The lack of reply tells me what I know to be true because who wants to say anything else awful after that? So, I spare him the responsibility.
Me:He’s dead, right?
Me:Just tell me that Patrick is dead. I need to hear it.
Those damn messaging dots come in so slowly.
RobBob:Yes.
RobBob:Turned off his life support.
RobBob:He’s gone.
RobBob:Jesus, I don’t know what to say about anything. So sorry about your wrist too.
Me:It’s a completely awful storm. I can’t be awake anymore. This is too much.
RobBob:I’ve had about forty whiskies, so I’m with you. I don’t know how to deal. Talk tomorrow.
This force of life, my best friend, cannot possibly be gone. This isn’t happening.
With my good hand, I toss my phone across the room.
Normally, I’m a crier. Like, commercials, movies, and TV shit? So much makes me drop to my knees, but tonight, I feel nothing. Because this shit with Patrick cannot be true.
Despite my desire for this nerve block to die, I’m stuck with it for hours. I bury myself under my comforter, just peeking out, and watch what feels like a hundred episodes ofThe Mentalist.
At one point, I move my heavy, cast arm from the pillow beside me to my stomach. While I see my arm on this new spot, I still feel it in the same spot it was before. My brain and my body are not in sync, and it’s goddamn disturbing. This is some kind of phantom limb experience that I don’t fucking love.
A new episode starts, and I stare hopefully at Jane and Lisbon. It’s not great that Jane’s first name is Patrick, but maybe that’s some kind of sign. This nerve shit cannot wear off soon enough. Seems unfair that a nerve block doesn’t seem to be blocking the pain and is only adding in weird symptoms. I’m hurting so hard and counting down the hours until I can take real meds.
At six a.m., I greedily pop a few prescribed pain pills and wait for relief.
And they fucking do nothing. Not a dent.
Later that afternoon, I make a call, get another prescription delivered, and take the new pills that night, but apparently, I’m a weird mutant who doesn’t do well with drugs most people crave because I’m still in tears. Redheads are notorious for having difficult reactions to a million things, and now is another time that I curse my hair color, as maybe this is one of them. I could probably sell what drugs I have on the streets and make a fortune.
My fridge is full of food, but I barely have an appetite. Still, out of grateful obligation, I heat up some noodles and dumplings because I know my body needs nourishment.
That night, out of desperation, I message a friend from college who recently became a nurse. She puts me on a good schedule of high doses of Advil and Tylenol, and I sleep with significantly less pain.
And I sleep for days, because why would I want to be awake? The rest of the week is a haze.
After I start to feel like a human again—just barely—I post on socials about my injury and about losing my dear friend Patrick. It makes me tear up to search through photos and find so many of us together, all ones when we were blissfully unaware that these photos would be the last. And I post not because I have to, but because I know how kind my followers are and how much they actually care. The very supportive comments are truly touching, and restaurants and my fellow social media food folks keep me fed with deliveries for days. It’s too much, really, and I have to—or get to—share with my neighbors and my local unhoused friends.
Patrick’s funeral is in a few days, and I can’t go because I am not allowed to fly with my fucked-up arm. I go back to my secure place. My bed.
Staying snuggled up is the best option for now, I figure. Or maybe forever. So, I curl up and don’t move, grateful for my comfy mattress, pillow, and weighted comforter. I just don’t want to be awake. Not for any of this.
At some point, I force myself to get up.
It truly takes all my energy to shower, and I resentfully use a weird plastic wrap that keeps my cast dry while I sit on the tiled floor for twenty minutes and let the hot rain burn my skin. It feels so good, and I want to live in this water sanctuary forever. But I know I can’t. When I finally turn off the water and reach for a towel, I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and I waver, stopping myself against the sink. My skin is bright pink, my eyesare bloodshot, and I smell. Even though I have ten kinds of soaps and body washes, I forgot to use any of them.
I have no idea what day it is. But apparently, many have gone by because RobBob sends me videos from the celebration-of-life thing held at a bar, and I feel nothing. Which I recognize is so odd. Throughout the beautiful speeches and even when his wife manages to sing, I can barely watch. Or even react. In one video, RobBob reads—or tries to read—the piece I wrote commemorating Patrick, but the drunken guests are more interested in talking among themselves and asking the DJ for a song, as though they’re at a reunion or some shit. Celebrating life is great and all, but I cannot do that right now.
I grip my comforter and roll over, loving the darkness.
Even though what we had was one and done and we exchanged numbers in what felt like a formality, I text Dave.
