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streets of gold, rubbing my fingers through his hair as he lay his head on my lap or hold my hand as he did even up to the end of his short life.

Always one to dress to the nines, nails perfect, makeup in place and hair to die for. Having worn the same shirt shy of a week and lost most of my teeth, I am no prize at this point. Down to around one hundred pounds on a five foot frame reeks of anorexia; at forty nine i have the body of a fifteen year old. Most women would kill for this body. As it is, I'm killing myself. Slowwwlllllyyyyy...........ver y slowly. God will not take me. Believe me, I've asked, prayed and screamed for relief. For Him to take this "cup of suffering from me" as the good book says. The good book. That's another story.

Laundry piles overflow and i write my child's name in the dust covering the TV. Days turn in nights into days and into nights of no hope. Happy people the tube disgust me. Seems as if everyone has "moved on" except me. Even his father seems to be coping much better than I and they were as tight as he and I were. Or maybe he fakes it better. I know he is dying inside as well as I am.

So there it is. The grim reality grief brings over burying a child way, way too soon. I could go on, its gets worse. "Get grief counseling." "Go back to work." "Get your life back."

If you have not travelled the dark roads as I have, good for you, I say. Great, great good for you. For those of you that have not handled your grief with "dignity" as I have and continue to do so, this one is for you. You are not alone in your descent into depravity.

This is not a cry for help. I don't wan't your help. I want my child back.

Learn more about this author, Tina Chandler.
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