Did That Really Happen?

I asked Dr. Z when it would start to seem real.  When would it stop sneaking up on me?  Would the feeling that this couldn't really be happening ever go away? When would I know all the time that she was gone?
His answer, "Never." took me surprise.  While I appreciated his honesty, I couldn't help but wonder if that was the best response to give someone who was reluctantly searching for hope and the will to live. 
He continued, "Our hearts will never catch up to our brains completely.  It will get less painful, and less unreal, but it will never feel true to your heart.  Your heart will ask that question until the day you leave this world."
Whew.  Dr. Z, I love you, man, but really?  Is that the best I have to look forward to?  That tiny little voice in the back of my mind that we'll call Suicidal Tendencies whispered, "Then really, what is the point?"
Good question, Suicidal.  What is the point?
I decided to go ask someone who might know, having had the experience themselves.  I had already spoken to a grief counselor, a therapist, a pastor, a psychatrist...it was time to ask someone who had lost a child. 
The receptionist at my family practioner was a little startled by my request to see my primary doctor, who normally carries a three month long waiting list, to talk about how he lost his child.  Startled or not, she scheduled it, and for the next afternoon, at that. 
I felt a little bad when I realized as he sailed in, white coat whipping to his stride, and a welcoming smile on his face, that he had no idea why I was there.  This very kind and gentle man is in his early sixties, if I had to guess.  He lost his seventeen year old son in a car accident years ago.  Here I was, selfishly dredging up his trauma and pain.  I was desperate.  And what is all that pain for, if not to help someone else as they head into the abyss?
I told him what had happened.  He asked me the questions he is trained, and I suppose legally obligated to ask, which I evaded to the best of my ability.  Then I asked him my question.  "How do you do this without going crazy?  How do you do this without wanting to die?"
He measured me with his eyes for a moment, before dropping his head.  He took the deepest breath, and when he began to speak, his voice cracked with the tears that had yet to fall.
"Oh, it's been fourteen years since we lost my son.  I was driving the car when it happened."
Here, the sobs overtook him, and the tear began spilling over his wrinkled cheeks.  His shoulders shook with the force of them as he made no attempt to hide his face, but paused to remove his glasses.
"My wife and I took turns blaming ourselves.  She had called and asked us to make the trip.  But in the end, it is never anyone's fault.  I don't know how we got through it.  We just went through it, together.  We were always together.  We had good friends.  I suppose that's all anyone knows.  We never counseled, and we didn't take our other children to counseling.  Maybe we should've, but they seemed to do all right."  He paused, looking at me with kind eyes,   "I'm going to tell you the truth, now, not to hurt you, but just to show you that it does get better, over time.  It's been fourteen years, and honestly, there are times that days go by without me thinking about him."
I looked up at him in horror.
He quickly added, "Not that I want to tell you that you're going to forget your daughter- you will  never forget her, and some days it will be like it happened yesterday.  But there will be times that life will fill up those empty moments, and you will focus on other things.  The hurt will get smaller.  That's really all I can tell you.  The hurt will get smaller."
Bullheaded, and just plain mean at this point in my life, all I could think was, yeah, he may have days that go by without thinking of his son, but what about his wife?
Somehow or another, I worked this question into the conversation, and he said he wasn't sure he could answer for her, but would ask her that evening, and call me with her answer.  Feeling I'd disturbed this poor gentleman's peaceful existence enough for one day, I thanked him, and left.
It was perhaps three days later that I received the handwritten note with a message from his wife, and her cellphone number, welcoming me to call her any time I needed to talk.
I have not called her, although I've been tempted.  I don't want to cause her any pain, and I'm not sure if I want to hear her answer to my question.  For one, I don't need it.  I already know that a mother that carried that life inside her body would never be able to pass a day without thinking of her child, just as someone who lost a limb may learn to compensate, but will never be unaware of the missing part of themselves.
I fear Dr. Z's answer was right, when he said "Never."  It will never seem real.  And my heart will always ask the question, leaving my brain to reluctantly confirm that yes, it did happen, yes, she is gone, and you will never see her again.