My dad passed a few months ago. His passing was bad enough, but to witness his dying was, I believe, the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It runs neck to neck with finding my husband, lying on the floor, after he had shot himself. The aftermath of that experience carried over for quite some time, with time still being spent putting the pieces together, again. But, when my Dad passed, it was a very slow and drawn out process, that ripped one's heart out a little at time, each and every day, for 7 long days, little rest or sleep in between the days. Unlike when my husband died, when it was just ripped right out in one swift motion... almost like the martial arts scene, where the guy snatches your heart right out of your chest, so fast you still have time to see it, still beating in his hand, right before you keel over. That's how it was when Tim died. Shock... and utter helplessness. And mass destruction. No turning back.
... to be continued...
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