Well, I got through the weekend OK. The 26th was his birthday. He would have been 57.
I HATE CANCER.
Today, the 30th, is the first day I had a full breakfast or breakfast at one sitting. A glass of OJ, half a tin of grapefruit segments, 2 Waitrose version of Weetabix, 1 slice of toast and marmalade. Not a lot, I know, but I am having to force myself to eat and look after myself.
Before he died is was weighing between 97/98 kg. I'm now down to 94 kg, partly due to not eating properly, and partly due to doing a lot of physical exercise clearing out his stuff and throwing out rubbish we had both accumulated as well as walking to and from the recycling bins.
Life has to go on. He said I would survive his death and get on, whereas he didn't think he could. He said he would die before he was 60. If he was right on one, I'm bloody sure he will be proved right on the other.
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