This is what I do. I fix things. If you're sick, hurt, scared, have to pee, I can fix it or find someone who can. I have a pill, a tactic, a technique or a minute to listen to you so you will be better off than you were when I first walked into the room.
So yesterday when I went to Sherman's funeral what did I have to fix it?
Not a darn thing.
There isn't a pill, tactic or technique that's going to make this grief go away. I even said to Vickie, "I would fix this if I could". And I can't. I'm helpless and I'm not happy about it.
All the hugs and sympathetic ears in the world aren't going to make this better any faster. And the more involved you were in his life, the longer it is going to take to get over it.
Oh, and for the record, funerals are supposed to give you a sense of closure. It didn't work for me. When I saw him lying there, it was like it wasn't him but a statue someone had carved and painted to look like him. His soul was missing and you could feel it's absence like it was a hole in the atmosphere.
I guess I should be glad I work in an environment that lends itself to my desire to fix things and allows me to be reasonably successful at it. If I had to walk around feeling helpless all the time, I'd probably lose my mind.