I've convinced myself I'm ready to do the work I've been putting off. I have contracts and can't put it off forever. I opened up Word and just looked at the MS. I wrote my editor and told her I'm beginning revisions. And then I just looked at the requested revisions, overwhelmed.

I have no interest in writing, in doing revisions, in anything that I have to do. I walk around the house and find little things to do, having worn myself out in the early days cleaning from top to bottom.

The pantry was reorganized and cleaned, the cabinets emptied of contents that really should have been thrown out long ago. The floors were mopped and swept and the closets cleaned, clothes I knew I'd never wear boxed up to be given away.

I can't go near her room, though. I'm not ready for that.

Some books I ordered came today, I found them out on the front stoop when I got up today. Books about near death experiences, about finding the purpose of one's life, about death and dying.

I watch a little tennis, read a little, eat a little. My eyes wander to her pictures on my bedroom wall and I look away again, quickly. It hurts too much to look at her pictures.

I try to force my mind to other things when it dwells on what she went through, the pain I couldn't save her from. I rage silently at the doctors and nurses for the procedures that did nothing other than cause her more pain.

But through it all, I try to remember what I believe in. She's waiting for me, happy. She's forgotten her pain. She's surrounded by great things that we can't even imagine. I will see her again, be with her again, hold her again.

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