Gettin' Those Digits

I taught Cory how to flirt with the cute young man who served our coffee. I told her to say his name when she ordered, ask him what he recommended, and be sure to touch his hand when she got her change.

Above all, I told her to make eye contact with those gorgeous green eyes that could easily bring any boy to his knees, and SMILE, smile like it's Christmas morning.
At all costs, I advised her not to wink. Not because it's cheesy (which it is), but because the sweet child winked like Suzanne Somers playing Chrissy on Three's Company. No matter how much we practiced...Chrissy always appeared. 

We laughed so hard.

  Poor baby. No matter, she still had game.

As a Child

Cory told me about this next poem that she wrote for a class at school, but wouldn't let me read it.  I begged and cajoled, but she said, "No, Mom.  Not right now.  You'll get to read it someday."

 

Tears.

As a Child

My mother is a woman that I'd rather consider a Goddess.
I remember being such a smaller person,
sitting on the white ceramic tile of our bathroom floor.
I watched her spread red carnations across her lips,
 and they lit up like magic.
I would watch her brush through her hair that was like the gold that Rumpelstilskin spun into thread;
I would just wonder at the beauty of the gold thread

as it fell in rings around her face.
I didn't see any small imperfection that naturally belonged to any skin of human,
 because this angel wasn't human.
Her skin was broken bits of titaium painted white,

 making her so pale, so shimmering, and so indestructible.
My immortal mother had love and kindness swelling in her bosom,
and I'd like to remember her forever

 as I remember her being when i was a child.

 

--Corinne Nicole Mansfield

The Perfect Me

Cory struggled with her self-image as a huge part of that blasted illness.  When we talked to Dr. Z about it, he told her that humans are horrible judges of their outside appearances...that our brains do not process the image we see in the mirror accurately, but instead monkey around with it just enough to make ourselves feel bad.  He told her the only one who could see us as we truly are is God.  He also told her the next time she started to get that feeling that she wasn't good enough, to just remember that Dr. Z said she was okay.  "Miss?  You are okay with me.  And you always will be."  Bless that man's sweet soul.

I found this poem in her room after the accident, and about bawled my eyes out.

The Perfect Me

I want a brain that will be my tall ladder,
So that I might play with the moisture of the clouds
Not just this lump of dead meat and memories lying lazy in my head.
I want feet that are rough like the crust of the earth, not these tender-heel pussycat paws, too gentle to be put to work.
I want hair that wraps down my back in vines and blooming roses.
I want a face sculpted from the sunbeams that break through the sky on a cloudy day.
I want the breath of angels, breath that's warm like beach sand, and smells sugary like honey and perfume.
I want the eyes God created from broken pieces of Heaven.
And I want skin from the ground where Lucifer fell, not these patches of scarred, dried, used flesh.
I want to be beautiful, know I'm beautiful, and be unforgivably vain.

 

--Corinne Nicole Mansfield

Spoiled Rotten

The men I’ve been in serious relationships with would agree on perhaps many things about me, but this one for sure:  when I don’t get my way, I’m a brat. 

 Well, that’s what I feel like today.  I want to just throw a fit on the floor, out in public, and let them carry me away if they can.  I hate everything; I hate everyone.   Everyone who tells me things will get better is full of shit.  Everyone who looks at me like I’m a drama queen, and reminds me that others have lost children and continued on to eventually lead satisfying lives don’t have a clue what kind of relationship I had with my daughter.

The ones who sniff at our “friendship”, who would never indulge in something so inherently irresponsible (you can’t be a parent and a friend) are just jealous. They will never experience one tenth of what I had with my girl, yet their daughters are alive and skipping around town, while they find time for them around the edges of their lives. 

I am supposed to be excited about Italy, which is only days away.  As I sit here, just on fire with my emotions, I can only picture myself over there learning to swear in Italian and shoving forkfuls of pasta into my mouth with bitter abandon. 

