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Grief is a bitch – and then you move on. Or not…

"There is no correct way or time to grieve." - Elizabeth Kubler-Ross People keep telling me it's going to get better. In fact, they insist it's going to get better. I'm not convinced though.
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"There is no correct way or time to grieve."

- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

People keep telling me it's going to get better. In fact, they insist it's going to get better. I'm not convinced though. Despite the "time heals all wounds," bromide yet another well-wisher throws my way, I'm not so sure it's that easy. Do these people - friends, relatives, acquaintances - really know what they're talking about? Can they really feel what I feel?

Of course not...

For me, the grieving process has been more like a surreal roller-coaster ride than a straight-line trip. Frankly, I don't feel like I've achieved much progress at all these last few weeks. But it's more than that. I feel totally disconnected from my life right now. Like somebody stole my script and replaced it with an existential nightmare that I can't wake up from.

Ever read Kobo Abe's Woman In The Dunes ? It's a frightening story about a woman who lives in a house in a hole in the middle of the desert. Every night when she goes to bed, the desert winds endeavor to bury her house with sand. When she wakes up - well, you can imagine the rest. These days I'm that woman in the hole digging as fast as my tired arms will let me. And I can't help but feel that the desert sands are winning...

Sometimes, it gets so bad that I wake up in the morning and can't even summon the energy to get out of bed.

But I do it anyway. Don't have a choice really. As I've learned only too well these last few months, life marches on no matter how grievously you've been hit. And that's the real bitch. No matter how sad your living circumstances have become - no matter how much your soul is suffering - there are still bills to pay, toilets to clean and garbage to take out. There's a 16-year-old chomping at her independence-bit, a 21-year-old trying to move on with her life, letters to respond to, a living to be made (amazing how money matters when you become the household's only income earner). Life for me now is exactly like those desert winds are for Abe's protagonist. Too bad about your loss pal, now get digging!

Know what I mean? Grief is a frivolous emotion - it's a psychic luxury that I just can't permit myself to indulge in if I want to get everything done that I need to get done in my day. So grief sneaks up on me when I least expect it. And the results, as you can imagine, are both embarrassing and frustrating.

Just the other day I broke out in tears at the local grocery store. Don't know what triggered it exactly. Must have seen something that reminded me of my old life. Encountering an item that Wend might have bought, perhaps. Or maybe it was the young mum in the dark pony tail and running shorts who took the time to explain calmly to her child why exactly one doesn't scream in a public place while quickly escorting her out of the store. So rational. So Wendy. And you know what? Just writing that sentence gets me going all over again...

It's embarrassing dammit. Totally inappropriate. I haven't cried this much since I was a toddler. It pisses me off! But what alternative do I have?

As many of you know, my wife and best friend was murdered four months ago. Brutally. Senselessly. Terminally. One moment she was running on her favourite park trail. The next she was dead. Full stop. And the kicker to this needless tragedy is that the murderer committed his evil deed without leaving much evidence for the cops to work with. Indeed, according to the lead investigator on the case, Sergeant Elijah Rain, the once-vaunted RCMP are ready to throw in the towel.

"So what ever happened to 'we always get our man'?" I asked Sergeant Rain.

"Not this time," he said. "But we do need a favour from you."

Suspicion raised its ugly head. I mean, the cops have been playing so many head games with me these last few months that I distrust them on principle.

"And that would be?"

"Well," continued Rain (and I could sense this was not an easy conversation for him), "we need you to go to the media and appeal to the public for help." Say what? "After all, you're the media expert," he continued. "You're the guy with all the experience. You should know how to get your colleagues' attention."

"Why me?" I countered. "Wasn't it just a few months ago that you were doing everything in your power to keep me from going to the media?"

But things have changed since then, he explained. "We've exhausted all our leads," he admitted. "We're back at square one. We need someone to come forward and provide us with some new evidence. We desperately need help on this thing."

So why didn't he and his "integrated crime" team go public with that news? After all, shouldn't it be the RCMP's job to warn the public that a killer is still on the loose?

He chuckled at my naiveté. "Oh no," he said. "Our masters would never approve."

Meaning what? That his "masters" were afraid that the PR fallout from the Mounties' evident failure to solve a high-profile murder case would cause widespread panic? That with the Olympics coming and all the world's attention on Vancouver, this wasn't a good time to let people know that the local law enforcement professionals couldn't assure people's safety here?

He laughed uncomfortably. "Your words, not mine," he said. But his tone said it all.

And that too pisses me off. If a shark had chomped on a swimmer at Jericho or at Kits Beach or somewhere else just as popular, we'd have signs warning people of the dangers everywhere. Cops would be on TV and radio and any other media outlet they could push themselves onto warning the public about the "killer fish" out there. Chances are we wouldn't be allowed even close to the water...

I mean, think of all the angst created by B.C.'s brush with avalanche danger last year. To see how the government quacking heads were threatening to "close" the backcountry to save lives, one would have been excused for thinking that playing in the mountains in wintertime was a thoroughly deadly activity.

So why isn't there more concern over Wendy's murder? Let's face it: a strong, healthy and very safety-conscious woman was mysteriously murdered in a popular regional park that sees hundreds of visitors each day (and the deed accomplished well within sight of a major Westside thoroughfare!). Yet the police brass are worried that publicizing that fact might reflect poorly on them. So what if it does? Damn their precious PR, people still need to know that there is a vicious killer out there.

So how dangerous is it? I watch young women heading into Pacific Spirit Park by themselves every day, blissfully unaware of its ghastly secrets. And I want to scream and yell and grab them by the arm and tell them just how dangerous a situation they're putting themselves in. But I know I'd be the first to get thrown in jail. After all, we all know that disturbing the peace is a serious offence in Vancouver.

Am I frustrated? You bet! With no suspect and no scenario that even comes close to being believable, it feels to me sometimes like some weird evil force managed to rip through the fabric of our everyday reality just long enough to snuff Wendy's life before slithering back into its dark lair.

I mean, what else am I to think? Harry Potter's metaphysical battles don't seem to me so outlandish anymore. Does evil really exist? And if so, are we on the losing side of the war between its forces and the forces of goodness? I don't know. But it's got me wondering these days...

Meanwhile, I miss Wendy every waking moment. I miss all the time we spent together chatting and giggling and hugging and laughing. I miss her smile and her words and her oh-so-reasonable approach to life. I miss her counsel and her diplomacy and her ability to attack a chore with a smile. Most importantly, I miss her talent for keeping things in perspective - and her knack for taking a tea-break regardless of whether a project was finished or not. It drove me nuts when she was still alive. But now I realize just how sane that approach is when faced with a never-ending to-do list.

So if you'll excuse me, the water is boiling and the teapot is waiting. And thanks for listening. I needed it. Next week I'll get back to more conventional Alta States fare...