By Janet Stevenson
I felt helpless sitting by my husband’s bedside when he went into hospice, because I couldn’t do a damn thing but pay attention to his pain and listen for his last push of air.
Weeks after his death, I began to think about my joy of painting and was ready to be creative again; although standing next to every color of paint imaginable, I just stare at a blank canvas on the easel.
In an emotional outburst, I weep and slobber over the brushes. I can’t reason why the chill of death keeps me from drawing, no matter how I try.
Thank you for sharing your gut feelings. May it help the healing.
Lorena, I appreciate your kind thoughts.