I said I would be honest.
Back to the Hunter's boots...
am I seriously planning to do that much puddle jumping? Why this sudden need to taste the rainbow and procure every single color offered here and in the U.K.? What is up with that?
Dr. Z said it is a stress response. If there is a major storm on the way, people pick the shelves clean- stocking up on water, bread, milk, batteries, etc. Apparently, what I need to survive is designer footwear. Who needs food when you can accessorize?
It is financially irresponsible; it is self-indulgent; it is a temporary fix.
Yep, yep, yep.
So, do you think they have the shearling lined brown ones in my size?
In my own experience, when someone's brain isn't working right, they sometimes take comfort in order. They depend on predictability. Decisions create anxiety. So here I am, not choosing, saying let's just get it over with and get the whole kit and caboodle. Here I am, stacking boxes, and planning color coded pictures for easy access. Here I am, planning my outfit around tomorrow's color of boots.
I should be ashamed. But I am not. If it takes a pair of boots to get me out of bed, then so be it.
I know that it is a distraction- this hunt and gather instinct. I know that searching for the elusive color, or deciding how to style them blocks off time I would spend thinking much darker thoughts. I know that checking off the different shades gives me a sense of control, although my bank account may argue that idea. :)
Maybe it is my brain. Maybe I've just gone -in the words of my dear old friend, Beverly,-crackerdogs.
Either way, I am keeping busy. I am not hurting anyone.
This morning, when I woke up, but was still laying in bed, I revisited Cory at the funeral home, in my mind. I knew she would be cold, but I was not prepared for her to feel hard. As I lay here under the afghan with her picture on it, I could feel the chill of her skin when I touched it. I bent over time and time again to kiss that little scrape on her hand. If I could just let her know how sorry I am that I let her get hurt. Before long, it was time to say good-bye. I could feel her lips under mine for that last kiss. I kissed the picture of her that I held all through her service, transferring some of her Totally Toffee lipstick onto it. I keep it in my jewelry chest. I can still feel her lips. I can almost taste her lipstick. I was so in love with her. In bed, still dark outside, my head moved back and forth, trying to negate the reality that she is truly gone. My hands found my laptop not a moment to soon. Let's think about something else.
So if you see me about town in colored rainboots on a sunny day, and think geez, what is wrong with that girl? Is that all she ever wears? Just know that in my mind, I am in a corner, stacking up my Hunter bootboxes, sneaking a little smile and a tad bit of joy at the pretty candy colors. I am fantasizing that Cory has all her favorite colors and I have all mine. We share them out, doubling each of our boot wardrobes, just like the old days. We plan our outings around our boot outfits...these look like movie boots, these look like Barnes and Noble boots, these would be perfect for our booty-go-rounds...
We slide them on, and twirl for each other. We giggle and laugh about how naughty we've been. Then we climb into the car, twinkies again after all these months, and turn on some music for the car ride. We are going for coffee and window shopping...
It's a Mommy-Cory day.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Hand Me Another Plate There, Sven
So back to Dr. Z's theory of the breaking plates...
I went to the eye doctor this past week and ended up spilling out the whole story when simply asked if I was on any medications. This is par for the course for me. If the Target check out girl says she likes the hat I'm wearing, I feel compelled to try to sum up the essence of my Cory Girl and my devestating loss before the next customer's turn. Bear in mind, these are complete and total strangers- nonetheless, I cannot tell enough people that I once had an amazing friend who happened to be my daughter.
So my eye doctor made a comment when he found out Cory was only nineteen. He said, "You know, I think when we lose a young person, we are really losing two people...
the person they were
and the person they were yet to become."
(Small breakdown in eye doctor's office happened here.) Poor guy, optometry isn't what it used to be, it's far more messy and emotional.
So three plates, Dr. Z (Sven is his first name, Cory had toyed with the idea of naming her first born son after him): One for my daughter, one for my friend, and one for the person she was yet to be.
My grief is not just for me and what I am missing about her not being here. My grief is also for what she did not get to have. Laundry list: diploma, college classes, job, boyfriend, driver's license, wedding, children, family.
She missed so much just because of her illness that I sometimes feel her development stopped at age 16, when the symptoms stopped being coy and just went in for the kill. How do you continue to grow socially and emotionally when you are in a state of low grade terror the majority of the time or so depressed you can barely move? You don't, which is why you will hear me say so often, she was never really nineteen.
I often think of what she did not get to do, and it makes me bitter. It is hard to see other girls her age just living...walking the mall with a friend, their cheeks rosy from the cold, some Ugg-like boots on their feet, planning nothing but their next excursion into Aeropostale, and what they'll text next to their latest crush. Why do they get that? What did I do wrong that Cory had to be punished at every turn? Who in the world has a three year battle with schizoaffective disorder and then gets hit by a car...fatally? Did I complain one too many times? It's like God said, you know what, Nick, it seems like this is just too much for you...you're too tired, you're too stressed...and I hear you, so I'll just take that right off your plate.
It is hard, hard work to either other people talk about their young adult children's jobs, classes, and love lives. Sometimes I just have to walk away. The hardest part is to hear people complain about mundane every day things like we all do. Because I am just sitting there thinking Cory will never get that chance...that chance to bomb the test, get up early for work, teeter totter back and forth on whether or not she should stay with the current boyfriend.
What I have learned to do, although I haven't liked it one little bit, is to recognize my moments when they come along- they are far different than I ever imagined; they are full of sorrow; but they are there. Want to hear one?
Before the art display downtown, I got her paintings framed and ready. I had been putting it off until the last possible moment because it just hurt too much. It hurt to go through them, it hurt to look at them, and it hurt to know she would not be here to see them hung. I listened to The Used while I set her paintings into frames with equal parts joy and despair.
As I turned each screw home, it suddenly occurred to me that this was my equivalent of buttoning up the back of her wedding gown. Such a shiver went up my spine. But it was true, wasn't it? Here I was, helping her get ready for her big day. I was happy she had found what she needed, but a tad heartbroken that it wasn't under my roof.
This art display would complete her. She wouldn't just be understood and loved by one man. As people saw her work,and her words, she would be loved by many people, and understood at long last.
As I set each frame, finished, to rights on the living room floor, and stood back to survey them, I was every bit as proud as I would've been to see her in a fluffy white dress dripping with lace. Who knows? Maybe I'll see that yet...there's always my dreams.
I went to the eye doctor this past week and ended up spilling out the whole story when simply asked if I was on any medications. This is par for the course for me. If the Target check out girl says she likes the hat I'm wearing, I feel compelled to try to sum up the essence of my Cory Girl and my devestating loss before the next customer's turn. Bear in mind, these are complete and total strangers- nonetheless, I cannot tell enough people that I once had an amazing friend who happened to be my daughter.
So my eye doctor made a comment when he found out Cory was only nineteen. He said, "You know, I think when we lose a young person, we are really losing two people...
the person they were
and the person they were yet to become."
(Small breakdown in eye doctor's office happened here.) Poor guy, optometry isn't what it used to be, it's far more messy and emotional.
So three plates, Dr. Z (Sven is his first name, Cory had toyed with the idea of naming her first born son after him): One for my daughter, one for my friend, and one for the person she was yet to be.
My grief is not just for me and what I am missing about her not being here. My grief is also for what she did not get to have. Laundry list: diploma, college classes, job, boyfriend, driver's license, wedding, children, family.
She missed so much just because of her illness that I sometimes feel her development stopped at age 16, when the symptoms stopped being coy and just went in for the kill. How do you continue to grow socially and emotionally when you are in a state of low grade terror the majority of the time or so depressed you can barely move? You don't, which is why you will hear me say so often, she was never really nineteen.
I often think of what she did not get to do, and it makes me bitter. It is hard to see other girls her age just living...walking the mall with a friend, their cheeks rosy from the cold, some Ugg-like boots on their feet, planning nothing but their next excursion into Aeropostale, and what they'll text next to their latest crush. Why do they get that? What did I do wrong that Cory had to be punished at every turn? Who in the world has a three year battle with schizoaffective disorder and then gets hit by a car...fatally? Did I complain one too many times? It's like God said, you know what, Nick, it seems like this is just too much for you...you're too tired, you're too stressed...and I hear you, so I'll just take that right off your plate.
