There’s that word again

The word is “condolences.”
It’s not so much the word, but the way it’s delivered.
As if the word itself frees the deliverer from involvement with the recipient.
As if “condolences” are gonna make me feel better.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me, she was 68. I miss her dearly.
So people come up offering condolences, as if that’s gonna make me feel better.
They never do. I’m devastated and heartbroken.
More than I expected to be.
The death of my wife smashed me to bits, even more than my stroke.
We were very attached, at least me to her.
I have no gumption at all. I barely exist.
I still have our dog, now my dog.
I happened to take the dog to Boughton (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) Park yesterday (Friday, August 31, 2012) for a long walk through the woods, about four-five miles over terrible footing, exposed roots in dirt trails.
A lady approached after I parked, addressing me as “Mark.”
“Who’s Mark?” I asked.
“I thought your name was Mark,” she said.
“It’s Bob,” I said.
The lady was a park regular I’ve seen before, but I didn’t recognize her not in Winter garb, and with a different dog.
“Which car?” I asked.
“The white one,” she said, pointing to a white Ford Freestyle.
Now I recognized her, “but first I should tell you right away my wife died.”
“I know,” she said. “I came over to offer my condolences.”
There’s that dastardly word again!
Don’t snap at her. She means well. Try to not look exasperated.
Unfortunately my mood always shows. I hope it didn’t this time.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, escaping before I made things worse.
(The bathroom is a Porta-John.)
“He doesn’t wanna talk about it,” she probably concluded.
Not true. I’m just afraid of hurting feelings.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)