The day is getting closer, and I’m getting that feeling again…that feeling that I’m being chased by someone with a knife.  It feels like this:

 Imagine being held at knifepoint by a man in your home. It's dark. You can't breathe. Your heart feels like it may explode in your chest. You are paralyzed with fear. You don't know what to do. If you speak, it may egg him on. If you try to break free, he will surely chase you, he’ll catch you, and he will drive the blade home. You can only scrabble in the dark, on the floor, like some fucking little crab, anticipating the feel of the blade and fearing every black inch of open air before you.

I had the exact scenario I described above happen to me over 20 years ago, and i thought I had never been so scared in my life. I thought I would never feel such terror again. I was sorely mistaken.

So here I sit at the coffeeshop, not screaming, not bashing my pretty ceramic coffee mug against the brick wall beside my table.  I am just keeping to my daily writing routine.  I’ve got on my holey baggy boyfriend jeans (all the better to accommodate my bigger butt and strange new squishy stuff where my hipbones used to be).  My hair is up in a haphazard bun.  No makeup.  Cory’s fingerprint around my neck, and her picture on the bracelet hugging my wrist. 

I’ve ordered my usual salted caramel mocha, found a side table, and plugged in.  I set the picture of two pretty girls up against the salt and pepper shakers. 

Ready to create, I have just sat here fuming. 

Damn it, I want my girl.

Is That a Pencil in Your Pocket?

Body image issues…don’t we all have them to some degree or another?  Cory complained most of her adolescence about being too flat-chested, which made me to roll my eyes, and inform her she did not know of flat-chested.  That girl had more going on, even being a late bloomer, than I did until my first pregnancy.  I had to endure sixteen hours of labor to earn any rack to speak of.

She was absolutely delighted to discover that a side effect of one of her meds was the sudden and speedy growth of breast tissue.  Of all the side effects she endured, this was the only one that brought her pure joy, and a triumphant smile when she looked in the mirror.  We renamed Risperdal...Breastperdal... and celebrated by going bra-shopping, one of her all favorite pastimes, as you may have already read about.

Well, prior to Breastperdal, I sat Cory down and told her the tragic story of a two seventh grade girls and a scoliosis check.  She had to know that things could be much, much worse.  This is what I told her:

When I was in seventh grade, I was a gawky, gangly, malnourished looking type, all braces, and carefully cultivated poufy hair.  Gym was a horror to me for two reasons.  First of all, I had no athletic ability whatsoever, and was terrified of flying objects.  Seriously, volleyball gave me diarrhea.  Secondly was the grade-dependent change out.  We had to take off our clothes in front of other people or flunk the class.  Dear God.

While every other girl in my grade was stripping confidently, breasts flopping about like there no tomorrow, I perfected the strategy of changing out a full outfit without baring a single milky white inch of my body.

That left only the shower room, which frankly I blocked out memories of, like I imagine most long time inmates of prison do after a while.  Morified, I would wait until almost everyone else was done, and make a mad dash for it.

It wasn’t long before I realized that besides one other emaciated girl we’ll call Robin, I was the only girl that didn’t wear a bra.  And in all honesty, I didn’t need one.  This didn’t mean I wasn’t painfully aware that I should need one, and desperately begged the boob fairy to bestow something on my seventy pound frame.  I mean for the love of God, I was suffering here.

I will never forget sitting in English class, in seventh grade, across from a cute, popular boy.  He never spoke to me unless it was to borrow a pen or ask what page we were on, but the scenery was still nice.  On one particular day, I was wearing a new mint green sweatshirt covered with koala bears.  Before you judge, let me stop you right there to say that my mother controlled my wardrobe at that point in my life, and mint was actually a very “in” color at that moment.  Well, that koala sweatshirt caught cute boy’s eye, all right.  He complimented me, which made my face burn with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.  He then asked me if I wanted to know which bear he liked the best.  Shyly, I shook my head yes. 

Cute boy took his pencil and placed it over the only bear on my shirt that held a red heart, and also happened to be located directly over my left nipple.  He took that pencil and defted maneuvered it to purposely- I’m not kidding- tweak my nipple.  As he grinned like a fool, I sat there, mortified, trying to figure out just what in the hell had happened here.  Was he interested in my nipples?  Was he making fun of me?  Was this what flirting had become, and I just wasn’t up to speed with the bra-wearing crowd?  Or worse, had I been molested in broad daylight in my English class surrounded by my classmates and I didn’t even know it?  Was there some type of a hotline I should call?

