wolverine.
damn, i'm freezing.
i was reading bluering, and i remembered what shirt i was wearing. i unzipped my hoodie and stared at the yellow and red letters, cracked and faded from hundreds of spin cycles. i poked my finger through the hole in the collarline. i wish i could remember what it was like to wear this before.
this wasn't something we were able to get used to over time. we couldn't talk to him about it. we couldn't understand what he was feeling ... the doctors said he couldn't feel a thing. i know that's a lie. i know my boy always felt something, awake or asleep. i know he never lived a moment without passion and expectation, and as long as he was alive, he was feeling. even if all he was feeling was that he had to get out of this damn vehicle that had sent his life reeling. we couldn't prepare, and we couldn't have any sort of hope without a thorn of reality.
the only things i was able to get use to were his headaches, his dizzy spells, his fatigue, and his panic. we had no idea. we thought it was stress. the doctors thought it was caffeine and nicotine withdrawal. i could only hold him and tell him to breathe when the pain got to be too much, when his eyes wouldn't work, when he couldn't move his feet. a few times, i got calls on my cell phone ... "come home, bean, it hurts." and i'd turn my car around, and go straight home.
i still feel like i let him down.
for two years, he had been getting dizzy spells when he sat up too fast or rolled over the wrong way. we stopped our wrestling and horseplay. we stopped running up and down the street, jumping on each others' backs. i was the one who looked under the bed for things, and he couldn't look over his shoulder without sitting down. these were things he got used to, and so did i.
for a little while, he had trouble eating, keeping food down. when he had an appetite, it was small. we trotted down to the chinese herbalist in allston and got him a terrible tea that made him gag.
when we moved to new orleans, the headaches started. dull and inconsistent, he and i both assumed that it was the awful job and financial stress. they got worse though, so much worse. my last few months in new orleans, his headaches ate his will. he couldn't feel his hands or parts of his face. he would lose his balance or need help walking. he would start shaking, and i couldn't do anything but hold him.
i let him down.
it got so bad one evening that he called me, and i came home. he couldn't move from the bed, and he couldn't see. his speech was different, and sentences weren't making much sense. i helped him to my car, and we went to his father's house. the four of us went to the emergency room, and he was so scared. i was so scared. he held my hand and hugged my arm in the waiting room. i wanted to cry so badly, but he told me that he knew if i was worried, it was serious. i couldn't tell him that i was worried. i couldn't say that i was scared. i couldn't let him see my hands shaking. i couldn't let him hear my heart pounding. i couldn't let him panic. i held it all in and held him.
they wrote it off and sent him home with painkillers. so we wrote it off too. we both felt silly, and we talked about it all night ... how silly we felt ... two kids not knowing what the fuck.
i can't believe i moved the next week, but i did.
we talked several times a day, everyday. i knew his headaches weren't getting better. when i heard he had to be carried to his apartment, rockstar and i drove. i couldn't be away from him any more. i had to touch him, hold him, kiss him, tell him it would be ok.
how could i let him down? i didn't mean to let him down.
how could we expect this? he was only twenty two. we went out on weekends and smoked cigarettes on the roof. we were invincible, twenty two. we danced stupid dances in the middle of our room in our underwear to bad pop punk music. we ate ramen and pbj's everyday. we talked on the phone to each other when i was only a few minutes away from home. we couldn't wait. for christ's sake, he was only twenty two ... how could his body do this to him?
no, we weren't prepared. we had no idea. how could we?
how could i ever know that i would never want to take this shirt off? that when i packed it into the luggage i was checking that i would worry furiously that they would lose my bag? that every time i looked at it i'd smell the uncomfortable scent of hospital?
i wear it despite, because it was his ... because i love it ... because he gave it to me ... because he's my bean ... because i'm twenty three, and i never want to let anyone down again.
