Perfectly understandable, what you're doing, Kenoki. But futile in the extreme. No amount of advance planning can turn back the ninja-kick to the gut, or keep it from landing again, years down the road when you can blow-dry your hair without once thinking of the person and the pain. (Blow-drying? I know, I can't explain it. Probably true of any time-consuming, repetitive task that gets thrown into a vortex of absurdity in the aftermath of the shock.) Your five senses will betray you, not always but enough - you will see, smell, taste, touch or hear, and be blinded, paralyzed and choking all over again. Just as though you had never pounded the coffin in the first place. Just as though you had never braced for the worst.
So - don't. That doesn't mean you're alright with death. It means you're giving it as sound an ass-kicking as you're capable of. Get a legitimate bottle of Grand Marinier, float some on a tumbler of tequila, call it a margarita and scatter to-be-pop-in-law somewhere scenic with to-be-husband. The only consolation you have when the kick comes spinning at you decades afterwards is that dammit, you didn't squander what you had. And, oh - by the way, along the way, write. Lots. Your talent is abundantly apparent in a scant few posts. (*hey - thought you were the advice maven*)