But, back to the scoliosis check.  One memorable day, all the seventh grade girls were herded into the girls’ locker room, and directed to take their tops off.  One by one, we were called into the phys ed coach’s office to be eyed up by the nurse.  A note would then be sent to our parents to them know the health status of our spine.

Look, I know a healthy spine is important.  Vertebrae matter.  My point is that the adults in charge here just didn’t think this little exercise through.  How would they like to all be trooped into the faculty lounge and asked to strip from the waist up in front of their peers?

As the other girls giggled, and compared bra design, Robin and I met each other eyes with gazes of pure terror.  I don’t know about Robin, but I had swallowed my pride, and went to my mom, asking for a bra.  She looked down at the flat plane of my chest, and just laughed.  Mom has always been a frugal soul.  Why would she pay upwards of ten dollars to hold up items that did not yet exist?

That is how it came to be that Robin and I were forced to take our tops off in a crowded girls’ locker room, revealing chests as innocent and unfettered as the day we were born.  It wasn’t long before the laughter and pointing began.  It was like the shower scene of Carrie, minus the flying tampons and chants of “Plug it Up!”.

This ridicule lasted for nearly forty minutes, and by the time it was over, I would have sold my spine to the devil for an ace bandage, let alone some frilly lace covered contraption like everyone else smugly sported. 

As I brought the story to a close, Cory swallowed her giggles and patted my arm, “Poor Mommy.  No wonder you always thrust out your chest when Sawyer comes on the screen during LOST…you’re just hoping he has a pencil in his pocket!”

Indignantly, I squealed, and chased her down, threatening to snap the back of her bra, which flat-chested or not, she was most certainly wearing. 

Get crackin, Julia

As I've said before, Tim did not include Cory when he took Jake on the weekends while we were separated.  This hurt her feelings enormously.  She felt abandoned by a man...yet again.  I felt horrible for her, and tried to intercede with Tim on her behalf, to no avail.  Tim was pissed at the world, and wasn't budging an inch.  So every weekend for over four years was Mommy/Cory time.  I remember being exhausted during some of the rougher times of her illness, and thinking I could sure use a respite. 

 

Now that I look back, I realize it was meant to be that way.  I had so much time to spend with my girl, and I don't regret a single moment of it...not the good times or the bad.  Every experience made our relationship stronger.  Without that time with her, how would I have made memories like the following:

 

Cory and I went to see the movie, Julie & Julia on a typical Mommy/Cory day.  Jake was at his dad's in Marshall, and we were free to play the day and night away.  After the movie was over, we were craving Julia Child's famous Boeuf Bourguignon. So what did two crazy girls do? 

 

We left the matinee, and went straight to Barnes & Noble to buy the cookbook, Mastering The Art of French cooking.   Then we were off to Kohl's to buy a shiny, red Dutch oven.  Our last stop was Felpausch to get all the ingredients. 

By the time the dish was done, it was easily 2 a.m. There we were crowded around the pot, eager for that first taste. We agreed it was the best thing we had ever tasted.  Picture two skinny white girls, laughing and

 

 swordfighting with forks over the must succulent beef dish of all time.

I made it for her 18th birthday and a couple other times.....it was a little pricey, if you got the good red wine the recipe called for.  Upon that first bite, Cory always said she felt like she'd died and gone to heaven.

 

 Julia Child, if you're up there, get your tail in the kitchen and make my baby girl some Boeuf Bourguignon. 

 

She deserves it.

Retrieving Her Belongings

The antithesis of unwrapping a gift is being led into a tiny room at the police station by a kind woman, and then being asked to go through the final belongings of your dead child. Usually, unwrapping a package brings butterflies in the stomach, a smile, sometimes joy. Your hands are mostly steady. If you feel through the package first, it’s from a childlike curiosity, not a sick suspense- is that the memento I’m hoping it is? 

