Sometimes. I get triggered by the sight or the sound of his name and I want to climb, or take a helicopter, whichever is easier, to the top of this building (probably a helicopter) and scream, “THAT’S NOT HIS NAME!”.
It all started with the absence of Trent during my pregnancy. We made a deal that if he was still active in our child’s life at one year, I would drop the “Carley” part on his birth certificate. If he were gone, I would drop the “Trent” part. Come to find out it cost well over 300 dollars to change a name so we just kept putting it off until it now it’s a name he identifies with.
But really, it reads Ashton Tyler Carley Trent. So, at school or anywhere else, before we became hospital people, he was just Ashton Trent.
His name is not fucking Ashton Carleytrent. That name does not even exist. But all his medical records, no matter what I do or say, reflect that name. As a matter of fact, if I change it, there is a good chance our gabilliondollar bill won’t even get a dent put in it by insurance. (oh my god the bill)
We are going to be living in a van down by the river.
The little bag of cells which was “donated” (thank you very much) cost upwards of $100,000.00. Chemotherapy? 4Rounds? People have only hinted at the cost of that. And then laughed. Those were doctors laughing.
We have round-the-clock care. Hmmm… that can’t be cheap. When it’s all said and done we will have inpatient for…7-8 months. Holy Smokes. I need to go ahead and get that van and put a mattress in it. And find a nice river. I like rivers.
Ashton Tyler Carley Trent. Damn it.