I spend a fair amount of time every day thinking about John -- about how it is possible that he is actually dead. I still don't get that but the more time I spend in Houston, the more I get it.
So I would say I'm working through denial, occasionally crossing over into anger, riding the waves of grief always.
I wonder how long this mental paralysis will last. I know it is my mind protecting me from the feelings of those early days -- the moment when my brother called me, the trip down to the airport at dawn, the staring into space on the plane, my daughter and I collapsing in tears on the beer aisle, seeing that 'this isn't happening' look in my brother's eyes, seeing Meg crunch up and say 'I just want it all to go away' when asked to choose between cremation and burial, choosing the mortuary, choosing the plot, choosing the casket, choosing the clothes, seeing the coffin set above the grave and understanding viscerally what was inside, seeing my daughter unreachable and literally prostrate with grief before the open but now not empty grave.
You can't actually live if you think about that stuff. You'll go mad.