What About Bob?

Cory was buried on the eleventh of July.  I did not allow her biological father to attend the service or to see her at all.  Some have expressed it should not have been my decision to make, but I made it nonetheless.  Regardless of what people thought, I would not allow him to be there, honoring a life he had chosen not to be part of many, many times.  He had left me to make all the decisions for her care her entire life, and some of them were more difficult than anything I’d ever imagined.  If I could make those, I could certainly make the one about the service, as well.  And so I did.  Afterwards, of course, I second-guessed myself.  I wondered if it were what Cory would truly have wanted.  She’d had a complicated array of emotions about her father.  Hell, didn’t we all?

I made it months before contacting him, which was pretty good considering I’d been fighting a burning urge to call and give him a piece of my mind ever since I realized he didn’t send flowers to her service.  This was a domino that set a chain reaction of resentment into motion.  How dare he not send her flowers just because he wouldn’t be there to enjoy them?  How dare he not offer to help see her decently buried?  How dare he promise her the world and let her down time and time again?  Why didn’t he follow through with meds and counseling so he could be a healthy part of her life?  How could he leave us yet again? 

What if he had gotten well and stayed well?  Would things have turned out any differently?  Would he have been around to go buy the chili powder or to cross the road with her?  Ridiculous, but it ran through my mind, it sure did.  Blame must have a face, and whose better than the one who had let us both down our entire lives? 

I’ve read since then that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder causes unreasonable anger towards some of the people you are closest to.  Truth be told, Bob was one of the people I’d loved most in the world.  There wasn’t much I hadn’t and wouldn’t do for him.  It took me over twenty years to walk away from him completely, and at the time was the most painful thing I’d ever experienced.

Poor Dr Z sat with a furrowed brow as I asked for his advice.  Should I or should I not contact Bob?  I did not sugar coat it.  I had a burning need to contact him and fill him in on just what he missed this last go round.  I wanted him to hurt as I was hurting.  I wanted him to suffer.  I wanted him to bleed.  I wanted him to have to walk around every day of his life with the pictures I was currently carrying around in my head.  I wanted the lifeless form of his daughter to keep him awake nights and haunt his dreams, as it did mine.  In short,  I wanted to share the misery, and I wanted to share it with him.  Why should he get off scott free yet again?

Dr. Z nodded as if this desire was perfectly normal, and perfectly healthy.  Bless his sweet soul, that man’s tolerance of my strange mourning behaviors simply knew no bounds.  He had not batted an eye when I’d revealed my plate slinging tantrums or how I’d been beating myself up with one small fist in time to scream-over music  while driving in the car.  Dr. Z accepted you, and loved you…just as you are.  No wonder Cory loved him so.

So instead of telling me that contacting Bob was a horribly stupid idea, he posed a question.

“Was he in her life consistently the first three years of her life?”

“No.  We broke up when she was 2 months old because he was abusive.  After that he saw her a couple of times with supervision, and then he left the state when she was four.”

Dr. Z nodded, not at all surprised.  He shot me a slightly dubious glance before reminding me, who he knew had been involved in early childhood for years, “You realize that he did not successfully bond with her.  The attachment was simply never formed.  It is natural for you to want to share your grief with the other part of her, but he will never experience what you are looking for.  How old was she when he saw her next?” he asked.

“She’d just turned fourteen.”  I answered.

He nodded, nonjudgmentally.  “Ten years.  Yes, well then, she was really more of an acquaintance to him rather than a permanent fixture in his life.  He will not process her death the way you will.  Not to mention, he has a serious mental illness that has gone untreated his entire life…that, combined with all the substances he used….his brain is literally disintegrating daily.  His day to day life is about fighting his demons…it is all about me, me, me.  I doubt if he is even able to get outside of his own pain and suffering to think of others for long.”  He paused here to meet my eyes.  “I know you want to share this with him, but he will never be able to give you what you are looking for.  You are better to look to your loved ones who knew Cory and loved her as you did, yes?”

Yes.  Yes, I knew what he said made sense.  But his logic did nothing to calm the uncontrollable, violent rage I felt.  It did nothing to quiet the what if’s.  It did nothing to silence my shameful secret need to have Bob tell me he knew it wasn’t my fault, and that he didn’t blame me for killing our child.  Like, seriously?  His opinion should matter the least, but somehow all those years of watching his eyes and reading his face before making a move had taken their toll.  Those pathways were still hardwired in my brain; it was sad, but true.

I revisited the topic with Dr. Z several times.  I wrote in my journal.  I vented to friends.  I talked to my husband about it.  I agreed with them all, wholeheartedly- it was a bad idea.  I made peace with my decision to leave well enough alone. 

 Then I said to hell with it, and contacted him anyway.

Halloween was my first holiday without Cory.  It’s never been a favorite of mine, but somehow that didn’t matter one bit.  It knocked me flat on my back to see Jake standing in a costume…alone, for the first time in ten years.  Suddenly, I wanted to run and hide.  Uncle Bud volunteered to take Jake around trick or treating.  I retired to my cocoon like bed, wailing and screaming, as a parade of Cory-Girls, aged one to nineteen, paraded through my head in various costumes.  I couldn’t breathe.  I wanted to die.  Feeling self-destructive was the perfect segue to contact him, and contact him I did.

