This is not over. Far from it.
It's been 17 days.
People ask me how I am, and I have a hard time coming up with an answer. "I got out of bed this morning," I say sometimes.
I don't want to get out of bed. I'm fighting an overwhelming urge to stay there. I worried that I would not be able to revisit the place where Mat died, in bed, in the guest bedroom that we moved into when Mat could no longer climb stairs very well. Far from avoiding the room, I find that I feel the most peaceful there.
Part of it must be my craving to fill the void he's left. I want to sleep where he slept, and wear his clothes (the jeans that are a couple of inches too long -- those are Mat's), read everything I can find that he has written, and be with his friends. Mat gave me permission to read his journals, and I did. (I probably would have anyway.)
At least one of my siblings has been staying with us since Mat died, so we are being well taken care of. Dozens of people are offering help and support and encouragement, all of which is making this much easier than it might otherwise be.
Now if only I could sleep.