Still can't imagine going to work Monday.
The docs threw words like septicemia and blood poisoning at us too, which just further underlines that they don't know what killed him yet. I'm holding onto the pneumonia explanation for now, because the alternatives would sending me out of my f*ing gourd. Denial has its perks.
Meara's a dream. She's helping Mom organize her finances by computer.
My recitation from the Book of Revelations was straight Dale Carnegie; I know Dad would've been proud. I had something written for the reception, but the mood had turned light, so I didn't read it. May still do it at CT in 2 weeks.
Cyril's eulogy was a thing of beauty, grateful, loving. Nothing written down either, so I was really impressed, because he didn't ramble like he has a tendency to. My cup runneth over as I listened; I bawled like a baby.
I'm not ok, who the hell am I kidding? I'm quieter still, and I feel older, but the crying is abating. Life is resuming a rhythm, which is infuriating, and will only feel worse next week when I'm back trapped in my cube, but it can't be helped. How I get paid for this past week will be, in part, dependent on how well I perform this coming week. Not exactly fair, but I have to make the best of it.
The good news is we'll have fresh phone, Internet, and cable installed on Sunday, so Les will be able to look for work much easier now.
His birthday's tomorrow. It'll be nice to shower him with love and devote my attention to someone besides myself and my immediate fam.
Still tired a lot, but hoping to start walking once life gets feeling even more normal...figure it'll keep the white coats away. Also starting a journal, maybe to Papa. Christ, when I remember what's happened, I actually breathe heavier...it's not like hyperventilating or like my wind's knocked out, just heavier. It's absolutely f*ing inconceivable to me that he's not on a trip and due home soon. F*ck that he was living on borrowed time, a walking time bomb. He was only 67! I feel like I have to get healthy NOW because I share too many of his genes. I want to visit a palmistry expert because he and I have the same hands, with the same broken heart line. I can't think about how Meara's been shorted in this, having less time with him than Cyril and I, because that sends me from denial to anger and I'm not ready to get out of denial yet.