Dear Doctor

Dear Doctor,

I know you mean well, but popping pills is not the solution to my problem. You see, it is during that twilight zone between deep slumber and restless wakefulness that I am most vulnerable yet most genuine. It is at that time when my dreams nudge me awake, and thoughts and feelings seep through, bringing with them sorrow tempered by joy, a sense of loss struggling with acceptance, and turmoil begging for peace of mind. It is at that time that I am most free to grieve, and grieve I do.

I grieve for a man so uncomplicated and free of guile, whose source of happiness came from making those around him happy, whose idea of a good time was to be surrounded by friends and family. I grieve for a father who will never walk his kids down the aisle and who will never know the joy of being a grandfather. I grieve for a husband who will never get to enjoy the twilight years with his wife, and the sunrise and sunsets in between. I grieve for myself, because never again will I enjoy the affections of a guy my kids say has “love goggles,” because he always looked at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Yes, doctor, when I am robbed of sleep, that is when I gain the most. I gain appreciation of a man whose short stint on earth left such a deep imprint on people whose lives he touched. I gain understanding that when you give of yourself fully and unconditionally as he did, then you will receive an overwhelming outpouring of love in return, as I am the lucky recipient right now.

So you see, doctor, eight hours may be the magic number, but I wouldn’t trade my nocturnal soul-searching and lamentations for a night of uninterrupted sleep. Modern medicine may cure a lot of things, but one thing for sure that it cannot cure: this broken heart.

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