Good Grief

This morning on the news, Reverend Robert A. Schuller, who led last night’s funeral service for Samantha Runnion, was asked how Erin Runnion, the girl’s mother, was holding up. He said something so generic that I can’t remember what it was, even though I heard it only an hour and a half ago.
One thing that he said made my stomach churn. Irked me enough that I felt compelled to jot it down in the little notebook that I keep with me at all times. And that was this:

“The grief process is about a year long.”

A year long? A year? That’s it?
Something tells me that Erin Runnion’s “process” is going to last for the rest of her years. Something tells me that her grief will never be processed.
No doubt someone will say, or already has said, to Erin Runnion, “Everything will be fine. It will get easier. Time heals all wounds.” I hope that every time she hears those inane platitudes, she turns to whomever is offering them and shows them the hole where her heart should be.
Velveeta is processed. Grief is not. If I were Samantha Runnion’s mom, my grief would be raw for eternity.