I wrote him that I’d been wanting to contact him ever since it happened.  I told him I wanted him to know what he’d missed out on this time, but I didn’t know any words gruesome enough to describe what it had been like to run up and find her laid out on the road like that.  I told him even if I did know the right words, I knew it wouldn’t affect him the same way because he hadn’t loved her the way I did.  I told him I didn’t blame him for her death, that one was all my fault, but I did blame him for how badly he’d treated her when she was alive.  And she’d never deserved it.

His response came quickly, and was short.  Just a couple of lines about how he agreed, and had gotten what he deserved when he flew up here at a moment’s notice and was turned away at the door. 

---TO BE CONTINUED

Booger-Man Status

You know how when a friend does you a big favor, you thank them by saying, “What would I do without you?  You’re a lifesaver.”?  Have they really saved your life, or did they bring you Taco Bell when you were on your period?  Did they save your life, or did they take your kids so you could go to a movie with your husband?  I have some great friends who have been there for me since Cory’s accident.  They have hugged me, fed me, cried with me, and in one case, even drove my convulsing cat to the vet at a moment’s notice.

One of my friends actually saved my life.  It was about two days after my lovely conversation with Insurance Lady (State Farm, if you’re reading, offer some sensitivity training to your employees, would you?), that I found myself pushing a Mancino’s sub around on my plate, as I told Angie how I planned to kill myself.  Angie later told me the scariest part of this disclosure was not what I said, but how I said it…flatly, devoid of emotion, as if I were giving her a hot tip on where to buy a chiffon scarf that would make her sweater pop. 

For me, at least, there seemed to be a certain turning point between wishing I were dead as one might wish for a million dollars to land at their feet, and going about making my death happen much as I had planned Cory’s funeral…step by dogged step.  There was a moment where I realized, seemingly for the first time, that I could actually make it happen if I wanted it bad enough.  It was that momentary glimpse at control, and the promise of an end to unbearable pain that got my gears moving. 

At other times, I had become stalled at this point, remembering the friends and family I would leave behind, and weighing their pain against the end of my own.  Well, that just wasn’t an issue this time around.  Something had broken lose in my brain when Insurance Lady and I had our words.  I was no longer feeling connected to anything or anyone.  The guilt I felt was suffocating.  In a weird and twisted way, I felt that taking my own life would be breaking free-  free to never see her lying twisted and broken on West Michigan Avenue, four houses down from our home, ever again.  I would give anything to get that image out of my head.  Anything.

So there I sat across from Angie, telling her all about the show I’d seen on TV some years ago:  pills in slow batches, warm milk, plastic bag over the head.  Angie listened carefully, her face giving away nothing, asking the occasional follow up question, perhaps to judge the sincerity of my intentions.  When I had finished laying it out like a simple and convenient week night dinner recipe, I returned to staring blankly out the window.

Angie brought me back by asking how I thought Jake would feel if I were dead.  Sadly, my pain was just too great for me to even consider another person’s feelings- even those of my ten year old son.  I answered by telling her Tim would take care of him.  Similar pat answers were given as she went down the list of my loved ones.  I felt tired, and redundant.  Didn’t she understand?  I did not care about anyone else anymore.  I was a selfish and horrible individual…that’s how this whole mess happened in the first place, remember?

“I want to be done.”  I told her flatly, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.  There was not a single part of me that wanted anything except my daughter or to die.  If I could not have one, I must have the other.

Angie redoubled her efforts to talk some sense into me when we reached the car.  If anyone could do it, she could.  That woman has a God given talent to care for people, even when they have stopped caring for themselves.  Dimly, I realized how serious it was this time when I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.  I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen Angie cry; she is one of the strongest women I know. 

She had the crisis counselor on the phone before I realized what was happening, and was asking what she should do next.  I leaned against the car window, picturing Cory’s face, and wondering if I should have kept my plans to myself.

She turned the car towards the clinic.  She parked it, and turned to face with me with her “mom face” on.  “Nicole, I am going inside to talk to the crisis counselor.  You can either go with me or sit in the car.”

Sheer panic took over.  I was being told on!  They would send me to the hospital!  I didn’t want to go to the hospital!  I wanted to die, now before I lost my nerve. 

Angrily, I began yelling at her through my tears, “I shouldn’t have told you!  I thought I could trust you!  Don’t you know you’re the only one I can talk to?  Now, I have no one.  I will never tell you anything again!  I can’t trust you.”

Angie remained unfazed.  “Do you want to go with me or sit in the car?”

Switching tactics, I begged.  “I’m feeling better now.  We can just go.  I don’t need to see anyone.”

“Nicole, you are not safe.  You know it, and I know it.  I’m going in- you can go with me or sit in the car.  What’s your choice?”

Swearing at the woman who saved my life that day, I fumbled with my seatbelt and followed her reluctantly inside.

The crisis counselor on duty, a robust and slightly disheveled man of about thirty met us just inside the door and led us down the hall, behind the locked doors…that’s where they keep the flight risks.  I imagine I was considered a runner at this point.

This interesting gentleman with the sweatrings under his armpits introduced himself as Jared, and got right down to business.

“Well, Nicole, let me pull up your information.  Ahhh, yes, you’re under Dr. Z’s care…well, the good news is you haven’t been diagnosed with a major mental illness.”

Did he really just say that? 

Perhaps this was part of his master plan to bring me back to the here and now; perhaps it was just a poor choice of words.  Either way, I came out of myself enough to stop thinking about suicide and start wondering who in the hell trained this guy, and what in the world was their dress code.

