Forgiveness

There is a quote in a book I just finished reading - An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination - that reduced me to sobs as I read it, and I struggle to understand why. I will paraphrase the quote to fit Janell's death:

"All I want is permission to remember Janell with pleasure instead of grief. To remember that she is dead, but to remember her without pain; she's dead but of course I still love her, and that love isn't morbid or bloodstained or unsightly, it doesn't need to be shoved away."

I struggle with residual guilt - that I should have been more vigilant in her care; I should have stayed with her more during her hospitalizations; I should have I been more assertive with the numerous specialists who cared for her by "silos" and not by integration; I should have demanded a family consultation; I should have said "NO" when her heart failed and I had to decide to let her go. I should have. . . I should have. . . I should have. . . . The "shoulds" haunt me - they make me wake up in the middle of the night - they make me cry as I drive down the interstate - they float in and out of my thoughts constantly.

The phrase "to remember her without pain" has a double meaning: that I won't feel pain as I remember her AND now she is feeling no pain. Janell dealt with pain for so long - gut tearing pain that send her to the emergency room on scores of occasions - the pain of recovering from five major surgeries - the pain of thrice-daily injections reduced to one monthly huge injection. She suffered, but few people knew. She kept it to herself, and I suffered with her, feeling helpless to relieve her suffering.

How do I forgive myself?