Your death doesn’t feel real. It feels like you’re still in hospital, with hope of recovery. It’s just another health scare that you’ll pull through, because that’s what you do. You get rushed to hospital. I worry. I cry. I miss the gaping space you filled up, I miss us chatting complete and utter bullshit, I worry of you’ll pull through, then the dr let’s you go home. That’s how it’s always been.
But this time you didn’t come home. You deteriorated. The sepsis slowly shutting down all your internal organs. Your body unable to fight the infection. Til your heart gave our around 10pm on 18th of June, 2018. Not as peaceful as I’d hoped, because you’d been struggling to breathe or move for the last week, and every position they’d put you in was uncomfortable.
You missed my dad by 10 minutes. You were still warm when he got to you.
I registered your death, I cancelled all your bills, I sorted out you “last” pieces of paperwork. I visited you in the morgue and sang to you. I cried over your corpse. I planned your funeral. I cremated you. I broke down and sobbed, hard, for you.
Yet it doesn’t feel real.
It feels as though you’ll walk through that door any minute, or fall through, which was more your style, like the clumsy oaf you were.
It feels as though you’ll ring me later, with some hot gossip, and we’ll laugh and Bitch like we always did, but I know you won’t.
It feels as though the dr will ring and say the antibiotics have worked and you can come home, but I know he won’t.
Because you are gone. Forever.