It is hard, hard work to either other people talk about their young adult children's jobs, classes, and love lives. Sometimes I just have to walk away. The hardest part is to hear people complain about mundane every day things like we all do. Because I am just sitting there thinking Cory will never get that chance...that chance to bomb the test, get up early for work, teeter totter back and forth on whether or not she should stay with the current boyfriend.
What I have learned to do, although I haven't liked it one little bit, is to recognize my moments when they come along- they are far different than I ever imagined; they are full of sorrow; but they are there. Want to hear one?
Before the art display downtown, I got her paintings framed and ready. I had been putting it off until the last possible moment because it just hurt too much. It hurt to go through them, it hurt to look at them, and it hurt to know she would not be here to see them hung. I listened to The Used while I set her paintings into frames with equal parts joy and despair.
As I turned each screw home, it suddenly occurred to me that this was my equivalent of buttoning up the back of her wedding gown. Such a shiver went up my spine. But it was true, wasn't it? Here I was, helping her get ready for her big day. I was happy she had found what she needed, but a tad heartbroken that it wasn't under my roof.
This art display would complete her. She wouldn't just be understood and loved by one man. As people saw her work,and her words, she would be loved by many people, and understood at long last.
As I set each frame, finished, to rights on the living room floor, and stood back to survey them, I was every bit as proud as I would've been to see her in a fluffy white dress dripping with lace. Who knows? Maybe I'll see that yet...there's always my dreams.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Dream a Little Dream
My take on the post traumatic stress sydrome is this: the brain cannot take in the whole experience at once, so instead the traumatic event is split into tiny little fragments and dispersed by a cruel, useen hand into every soft, vulnerable nook and cranny. These bitter seeds nestle, feeding on insomnia, guilt, and hopelessness. They grow into techni-color flashbacks and nightmares that could rival the most well made horror film. Look out Rob Zombie. They pop up over and over again as the brain tries to process the experience in whatever way in can- if not as a whole, then piece by painful piece. But in some fashion, it must be done.
The second or third night after the accident, I dozed fitfully from pure exhaustion. Trying to sleep after the violent, unexpected death of your child is the devil's own job. I woke screaming, bringing Tim on the run. It was not the road this time, like almost every time I shut my eyes for the first few months, but instead it was Tim. I had dreamt that he had walked down to the gas station for a gallon of milk, like he often does. When he reached the entryway, a faceless man jabbed him with a switchblade, gutting him like a fish. He fell to the ground, arms pinwheeling, and a maroon stain already seeping into his cotton t-shirt like a grisly map of the world. There was blood, so much blood. Upon a closer look, I could see his intestines, glistening as they hung loosely from the opening that looked so much like an evil grin. I started screaming, "Has anyone called 911?" No one answered, because I was the only one there. As I watched he began to close his eyes. I knew if he did, he would die. I woke up screaming.
Many people tried to comfort me after the accident by saying at least she didn't suffer- that she died instantly. Unable to stop myself, I imagined the scenario over and over again in my head. I wondered if she even knew what happened. I wondered if she realized at the last second, but was frozen to the spot. I wondered if it hurt her. I wondered if she knew what had happened, and had laid there wanting me. Did she call for me, if even only her mind, to get no response because I couldn't get there quickly enough? To know my baby girl had died alone was eating me alive. She hated being alone. It was then that the voices preyed on her the most; she was open game. Please, please tell me she did not die hearing them say mean things to her. I should have been there to say, "I'm here." She should have felt my hand take hers even if there was nothing else I could do but to let her know I was there. Failure, Nick, failure.
So a few days after the accident I dreamt I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. Cory would often hang out in the doorway while I did my hair or makeup, sometimes chatting with me, other times just watching. She had made a habit of watching me put on my makeup since she was a little girl. Imagine my joy, when that narrow bathroom door swung open and Cory was in the doorway. Cory was alive! She was here! I took a step towards her, but stopped at the look on her face. She was crying, her face dirty and swollen. She opened her mouth to say something to me, and I could see every tooth was painted in blood, and more seeped from her mouth as she moved her lips. The blood trickled down her chin as she sobbed, "Mom, don't believe them. It hurt; it hurt a lot!" I stepped towards her to take her in my arms, and woke up, my arms closing in on thin air. Don't believe them, Mom. It hurt; it hurt a lot!
I didn't get a full night's sleep until November, when the right sleep med arm wrestled my exhausted brain and laid it out on the table. Boom! I could kissed Dr. Z, tongue and all. To go to sleep right away, and stay asleep until morning was a faint memory by that point and something my body craved. Going without restful sleep does terrible, unspeakable things to your mental and physical health.
Even with the new drug-induced slumber, there were nightmares. Come on, Nick, women who send their daughters to their death over chili powder don't deserve beauty sleep.
My mom has been having a terrible time. I have been trying to comfort her, which is laughable really, sort of like the blind leading the blind. Basically, I just share. I share my tears; I share my dark thoughts; I share my memories.
When I found some honey vanilla pillow mist at Bath & Body Works in the aromatherapy section, I picked up some for my mom, too. She wasn't sleeping either. She didn't get to the scene until they had covered Cory with a sheet, but I know that image of a stark white sheet covering every well loved plane and valley of her granddaughter's face kept her awake most every night. If there is anything to be thankful for in this whole miserable business, I guess it is that my mom didn't have to see her before they covered her up. I wouldn't want anyone who loved Cory to have to walk around the rest of their days with the pictures I have in my head.
So, the pillow mist...brilliant. Yes, it does work. It took a few nights- I think your brain has to begin to recognize the scent as a cue to begin hutting down all the works. Jake is hooked on the "sleepy stuff". "Mom, can I have some sleepy stuff?" He has his own dreams, you see. Waiting on the lawn, hearing the sirens and being worried sick is no job for a ten year old.
The Sleep Sheep has helped us all. It is for babies, I think, but I don't care. It is a cuddly stuffed animal with a sound machine inside it. You can set the timer for 20 or 40 minutes, and fall asleep listening to a babbling brook, the rain, the ocean, or whale calls. Jake and I were in love. I ordered one for mom a couple of weeks ago. She said it gave her the best sleep she'd had since July.
We were texting late at night about it last week. When I went to sleep, I dreamt that she passed away during the night. I was out of my mind. Why did this keep happening?
In my dream, three or four days went by as her service was planned. I was at home when the phone call came that my dad had passed away during the night. I awoke shaking all over, unable to decide if it was real or not for a full ten minutes.
And the most recent bad dream:
Jacob. Jake will talk the most right before bed. In this particular dream, he was wedged up against me, telling me his head hurt, and that he didn't feel good. I asked him if he wanted to take something for his headache. I turned towards him, watching him put his little hand to a temple as he said the same words Cory had said to me over three years ago, "Mom, sometimes my head doesn't feel right. I've been hearing these voices."
Some nightmares happen while you're sleeping; some while you're awake. Sweet dreams.
The second or third night after the accident, I dozed fitfully from pure exhaustion. Trying to sleep after the violent, unexpected death of your child is the devil's own job. I woke screaming, bringing Tim on the run. It was not the road this time, like almost every time I shut my eyes for the first few months, but instead it was Tim. I had dreamt that he had walked down to the gas station for a gallon of milk, like he often does. When he reached the entryway, a faceless man jabbed him with a switchblade, gutting him like a fish. He fell to the ground, arms pinwheeling, and a maroon stain already seeping into his cotton t-shirt like a grisly map of the world. There was blood, so much blood. Upon a closer look, I could see his intestines, glistening as they hung loosely from the opening that looked so much like an evil grin. I started screaming, "Has anyone called 911?" No one answered, because I was the only one there. As I watched he began to close his eyes. I knew if he did, he would die. I woke up screaming.
