. . During those times I think of you—your loss and how you must have felt . . .* * *Hearing the soft knock on his hospital door, Paul opened his eyes and saw that the room was dark. Someone had turned the light off, and the daylight had faded outside. Either it was raining or he’d slept away the afternoon. He looked toward the door just in time to see yet another doctor walk in—the fifth one since yesterday when they’d moved him from the emergency room to a room upstairs. The doctor switched on the light and walked toward the bed. Paul stifled a groan as recognition dawned. It wasn’t another doctor—it was the grief counselor.Unexpected anger welled up in Paul. They thought he was crazy—like some psyche patient on an ER episode.“Hi, I’m Collin.” The man stepped farther into the room. “May I?” He indicated the chair next to the bed.“Sure.” You will anyway. Paul took a sip of water from the paper cup on his bedside tray as Collin launched into his speech.“I’m a counselor here at the hospital, and I thought it might be helpful if we talked about some of the difficulties you’ve been having.”Difficulties?
