Fifty-two is too young to die, yet she did die. Far from home in a medical center where everyone can be helped, except everyone can’t be helped. Her undulating EKG slowed to a flat line, and she died, family members pleading at bedside. She died a quiet death, if any death is quiet. There was sadness and crying, as there usually is, but there’s nothing to be done, and nothing you can do—she’s dead. And now, there’s only grief. It’s like being buried alive, unable to breathe. Grief does that, it takes away everything common, everything known, and replaces it with nothing, leaving you lingering in the underbelly of sorrow.
And there’s nothing you can do.