With tears still drying on my cheeks, I looked over his bedhead hair (not the messy on purpose sexy kind, just the kind that had a nodding acquaintance with a hairbrush, at most).  I glanced at the mysterious brown smears in the corner of his mouth.  I inspected his wrinkled shirt, and high water khakis, wondering what the world had come to, if this was considered professional attire, and if I was really meant to take advice from a man who didn’t know enough to wipe the donut icing off his mouth.

“Well, Nicole, the bad news is that your friend here is pretty worried about you, and based on what she told me on the phone, I’m pretty concerned as well.  Is it true you’ve been having suicidal thoughts?”

I hesitiated.  “Well, yes, I was feeling that way, but I’m not feeling that way anymore.  I just came in to get some coping strategies.”  Amazing how when I opened my mouth, the lies just came floating right out.  I knew how this game was planned.  The evaluator only cares about that moment in time, not how you felt two hours ago.  If you can sell it well enough, you will walk out every time.

As I got ready for his counter attack, I glanced up and spotted an unimistakable dried pale green flake clinging for dear life to Jared’s right nostril.

Dear God, seriously?

I looked at Angie to see if she had seen, and knew the moment my eyes met hers that she had.  I almost choked trying to produce a fake coughing fit.  To my disbelief, Jared realized what we were looking at, and actually –I’m not lying folks- flicked the booger into the air towards us.

Angie and I watched horror-stricken, tracking the booger’s slow and lazy descent to the floor, as we simultaneously scooted back our chairs a few inches.  I would say we tried to be unobtrusive, but really what was the point?  Why worry about being rude in front of a man who just flicked a live booger into the air in front of you during a crisis counseling session.

Anything else that Jared said was lost on me.  Let’s just say his credibility was shot once that booger hit the open air.

Well, I take that back- there was one piece of wisdom I took away with me.  It had nothing to do with suicide, but it helped me immensely, nonetheless.  He asked me about visiting Cory at the cemetery, and how it made me feel.  I told him it made me feel horrible…guilty and angry…full of rage, even.

He told me I needed to stop going every day for a while.  In fact, to stop going until I could go and walk away without feeling angry.  Was he serious?  I might never visit her grave again.

He told me visiting her at the cemetery at this point was clearly counterproductive, and I shouldn’t feel I had to, or that I was a bad mom if I didn’t.

That was hard to swallow.  He asked me how often I thought of her.  I answered, “When don’t I?”  He told me I did not have to be graveside to remember her or to honor her.  One of the best ways I could do that right now was to take good care of her mother, cause she had loved her very much.  Going to the cemetery was not a healthy choice.  “I release you from that expectation.”  he said, as if I was being knighted or some damn thing.  Instantly, I could picture this guy in holey sweatpants, playing Dungeons and Dragons.  Again, Dear God.

Angie and I made it through the parking lot, inside the car, and shut the doors before our eyes met and we were gone in gales of laughter.  Any bout of suicidal thinking from this point out would be affectionately referred to as “Booger Man Status”.

Confessions From the Rabbit Hole

It is quiet down here in the dark.  Usually only one person at a time can fit in the rabbit hole.  Tim and I have been taking turns.  When he is down, I run the show, and keep the household afloat.  When I am down, he takes the reins.  When we are both down, Jake gives us cues for his basic needs that we struggle to fulfill…dinner, clean laundry, conversation.

Angie was the first one to mention the five stages of grief to me.  I was, on that particular day, pissed off beyond measure at the universe…all the parents with children alive and healthy, my husband, my son, my friends, strangers, the driver, God, Cory’s biological father.  I remember feeling as if I could cut the air with my sharp words as I screamed at Angie through the phone, “I already know about the stupid five stages of grief!  I know how to Google.”  My voice could not convey the haughty and childish expression on my face as I informed her, “ They’re stupid, and I’m just not gonna do them-  you can’t make me!”  The only thing I forgot to do was blow her a raspberry.

Oh, how Angie must have chuckled at my passion and arrogant ignorance.  If I wasn’t going to do them, they certainly meant to do me, as may times as they wanted, whether I said “yea, nay, or maybe”.  The five stages of grief:  shock/denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  They became my personal harbingers of hell.  Sometimes they visited me one at a time, other times it was a group event.  They stalked me in earnest, following me into my sleep, and cramming themselves into the rabbit hole right with me each and every time I hid.

Notice the lovely irony here that even as I denied my participation in these stages of grief to Angie, I was engulfed in Anger.  Oh, it would be funny, if it weren’t so sad. 

So what goes on in the rabbit hole?  Let me tell you about my last stay there.

After running into my friend at the coffeeshop a couple of weeks ago, and realizing I had for the first time explained Cory’s death, but not blamed myself, I enjoyed a day or so of pride and accomplishment.  Look at that girl, she made her own cue cards, and actually managed to change her thinking!  Maybe I would be okay…someday.  Someone who could change their thinking, should be able to keep themselves alive.  Right?

Well, I think my progress had a certain ricochet effect.  As soon as I realized I might be feeling better, I put a stop to that in a hurry.  How dare I?  I mean, really, how could I walk around and hold my head high when my heart, the person most important to me in the world, was in the ground?  And on the heels of that came the whisper, yeah, especially since you put her there.

Boom, the hidden trap door slid open silently, and my footing was a memory.  I was down.  The only questions were how far would I fall and how long would I stay?

