"She turned to face me, drying her hands with the white apron around her waist. "Whenever this urge or ache comes on you need to go upstairs and do wh...t you have to do. Only this time you have to use that plastic beaker to collect your stuff. Once you're done, bring it downstairs and I'll fill in that sheet the Doctor gave us."My head jerked up and I stared at her like she had lost her mind. What?Was she serious?Did she actually expect me to give her the beaker full of my goo? Get the hell out. Six years ago, my wife Rowan died. It was completely unexpected, and completely unnecessary. She had some hereditary issues with her arteries and got involved with a clinical trial for a new wonder drug; it liquified her liver. It . . . there are no words to describe my grief. I’m good at words and emotional processes; I’m a family therapist, the senior partner in a highly-respected practice. I still don’t have any words for that. Rowan was my emotional foundation, and just like that, she was. More

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