Sometimes it hits me like a punch in the face. Last night was one of those times. I am never going to get to see him again. No matter how long I stay in Toronto, no matter how many people I talk to about CF and organ donation, no matter how many walks I go on around places we have walked before or hospitals he has stayed in. He is dead. My Joey is dead. And no matter what I do I can’t bring him back. No matter how much reflecting I do, healthy activities I engage in, or attempts I make at moving forward, or keeping busy, or distracting myself. Joey is dead. I am at a loss.
Feeling marginally better this morning, although it should also be noted that it would be pretty tough to feel any worse. The day is going to start out with some form of vigorous exercise because that always makes me feel slightly less bad, then I’m going to move onto a few of my other feel good tricks that don’t always work, but do sometimes. Just got off the phone with the Sandman too. He could sense my down-in-the-dumpsishness, even from the other side of the country.
And you thought he was only good at not getting haircuts.