My daughter died in my arms and depression threaten to drown me in a tsunami of grief. I felt compelled to visit her grave site and trim the grass around her head stone at least once a week. I did not know how to stop taking care of her. I would be awakened to the sound of her feeding or breathing machines alarms. These machines had been out of her room for months. After spending time with a grief counselor who instructed me to pen my feelings. I was told that I should focus on the memories of the good times, so I did. When I got about half way into what is now "Meet the Garrisons" I did not feel the need to visit the cemetery, nor was awakened in the middle of the night by phantom alarms. Never intending to have these memories read by anyone else. My brother found my notes and told me to share them. He said, "Men dont talk about their pain, so put it out there you never know who you might help." It wasn’t I let go of memory of the day she died and held tight to how she made my life complete that I was able go on.