Via Dolorosa

In the weeks leading up to Glenn's anniversary, things became even harder, though that had seemed impossible. Somebody told me that the time immediately before the first anniversary was usually very difficult. It sure was.
Apparently there is still a street in Jerusalem called the Via Dolorosa (way of sorrow), and it's traditionally the route taken by Jesus Christ on the way to His crucifixion. Or maybe it's called something else by the Jews and Arabs now. But every year on Good Friday the faithful walk this road as a sign of devotion to, and I guess solidarity with, Christ in His suffering. In Catholic and Anglican tradition the journey is commemorated and participated in as the Stations of the Cross, a ceremony which involves walking around the church stopping at each of - is it 12 or 14? - paintings or engravings on the walls and meditating on each step.
Sounds kind of blasphemous, but that's kind of how I felt. Like I was walking the Via Dolorosa to an inevitable, horrible ending. Last year at least, until the day Glenn died I didn't really know what was going to happen - or at least, when or how it was going to happen. Now, of course, I know and remember every little detail of that day and the days following. And a little like rewatching a sad movie and desperately hoping it will end differently, I kept going over scenarios in my head as if in some crazy way I could prevent it in retrospect.
When the day came last Friday, hardly anyone except me remembered - or if they did, they didn't say. I was angry and relieved at the same time. Expressions of conventional sympathy, though well-meant, are often worse than useless, I've found. And very often they're not really about making the bereaved feel better, but about making the person who's uttering them feel good or allaying their feelings of inadequacy or embarrassment in the face of death.
Time heals all wounds.
Your children must be a comfort to you.
God never sends us more than we can handle.
Everything happens for a reason.
Bullshit - crap - rubbish - drivel. Wrong, wrong, WRONG!!
If you're reading this, it's probably because you too have lost your husband. Do these platitudes help anybody? Of course when they are offered I usually smile weakly and agree. What else is there to do, after all?