These bags and envelopes are sinister. They are labeled and coded- frighteningly personal with your child’s full name and birthdate, and yet disturbingly anonymous with their plain brown paper and laser-printed labels. They could belong to the parent of any dead child. But they don’t. They belong to you. You want what is inside them desperately, but know it will kill you to open them. Open them, you must.
Unwrapping these packages brings first a confusing recognition that is mingled with joy and shame, followed immediately by a saturation of horror, and then inevitably the final emotion- a longing so deep and so brutal, you will your heart to stop beating. When it has the nerve not to comply, you can do nothing but clutch your packages to your chest and stumble out, marveling at how this nightmare simply never ends.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I begged Tim to go with me to the police station when I got the call that her belongings were finally being released.  He refused, claiming he didn't have time before work, although his shift didn't begin for a good five hours.   So it was my parents that I relied on to accompany me on this ghastly errand.  Dad drove, waiting in the parking lot while Mom and I went inside.  I remember feeling glad the police station had called, and eager to get her things. 

After waiting what seemed like forever, my heart in my throat, they called us into a tiny private room with a table and a couple of chairs.  I didn't know what to expect.  I guess I thought I'd be happy to see her things again.  What I didn't expect was the complete emotional breakdown that ensued as I unwrapped broken pieces of jewelry, and her beloved comfort hat. 

Last of all were two giant bags.  In each was a single Hello Kitty shoe.  I sobbed hysterically as I noticed they were still tied.  I raised my tear streaked face to ask the woman why on earth they had been put in two different bags.  She swallowed and lowered her head slightly, stating that they had to be bagged separately with their exact locations noted...and they had been found at opposite ends of the scene.

Desperate, I asked the woman, wasn't there anything else?  Anything?

Kindly, but honestly, she informed me that the only other item was Cory's hair sample that had not yet been released.

"Hair sample?"  I asked, honestly puzzled.

The woman nodded.  "Yes, Mrs. Mansfield...the... uh... the hair they found embedded in the driver's windshield."

I began howling, and allowed my mom to shepherd me out of the station and into their car.  I sat in the back, petting her hat like a live thing,  and feeling my mind continue to falter.

The Ant and The Elephant

Things were pretty bad when Bob and I lived together when we were younger.  How bad?  Well,   with no reflection on his current character, or his ability to be stable and healthy (because I still hope for that for him and I know Cory would, as well) I can say, if I had not left him when I did, I think he might have killed me…just snapped one night, and went too far.  The image of him punching his hands against the tile in my kitchen on Broadway until his knuckles bled will never leave my mind.  He threw his head back until the cords in his neck bulged, and just screamed incoherently.  All I knew during these times was to put as much space between me and him as I possibly could.  Calling for help wasn’t really an option because the first things he did were pull the phone out of the wall, and block the exit. 

Bob seldom remembered anything about his rages.  I could see him then, and I can see him now, sitting on a faded linoleum kitchen floor, with his knees up, and his head in his hands, wondering desperately just what the hell happened here? 

I used to think he was lying, but my years with Cory, and conversations with Dr. Z proved otherwise.  When someone is in such a state, they can’t always remember the sequence of events, or sometimes the events at all.   Cory said that during her rages, she felt like she was outside her body watching someone else, unaffected by others' emotions, just intent on one goal:  get the poison out.  Afterwards, when the object had been thrown or the words had been spewed, she felt horribly ashamed.

Bob was always sorry afterwards, too.  Cycle of abuse aside, I think that most times he genuinely regretted his actions.  There was a look on his face that couldn’t be manufactured- it was too bare, too naked, too genuine, too panicked.  It was that look on his face that kept me by his side…well, that, and I was madly in love with him.

 That look was the miserable, self-loathing, sick expression of the child who had wanted so badly to hold the hamster, and despite all the reminders given, had gotten too excited at the last minute, and squeezed it just a little too hard.  Give it five, ten, fifteen years, and I would see the same look on my daughter’s face, over and over again.  It was the look that said, without any artifice, “Man, I screwed it up again.  Do you still love me?  Should you?”  It was a look that said I know I scared you, and I shouldn't have, but being out of control is scary for me, too. 

