Thirty-six years ago, when I was carrying my first child, Doctors didn’t know as much as they do today about Eclampsia, a potentially deadly condition during pregnancy. By the time my doctor discovered it, I was in my ninth month and gaining a pound a day. If he was alarmed it wasn’t apparent and when he casually suggested we induce labor, I was thrilled. Little did I know labor would take four long days and include convulsions and a coma.

Whether a person you love is leaving to go away for a short time or forever, it's never an easy thing. Many deal with being separated for various reasons. We physically miss people, but we also feel the aching in our hearts.

One morning, I went to the funeral home near my parish in order to offer my condolences to the next of kin prior to the celebration of the Mass of Christian burial. Upon receiving my expressions of sympathy, the brother of the deceased said to me, “Father, I have a question. Where do we go from here?” Assuming that he meant the question literally, I answered, “Well, in a few moments, the funeral director will organize us in paying our final respects to your brother. We will then leave from here, form the line of cars behind the hearse and drive in procession to the Church where we will celebrate the funeral Mass.”

For the last eight days, I have read comments to my article “Stop telling me how wrong I am!” I have read the emails sent to me in response to that article. I have listened to what people have told me when they see me in the store or talk to me on the phone. I have cried because of the heartless and cruel things that have been said to me. It doesn’t seem to matter what I want. It doesn’t seem to matter how much pain I’m in and how much more those comments have added to it. Every day, every single one of the last eight days, I have cried because of something said to me about my grief.