The viewing at the hospital went as well as could be expected, which is to say it was an extremely bittersweet experience. All the staff were very busy at the time, so we were shuffled around quite a lot before we ever made any headway, which ordinarily wouldn't have been such a strain, but my incision was still rather fresh and walking was a chore. Also, I think Dave and I are well equipped enough to handle our own grief without every counselor and social worker in the world trying to tell us at length how to get in touch with our feelings. It was hard enough to maintain our composure without having to talk to strangers about the gritty details.
The actual viewing, when we got to it, was hard. I knew it would be, but I wasn't prepared for just how small and perfect he was. I cried for the whole half hour, though Dave took it somewhat better. It's not that I can't accept that things happened the way they did, but there's something terribly sad about holding it in your hands and looking it in the face. Just thinking about it still makes me cry. I'm going to do my best not to lose it in front of the family at the funeral next week, but that's probably a lost cause already.
The funeral directors are asking us to provide clothes within the next few days. We bought the smallest onesie we could find, but it's still too big. My mom is croqueting a little blanket for him, and Dave's mom is bringing a tiny rosary. The funeral should be on Saturday, March 19, after which he'll be sent to Macon to be buried. We're in the process of trying to get our move arranged for the second time, so whenever it is that we finally hit the road and pass through that town again, there will apparently be a full Latin requiem Mass for him in the church where we were married. I know little David doesn't need it, but we probably do.