Louisville Magazine

MAR 2017

Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.

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nuyale.com 40 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 3.17 his phone. e last messages Euan sent were around 1 a.m. Sunday morning to his dealer, a person Euan's family knows. e phone is now in police custody, but Mhairi said that Euan asked this person what drugs he could buy. e dealer texted back a list; fentanyl was not one of them. Euan wrote something like, "Just give me the good stuff." en, after the dealer arrived, Euan sent the last text of his life: Coming down. Give me five minutes. "ere's not a day that goes by that I don't think about my son," Euan's mom told me. "But the autopsy showed that his ventricles were dilated. ere was scarring on his liver. So at the grand old age of thirty-six, his body was already set up for a stroke, a heart attack, urine problems, not being able to walk, not being able to work. So the one consolation I have is that at least he did not have to grow older and become disabled." Within a day and a half of Euan's death, a GoFundMe page had raised $8,000 for the funeral, and the Watsons chose to bury him in the Highlands, the neighborhood he loved. When the funeral director told the family that the casket would be closed for the service, Mhairi and Andrew looked at each other, and Andrew said, "I'm going to have to see my brother before he goes." "It was the coldest, chilliest room we'd ever been in. He was just laying out on that table," Mhairi said. "And I walked over to him and grabbed him and started kissing his face. Andrew was standing there with tears pooling in his eyes. Once I got my wits about me, me and Andrew grabbed each other's hands and put them over his chest and said the Lord's Prayer. I kept rubbing my hands through his hair, his beautiful Watson hair. And that was my last goodbye." In the days after Euan died, I felt as if my body were passing an illness. Grief thudded against my sternum. I woke as people talked to me, wondering how long I'd been listening to them. en I would be in the shower as the pain welled up again, and I lowered to my knees and pressed my face against the spigot, and my moans poured out like water. On Friday evening, we went to Euan's visitation. Some of his songs — Van Morri- son's "Domino," "Angel from Montgomery," "Dead Flowers" by the Stones — played overhead. Pictures of Euan were scattered on the table. I sifted through them, ordering them chronologically, reordering them again, as if trying to fit together the shattered tes- serae of a mosaic. Mhairi hugged me. "Hey, Charliebow," she said. "I miss the shit out of your face." Banked with flowers, the casket was decorated with salutations from Euan's friends. I read them all, but only remember one: I'll see you up on Cripple Creek. e funeral was on Saturday, July 16, and that morning, I stood in my kitchen, in front of the TCB magnet on my fridge. I looked at it for a long time. en I folded a eulogy I had written into my coat pocket and drove to pick up Stuart in Old Lou- isville, where he was living in the halfway house. When I pulled up, he got up from a chair on the porch and walked down the path. We hugged in the middle of the street. "How you doing?" I said. He shook his head. "Hanging on like a hair in a biscuit." Continued on page 102

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