Before Julie got lost. In despair.

Daughter Julie isn't taking her father Ron's death well. That's to be expected. Because after years and years of care-giving, she's distraught. Exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. She's in the throes of depression. She's drinking. Her favorite beverage, red wine. She's become an alcoholic. That, more than anything, exacerbates the situation. Makes everything worse. She's lucid. When not drinking. For periods that seldom last for more than three or four days. That's when I talk to her. About going in for treatment. But she never does. Instead, she takes to drinking again. In order to forget. Her unhappiness. Her instability. Her inability to cope. If I had my way, I'd force Julie into treatment. For a sustained period. She's in dire need of psychotherapy. The rest of us are celebrating Ron's demise. We are happy for him. For his escape from the ravages of Alzheimer's. I'm sitting in a lawn chair. Chatting with Julie's husband Rick. About Ron's wonderful and long life. Yes, we are celebrating. Not mourning. Not grieving. We did that long ago. Before Ron died. But Julie has been mourning and grieving. For years and years. Non-stop. Makes me wonder. If Julie will grieve herself to death. Yes, some people die of grieving. Rather than getting on with life. It's just a matter of time. For Julie. Unless she gets help. To stop her slow and methodical march to suicide. When that happens. Rick and I will grieve and mourn. For a day or two. About what could have been. Then we'll get on. With living life. The way it should be lived. Living. Happily ever after. With fond memories of Julie. When she was the real Julie. Before she got lost. In the labyrinth of despair. --Jim Broede