It was downright eerie, and it broke my heart to see Cory looking out at the world through her father’s eyes.  I would do better than what had been done for him.  I would break the cycle, or die trying.

But back in those early days with Bob, I was trying to rein in an illness that was out of control, growing stronger and more aggressive every day with the substances he fed it to get any kind of relief:  something to bring him up when he was feeling down, something to quiet his mind so he could sleep.  My efforts were as ridiculous as an ant trying to rope an elephant and persuade it to come this way, please. 

It was such a dangerous mixture- the mood swings, the substances, and his model of problem solving witnessed as a child.  Enter one timid, eager to please girl without a lot of life experience who liked to be alone, and watch her fall ass over teakettle into the cycle of abuse.  Just like those damn ashtrays that I washed time after time, I was chasing down a certain moment in time.  I would bear any indignity for the apology, and the promise to do better next time.  And let’s face it, the treatment during the honeymoon period was the stuff of which dreams are made.

 I soaked up all that over the top, lavished upon love and affection like I was in the middle of the desert without a drop to drink.  Walking on eggshells, I convinced myself if I treated him well enough, and didn’t make him mad, he would continue to treat me with the love and affection I craved.  Surely, that elephant would follow where I led... someday.

Walking in Rhianna's Shoes

 

 

I wore Cory's favorite heels today...she called them her Rhianna shoes. I remember teaching her to walk in them. We cleared out a little runway in the living room and pretended we were on Top Model.

  I told her it was all in your posture,... keeping your head up, and taking sweeping strides. Step...and glide. Step...and glide. Just when she was ready to give up, Jacob (bless his sweet soul), always firm and confident in his masculinity, stepped up to the plate. You should've seen him slip these heels onto his little feet and show her how it's done. 

 

I can still hear his voice telling her, "Step...and glide, Cory. See? Like this. You can do it."

 

 

 

 

Fur Divas

In the fall of 2011, Cory and I went to Kalamazoo with her Aunt Kim, Blake, and Cayla to look around the mall...just to look, mind you. Kim and I wandered into the Guess store while the kids checked out some of the other stores. There on the wall, tempting me most sinfully, was the single most luxurious looking faux fur vest I’d ever clapped an eye on.

  I was certain it would look amazing with every dress/sweater/top I owned….and it was my birthday(ish). Right beside it was an equally jaw-dropping faux-fur bomber, complete with hood. With a blink of my eye, I could see Cory snuggled into it, looking like a super cute tiny pimp…if pimps were cute, well, never mind, but you get the idea. 

Just to add to the excitement, my sister, Kim, had her eye on a leather jacket- but needed my influence to push her over the edge. This I could do. But first- Cory. We left the store to find the kids. Without telling her a smidgen of what I was up to, I trooped her in the store, and asked her what she thought of the fur bomber. 

Sweetheart that she was (and used to my shopping addiction), she responded, “Omg, Mom, I LOVE it, it would look so cute on you!” When I said back, “Baby girl, I meant for you…”, her jaw dropped. She jumped up and down, right there in the store, squealing and hugging me by turns.  Once she had pulled herself together, I tried on the vest, and she agreed we simply must treat ourselves. We would be the most fashionable fur divas around. 

As I think back to how happy I was to spoil her with that cool jacket, and see the stars in her eyes, I remember seeing those same stars every time we watched a movie together at home in our pajamas or tooled around Barnes and Noble without buying a thing.

  Out of all the things I gave to her over her lifetime, the thing she treasured most was the time we spent together.  

  But, damn, she looked cute in that jacket!

  Love you, baby girl. Always. Always. Always.

 

 

 

Her Lovely Bones

Yes, I recognize that everyone grieves differently.  I am pretty happy that Tim is not in prison for attempted murder.  I just want to tell it like it felt at the time, so here goes:

Another bone of contention between Tim and I following the accident was our reaction to how the police handled the investigation.  To say they did a piss poor job would be generous.  We posted flyers.  We looked for witnesses.  I thought about turning in a time slip to the city to see if I could get paid, since I felt like I was doing someone’s job.

