I was in Los Angeles this past weekend recording the audio version of my book, "Griefland." Another milestone author moment. The experience was unforgettable, yet odd and completely out of context. A few times, I had to stop, gasp, catch my own breath.  My voice changed, choked, as if horrified at hearing this story. I sat in the sound booth yearning to scream, shatter the glass, break free once and for all from the excruciating pain born from loss.  "Ma'am, are you all right?" the young technician asked at one point.  At another juncture, when I recounted Alex's childhood obsession with capes and Superman, he again stopped me and said, "I loved to wear capes, too, when I was a little boy."  It seems we are all connected in some remarkable way. His words revived me, got me through the final few chapters.  

Anyone residing in Griefland knows the feeling of being deluged with thoughts, imagery, memories - the kind that show up and collide without any warning whatsoever. Needless to say, I drove home exhausted and weary-eyed, accompanied by Mother Nature's tears, flooding the streets and highways, as I once again, tried to find my way home.

"How is she doing," people always ask.

"She's really holding up well," is the usual answer.

Oh...if they only knew.