It's been one week.
Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes.
It seems like the shortest and longest week of my life.
I can't stop thinking in time - how it passes so quickly and slowly all at once.
The last ten minutes before the procedure crawled by. We were ready and not ready. I cried as I held Ben's hand and told him I was scared. By the time the anesthesiologist came to get me I was laughing.
One of my days started by me sitting on the bathroom floor crying, because the idea of going to work and being normal seemed too overwhelming. I took it one step at a time. (Literally - wash face, dry face. Pick out tights, put on tights). My commute to work that day was slow - it gave me time to breathe and be distracted, but that day ended up going by quickly.
There are moments when I'm worried about other people's problems and what's going on in their lives, and then in the next moment this...situation, this thing that happened makes me want to scream and cry and simply consumes me.
Sometimes it's like nothing has changed - Ben and I still make each other laugh, we talk about what's for dinner or if the dishes are done. And then all of a sudden the realization comes and I think well fuck, as the waves of sadness wash over me.
I don't know how to keep going, but somehow I'm doing it. I would say one week at a time. But right now each moment is a victory.
One at a time.