 The police department was lax in contacting us to answer our questions, or give us any information on how the investigation was going.  I could hardly believe it at the time.  But looking back, I can see they didn’t call because they had nothing to report…they hadn’t been doing a damn thing. 

I asked Tim to call often.  I wanted to make sure this was not dropped.  After a single conversation with the man in charge of the conversation, I decided it best for my mental health- already in major compromise at the moment- to never speak to this man again.  He was rude, harsh, and disengaged.  I also feared hearing the horrific details of the accident once again.  I hadn’t even been told the extent of her injuries until after she had been buried, so I was still processing what I had let happen, and couldn’t take much more.

Tim avoided calling.  He wanted to let it lie.  He felt the police would do what was necessary, and there was no point in riding them.  I felt very differently, and was upset that he didn’t feel the same passion for justice about this that I did.

I kept thinking about past conversations with Cory.  She needed and deserved Mark Wahlberg in the Lovely Bones.  She would want Tim to be mad as hell, unable to cope, ready to go hunt that woman down, and bash her brains in with a crowbar in the middle of her yard, among the potted flowers and garden gnomes.  She would want him to demand justice from the lazy cops who don’t seem to care unless the body on the road is one of their own.  She would want blame to be laid.  She had a lot of living left to do, and it was taken from her.  She would want the man she considered her father to make someone pay.  If it took violence to assuage her death, so be it.  Wasn’t her death a violent one?  Tit for tat. 

But not this quiet surrender, not this gentle acceptance that makes it look like she didn’t matter.  Not the stoic “Nothing will bring her back” bullshit.  She meant more than that.  Her life was worth more.  The lady needs to pay.  The cops need to pay.  I need to pay.  We should all suffer for the parts we played. 

Maybe we watched one too many action movies, but Cory asked me both after watching The Lovely Bones and Taken, if I thought Tim would do that for her.  I told her of course he would, negating the fact that I’ve never seen Tim throw a punch in my life, and he tends to drive like an old lady.  Cory needed to know she mattered to a man, and especially to a father figure.  She needed to know that if she were kidnapped in a foreign country, and sold into sex slavery, that a man other than her 78 year old grandfather would come looking for her.

Grool

I remember the time Cory asked out her cousin's friend on a date.

 Let me catch you up to speed:  this young man was a little older than her, scary smart, witty, and he dressed up for no reason at all... G.Q. all the way. Are you feeling me? Heck, I think I would've been scared stiff to approach him, too.  

 With complete confidence,  I told her she could do it. I reviewed my top flirting tips with her, and off she went. She told me later, she kept repeating, "I'm a big brave dog, I'm a big brave dog" like off the old RugRats cartoon to herself the entire way.

 She walked my sister's kitchen. She looked at him. She walked right back out again.  She found me, and insisted she couldn't do it. I told her she sure could and he'd be lucky to be asked by her.
"Now go, girl!! Move, move, move!!!"

 Reluctant and nervous, she went back in.  Trying to sound natural, and probably sounding nothing short of petrified, she asked him if he'd like to go to a movie with her sometime.
  He smiled at her, slowly, actually looking into her eyes.  She told me later, she almost fell down right then and there. "Like really, Mom, my knees were shaking so bad I almost finished this whole mess by falling on my stupid butt on the floor...smooooth!  How in the world do guys do this crap on a REGULAR basis?  I'd have to become a monk."

 Back in the kitchen, the GQ boy kept her waiting for an eternity, most likely weighing the thoughts taking out a pretty girl who seemed into him with taking out a pretty girl who was into him who also happened to be cousins with Matt and Blake.  But finally, he said, "Yes, I'd really like that."

 She said back to him, "Grool."

 She'd meant to casually say "great" or "cool" but in her nervous state, combined them both.
 She was mortified... but victorious!  She exited the kitchen, went into the bathroom, shut the door, and started jumping up and down like a sweepstakes winner.
She was nothing if not her mother's daughter.
 

What the hell, Steve?

Funny the conversations you find yourself in over the course of 19 years with someone. Cory and I loved this book, and enjoyed making fun of the not-as-well-made movie that followed it. Anyone who has read the book knows the story isn’t really about supernatural powers and pint-sized killers; it’s about the power of grief, and the enormous love a parent feels for their child.