Many people tried to comfort me after the accident by saying at least she didn't suffer- that she died instantly. Unable to stop myself, I imagined the scenario over and over again in my head. I wondered if she even knew what happened. I wondered if she realized at the last second, but was frozen to the spot. I wondered if it hurt her. I wondered if she knew what had happened, and had laid there wanting me. Did she call for me, if even only her mind, to get no response because I couldn't get there quickly enough? To know my baby girl had died alone was eating me alive. She hated being alone. It was then that the voices preyed on her the most; she was open game. Please, please tell me she did not die hearing them say mean things to her. I should have been there to say, "I'm here." She should have felt my hand take hers even if there was nothing else I could do but to let her know I was there. Failure, Nick, failure.
So a few days after the accident I dreamt I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. Cory would often hang out in the doorway while I did my hair or makeup, sometimes chatting with me, other times just watching. She had made a habit of watching me put on my makeup since she was a little girl. Imagine my joy, when that narrow bathroom door swung open and Cory was in the doorway. Cory was alive! She was here! I took a step towards her, but stopped at the look on her face. She was crying, her face dirty and swollen. She opened her mouth to say something to me, and I could see every tooth was painted in blood, and more seeped from her mouth as she moved her lips. The blood trickled down her chin as she sobbed, "Mom, don't believe them. It hurt; it hurt a lot!" I stepped towards her to take her in my arms, and woke up, my arms closing in on thin air. Don't believe them, Mom. It hurt; it hurt a lot!
I didn't get a full night's sleep until November, when the right sleep med arm wrestled my exhausted brain and laid it out on the table. Boom! I could kissed Dr. Z, tongue and all. To go to sleep right away, and stay asleep until morning was a faint memory by that point and something my body craved. Going without restful sleep does terrible, unspeakable things to your mental and physical health.
Even with the new drug-induced slumber, there were nightmares. Come on, Nick, women who send their daughters to their death over chili powder don't deserve beauty sleep.
My mom has been having a terrible time. I have been trying to comfort her, which is laughable really, sort of like the blind leading the blind. Basically, I just share. I share my tears; I share my dark thoughts; I share my memories.
When I found some honey vanilla pillow mist at Bath & Body Works in the aromatherapy section, I picked up some for my mom, too. She wasn't sleeping either. She didn't get to the scene until they had covered Cory with a sheet, but I know that image of a stark white sheet covering every well loved plane and valley of her granddaughter's face kept her awake most every night. If there is anything to be thankful for in this whole miserable business, I guess it is that my mom didn't have to see her before they covered her up. I wouldn't want anyone who loved Cory to have to walk around the rest of their days with the pictures I have in my head.
So, the pillow mist...brilliant. Yes, it does work. It took a few nights- I think your brain has to begin to recognize the scent as a cue to begin hutting down all the works. Jake is hooked on the "sleepy stuff". "Mom, can I have some sleepy stuff?" He has his own dreams, you see. Waiting on the lawn, hearing the sirens and being worried sick is no job for a ten year old.
The Sleep Sheep has helped us all. It is for babies, I think, but I don't care. It is a cuddly stuffed animal with a sound machine inside it. You can set the timer for 20 or 40 minutes, and fall asleep listening to a babbling brook, the rain, the ocean, or whale calls. Jake and I were in love. I ordered one for mom a couple of weeks ago. She said it gave her the best sleep she'd had since July.
We were texting late at night about it last week. When I went to sleep, I dreamt that she passed away during the night. I was out of my mind. Why did this keep happening?
In my dream, three or four days went by as her service was planned. I was at home when the phone call came that my dad had passed away during the night. I awoke shaking all over, unable to decide if it was real or not for a full ten minutes.
And the most recent bad dream:
Jacob. Jake will talk the most right before bed. In this particular dream, he was wedged up against me, telling me his head hurt, and that he didn't feel good. I asked him if he wanted to take something for his headache. I turned towards him, watching him put his little hand to a temple as he said the same words Cory had said to me over three years ago, "Mom, sometimes my head doesn't feel right. I've been hearing these voices."
Some nightmares happen while you're sleeping; some while you're awake. Sweet dreams.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Hurts So Good
I imagine the triggers to stack intricately on top of one another like a precarious house of cards.
When I was growing up, I watched that episode of the Brady Bunch with the house of cards, and suffered my first real anxiety attack watching one of those girls -Jan or Marcia- add card after card with her clunky charm bracelet swinging like a wrecking ball. Hello!! Take it off, already. You are gonna knock your house down, woman!
If only avoiding the triggers were as easy as taking off a piece of jewelry. But these torpedoes of sight, sound, touch, smell, and even taste can hit without warning. They sting. And they are cumalative. Once you've been hit, you are that much more vulnerable to the next one, and the next.
These memory triggers can find you anytime, anywhere. They know no boundaries...ruthless little bastards, really.
On the first truly frigid day of this winter, I was up getting Jake around for school. I had been awake for at least 40 minutes. I was fully awake, going about my morning routine. And yet...
as I went to Jake's sock drawer to get his extra thick socks to keep him warm, I thought to myself,
I gotta remind Cory to wear her gloves when she gets Jake afterschool or she'll freeze.
Maybe I count of three before I caught myself, and quite literally slapped a hand to my forehead in horror.
Today during a meeting at work, there was a break in the conversation as we waited for someone to join us. My mind went to its normal track thought for such pauses...when this is over, I gotta call Cory and see how she's doing. Two seconds later, the anguish covered my heart like a cold glove and squeezed for all it was worth.
I wonder if that's what a real heart attack feels like. I don't see how it could be much worse.
Sometimes I pull the memory trigger myself. I got to missing her so bad the other morning, i buried my face in her fluffy shower robe for nearly 5 minutes. In my sweater drawer is one of her favorite t-shirts. When I sniff it, she could be standing right next to me. It is comforting and torturous in equal amounts. It... hurts so good.
When I was growing up, I watched that episode of the Brady Bunch with the house of cards, and suffered my first real anxiety attack watching one of those girls -Jan or Marcia- add card after card with her clunky charm bracelet swinging like a wrecking ball. Hello!! Take it off, already. You are gonna knock your house down, woman!
If only avoiding the triggers were as easy as taking off a piece of jewelry. But these torpedoes of sight, sound, touch, smell, and even taste can hit without warning. They sting. And they are cumalative. Once you've been hit, you are that much more vulnerable to the next one, and the next.
These memory triggers can find you anytime, anywhere. They know no boundaries...ruthless little bastards, really.
On the first truly frigid day of this winter, I was up getting Jake around for school. I had been awake for at least 40 minutes. I was fully awake, going about my morning routine. And yet...
as I went to Jake's sock drawer to get his extra thick socks to keep him warm, I thought to myself,
I gotta remind Cory to wear her gloves when she gets Jake afterschool or she'll freeze.
Maybe I count of three before I caught myself, and quite literally slapped a hand to my forehead in horror.
Today during a meeting at work, there was a break in the conversation as we waited for someone to join us. My mind went to its normal track thought for such pauses...when this is over, I gotta call Cory and see how she's doing. Two seconds later, the anguish covered my heart like a cold glove and squeezed for all it was worth.
I wonder if that's what a real heart attack feels like. I don't see how it could be much worse.
Sometimes I pull the memory trigger myself. I got to missing her so bad the other morning, i buried my face in her fluffy shower robe for nearly 5 minutes. In my sweater drawer is one of her favorite t-shirts. When I sniff it, she could be standing right next to me. It is comforting and torturous in equal amounts. It... hurts so good.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Medicate Me
Some mornings, usually the ones that don't include an alarm clock, I have a few moments to float -untethered, as of yet, to any responsibilities- in the dregs of my medication. I am bedwarm, clutching the last stuffed animal I bought her, its shape a familiar mold now to my arms and chest. I close my eyes, feel my body lift gently off the bed, become as buoyant as a bubble, and enter my wish state. There are two wishes - dependent on my current mental state and quality of sleep the night before- that operate on repeat in my head. I either wish her alive or wish myself dead.