Anything goes in the rabbit hole:  pure hatred (always for yourself, occasionally for others), self-indulgence, nostalgia, heartbreak, self-pity, fury, and the like.  It is a mixed bag.  I spent the next couple of nights tossing and turning, waking up every few hours from the most vivid dreams in which I committed unspeakable and vile acts of revenge upon the driver who struck and killed my daughter.

I do enjoy scary movies.  Perhaps, that’s where my mind stored up enough ghastly images to produce these dreams.  Maybe, or maybe my mind was just acting out what I’d wanted to do from the moment that man told me she was gone.

My daydreams following the accident had always passed the messy job of  murder off to my husband….what is a man for if not to defend the honor of his family?  But in my sleep, I wouldn’t leave this job to anyone else…not when I would take such pleasure in the act.

So, there I was, with the driver’s address scribbled down on a scrap of paper (God bless the stupidity of the police department who printed her address right on the police report) stuffed into my jeans pocket, wearing a dark stocking cap, and gloves like I was some type of cat burglar.  In my dream, I drove to her home, not so far from mine, night after night…watching, working up my nerve.  Finally, my body made one pivotal move…I opened my car door and clunked it quietly shut.  There was no turning back now.  It was dark, and the  neighborhood quiet.  I crept across her well-kept lawn, stopping only to pick up a heavy stone garden gnome.  I had a moment as I hauled it to her doorstep to wonder if she’d been in a rush to get home and catch up on her yardwork.  Well, that would no longer be a problem.  Premeditated murder, anyone?

Before I could change my mind, I knocked on her door and waited patiently for the sound of her slippered feet shuffling towards the door.  When she opened the door, I had a split second to take in an old, almost elderly face peering out quizzically before I hefted that gnome over my head with both hands and split her head wide open right where she stood in her faded nightgown and fluffy robe.  She fell bonelessly into the opening of the door.  I waded in, and finished the job until I couldn’t lift my arms anymore.  The whole time, blood splattering, and horrible gurgling noises coming from the ground, all I could see was Cory’s blue lips, her dirty face, her twisted arm, her shirt cut open, her bra showing… drivers on the road slowing down to try to see what had happened.  Not my girl, not my girl, not my girl!

In my dream, I made not one sound.  I clenched my teeth with every downward arc.  When I woke in the morning, my teeth hurt horribly; I had been clenching them in my sleep.

Was the nightmare over?

No, sometimes they just keep on going.

In my dream, I looked down at the woman’s face, and realized I had just killed a defenseless old woman in cold blood.  My dream self was some kind of mean bitch, cause I simply nodded at a job well done, and began dragging her body around back.

So picture me, one of the least aggressive women you will ever meet, getting an axe from the trunk that I could only drag, and proceeding to chop the body into pieces and bundle them into weeping, bloody piles tied with rags.  I made a semi-tidy pile, and then went back to my car for suitcases.  How many suitcases does it take to dispose of a human body?  In my sleeping mind, it took one large, one medium, a duffle bag, and an overnight bag…for the little pieces.  They all matched.

Surely having left enough evidence to imprison me for life, I hauled the dismembered body out to my car, and stuffed it in the trunk.  I was covered in blood from head to toe.  As I started the car, I glanced at my face in the rearview mirror, and almost jumped when I didn’t recognize the eyes as my own.  I turned on the dome light, and looked again…wait a minute, my eyes aren’t green, they’re blue. 

And in the way dreams have, my face morphed into Cory’s, her eyes wide and bright, but her face covered in blood, and her lips the darkest blue.

 

Are You There, Brain? It's Me, Nicole

Okay, so let’s just lay this out.  As recent as last Friday, I realized before tumbling into bed that I might be starting to heal, just a little.  I realized this because of one chance encounter with a dear friend at the coffeeshop.  I hadn’t seen this lovely lady in at least eight years.  Squeals and neck hugs were in abundance.  The caffeine coursing through our veins was nothing compared to the pace of our delighted chatter.  As moms will do, my friend pulled up a pic of her son, who had been in my preschool class so many years ago.  I was amazed to see the handsome young man that I remembered best sitting criss cross applesauce at my circletime rug.  He was a dear, sweet boy, and had become a kind, thriving young man who was breaking his momma’s heart by asking her not to use his childhood nickname anymore.  I could see the real pain flash in my friend’s eyes as she described this latest development in parenting called Letting Them Go, One Painful Step at a Time.

Naturally, my friend soon asked after my kids, who had been maybe ten and one when we’d last seen each other.  It was here that I drew in a deep breath, and told her what happened to Cory.  She teared up immediately, and began praying for me on the spot…maybe not aloud, but the look on her face said it all.  Over the next hour or so, we caught up, and I shared the details of the accident, and the nightmare I have been forced to live.

I cried.  She cried.  The friend who had met her for coffee, and had just met me, cried.  It was a very real and honest conversation.  It wasn’t until I got home, hours later, and was laying my head down on my pillow, that I realized something startling, and sort of amazing.  I sat straight up in my bed, realizing that for the very first time that I could remember, I had ran into someone, told them of Cory’s death, with details, with tears, but had not said “It was my fault”.

I could hardly believe this had happened.  It must have been those flashcards I had made to challenge my faulty thinking had finally sunk in.  I still didn’t buy the concept that I wasn’t responsible one hundred percent of the time, mind you, but there were more and more moments when I was willing to entertain the thought.

