I've been away from home this past week - in Orlando, blogging for the company I work for. Long days - even longer nights - but I was with a group of people I really enjoy being with so for the first time since Kevin died I was able to get away for almost a week and not think about hospital or funeral bills or insurance or autopsies or whatever else creeps up on me.

I was really doing okay - thanks to my friends - even after the Yankees lost to the Red Sox. I said to someone that if Kevin's heart attack hadn't killed him, that surely would have. I realized you really had to know Kevin to understand how true that statement was -- and sure enough I got a call from Kevin's best friend and from his brother yesterdat - both of whom said pretty much the same thing.

The ironic thing (maybe not so ironic really) is that though I was looking forward to returning home from the moment I arrived in Orlando, the day I left to go home I started crying in the shuttle van to the Orlando airport. And on the plane. And in the car on the way home. I think being away -- and coming home to a house he wouldn't be in -- was the reality that's making me believe this is all real. My head has known it all along - my heart just can't let go. But now that I'm home, I think my heart is starting to catch up with my head. It's not quite there yet but it's moving in that direction. And when the two are finally in sync, it's going to be a bad, bad day. But I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.