 

  Cory had read the book, and I remember her asking me if anything ever happened to her, would I do it? Would I commit a crime, rob her grave, dig up her sad remains, carry her broken body to the nearest haunted burial grounds, and reinter it –hoping for the best- but knowing, in my heart of hearts, that she may return “diminished”, a damaged shadow of her former self?

 

  Every time we watched that movie, Cory asked me that question, “Would you, Mom? Would you do that for me?”
With the confidence of a complete idiot- surely she would outlive me, and I would never bury her in the first place- I answered each and every time with a resounding, “Hell, yeah!” 

 

I think about it now when I’m sitting beside her at the cemetery, fighting the mad compulsion to simply jump onto her mound of dirt, and dig her out with my bare hands. Where’s the haunted Micmac burial grounds when you really need them?

 

  Thanks a hell of a lot, Stephen King. There’s nothing like false hope.



 

 

Square One

I said I would tell the truth.  Some days are better, but some are just like this...today is one.

They just don’t have a clue. They don’t know it feels to know that you tried so hard, wept those tears, stayed awake those nights with her, watched over her so closely, reminded her to take her meds a thousand times, talked her into bathing when she didn’t want to, cooked whatever she wanted to get her to eat, talked to her for hours on end, made her laugh, made her feel good about herself, made ...her smile, stayed strong for her (most of the time), and in the end, it was all for nothing.

 

  None of them know what it is like to have sent your child to her death. To run like you’ve never ran for anything and will never run again. And to still be too late. To be completely helpless the one time it mattered the most. To not be able to touch her because they wouldn’t let you get that close. To see what you saw and can never unsee in your mind. To have to mentally jerk away from the sight each time it descends on you…when you’re hurting, when you’re tired, when you’re sleeping, when you’re missing her, and not be able to escape cause the image always pulls you in and says, “Hey, wait a sec…where do you think you’re going, murderer? Come, get a look at this. Right up close where you can see it all.” And you do. You see it all. 

 

You bought it. You own it. Get a good long look, why don’t you? I hope you burn in hell, you rotten child killer. What did that sweet girl ever do to you but try to please you? Look what you did to her. Look what you did. Look at that mess you made.

Dark Shadows

 

Cory Story:

 

 

Couple of years ago, when Jake was with his dad in Marshall for the weekend, Cory and I got a late night craving for seafood pasta. It was wintertime, December or January, and there was a blizzard going outside. Nonetheless, we bundled up..., around 11 p.m. and drove about 15 mph to Meijer's across town for supplies. If my mom had known I was on those slippery roads that late at night, she'd have had a heart attack. We got our frozen lobster tails and our scallops, and crept back across town. Midnight found us in our warm, cozy kitchen with a pot of pasta boiling merrily away, and a rich sherry cream sauce bubbling on the stove. We heaped our pasta bowls full and ate it in front of whatever series we were watching...it might have been old seasons of Frasier, but it might have Gilmore Girls. That's what life with my Cory-Girl was like....impulsive, fun, crazy, ridiculous. But every moment was FULL.
The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows.

Does Going to the Cemetery Help?

I posted this August 27, 2012, and feel exactly the same way today.

Does going to the cemetery help? Does it bring me comfort?

 I drive there on autopilot, the car mostly leading the way. I pull up to her pretty spot –somehow different than all the others- and regard it, blankly, still unable to make the connection. I was there. I made them lower her in while I watched, kissed her coffin.

  But I still can’t seem to understand that she’s really in there, down there... in the ground. So I play her music. Barely talk. Sometimes write, draw, or paint. Walk and water- the two standard w’s for proper cemetery visitation. Then I leave.
Just as I do, a sense of rage falls on me so deep and so complete, I feel like I’ve been possessed. It doesn’t pass for hours. I feel like biting the air, knocking things down, screaming, and just having a good old time fit. My eyes must look wild. I don’t know how Jake can stand to be around me. I am short with him. Everything irritates me. The air is too heavy on my skin. Normal sounds hurt my ears. I begin to fantasize about bashing people’s heads in. Take the high road, my ass. I am mean. I can feel it boiling in the back of my throat, hot and bitter bile.