This was huge.  I remember going around the next day or so, feeling pretty proud of myself.  I had changed my thinking, at least a little, in a more positive direction.

Imagine my surprise to wake up two days later, feeling as down and lost as I have since day one.  Really, Brain, really?  Is that the best you can do? 

I am down the rabbit hole once again.

===To Be Continued

Fight or Flight

Have you ever had that moment where your brain simply doesn’t know how to take in the information it’s receiving?  Have you had that moment when your body moved without any conscious thought…some primitive impulse took over, launching you into motion…good or bad?  This moment for me was shortly after the accident that took my daughter’s life.

My friend and I were riding along in her car when I got a phone call from the insurance company that covered the driver who struck and killed Cory.  They had sent me a couple of requests to send in the necessary documentation to close out the claim.  I had been steadily ignoring it, as Tim and I were conducting our own investigation of sorts, since the police couldn’t seem to find the time to do it themselves.  My sister, Kim, had made up flyers that we posted all over the neighborhood begging any eyewitnesses to come forward with any information regarding the accident. 

The police had witnesses who had seen only part of what had happened, and we had heard from others that there was much more to the story…such as a sudden lane change, which made a lot of sense. The police seldom responded to our phone calls to ask how the case was going.  It was pretty obvious they weren’t going to strain themselves trying to uncover any more of the story that ended with a young girl dead, and the driver walking away without so much as a ticket.

I had had all I could stomach when it came to speaking with them after my first phone call to the officer in charge of the investigation, who was neither kind nor sensitive.  From then on, I put Tim in charge of the phone calls, a task which he ran from daily.  At the time, I was so mad at him I couldn’t see straight, taking his avoidance  to mean he didn’t care about Cory or getting justice. Looking back, now, I can hardly blame him. Really, who wants to be in charge of those kind of calls?

I held out hope that basic human decency would eventually spur the police into action to further investigate the accident that took my daughter’s life. 

It never happened.

So there I sat on the line with Insurance Lady, being borderline harassed because they didn’t have the paperwork they needed to walk away from this case.  As I spoke with her, my friend, Angie, pulled into an empty parking lot for better reception.  As I often do when I am nervous, I kicked off my shoes, speaking earnestly into the phone, trying to explain that my mother’s heart needed the blame to be distributed fairly, not just passed to the body on the ground.  I could not make peace with the fact that the driver that had struck and killed my daughter without so much as hitting her brakes had walked away without a ticket.  She had left the scene, and went on to her home, picking up the familiar threads of her life, while I walked straight into the pits of hell, with seemingly no way out.  Somehow it didn’t seem fair.

Insurance Lady became more and more irate with me as I insisted we were waiting until the police closed the case before submitting any formal paperwork.  She finally hitched in a breath, clearly irritated, and uttered these words, “Mrs. Mansfield, when are you going to just accept that your daughter deliberately stepped in front of our driver?”

My mouth gaped.  On pure reflex, I threw my cell phone across the car, nearly capping off this lovely conversation by creaming my friend in the chest with a heavy flying object.  Before Angie could speak, I grabbed the door handle, and jumped out of her car, barefoot.  Heavy breaths became deep, angry, braying sobs as I began moving fast in the first direction my feet took me.  Angie would later tell me how relieved she was to see I headed down the residential street versus the other direction, towards the busy highway.

So barefoot I jerkily ran, arms pumping, head down, paying absolutely no attention to where I was going…just needing to get as far away from that voice and those horrible words as I could.  It was distance I craved, and distance I got, bellowing like a neglected cow the entire way.  Had there been a cliff in my path, I would’ve walked right off  without missing a step.

Looking back on this incident, it reminds me of when things first got bad for Cory.  She’d been sitting at the dining room table doing homework one night, getting frustrated and hearing voices criticizing her every move.  I had been stirring something at the stove.  One second, she’d been seated, head bent over her studies, and the next she was screaming, up and flying out the front door, and into the night.  Barely able to comprehend what was happening, I had ran after her, steps behind as she cut across the side yard, and into the back.  Screaming, but agile, she scaled her old swing set to gain the roof of the garage.  And there she’d sat, crying and rocking, with her knees tucked up against her chest, and her hands laced around them…a little bird in crisis, roosting on the roof.

So then, picture poor Angie trailing alongside me in her car, at a snail’s pace, trying to persuade me back inside.  It took a while, but eventually I caved, crawling inside like a tired child, and shutting the door behind me.  Angie watched, dumbstruck, as I put my shaking hands to my temples, and just let loose.

Did I scream?  You have no idea.

Angie later told me I had been animalistic.

I don’t remember any of my actions, really.  I only remember my feelings and some of my thoughts.  I remember screaming until it hurt to talk.

 I screamed at the insensitivity of that rude thoughtless woman, whose accusation burned my very soul.  For out of all the times Cory had been suicidal, but fought the feelings and fought the urges, July 5^th had not been one of those times.  I screamed my frustration at the police who were doing nothing to get the whole truth, content to leave it as a fluke, a freak accident- even though Tim and I had found eyewitnesses who said otherwise.  These witnesses stated the driver was obviously speeding, and not looking in front of her.

 I screamed remembering Dr. Z’s solemn, but sincerely relieved, tone as he definitively ruled out suicide, based on the damage being on the side of the vehicle, and the fact that Cory had been thrown to the side of the road.  Cory had obviously been sideswiped.  Someone stepping in front of a car on purpose would be hit head on.

