The Relativity of Grief

I'm grieving for a friendship lost. That grief is valid and palpable and, at times, raw. But my grief pales and cowers in comparison to the grief my Aunt Patti is experiencing with the loss of her independance. She can't feed herself. She can't use the bathroom. She can't sit herself up. She can't dial a phone. She can't turn the pages of a book. She can't type or write. She can't give her daughter a hug. The return of these functions is an unknown quantity. Her grief is the kind of grief that can't be named. So, hey, when I'm feeling red-eyed and blue, at least I have the consolation of wiping away my own tears.