After something happens’something bad’I never know how long to keep writing about it. It’s so hard to segue from ‘really horrible’ to ‘look what silly thing Esteban said to me yesterday’. So today I will do my best.
Bryan’s wake was Saturday. It was one of the most heartwrenching things I’ve ever attended. I was mistaken on his age in the last entry’. He turned seven in late November. There were so many people there that there to say good bye to him. Even the coach of the Chicago Bears, whose name I can’t remember right now. I don’t know what was worse’. Seeing the balloons and the bouquets with Spongebob Squarepants, seeing the pictures of him hamming it up to the camera, despite a bald head and puffy face, or seeing him lying there in the tiny white box, hand on a duck Beanie Baby.
It occurred to me that it has been almost precisely three years since his initial diagnosis of a lethal illness. In fact, before anyone knew that anything was wrong, on New Year’s Eve 1999, Esteban and I spent the evening at his house, drank champagne from Bill and Sarah’s wedding crystal and played Prince’s ‘Party like it’s 1999’ on their kitchen boom box while he and his sister slept in the back of the house, bad cells multiplying even then within his little body. None of us knowing that two weeks later would come down the judgment that would change their family forever.
Saturday, pre-wake, I was listless and completely without focus. I attributed it to sadness, but it later became apparent that I was coming down with something in a very quick way. When it came time to hug his mom, my voice was completely gone and all I could do was whisper ‘I miss him and I miss you’ to her. In the last three years, her life has been pretty much devoted to fighting the disease with Bryan. So many other people came out of the woodwork and clustered around her, anxious to be supportive, that I backed away. I didn’t want to take her attention away from where it was needed. I hope that Sarah knows this, and I think she did because we both just stood there with tears in our eyes, nodding, knowing in an instant everything that had been lost.
I had worn a grey long skirt with a matching grey blazer, black v-neck shirt underneath. I was saving the Scully suit (all black double-breasted suit) for the funeral on Sunday, but by the time that Sunday came, I was completely taken out by my flu/cold thingy. I had been fully intending to go, but then I started negotiating with myself, talking myself out of things like taking a shower because I didn’t think I’d have the strength to stand in the shower. And then hating myself for being a weenie when that little boy had withstood so much more. But I literally could not drive a car, so pretty much was taken out of the picture.
Instead of flowers, my friend Heidi and I (along with two other folks whom I’ve since forgotten) purchased a memorial brick in memory of Bryan at the local zoo. Then, she asked if they could include a print out of the entry in the card for his family. I was very honored, and granted permission. If they mention anything about it, I am planning on directing them to the comments section of the entry so they can see all the lovely things you all wrote in memory of him. I’m sure that it will give them some bit of solace, knowing that he was sent on with the love of so many people.
So now, I’m pretty much completely taken over by this flu thingy. I keep beating myself up about it. On Saturday, I refused to consider the idea that I was getting sick, but by Sunday I simply could not move. Today, my throat is one long road of yellow Men Working and Slow Proceed With Caution signs. As Drowning13 wrote once, there is a red light bulb lodged in my throat. I can’t cough it up. It hurts to even breathe. Even my beloved juice cure isn’t working, as when I drink it, it must take a detour at the esophagus and turn at the next corner for three miles, then baha it back over bumpy terrain before it can proceed upon its journey, burning my throat the entire time. I’ve spent the last two days in my University of Wisconsin sweatshirt, sweatpants and men’s grey thermal socks. I spilled tea and got some on the socks this afternoon but had no energy to scout out a fresh pair, thus, now they have tea on them. My feet are Blackberry and Sage fresh.
I did manage to take a shower today. In one of those rare moments of precognition, as I was gliding the razor over my Achilles tendon, I thought ‘Oh, don’t cut yourself, don’t cut yourself’ and then took a good size bite out of the back of my heel, which then bled for something like four weeks. I mean, not only did it bleed and sting for the remainder of the shower, but then also while I was out of the shower, drying off, brushing my teeth for the third time today (nothing like the taste of congealed snot in the morning) there were actual DROPS of blood streaming off my foot. Like a horror movie. The killer is in the shower, ma’am. And wouldn’t you know it, right onto my freshly washed bathroom rug. Like, I just brought it up from the wash on SATURDAY and it’s all bloody now. I complained over the phone to Esteban, in my froggy demonic voice and he consoled me and for once, I think he honestly understood my angst. Or has gotten really good at faking it.
I must be better by tomorrow because I must bring Mo to the airport in the middle of the day. And my work projects are completely out of hand. But that I will think about tomorrow. For now, more Dayquil, more Shakespeare in Love and more tea. And maybe a pair of dry socks.