Wishing her alive brings every sense alive. Since these morning daydreams occur mainly on the weekends, I rely on my weekend memories of her. I imagine her sleeping upstairs in her room - a major victory in and of itself, and a sign of her progress towards wellness- in a curled up bundle on top, not under, her covers (silly girl). Near her, or in her arms, her faithful stuffed animals and the Twilight blanket from last Christmas. On her pillow, more likely than not, a little dab of drool drying. Soon I would hear her footsteps overhead, and then the clunk of the door. There would be a "Hey Madre" or a "Morning sunshine" in my doorway before she would claim the couch, and turn on her favorite music videos in the living room. Padding in my slippers to the kitchen for orange juice, I would spy her cuddled on the couch in her favorite spot, singing along, maybe with Church in her lap. Sometimes she would have him dancing to her new favorite song. I would offer her oatmeal. We would plot our plan for the day. What movie? What outings? What shall we make for dinner?
WE, WE, WE.
Wishing myself dead is more a matter of shutting the door on every sense, and feeling at peace with that idea. The idea of closing my eyes one last time, and never having to open them again on a world of which she is no longer a part has a seductiveness that is unparalleled in my mind.
I know I'm only a few months in, but so far as I can tell it does not get easier. I feel like the people who said it would only wanted to string me along with a little bit of hope- keep me alive- and figured I would get used to the horror after awhile. When anyone says, "This won't hurt a bit", it's time to run for the nearest door.
Enjoying the last relaxing moments of my meds (let's face it, I don't feel "relaxed", I feel high as a kite), I enter rational thought a shade at a time. It usually ends with this: I can't make her come back to life; but I could end my own. That is always an option, always tucked away in the back pocket, always within reach. Some days, it doesn't look too damn bad.
So, as the lovely crisis counselor asked a couple of months ago, why haven't you?
I told him I was a wuss. Maybe.
More likely, the meds are making some much needed changes in my brain chemistry. I know that the thought of suicide is now a thought, when it used to be a detail rich, comforting, step by step plan.
I wrote about it. I drew it. I took steps- tangible steps- towards it. I scared the crap out of my friends and family. But perhaps the most telling, I scared the crap out of myself.
Now, when I have suicidal thoughts, they are usually that...thoughts. I think about not having to feel this way anymore. How would that be? What would that be like? Am I willing to pay the price? I ping pong back and forth; I make mental pro/con lists; I cry.
Then, I buck up and get on with it. (Okay, okay...I go online, order some more boots, then buck up and get on with it.)
Before, it was a little more involved.
See, Cory had been given every mood stablizer and anti-psychotic on the market. When they didn't work, the bottle went into the locked med box in case they popped up on the next combination that was attempted. When it came to stabilization, the drawing board was a popular, popular place. Add to all those medications, some sleep aides and anti-anxiety pills. We had a regular little pharmacy going. I had more than enough of the tools I needed to get the job done. It wasn't long before people started to realize this, and could read the death wish in my gaze. I did the only logical thing that could be done, and began squirreling meds away in various hiding places in the house. Just in case. The last thing I wanted was to be left without an out.
So I had the ammunition; next came the fantasies.
At first, I counted on the opportunity to be left alone. I didn't want Jake to have to find me. Eventually, it got so bad, I didn't even care about that. Let the chips fall where they may; just get me the hell out of this mess.
I pondered writing individual good-bye letters, but knew I wouldn't have enough time. One would have to do. Brevity is beautiful.
Then I just got down to he meat and potatoes.
I planned to take the pills with a tall glass of milk. Hopefully it would coat my stomach, so I wouldn't throw up. I would take them slowly, a little at a time, until I started to get sleepy.
I thought about the pills themselves, and how to make it meaningful. We had a ritual for everything in my family. Especially for Cory. Rituals brought her comfort. Even the very last time we'd spoken had been a ritual of sorts. Cory always had separation anxiety from me, since she was tiny. I found a little game to make saying good-bye on the phone more upbeat, and predictable. We sang our goodbyes. "Love you, bye!" (Insert trilling falsetto here). The very tone indicated saying good-bye was not so terrible, because the smile clearly heard in the other person's voice meant they were already planning the next time they'd see you. That was the last thing I said/sang to her, and the last thing she said/sangback to me. "Love you, bye!"
So how to make this good-bye meaningful?
Nineteen little piles, one for each year of her life?
Piles of three to honor the three years of suffering she endured?
There were endless possibilities. Believe me, when I say, I considered them all.
I figured that once I started to get sleepy, I would put a plastic bag over my head, and help things along. I'd lay down, and be done. Please, just let this be over.
Wishing her alive brings every sense alive. Since these morning daydreams occur mainly on the weekends, I rely on my weekend memories of her. I imagine her sleeping upstairs in her room - a major victory in and of itself, and a sign of her progress towards wellness- in a curled up bundle on top, not under, her covers (silly girl). Near her, or in her arms, her faithful stuffed animals and the Twilight blanket from last Christmas. On her pillow, more likely than not, a little dab of drool drying. Soon I would hear her footsteps overhead, and then the clunk of the door. There would be a "Hey Madre" or a "Morning sunshine" in my doorway before she would claim the couch, and turn on her favorite music videos in the living room. Padding in my slippers to the kitchen for orange juice, I would spy her cuddled on the couch in her favorite spot, singing along, maybe with Church in her lap. Sometimes she would have him dancing to her new favorite song. I would offer her oatmeal. We would plot our plan for the day. What movie? What outings? What shall we make for dinner?
WE, WE, WE.
Wishing myself dead is more a matter of shutting the door on every sense, and feeling at peace with that idea. The idea of closing my eyes one last time, and never having to open them again on a world of which she is no longer a part has a seductiveness that is unparalleled in my mind.
I know I'm only a few months in, but so far as I can tell it does not get easier. I feel like the people who said it would only wanted to string me along with a little bit of hope- keep me alive- and figured I would get used to the horror after awhile. When anyone says, "This won't hurt a bit", it's time to run for the nearest door.
Enjoying the last relaxing moments of my meds (let's face it, I don't feel "relaxed", I feel high as a kite), I enter rational thought a shade at a time. It usually ends with this: I can't make her come back to life; but I could end my own. That is always an option, always tucked away in the back pocket, always within reach. Some days, it doesn't look too damn bad.
So, as the lovely crisis counselor asked a couple of months ago, why haven't you?
I told him I was a wuss. Maybe.
More likely, the meds are making some much needed changes in my brain chemistry. I know that the thought of suicide is now a thought, when it used to be a detail rich, comforting, step by step plan.
I wrote about it. I drew it. I took steps- tangible steps- towards it. I scared the crap out of my friends and family. But perhaps the most telling, I scared the crap out of myself.
Now, when I have suicidal thoughts, they are usually that...thoughts. I think about not having to feel this way anymore. How would that be? What would that be like? Am I willing to pay the price? I ping pong back and forth; I make mental pro/con lists; I cry.
Then, I buck up and get on with it. (Okay, okay...I go online, order some more boots, then buck up and get on with it.)
Before, it was a little more involved.
See, Cory had been given every mood stablizer and anti-psychotic on the market. When they didn't work, the bottle went into the locked med box in case they popped up on the next combination that was attempted. When it came to stabilization, the drawing board was a popular, popular place. Add to all those medications, some sleep aides and anti-anxiety pills. We had a regular little pharmacy going. I had more than enough of the tools I needed to get the job done. It wasn't long before people started to realize this, and could read the death wish in my gaze. I did the only logical thing that could be done, and began squirreling meds away in various hiding places in the house. Just in case. The last thing I wanted was to be left without an out.
So I had the ammunition; next came the fantasies.
At first, I counted on the opportunity to be left alone. I didn't want Jake to have to find me. Eventually, it got so bad, I didn't even care about that. Let the chips fall where they may; just get me the hell out of this mess.
I pondered writing individual good-bye letters, but knew I wouldn't have enough time. One would have to do. Brevity is beautiful.
Then I just got down to he meat and potatoes.
I planned to take the pills with a tall glass of milk. Hopefully it would coat my stomach, so I wouldn't throw up. I would take them slowly, a little at a time, until I started to get sleepy.
