**EXPERT CONTRIBUTOR**
**ROBERT ZUCKER**
Grief Counselor, Consultant and Trainer

Consulting for the Journey
413 695 4572
robzucker@gmail.com
robertzucker.com

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It's a rainy Sunday morning in April. My wife is driving down to the city to meet her daughter, who flew in to take her mom to lunch and a show. We celebrated on Friday, her actual birthday – with a pancake breakfast in bed; followed by a leisurely day with our puppy, Milo; and capped off with a romantic dinner at The Blue Heron Restaurant.

I'm sitting on our daybed on the porch now, my computer perched on my lap. Somewhat reluctantly, I turned on the gas stove this morning in an effort to temper the chilly April air. All I can hear is the steady patter of rain on the porch roof, an occasional flutter of ducks fishing on the river, and a contented sigh from Milo, who is lying by my side. Suddenly I catch a whir of red brushing across the porch window: A cardinal has sent his blessing for a sweet day at home.

But spring never comes easily, does it? And April is a complicated month. One day it's chilly and the next day I'm flinging open the windows, ushering a seductive summer breeze into our stuffy, wintry house. This week, I'm happily anticipating a day trip in my kayak and planning my sweetheart's birthday. Next week, I'll meet my kids at Wildwood Cemetery where my first wife is buried. It will be six years since she left us.

Grief is persistent. And life is persistent, too. So often both are hard-as-nails, and yet at times they're touched with kindness and love. I am fortunate to have found true love again. I am also fortunate that my kids loved their mom as hard as I did, and miss her like crazy the way I do.

I was once reminded by a grieving mom that unlike her, at least I can fall in love again. “I know you're not replacing your wife,” she told me. “Yet you can have that familiar feeling again that I've lost forever.” Maybe my kids feel that way, too. They don't get to have another mom, nor would they want one. Perhaps the emptiness they feel doesn't always sit well beside my newfound happiness. I believe that's worth bearing in mind.

And so our lives continue.

More contributions from Robert Zucker

Featured

When Death Interrupts the Conversation

When I was 20, my father threatened to disown me if I didn't transfer out of the music composition track I was on at college, and get a “sensible” degree in elementary education. Out of pure fear, I did as he demanded. Three years later, when Dad was seriously ill, I landed my first teaching job at a private elementary school on Long Island, moved back into my old bedroom at my parents’ house, and hoped to find the courage to have it out with Dad.

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And So Our Lives Continue

It's a rainy Sunday morning in April. My wife is driving down to the city to meet her daughter, who flew in to take her mom to lunch and a show. We celebrated on Friday, her actual birthday – with a pancake breakfast in bed; followed by a leisurely day with our puppy, Milo; and capped off with a romantic dinner at The Blue Heron Restaurant.

I'm sitting on our daybed on the porch now, my computer perched on my lap. Somewhat reluctantly, I turned on the gas stove this morning in an effort to temper the chilly April air. All I can hear is the steady patter of rain on the porch roof, an occasional flutter of ducks fishing on the river, and a contented sigh from Milo, who is lying by my side. Suddenly I catch a whir of red brushing across the porch window: A cardinal has sent his blessing for a sweet day at home.

Read More →

What about Mom?

Funny how you can spend a quarter century raising kids with your blood, guts, tears and bottomless love. Then one day something changes and you don’t have a clue how to keep your family together. And then, finally, you begin to wonder if it’s your job anymore.

When my mom was 50 she was left with a daughter in her first year of college and three older sons who could be aimless at times. We were trying to figure out our young adult lives without Dad. But what about Mom?

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To Be Transformed by the Journey

To journey and to be transformed by the journey is to be a pilgrim.

- Mark Nepo

It is 9 p.m. when my kids and I join my wife in her hospice room. We've come to tell her that her oncologist at Dana Farber has spoken to the hospice medical director and agrees that her feeding tube is only causing needless pain. That it is time to let her body die. Tough as nails, my wife insists that she speak directly to her oncologist. She wants us to call her immediately.

Read More →

And So Our Lives Continue

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And So Our Lives Continue

More contributions from Robert Zucker

Lisa Lippiello Shows Grace Under Pressure

Risky Business

Your Social Media in Print

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