I screamed out my rage at a God who would take a sweet child who had already struggled so much just to have a normal life.  I screamed my burning jealousy at all the parents who take their children for granted every day, just soaking up those precious milestones as their natural right, not realizing some of us never get to see them…the driver’s license, the graduation walk, the first job, the move to college.  Don’t even get me started on the grandbabies.

I screamed for all the hours, all the days, and all the nights that I had watched Cory like a hawk, guarding her moods with my life, because I knew her life could very well depend on my judgment of her mental state at any given moment.  All of that caution, all of that supervision, all of the work we did together…just gone in an instant.  How could I lose her when she was in my every thought? 

I screamed thinking of the steady thought track of my days over the last three years….Cory, did you take your meds?  Cory, did you eat something?  How are you feeling today?  Are you hearing voices?  Do you feel safe?  Cory, did you take your meds?  Cory, are you ok?  Cory, Cory, Cory…

With those carelessly bitten off words, Insurance Lady had pointed a dooming, relentless finger at first Cory, and then at me.  I was Cory’s caregiver, her lifeline… her legal guardian, for God’s sake.  I was in charge of making all her decisions, because there were times she was not able to do it herself.  If it was Cory’s fault, then it was most certainly mine.  Who else’s would it be?

I screamed my guilt, horror, and  self-hatred because of one second-long decision I had made in letting Cory walk to the store, killing her as surely as if I’d pushed her into the street with my own two hands.

Angie endured my ear piercing screams without judgment and without response, knowing I must get it out or die.  She didn’t speak, only watched a little wide-eyed as I burrowed my hands deep into my long hair, and began pulling it out by the roots, without even realizing I was doing it.  She cannot be dead!  She cannot be dead!  Oh my God, please don’t her be dead!

When my screams at last dissolved into gulps and sobs, I began to apologize profusely, feeling ashamed and strangely naked to have just completely lost it in front of another person.  What had I become?

My thought track quickly jumped from wishing Cory wasn’t dead to wishing desperately that I was.  When Angie asked me the big three: 

Are you thinking of hurting yourself?  Are you having suicidal thoughts?  Do you have a plan?

I answered honestly, tonelessly.  Yes, I wanted to hurt myself.  Yes, I wanted to die.  Yes, I knew how to do it.  When she said she didn’t think I was safe to be left alone, my mind marveled at the strange parallel territory I now found myself in- how many times had I had this exact same conversation with Cory?

Angie made a couple calls, arranging a seamless transfer of me from her custody into that of my brother-in-law’s, whom she affectionately called Uncle Bud.  Uncle Bud was now part of the crisis team.  It had gotten that bad…bad enough for a team of people who loved and cared for me to have to work together to keep me safe and alive. 

How did I get to that dark, unfamiliar place? 

 One moment.  One moment in time took me from stability and logical thinking to rock bottom... a danger to myself and others.  Don’t think for one second that I have not entertained dark, detailed fantasies about cracking open that driver’s head just to watch her blood spill onto the ground.  Me…a former preschool teacher, can you imagine?

Thinking about this, I am amazed at the sheer number of people who pass judgment every day on the mentally ill, thinking themselves so superior, and so removed…viewing those who struggle as damaged, weak, or just plain strange.  Don’t they know they are separated by nothing but a mere moment in time?  In a single moment, it could be you on that rooftop, scared and confused…or you running hell bent for leather, barefoot, down the street. 

Please remember this, and remember that those who are struggling need your understanding, your help, and most of all, they need hope.  They need to hear, “You are not alone.”

I got you, girl.  Always, Cory-bird.

What Not To Wear

If I had to pinpoint a single moment in time that launched the nearly lifelong rebellion against my mother it would when I began resisting her efforts to get me dressed on the couch one sunny September morning on what was to be my first day of kindergarten.  Yes, that is pretty early to start rebelling.  What can I say?  I was precocious.  The argument stemmed from a disagreement on fashion.  That age old question of what to wear to make a good first impression had reared its ugly head, and much to my mother’s consternation, I felt absolutely capable of answering it, without her help, input, or approval.  Here was the problem:  I had been watching quite a bit of B.J. and the Bear.  Not to discount all the mischief and mayhem a trucker and his pet chimp can get into, B.J.’s fashion choices spoke to me somewhere deep within my soul.  The trucker sometimes wore a denim jacket, to compliment his carefully crafted feathered-back hair and impossibly large and shiny belt buckles.  I don’t know how I had lucked into this unbelievably hip item of clothing, but there it was, right in my mother’s hands…a small denim jacket.  This was incredible.  I mean, I didn’t have the belt buckle or the chimp, and my blonde hair fell straight to my waist in slight waves (no feathering happening there) but I thought the denim jacket might just be able to carry me.  So on this all important day, the day I would embark upon my career as an academic student, my mother was first puzzled, and then infuriated to find her mild and normally compliant youngest child had turned into a combative, screaming banshee.  What was all the fuss?  Well, B.J. wore his denim jacket with nothing on underneath…and I wanted to do the same.

To give my mother credit, she tried several times to calmly, and quietly, explain to me that going to school bare chested was not socially acceptable behavior for a five year old girl.  Each time she finished stating this in one way or another, I’d look down at my chest and remain as confused as ever.  Why couldn’t I go barechested?  My chest didn’t look any different than B.J.’s, as least as far as I could tell. 

