There is the loss, there may also be feelings of guilt, feelings of whether there was anything they could have done.

They may suffer post-traumatic stress disorder. Their ability to concentrate in school, their academics, social functioning, their relationships in general with people, may all be impacted.

Life, for all its agonies of despair and loss and guilt, is exciting and beautiful, amusing and artful and endearing, full of liking and love, at times a poem and a high adventure, at times noble and at times very gay; and whatever (if anything) is t

I know she's hurt inside. I know she has feelings. I have a loss myself. But truly, I think she is suffering some kind of identity crisis.

It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Death was silence, loss, guilt. And anger. But life led that way, anyway. From birth, it was a slow, long march to the grave. Who said that? She couldn’t remember now. But it was true. They were born dying. If they were very lucky, the dying was called aging. They reached toward if as if they were satellites in unstable orbits. And then when they got there, they were just dead. One moment in time separated the living from the ghosts.