I thought about the pills themselves, and how to make it meaningful. We had a ritual for everything in my family. Especially for Cory. Rituals brought her comfort. Even the very last time we'd spoken had been a ritual of sorts. Cory always had separation anxiety from me, since she was tiny. I found a little game to make saying good-bye on the phone more upbeat, and predictable. We sang our goodbyes. "Love you, bye!" (Insert trilling falsetto here). The very tone indicated saying good-bye was not so terrible, because the smile clearly heard in the other person's voice meant they were already planning the next time they'd see you. That was the last thing I said/sang to her, and the last thing she said/sangback to me. "Love you, bye!"
So how to make this good-bye meaningful?
Nineteen little piles, one for each year of her life?
Piles of three to honor the three years of suffering she endured?
There were endless possibilities. Believe me, when I say, I considered them all.
I figured that once I started to get sleepy, I would put a plastic bag over my head, and help things along. I'd lay down, and be done. Please, just let this be over.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil
If I ever get myself together enough to turn all this rambling into a book, I vow to make it honest. It was difficult the first few days when I was surfing the net looking for books on dealing with the loss of a child. To look for information in print that would help me, prepare me, give me ideas was as automatic as breathing. I live to read, and to write. Someone would know how I was feeling, and surely they would have written it down.
Most of the books I found seemed impossibly upbeat for the topic. There would be a mother, who grieved gracefully, putting a positive spin on tradgedy, moving on to live her life, remembering her child with a smile.
I am not that woman.
I stumble all the time. And if you want to hear about it in horrid detail, I'll be happy to tell you all about it- in part for your sympathy and support. Hey, I'm human. I am drowning here! A drowning person does not stop to think about who they are asking for help, they just thrust out their hand. But also, I will tell all, simply to say I hope this never happens to you or anyone you know, but if it does, heads up, folks, the shit piles are here, here, and here. Mind where you walk.
I will hold nothing back. Some of it I am ashamed of...but isn't shame how we begin to realize we're doing something wrong? And if this grief thing isn't a learning experience, than I'm more lost than I even realize.
How about how the first few days after the accident, when I couldn't bare to look at my ten year old son. My healthy and loving attachment to him was immediately, and fiercely, overshadowed by the deepest, blackest pain I have ever known. Who are you, little boy?
How about how I hated- and I mean downright despised- my innocent and wonderfully considerate husband for at least for the first month for no other reason other than he still had his boy. His mini-me, his pride and joy, the apple of his eye was still alive. My Girl (always said in my mind in capital letters, because it is a title of utmost importance), my best friend, my true soulmate was gone forever. In the ground. Shut off from the sun. Think about it.
Watching Tim and Jake together, two peas in a pod, brought me no comfort or joy. It made me want to slit my wrists. Truly.
How about the conversation I had with my husband on my bed one morning? I was cocooned in the sheets that needed to be washed, wearing the same nightgown I'd had on for days, my dirty hair in my face, my hipbones visible. He was sitting in Cory's spot at the end of the bed, at a loss for what to say or how to begin to comfort someone who was beyond comfort and did not want to live. My brain kept running the day's events, my part, the driver's part, over and over. I closed my eyes and saw her body crumpled on the road. My Girl, down. Siren sounds. Lights flashing. Movement from responders, but no real action.
I had made another attempt at the scenario of what had happened, when Tim spoke up in his quiet way, wanting to lay no blame on anyone (wasn't the end result horrible enough?) and suggested maybe Cory had misjudged it, stepped out at the wrong time. I looked at him. I stared. Who's side was he on, anyway? What the hell, Tim? I found myself reacting with pure fury and no logic, wanting to put a screwdriver in his ear, and then my own. Luckily, the most lethal object on my nightstand is a tube of chapstick.
The impulse left; the barely contained rage didn't. One day I was screaming myself hoarse in the car at no one, just screaming at the top of my lungs, while driving. I'm sure other drivers thought I had lost my mind. I had.
Another day I was hitting myself until I bruised. "Logic did nothing to blunt her great sense of personal failure"- Stephen King. True dat, Steve.
Then there was the great plate slinging festival of 2012. That was a damn good time. I could not get the anger out. I couldn't. Eventually, I just grabbed plates out of my cupboard and chucked them as hard as I could against the ceramic tile in my kitchen. The sound was so satisfying. For the very first time, I could understand why someone would break things on purpose. Like I had seen Cory's biological father do so many times; like I had seen her do occasionally.
I might share how one of my coping techniques -shopping- took over, and grew into a live thing that overwhelmed my brain, my closets, and my home. It started out with the memorial jewelry, but moved onto hats, scarves, coats, and boots. (All the cozies...keep me warm. Keep me safe). And for God's sake, don't ever be caught without chili powder again. Don't be caught without anything again. Multiples mean safety.
That being said, I knew I was getting out of control, when I found myself sleeping with my credit card under my pillow and my I-pad within easy reach, just in case I woke up in the night, couldn't sleep, and needed to buy something.
This internet shopping was something, all right. Even on the days, you couldn't pull yourself out of bed because your arms and legs seemed weighted down by bricks, you could still shop, and lovely anonymous people who didn't ever see your unwashed hair and unshaved legs brought pretty things right to your door. Who thought up this concept? It's brilliant!
Logical thought had truly departed. How many different colored pairs of Hunters rainboots does one really need if they don't live in Seattle?
-to be continued-
Most of the books I found seemed impossibly upbeat for the topic. There would be a mother, who grieved gracefully, putting a positive spin on tradgedy, moving on to live her life, remembering her child with a smile.
I am not that woman.
I stumble all the time. And if you want to hear about it in horrid detail, I'll be happy to tell you all about it- in part for your sympathy and support. Hey, I'm human. I am drowning here! A drowning person does not stop to think about who they are asking for help, they just thrust out their hand. But also, I will tell all, simply to say I hope this never happens to you or anyone you know, but if it does, heads up, folks, the shit piles are here, here, and here. Mind where you walk.
I will hold nothing back. Some of it I am ashamed of...but isn't shame how we begin to realize we're doing something wrong? And if this grief thing isn't a learning experience, than I'm more lost than I even realize.
How about how the first few days after the accident, when I couldn't bare to look at my ten year old son. My healthy and loving attachment to him was immediately, and fiercely, overshadowed by the deepest, blackest pain I have ever known. Who are you, little boy?
How about how I hated- and I mean downright despised- my innocent and wonderfully considerate husband for at least for the first month for no other reason other than he still had his boy. His mini-me, his pride and joy, the apple of his eye was still alive. My Girl (always said in my mind in capital letters, because it is a title of utmost importance), my best friend, my true soulmate was gone forever. In the ground. Shut off from the sun. Think about it.
Watching Tim and Jake together, two peas in a pod, brought me no comfort or joy. It made me want to slit my wrists. Truly.
How about the conversation I had with my husband on my bed one morning? I was cocooned in the sheets that needed to be washed, wearing the same nightgown I'd had on for days, my dirty hair in my face, my hipbones visible. He was sitting in Cory's spot at the end of the bed, at a loss for what to say or how to begin to comfort someone who was beyond comfort and did not want to live. My brain kept running the day's events, my part, the driver's part, over and over. I closed my eyes and saw her body crumpled on the road. My Girl, down. Siren sounds. Lights flashing. Movement from responders, but no real action.
I had made another attempt at the scenario of what had happened, when Tim spoke up in his quiet way, wanting to lay no blame on anyone (wasn't the end result horrible enough?) and suggested maybe Cory had misjudged it, stepped out at the wrong time. I looked at him. I stared. Who's side was he on, anyway? What the hell, Tim? I found myself reacting with pure fury and no logic, wanting to put a screwdriver in his ear, and then my own. Luckily, the most lethal object on my nightstand is a tube of chapstick.
The impulse left; the barely contained rage didn't. One day I was screaming myself hoarse in the car at no one, just screaming at the top of my lungs, while driving. I'm sure other drivers thought I had lost my mind. I had.
