Teeny tiny steps
Steve never mentioned it, but he cleaned up the dog poop. I happened to look outside one afternoon, when he'd said he was going to do something or other, and saw him pacing around the yard, scooping the dog doo. Yeah, it was the kids' responsibility, and he'd never been a huge fan of the whole dog concept. But he really did like that dog--doglet, as he called her, 'cause she's on the small side. And he just quietly took care of it.
He did that a lot. I wonder sometimes if on some level he knew what would happen. So many things were mine to deal with, with help and support from him, but the net result is that I'm fully competent to run the house and handle the finances and all kinds of things. I still don't know how to drive in the UK, but that's solvable and not pressing.
An odd thing: I expected that I'd be drinking fairly heavily during this time. I'm not. I really, really thought I would be just downing bourbon and vodka; that's the image in my head of what happens when you grieve, you drink. For some reason, it's not what I do. I'll have some wine now and then, but that's really about it. I don't feel completely pleased about it, either--mostly I am, but I also would love to just be unconscious sometimes. It feels like a drain rather than a help, though. My sleep pattern is so screwed up that alcohol just sounds like a stupid idea. After Sept. 11, I noticed that Steve and I were both drinking more, and a lot of other people I talked to were, too. So partly I expected to be in something like the same pattern.
Knitting is inching along. I did go to Javaroom for about an hour Wed., which seems to be what I can manage logistically, and looked at a new knitting magazine and did a bit more on the same damn sock.
These are two pictures of Steve taken in Tokyo during an interview with a technical magazine. He died the following week. His company was kind enough to make a CD for me. I see how jet-lagged he is, and his beautiful eyes.