A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So begins Coleridge's poem Kubla Khan (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kubla_Khan). Whenever I read the name "Kübler-Ross", as in the "Kübler-Ross model" (better known as "the five stages of grief", http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K%C3%BCbler-Ross_model), the lines above come to mind.
The five stages:
I think I'm past #1, although there are daily occurrences of "I'll have to tell Katie...crap." I remember when my dad died in 2006 that these went on for quite a while, and eventually receded to "My dad would have liked...". Not sure that will ever happen this time, although I guess it would be healthy if it eventually did.
I'm avoiding #2, as I believe it's counterproductive, plus I know myself well enough to realize that it's going to cause me other problems. In the usual day-to-day encounters with idiots (like the guy who parked his minivan 3 inches from my door, so I had to climb across the other seat -- thanks, buddy!), I'm making a conscious effort to ignore the irritation, lest I go postal. Not that I don't have moments where I could punch a hole through the drywall, but, again, that won't be counterproductive (and typing one-handed will really suck).
#3 makes no sense for me: nothing to bargain with.
#4 is, of course, the big danger. I'm sure I'm depressed -- I'd be worried if I weren't -- but not in a bad way (if that makes any sense at all). It's manifesting mainly physically: poor sleep, feeling lethargic, just finding my give-a-damn quotient is generally low. I feel closer to Anita and to our many friends than ever, and I know that's a good thing. Focusing on tasks -- exciting things like emptying the dishwasher (though that also often brings to mind the epic battles getting Kt to do this small chore), or researching replacement CFL light bulbs on the web to find the best price -- is a distraction, during which the pain recedes. Work helps here for me, since it can be quite consuming.
#5 -- well, there's an element of acceptance in simply going on through day-to-day living, now isn't there? If "acceptance" means "forgetting it happened" and not thinking about my beautiful, smart, wonderful girl every day, then I don't think I'll get there; and to be quite frank, I'm not sure I want to. Maybe acceptance means just not feeling depressed a good percentage of the time: being distracted by every day life to the point that November 10th, 2010 isn't in my forebrain most of the time. I dunno.
And I guess that's what it all comes down to: I dunno. One thing is for certain: this ain't no Xanadu.