Another day I was hitting myself until I bruised. "Logic did nothing to blunt her great sense of personal failure"- Stephen King. True dat, Steve.
Then there was the great plate slinging festival of 2012. That was a damn good time. I could not get the anger out. I couldn't. Eventually, I just grabbed plates out of my cupboard and chucked them as hard as I could against the ceramic tile in my kitchen. The sound was so satisfying. For the very first time, I could understand why someone would break things on purpose. Like I had seen Cory's biological father do so many times; like I had seen her do occasionally.
I might share how one of my coping techniques -shopping- took over, and grew into a live thing that overwhelmed my brain, my closets, and my home. It started out with the memorial jewelry, but moved onto hats, scarves, coats, and boots. (All the cozies...keep me warm. Keep me safe). And for God's sake, don't ever be caught without chili powder again. Don't be caught without anything again. Multiples mean safety.
That being said, I knew I was getting out of control, when I found myself sleeping with my credit card under my pillow and my I-pad within easy reach, just in case I woke up in the night, couldn't sleep, and needed to buy something.
This internet shopping was something, all right. Even on the days, you couldn't pull yourself out of bed because your arms and legs seemed weighted down by bricks, you could still shop, and lovely anonymous people who didn't ever see your unwashed hair and unshaved legs brought pretty things right to your door. Who thought up this concept? It's brilliant!
Logical thought had truly departed. How many different colored pairs of Hunters rainboots does one really need if they don't live in Seattle?
-to be continued-
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Grandpa with His hammer & Grandma's Peanut Butter Milkshakes
Mental illness has long been something people don't like to talk about. It is not always acknowledged, and if it is, it's likely to be in a remote corner, all hushed whispers and reminders not to spread it around. This stigma has been carefully passed down from generation to generation since time out of mind... every bit as well-preserved as great-great-great grandma's quilted masterpiece. The shame weights down those already suffering from mental illness with another heavy layer of despair. There is a hopelessness and a total write off to the label "crazy". It is hurtful, and describes nothing of the intelligence, the courage, and the strength of the people who live with inconceivable challenges every day.
Treatment for mental illness has come such a long ways in recent decades, but unfortunately the general public's perception of the mentally ill is still behind times. A lot of the reason for that may be that people fear what they do not understand. To this, I say...learn.
My mom and dad are in their seventies. Lots of things have changed since they were my age, and raising a family. No wonder they were skeptical and frightened, at first, of the meds, the mental hospital, the treatments. Heck, I was skeptical and frightened, myself.
Mom and Dad listened to Cory, when she would share; they listened to me when she wouldn't, or couldn't. They went to doctor appointments with us. They read books. Their understanding of Cory's illness grew, and with it, our unified front was strengthened.
We were a team: Cory, Jacob, Mom, Dad, and I. My sisters and brothers-in-law, too. Our goal was always to keep her safe, and to help her feel better.
I will never forget my father's response to Cory's growing paranoia and eventual certainty that there was a "squatter" living in our basement, plotting against her. My father is a quiet, logical, ambitious, get-it-done sort of fellow. He selected his most intimidating hammer and drove Cory to our house. With eyes as big as pieplates and trembling all over, Cory trailed behind him, enveloped in his large and comforting shadow as he lit the darkness of the basement with a high power flashlight in one hand and the hammer in the other.
Dad's mission: to prove to Cory there was no one there.
They found no one, of course. Cory felt some relief, but in time, her brain got up to its nasty tricks again. This time, she whispered- well away from the vents-that the squatter had simply hid while they searched. He was a good hider.
When I think back now to my dad's role in supporting Cory, and supporting me in caring for her, that is the one image that comes to mind: the image of him, with a hammer in his hand, leading his confused and frightened grandchild into the light. He would beat this cruel and senseless illness to pieces if he could just get his hands on it. How dare it bother his grandbaby?
My parents' constant faith also led Cory back to church, where she could step out of the darkness and into the light of complete understanding and comfort.
Neither, will I ever forget how my mother tirelessly cared for Cory during the day so I could work.I would check in throughout the day to see how she was doing. Mom always gave me a full report on what she had eaten.:) I would then ask about the symptoms, which were much harder for her to discuss. It took me awhile to make the food connection. (Keep in mind, I wasn't sleeping much those nights). Mom knew that when there was nothing else that could be done to make Cory feel better, you could always feed her. She started making her peanut butter milkshakes when Cory first went on meds because she had no appetite for anything else. From there, Mom fix Cory just about anything her little heart desired. It was love and comfort in a glass or on a plate. I should have known what she was doing; I did the same with steak and pasta. It's a wonder the poor girl didn't end up weighing 400 pounds!
It wasn't just the food, though. It was the care when preparing the meal, the love in my mother's hands as she chopped or stirred or scooped. It was the soothing tone of her voice when she asked Cory if she'd like more. It was my mom's beautiful, and kind blue eyes that let Cory know every time she looked at her that Cory was okay with her. Nothing was ever wrong with Cory in my mother's eyes, and that type of acceptance was something she desperately needed. Somehow, I am positive no one else's milkshakes in the world would ever taste as good to Cory as her grandma's.
Treatment for mental illness has come such a long ways in recent decades, but unfortunately the general public's perception of the mentally ill is still behind times. A lot of the reason for that may be that people fear what they do not understand. To this, I say...learn.
My mom and dad are in their seventies. Lots of things have changed since they were my age, and raising a family. No wonder they were skeptical and frightened, at first, of the meds, the mental hospital, the treatments. Heck, I was skeptical and frightened, myself.
Mom and Dad listened to Cory, when she would share; they listened to me when she wouldn't, or couldn't. They went to doctor appointments with us. They read books. Their understanding of Cory's illness grew, and with it, our unified front was strengthened.
We were a team: Cory, Jacob, Mom, Dad, and I. My sisters and brothers-in-law, too. Our goal was always to keep her safe, and to help her feel better.
I will never forget my father's response to Cory's growing paranoia and eventual certainty that there was a "squatter" living in our basement, plotting against her. My father is a quiet, logical, ambitious, get-it-done sort of fellow. He selected his most intimidating hammer and drove Cory to our house. With eyes as big as pieplates and trembling all over, Cory trailed behind him, enveloped in his large and comforting shadow as he lit the darkness of the basement with a high power flashlight in one hand and the hammer in the other.
Dad's mission: to prove to Cory there was no one there.
They found no one, of course. Cory felt some relief, but in time, her brain got up to its nasty tricks again. This time, she whispered- well away from the vents-that the squatter had simply hid while they searched. He was a good hider.
When I think back now to my dad's role in supporting Cory, and supporting me in caring for her, that is the one image that comes to mind: the image of him, with a hammer in his hand, leading his confused and frightened grandchild into the light. He would beat this cruel and senseless illness to pieces if he could just get his hands on it. How dare it bother his grandbaby?
My parents' constant faith also led Cory back to church, where she could step out of the darkness and into the light of complete understanding and comfort.
Neither, will I ever forget how my mother tirelessly cared for Cory during the day so I could work.I would check in throughout the day to see how she was doing. Mom always gave me a full report on what she had eaten.:) I would then ask about the symptoms, which were much harder for her to discuss. It took me awhile to make the food connection. (Keep in mind, I wasn't sleeping much those nights). Mom knew that when there was nothing else that could be done to make Cory feel better, you could always feed her. She started making her peanut butter milkshakes when Cory first went on meds because she had no appetite for anything else. From there, Mom fix Cory just about anything her little heart desired. It was love and comfort in a glass or on a plate. I should have known what she was doing; I did the same with steak and pasta. It's a wonder the poor girl didn't end up weighing 400 pounds!
It wasn't just the food, though. It was the care when preparing the meal, the love in my mother's hands as she chopped or stirred or scooped. It was the soothing tone of her voice when she asked Cory if she'd like more. It was my mom's beautiful, and kind blue eyes that let Cory know every time she looked at her that Cory was okay with her. Nothing was ever wrong with Cory in my mother's eyes, and that type of acceptance was something she desperately needed. Somehow, I am positive no one else's milkshakes in the world would ever taste as good to Cory as her grandma's.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Famous Last Words
Waiting for take-out the other day, I took out my phone to text. (Side note here: what on earth did we all do while waiting before smart phones came around?)