In much the same way, I tried to make my mother understand fashion.  In my limited vocabulary, I tried to get it across to her that if I wore that cool denim jacket over a shirt, it just wouldn’t look right.  She listened to my protestations, whining, and general upheaval with a look on her face that surely matched my own…what in the world is she talking about?

Now, my mother was, and still is, a formidable lady.  She likes to have her way, and does so the majority of the time.  This day in question was no exception.  The matter was swiftly decided.  After all, she did outweigh me by nearly 100 pounds.  That afternoon, walking with her, hand in hand, into my kindergarten classroom, covered modestly in a shirt under my denim jacket, I felt ridiculous, stifled, and more than a little resentful.  Somewhere in the back of my innocent five year old’s mind was the dawning realization that this woman and I just didn’t understand each other at all.  We didn’t even speak the same language.

I am not here to defend my attempt at attending school topless at the tender age of five.  My mother’s advice –and ultimate overruling of my wishes– was sound.  That was, however, the very first time I can remember thinking that I knew more than she did.  Perhaps, about the shock value of denim on bare skin, I did…but not about much else.  There were volumes about the world’s workings that she knew and I didn’t.  Unfortunately, it would be nearly 30 years before I wised up enough to begin asking for, and occasionally even taking, her advice.

            By the time my mom picked me up at the end of the day, the incident was all but forgotten.  I yakked her ear off about my new teacher, the girl in my class who had my very same name, and the glories of school paste.  No grudges on either side were harbored.  I still snuck into her bed and cuddled up against her after my 5 a.m. oatmeal date with my dad before he went to work each day.  Sometimes, on Saturday mornings, we’d make a tent in her bed with blankets and make up stories.  Being so much younger than my sisters, I was practically an only child.  I was a lone little chick in the nest.  This meant my sisters, and eventually their husbands, doted on me as practice for the children they would soon have.  It also meant my parents could afford to spoil me rotten, which they inarguably did.  My dad had dubbed me “the baby” and I was only to happy to oblige every privilege that came with the name.

The denim jacket showdown was our first battle of wills, but certainly not our last.  In the coming years, there would be countless duels over what I could wear, where I could go, what I could do, and with whom I could spend my free time- much like the average teenage girl and her mother.  The sad thing that happened along the way is that my mother and I stopped talking to each other.  Of course, I acknowledge that teenagers will –and probably should– naturally begin to distance themselves from their parents to make that upcoming break when they leave the nest a little less abrasive.  Our distancing might have been a little more intense for a couple of reasons.

First of all, what I could and couldn't do depending largely on the teachings of the church we attended. This was hard to swallow, considering I was a teenager who ached to hold the reins of my life in my own hands (and drive it mindlessly into the nearest concrete wall), and had the ludicrous notion that something as important as religious beliefs should be something I chose on my own- versus having them imposed on me.  It was crushing enough already that I couldn’t go to the movies, go bowling, wear jewelry or makeup like every other girl I knew, but on top of those  restrictions, I didn’t understand or agree with the religion that said I couldn’t.

What these restrictions unfortunately meant for me, and had meant for my sisters before me, was that our social interactions were narrowed even further from an already narrow pool of experiences. My mom and dad were both shy, to say the least.  My mom was not always at ease in large groups, and my dad wrote the book on introversion.  Give him a garden and some solitude, and he’d likely never leave home again.  I had the very definition of a sheltered life.

As far as the relationship between my mother and I went, intense was a word that would embody my teenage years well.  Looking back, I think my mom may have been a little frightened to lose control in any way.  Face it, as I grew up, I was getting bigger and harder to handle.  I was becoming more articulate, and my arguments– while never welcome– at least made more sense.  My mom’s response in the face of such insubordination was to batten down the hatches.  She was going to –at all costs– show me just who was in charge of this shooting match.  She would have me under her thumb if it was the last thing she did. 

And for the most part, she did just that.  What’s sad is that while she was busy controlling me, she forgot to talk to me, and to make it clear that I could talk to her.  Often when she did talk to me, she talked at me-  a simple directive to do something (or not to).  As my attachment to her waxed and waned, I stopped wanting to please her, and began fantasizing about the day I’d make my own choices and spend my time talking to someone who wanted to know just what it was that I was thinking and how I felt about it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I was not innocent in all of this.  I was certainly disrespectful at times and took vicious pleasure in doing the one thing that completely undid my mother…talking back.  To her, it was truly the highest of offenses.  It drove her into such an absolute fury that she couldn’t see straight or even recognize the child standing before her as her own.  Literally, she wouldn’t even acknowledge me by name.  In the midst of these grapplings for power, I became “missy” and most often, the name I absolutely despised….”girl”.  To be stripped of my name by the woman who had given it to me in the first place made all those tents, all those silly stories, all those mornings spent cuddling just go up like smoke.  Poof.  It made it easy to walk away, without a thought to what I might be doing to our relationship as I did so.  And walk away I did, the very first chance I got…with the one boy on the planet she abhorred.

The irony of it all when I look back now is that I could’ve saved myself a lifetime of heartache and suffering had I listened to her at least once in my adolescence.  She couldn’t stand Bob from the moment she first laid eyes on him.  She found him to be –how should I say– socially unacceptable.  Communicated in a directive or not, she knew what she was talking about that time.  But, then again,  if I had not rebelled against her wishes, I would’ve never been given my true soulmate, my daughter, Corinne Nicole, the love of my life.

