Good German Catholics grieve alone. Fortunately, I have a touch of the Irish in me – enough to get drunk. Half a bottle into the petit syrah my teeth are bright purple, and I’ve been lighting up the phone lines. The real grief therapy with a paid professional starts tomorrow, much to my friends’ relief.

I tried to handle my first grief by convincing myself nothing was wrong. Hours of “Law and Order” marathons revealed differently. Salvation was almost unattainable by the time I realized what I had lost in the interim. Superman said nothing. He just drifted away. Sergeant Shultz should be the patron saint of German Catholics.

Now I know I need help. What I face with my second great grief is just as daunting as the first. It isn’t a nightmare. I will not wake up. I have to face the reality of every day without someone who interwove so intricately into my life that I honestly cannot imagine life without him. Whether thorn or rose, he’s always been there – my protector and my greatest source of woe. I always knew some day it would be this way. I just didn’t realize how much I would care when it happened.

Tears. Another glass of wine. Another night of nightmares. The promise of tomorrow. I’m grieving as fast as I can.