Imagine my surprise when my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hit the right buttons. Puzzled, I stared down at my right hand, a sudden and dubious traitor. All my life, it had done whatever my brain asked of it. Why not now?
I wasn't particularly cold. I wasn't the slightest bit nervous. What was going on?
It slowly dawned on me that this slight tremor could be a side effect of the meds I was taking...meds that didn't take the pain away but only blunted it to a state that could be survived with the grimest of determination.
Then I thought, what if the tremor doesn't go away? Would I stop taking my meds? Could I? Could I stop taking the meds knowing I felt like dying more days than I felt like living? If it was this bad with meds, what on earth would I feel like without?
Two seconds later, I was thinking this is what Cory must have been thinking everyday- only her side effects were so much worse than an irritating and minute tremor.
She tried so many different meds and combinations of meds to find something that would give her some relief. It took about a year to find the combination and dosage that slowed her racing thoughts, held back the hallucinations, and kept the depression at bay to any noticeable degree. Even then, they didn't always work. In return, she was nauseous. Sometime she threw up. Her eyesight suffered. Her legs would move at night involuntarily, not allowing her to rest. We referred to it as the "kickie-jumpies". The kickie-jumpies, in my humble opinion, having never experienced them firsthand, were a tour of hell.
Then there were the tremors. She took another med to counteract the way her hands shook. Sometimes it wasn't so bad. But the other times...
So waiting for the take-out, I gave it some good, hard thought.
What if my hands shook all the time?
What if my signature, my personal stamp on the world, disintegrated right before to my eyes to an unrecognizable scrawl?
What if writing legibly became so frustrating that I felt like screaming and throwing my beloved journal against the wall?
What if sketching, even badly and just for fun, was no longer a possibility?
What I were embarrassed to let people watch me eat because my silverware inadvertently chattered a staccato beat with my dinnerplate?
As I pondered each possibility, all of which Cory had experienced, I marvelled once again at my daughter's strength...her strength and her sheer determination. She wanted to be well. She would do whatever it took to get there. She knew it wouldn't be easy; she knew it wouldn't come at an easy price. But she was not giving up. This mental illness would not control her. It would not run her life as she had seen it run her biological father's.
It was humbling, this realization of what Cory sacrificed every day just to try to live a normal life. I felt horribly selfish, and ashamed, for every time I've wished myself dead since July 5th. What would Cory think of me wanting to give up and take the easy way out just to get rid of the pain? I may not see myself as strong. But she sure did.
I remember like it was yesterday, sitting eighth row at the My Chemical Romance concert in Detroit, going crazy over our favorite songs. I think Cory was fifteen. I remember on the drive home, we relived the entire concert, song by song, play by play. She told me that "Famous Last Words" had always reminded her of me. This was, actually, my favorite performance by them that night, but I had never connected the song to myself in any personal way. I asked her, "Why?" She told me it was the line that said, "I am not afraid to keep on living. I am not afraid to walk this world alone." She said that was me in a nutshell, that her madre was strong. The fact that she was telling me this months after Jake's dad and I had separated did not escape my attention. She knew that whatever came, I would be okay. And if I was okay, she and Jake would be too. And we were. It was the three of us against the world...just like the title of the painting she made me.
So from here on out, on the weak days, I will remember Cory's strength while I listen to the words of that song. Man up, Nick...Cory's madre is not a quitter.
Imagine my surprise when my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hit the right buttons. Puzzled, I stared down at my right hand, a sudden and dubious traitor. All my life, it had done whatever my brain asked of it. Why not now?
I wasn't particularly cold. I wasn't the slightest bit nervous. What was going on?
It slowly dawned on me that this slight tremor could be a side effect of the meds I was taking...meds that didn't take the pain away but only blunted it to a state that could be survived with the grimest of determination.
Then I thought, what if the tremor doesn't go away? Would I stop taking my meds? Could I? Could I stop taking the meds knowing I felt like dying more days than I felt like living? If it was this bad with meds, what on earth would I feel like without?
Two seconds later, I was thinking this is what Cory must have been thinking everyday- only her side effects were so much worse than an irritating and minute tremor.
She tried so many different meds and combinations of meds to find something that would give her some relief. It took about a year to find the combination and dosage that slowed her racing thoughts, held back the hallucinations, and kept the depression at bay to any noticeable degree. Even then, they didn't always work. In return, she was nauseous. Sometime she threw up. Her eyesight suffered. Her legs would move at night involuntarily, not allowing her to rest. We referred to it as the "kickie-jumpies". The kickie-jumpies, in my humble opinion, having never experienced them firsthand, were a tour of hell.
Then there were the tremors. She took another med to counteract the way her hands shook. Sometimes it wasn't so bad. But the other times...
So waiting for the take-out, I gave it some good, hard thought.
What if my hands shook all the time?
What if my signature, my personal stamp on the world, disintegrated right before to my eyes to an unrecognizable scrawl?
What if writing legibly became so frustrating that I felt like screaming and throwing my beloved journal against the wall?
What if sketching, even badly and just for fun, was no longer a possibility?
What I were embarrassed to let people watch me eat because my silverware inadvertently chattered a staccato beat with my dinnerplate?
As I pondered each possibility, all of which Cory had experienced, I marvelled once again at my daughter's strength...her strength and her sheer determination. She wanted to be well. She would do whatever it took to get there. She knew it wouldn't be easy; she knew it wouldn't come at an easy price. But she was not giving up. This mental illness would not control her. It would not run her life as she had seen it run her biological father's.
It was humbling, this realization of what Cory sacrificed every day just to try to live a normal life. I felt horribly selfish, and ashamed, for every time I've wished myself dead since July 5th. What would Cory think of me wanting to give up and take the easy way out just to get rid of the pain? I may not see myself as strong. But she sure did.
I remember like it was yesterday, sitting eighth row at the My Chemical Romance concert in Detroit, going crazy over our favorite songs. I think Cory was fifteen. I remember on the drive home, we relived the entire concert, song by song, play by play. She told me that "Famous Last Words" had always reminded her of me. This was, actually, my favorite performance by them that night, but I had never connected the song to myself in any personal way. I asked her, "Why?" She told me it was the line that said, "I am not afraid to keep on living. I am not afraid to walk this world alone." She said that was me in a nutshell, that her madre was strong. The fact that she was telling me this months after Jake's dad and I had separated did not escape my attention. She knew that whatever came, I would be okay. And if I was okay, she and Jake would be too. And we were. It was the three of us against the world...just like the title of the painting she made me.
So from here on out, on the weak days, I will remember Cory's strength while I listen to the words of that song. Man up, Nick...Cory's madre is not a quitter.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Over My Head
They said it would be like waves. Good days. Bad days.
The calm waters are like this: the possibility of peace is within reach, just a few inches away...if I can can just st-r-e-t-ch for it. My thoughts go like this: I loved her completely. I knew her. I will never know the agonizing regret of a parent who didn't know their child. Or walked away from them completely.
It was my privilege to watch her grow, to help shape her, every mistake a chance for us both to learn before taking the next step down the path.
I made time to make memories, folded them carefully, minded the creases, and placed them gently in my pocket to carry with me everywhere I go. No one can take them from me.
The best thing I've ever known was the trust I built with her. I know she felt the same. No doubt whatsoever. I protected her every chance I got...I just didn't get the chance that day.
But then, the winds change.
The skies darken, and the waves come faster and higher than my head.
Yesterday, I had clarity. Today, I am seconds away from drowning in guilt.
What in the hell was I thinking?
How could I have let her walk to the store in that heat?
Failure, failure, failure.
The calm waters are like this: the possibility of peace is within reach, just a few inches away...if I can can just st-r-e-t-ch for it. My thoughts go like this: I loved her completely. I knew her. I will never know the agonizing regret of a parent who didn't know their child. Or walked away from them completely.