In recent years, I have discovered my mother to be one of my best supports and dearest confidantes.  I wish we could stayed this close through all the years, cause I love her to my very bones, and I have a feeling she still makes a kick butt blanket tent.  She is an amazing woman, well demonstrated by the fact that she snagged my father…the best man I know.

 

Graveside

After the service was over, and last goodbyes were said, I remember being helped to the car.  Tim got me inside the vehicle, and I sat stiffly, just holding her picture, unable to believe I had just touched her for the last time, unable to believe that all I had left was this piece of paper.  Instinctively, I brought the photograph to my lips and kissed its surface firmly.  How could I be expected to say good-bye to the person I was closest to on the planet?  I pulled the picture away and regarded it, noticing how it now bore the imprint of my lips, and within that imprint, her favorite lipstick in the world, Totally Toffee.  I had kissed her cold lips that last time, pulling the pigment away, and now here it was, in my hand- a tiny last physical connection with my child. 

I kept my eyes on her picture as we waited to leave the parking lot.  During the entire service, I had clutched her tiny canvas in my hand, and concentrated on remaining silent…to show respect, and to honor our deal, to complete our last endeavor as a team.  Now that the service was over, and the lid had been closed on my world, I had become disconnected from everything, everyone, viewing myself as a character in a well-loved, but tragic film.  Watch as the grieving mother unaware of her surroundings waits for the funeral procession to begin.  As we got onto the road, I fixated on her picture, my stomach full of sharp pains, and my heart on fire.  From above myself somewhere, I looked down and pitied this poor woman…who should ever have to lose a child?  Still, I could not make myself recognize my situation.  I was watching someone else, surely.

When we arrived at the cemetery, I had to be coaxed out of the car.  Denial, anyone?  The moment I came to myself, and realized what was actually happening was the moment I saw my nephews and brothers-in-law carrying her casket over to the gravesite. The sight of their solemn faces, jaws clenched tight, working together to heft her weight to her final resting place completely undid me.   I howled.   It was all at once, real.  Light, full color, and sound all rushed to my senses like a heavy bullet, taking my breath away.  This is really happening.  That’s Cory in there, and I’m never going to see her again.  I remember swaying against Tim, needing a moment or two before I could even fathom being led over to her casket, and seated in one of the chairs lined up in front of it.  I didn't want to go over, I didn't want to participate in this heartbreaking ritual, but at the same time I couldn't walk away.  I had to be there.  I had to see it done, and done well.  I began moaning like an animal in a trap as soon as I sat down.  I began to pray, begging God to take it back.  Silence was my answer, just as it had been at the road. 

I know Tim sat beside me; I think Jake may have been at my other side, but I am not really sure.  I don’t remember seeing Jake’s face once at the graveside.  I remember gripping Tim’s hand harder than I ever gripped a hand through any of the contractions of Cory’s birth, or Jake’s.  Many say childbirth is the most painful experience you will ever go through; I am here to regrettably dispel that myth.  It is not.  Preparing to watch your child be put in the ground, and covered with dirt is pure hell on earth. 

The rest of the brief service was much like the accident scene.  I remember only bits and pieces…images and feelings.  A minister, I’m not sure who, began reading or praying, and I began screaming my heart out in earnest.  I had held it in for the service; I had kept it together, and now I would let it all go.  I didn’t care this time if people could not hear what was being said.  I let it all out…the horror, the heartbreak, the sorrow, everything that had taken place since the afternoon of July 5^th.  Then I drew breath into my lungs and let out every moment my girl had suffered with that cruel and senseless mental illness…all the late nights calming her, all the runs to the E. R., every second she spent afraid and confused.  Damn you voices, and damn you medication that didn't work.  I held onto my husband and I yelled until I couldn’t get my breath.  In my mind, she was close enough to touch, to hold, to draw into my lap.  But here, when I opened eyes I could barely see through, she was laid out in a box suspended over a hole in the ground.  All I wanted was to go with her.  I screamed my lungs out, and hoped she could hear me.

People touched me; they encouraged me to breathe.  I finally lay my head down on Tim’s lap, and just keened like an animal that has been beaten until it can’t lift its head.  When the words had been said, I could hear the funeral director trying to get Tim’s attention.  He was asking him if he was sure we wanted her casket to be lowered with us present.  I heard him tell Tim he did not think it would be a good idea, but he would do whatever we wanted.  Tim turned to me, “Honey?” 

I raised my head, “Yes, do it.”

“Are you sure?”  he asked again.

“I’m positive.”  I answered.  Was there really any other choice?  I could not and would not leave her alone to be put in the ground without me there.  We had been through hell together; I would not leave her now.  She had died alone because of me, I would not have her put to rest alone, too.

I stumbled over, with some help, and on impulse, kissed the lid of her coffin, just as I had kissed her goodnight so many times over the course of her life. As I heard the sound of the machinery warming up to lower her in, I lost my mind.  It seemed to last forever, that cranking, industrial whirr that took my daughter farther away from me by the second.  I cried out with everything I had.  I have never wanted anything as much as I wanted it to be a nightmare I would wake up from. 

When it was over, I looked down into the hole, which seemed deeper than I had ever imagined.  Someone cautioned me to be careful, not to fall in.  Are you kidding me?  It was all I could do not to climb right inside.  All I wanted in that moment was to climb down in that hole, and lay on top of her while someone shoveled earth right on top of us both.