Last night the hormones surged and I found myself bristling over nothings again, like in my first months, like PMS. Dave held me and kissed me through it and the evening was difficult but I fell asleep without nightmares.
I woke up having crossed another threshold. I've accepted that he couldn't have lived longer than the hour and forty-five minutes inscribed on the paperwork. I've accepted the meaning of the words "non-viable", and looking back at the sheen on his eyelids as he lay in my arms, jaw slack -- I know he would never have lived. Accepting that, the guilt of letting go abated some, and I woke up with motivation for the first time this week.
The week is looking up. We have a couple of social calls planned already, with people whom my heart leaps to see, and a couple more in the works -- maybe even a potluck dinner and a good background of ebullient chatter. (eventually)
[pause for a few hours]
The midwife came and sat and chatted and offered support, and left me with leave to leave the house for the first time this week. With promises to take it easy, we drove down to the movie theatre, visited a book store, watched "Sha*n of the De*d" (f*ing brilliant!) and even did cursory groceries (I was aching for more vegetables).
Seeing familiar streets my brain went into overdrive, and I faced the rampant death of the Zombie movie a lot better than I was facing rude jokes earlier in the week -- I'm definitely not feeling quite so fragile.
Still sad, and only one step away from thinking of him against my chest, but today there were giggles and I made plans to study this weekend and next week for the professional exam that I was in training for when last we left off. I'm dealing with the idea of the next two or three weeks off considerably better, and have the motivation to do something with that time.
I'll be okay. We'll be okay.
But everyone's right -- it does take time. Every day is a step closer to finding solace, and we're getting there.
Have a good weekend, everyone. Thank you so much for your support.