Poorly. This is the opposite of good. Plus, I am poor.
It appears I am handling this poorly. This is because I show no emotion, even while reels of images storm through my head and the only thing to stop them is Netflix. I will always remember you, Netflix. You have been here for me for days and days, and I don’t even have to respond. I just go to the next episode.
If I start to feel, I don’t take a drug. I watch Orange Is The New Black or Weeds. I have watched more television since Ashton died than I did the entirety of his life.
I miss the fish channel.
I miss peeling skin off his feet. Putting Aquaphor on his lips while he was sleeping. His beckoning hand.
Him telling me he hated me. Him. Mouthing the simple liquid, ‘PowerAde’. Him. Pointing to the sink. Him, nodding his head, YES when I said so many times a day, You Know I Love You? Right?
Me. Retraining him when he was on steroids. Him. Asking too many questions.
A long, long time ago in March he asked me if he were going to die. I really didn’t think so.
I think, what hurts the most not his being gone, it’s the torture he went through. It wasn’t cancer or even chemo that tortured him, it was Graft vs. Host Disease. A nasty predator. It stalked my son. It wanted his eyes, and more than that.
Hmm…I don’t think I’m doing very well.
This is bad.