Grief was a cancer. You could spot the grieving like you could spot those in the throes of a terminal illness. The light had been lost from their eyes, their skin was dry and sallow, their cheeks hollowed and even their movements seemed labored. People often talked about the stages of grief—denial, pain, acceptance. But few mentioned the fourth—terminal. Those for whom there would never be any recovery. Barbara remembered one grieving mother telling her: “I’m already with my little girl. This heap of flesh and bones just hasn’t caught up yet.”
