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Home again, but with Son trying to sleep in the camp bed from hell just behind me - don't know why I even started to write tonight after days of not, when I have no time now.

Felt as fragile as fuck for days on end, like any big noise would shatter me into thousands of tiny pieces that would never be put back together properly. Maybe that's just how it is. This may be ED's last Christmas. Or not. Impossible to tell. I read a good article about grief by Hilary Mantel today, in The Guardian, where (amongst much else), she says something like "the acute agony [of grief] does not, cannot last long," but it fucking does when you are moving towards the loss, incrementally. ED is still with us, but not the woman we knew, more the spirit of the woman we knew, distilled to its essence, housed in a failing body, unable to speak, drifting further and further away. So don't tell me how long the acute agony cannot last, fucker.

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