I know it’s cliche, but the ones that are left behind are always the ones that suffer indescribably. Like Peanut and I, for example.
While I have been attempting to drown my tears in tequila, it has yet to prove successful. Although, at the rate my tears are pouring, I’m hoping to drown in those soon. Naturally I would have to cry enough to drown Peanut as well so we could both go and catch up with Henry together. Timothy would also like to come along.
All the days I spent thinking that Henry was having belly problems, I was completely undermining the issue. He had stage three lymphoma. That’s why he was vomiting every day, and looking sad… not eating, in the end. Stomach cancer was slowly taking over. The worst kind. The kind with no visible signs, no bumps saying “have me checked”… etc.
Henry was only five. He would have turned six in March. Utter devastation is a pathetic understatement. When a Writer reaches the space of beyond words, it is either because of complete divinity or unsurpassable pain.
But for the loyal cult members who live in my heart, you are more than aware – I’ve never stopped writing.
Not until now.
I’ve had a dead couple of days. I know I have no choice but to resurrect myself back to a condition of endurance. I need to be strong for Lily, she just lost her litter mate. She’s sleeping in my lap as I click.
I wish I had a choice. I wish Henry could have traded. He has a much better character than I do.
It’s not good blog family. Blah blah blah silver lining, blah blah blah this too shall pass.
I love you Henry. I’m sorry you got sick. I’m sorry none of us could see. I’m sorry you left so far before your time. Most of all, I’m sorry I couldn’t have traded. And no, that isn’t the tequila talking – that’s legit.
Fuck you lymphoma.