Our PBS station happened to start airing Season One of the New Who the same week a certain English friend encouraged me to see if I could find an episode to watch, saying that, given my love of Star Wars, I'd adore Doctor Who. I missed the first episode, Rose, but was lucky enough to jump in at episode two, The End of the World. It was odd, with slightly psychic paper and a blue box of which I didn't know the purpose of. There were trees as aliens, something I found cheesy. But when the Doctor smiled, he won my heart over.
It is about three months later, I suppose, give or take a few weeks. I have diligently watched the next episode every Saturday night at eight, obsessively taping it when I was on vacation, then fretting because my VCR clock is fast, resulting in the last three minutes of Doctor Who Confidential being cut off on my tape (I actually set the VCR to tape an extra thirty minutes, which is a good thing, else that pesky clock would have caused me to miss most of the episode entirely!). I am going to ask for a Dalek figure and a sonic screwdriver model for my birthday. I mutter 'fantastic!' whenever possible. I am, true to my username, a fangirl of this show.
But it always lurked at the back of my mind: the knowledge that Nine would, eventually, be gone. Reading the Doctor Who wiki page that first night after I had seen The End of the World, I of course noticed that there was a Tenth Doctor, so I've never had the expectation to see Nine in more then thirteen episodes. I had a sort of mental countdown going, figuring out how much more new material there was left for me to see of my Doctor. I knew how he died, and I knew what his last line would be.
But somehow his death has hit me just as hard as if I hadn't known it was coming.