It was my privilege to watch her grow, to help shape her, every mistake a chance for us both to learn before taking the next step down the path.
I made time to make memories, folded them carefully, minded the creases, and placed them gently in my pocket to carry with me everywhere I go. No one can take them from me.
The best thing I've ever known was the trust I built with her. I know she felt the same. No doubt whatsoever. I protected her every chance I got...I just didn't get the chance that day.
But then, the winds change.
The skies darken, and the waves come faster and higher than my head.
Yesterday, I had clarity. Today, I am seconds away from drowning in guilt.
What in the hell was I thinking?
How could I have let her walk to the store in that heat?
Failure, failure, failure.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
A Normal Life
Isn't it funny how much we sometimes worry about what others will think of what we do or say?
I have always worried what would company think if they stop by the house unexpectedly and things are a little messy.
This much I can say on that particular subject. When the world ended for me on July 5th, I wasn't for one second wishing I had dusted better before people came by the house to offer their condolences. I was wishing I had 5 more minutes to spend with her. Just 5 minutes, which is long enough to do a sinkful of dishes or push the vacuum across the floor. Or........
long enough to laugh at an inside joke, long enough to dance to a favorite song, long enough to retell a favorite story that makes you both double over in laughter.
5 minutes sitting on my bed, hanging out and talking...
or even 2 minutes running out into the rain from the movie theatre or a store, holding hands and squealing like two teenage besties, as well as mother and daughter.
That's what I wished for. The dusting and dishes could wait. Time with your child is the most precious thing there is. On things you believe strongly in, don't doubt yourself.
After the interview with the news, I started thinking of all the things I'd wish I'd said. HOW could I forget to tell them she was my best friend?
They asked me what, if anything, brought me comfort.
In response, I told them I try to remind myself that she is no longer suffering. There are no mean voices where she is. Which is true. But geez, so hard to swallow, when I know that baby would have walked through fire to stay here with her family. She practically was, already, with what she had to endure. I told her daily how much I admired her strength. She was so very brave. She had seen and heard and believed things that would have sent me running for the hills. Cory stayed and fought. Every day.
But her doctor- dear, dear Dr. Z -made the statement that brought me the most comfort. How could I have forgotten to share it?
He said, "Try to remember that Cory died doing a normal thing - living a normal life- and that is what everyone wanted for her. That's what she wanted for herself."
It was so hard to see all the progress she had made when you were on the inside. I knew her episodes were getting shorter and further apart, but things were not perfect. The spikes had become waves, but things could still get bumpy on a moment's notice.
But distance...distance from her...that thing that is tearing apart my insides and making me wish for a quick end to unbearable pain has made me realize just how far she had come.
Cory left the house that day with a smile on her face and her footsteps were light. She was rocking her new Hello Kitty Vans with pride. She was wearing her grandpa's winter hat because it made her feel good and didn't give a damn what anyone else thought of her style selection that day. Let them try to be like her for a change...cause she felt good in her own skin. My trendsetter was back.
Do you see? Do you see how different that girl was than the one who isolated herself from everyone? The girl who was afraid to move from room to room in her own house and uncomfortable in practically every public situation because she thought people, and sometimes imaginary people with ill intentions, were watching her every move.
My Cory Girl left the house for chili powder. Every subsequent container of chili powder that enters my home is stripped of its label because I cannot abide the sight of it. Jake has to put it in the cart in the grocery store. Chili powder changed my life forever.
But then, let's think about this some more. Cory was going a quick errand to the store for her mom. That has made me feel horribly guilty and inarguably responsible. I should have gone myself. I could have easily gone.
Here's the thing. Bless my sweet girl, she offered to go. She wanted to go. Why? Why would she offer to walk on a hot summer day when I could easily hop in the car and drive?
Because she wanted to help. Because it was her way to contribute. Because she wanted to do for her family, the way we'd all done for her.
Walking down the street, she was thinking about which brand of chili powder to get. I know this, because she called me about three minutes before the accident. She was chipper and sweet, my little lovebird.
She was not anxious. She wasn't scared. She wasn't cooped up in my bed, screaming that there were people in the house that were after her. She wasn't in the hospital in Grand Rapids.
She was walking down the street on a mission for her family. We were going to have tacos, and later watch a movie. That's where her head was. No delusions. Normal. And safe. She felt safe enough to leave the house on her own. Look at my baby girl.
Cory died doing a normal thing, living a normal life.
Normal is all I ever wanted for her.
A normal life.
I have always worried what would company think if they stop by the house unexpectedly and things are a little messy.
This much I can say on that particular subject. When the world ended for me on July 5th, I wasn't for one second wishing I had dusted better before people came by the house to offer their condolences. I was wishing I had 5 more minutes to spend with her. Just 5 minutes, which is long enough to do a sinkful of dishes or push the vacuum across the floor. Or........
long enough to laugh at an inside joke, long enough to dance to a favorite song, long enough to retell a favorite story that makes you both double over in laughter.
5 minutes sitting on my bed, hanging out and talking...
or even 2 minutes running out into the rain from the movie theatre or a store, holding hands and squealing like two teenage besties, as well as mother and daughter.
That's what I wished for. The dusting and dishes could wait. Time with your child is the most precious thing there is. On things you believe strongly in, don't doubt yourself.
After the interview with the news, I started thinking of all the things I'd wish I'd said. HOW could I forget to tell them she was my best friend?
They asked me what, if anything, brought me comfort.
In response, I told them I try to remind myself that she is no longer suffering. There are no mean voices where she is. Which is true. But geez, so hard to swallow, when I know that baby would have walked through fire to stay here with her family. She practically was, already, with what she had to endure. I told her daily how much I admired her strength. She was so very brave. She had seen and heard and believed things that would have sent me running for the hills. Cory stayed and fought. Every day.
But her doctor- dear, dear Dr. Z -made the statement that brought me the most comfort. How could I have forgotten to share it?
He said, "Try to remember that Cory died doing a normal thing - living a normal life- and that is what everyone wanted for her. That's what she wanted for herself."
It was so hard to see all the progress she had made when you were on the inside. I knew her episodes were getting shorter and further apart, but things were not perfect. The spikes had become waves, but things could still get bumpy on a moment's notice.
But distance...distance from her...that thing that is tearing apart my insides and making me wish for a quick end to unbearable pain has made me realize just how far she had come.
Cory left the house that day with a smile on her face and her footsteps were light. She was rocking her new Hello Kitty Vans with pride. She was wearing her grandpa's winter hat because it made her feel good and didn't give a damn what anyone else thought of her style selection that day. Let them try to be like her for a change...cause she felt good in her own skin. My trendsetter was back.
Do you see? Do you see how different that girl was than the one who isolated herself from everyone? The girl who was afraid to move from room to room in her own house and uncomfortable in practically every public situation because she thought people, and sometimes imaginary people with ill intentions, were watching her every move.
My Cory Girl left the house for chili powder. Every subsequent container of chili powder that enters my home is stripped of its label because I cannot abide the sight of it. Jake has to put it in the cart in the grocery store. Chili powder changed my life forever.
But then, let's think about this some more. Cory was going a quick errand to the store for her mom. That has made me feel horribly guilty and inarguably responsible. I should have gone myself. I could have easily gone.
Here's the thing. Bless my sweet girl, she offered to go. She wanted to go. Why? Why would she offer to walk on a hot summer day when I could easily hop in the car and drive?
Because she wanted to help. Because it was her way to contribute. Because she wanted to do for her family, the way we'd all done for her.
Walking down the street, she was thinking about which brand of chili powder to get. I know this, because she called me about three minutes before the accident. She was chipper and sweet, my little lovebird.
She was not anxious. She wasn't scared. She wasn't cooped up in my bed, screaming that there were people in the house that were after her. She wasn't in the hospital in Grand Rapids.
She was walking down the street on a mission for her family. We were going to have tacos, and later watch a movie. That's where her head was. No delusions. Normal. And safe. She felt safe enough to leave the house on her own. Look at my baby girl.
Cory died doing a normal thing, living a normal life.
Normal is all I ever wanted for her.
A normal life.
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