benefits of Physical Pain. First, sleep came. I’d been exhausted through Steve’s illness and during the early days of mourning. So exhausted I couldn’t cry. It was as if my tear well had been drained as I sucked up the emotional energy needed to get through each day. Maybe I had depleted my adrenaline reserve. All I know is that I labored under a deep, dry, tearless sadness. And I felt alone. All alone.

     But now my foot throbbed. The pain cut through my defenses, revealing its second benefit. Severe physical pain allowed me to release tears, washing away crusty edges of my sorrow.