 Stop going to the cemetery? I wouldn’t dream of it

The Torturous Errand

Went into her room today.  I never go there anymore.  The last time I'd been was Mother's Day to retrieve the sketches of my parents that she'd done so they could have them.  Psyching myself up to go there is usually a task weeks in the making.

As I climbed the narrow stairs, I found myself wondering if this couldn't be made into a job.  Could I hire someone to go into her room occasionally and retrieve some treasure, keeping everything in tact just as it had been...breathing in the stale air, passing their eyes over her bed with the scatter of well-loved stuffed babies on top, observing, but not feeling sharp pains in their heart when they took notice of the blanket fort Jake has insisted stay as is- pillows all around the parameter, stuffed babies in the middle, space enough for a Cory Girl and her adored little brother to nestle while watching movies inside?

I always say to myself I will do the "Cory Zoom".  I will get the object that has sent me on this sorrowful errand, and I will get the hell out, but that is never the way it goes.  No matter how much my heart aches, I can feel her near when my hands pass over her things.   I set the paintings needed for the art display next week aside, and moved to her bed.  I ran a hand over the comforter, thinking to myself the fact that it was  made, and the general tidiness of her room was testament to how much progress she was making with her illness.  So if God is the one in charge of this whole deal- my question would be this...why now?  You "rescue" her now when she is beginning to enjoy a normal life again?  Yeah, that makes sense.

I was drawn to her nightstand, and knelt down to see what things she must have close to her when she was near sleep.  Her Nook rested on top of a pile of books, and I moved it to see the titles underneath, among them, The American Girl's Guide to Feelings and The American Girl's Guide to Staying Home Alone.  I closed my eyes tightly, and was back in Barnes & Noble on a Saturday just enjoying time with my kids.  I snuck these books, really meant for much younger girls, into the pile of books I took to the register.  In the parking lot, I surprised her with them, saying I thought they might help.  I knew that the hardest time of day for her was often the hours between when Tim left for work, and Jake got home from school.  My desk phone would ring off the hook, as she searched for the comfort of my voice.  Seeing the books, Cory squealed with delight, as American Girl dolls were an obsession of hers, and she would read anything that came with the title. 

A couple weeks later, I asked her if she'd read them.  She told me they were even more helpful than she had thought, and how much she appreciated me getting them for her.  There was a list inside the Home Alone book that gave her things to think about if she heard an unexpected noise.  Granted, American Girl didn't cover auditory hallucinations, but a list of possible non-threatening real life causes calmed Cory and gave her hope.  Above all else, that was what she always needed.

As I turned to go, my eyes happened upon the package her Worry Dolls came in.  I had found these little cloth dolls in Barnes and Noble, also, while finishing up the Christmas shopping months before the accident.  They were four or five of them, tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand.  There was a little booklet that accompanied them, explaining that they were meant to help ward off worries- you were supposed to tell each of your worries to them, and then tuck them under your pillow.  I didn't so much believe they had any real power, as much as I believed that acknowledging your anxieties is the first step to overcoming them.  So into her stocking that had gone, and she had been first intrigued, and then delighted, using them night after night in tandem with her prayer cloths.

I looked at the empty package, remembering how I'd brought them to the funeral home before visitation and misplaced them somewhere, causing everyone there to search as I became completely hysterical.  It was funny how much your mind fixed on everything being "just right" and your loved having all that you imagined that they needed in order to say your goodbyes.

Indeed, I tucked those dolls under my baby girl's satin pillow, completely missing the fact that her worries had ceased to exist.

Love Letters

Going through her things to choose paintings, I came across the journal I gave her the first time she was hospitalized for mental health concerns.  I know my girl well enough to know that she wouldn't mind if I shared a little from it, in the hope that someone out there might look at mental illness and treatment in a different way.  My daughter wasn't crazy.  Her brain simply worked differently than other people's.  Getting treatment shouldn't carry the stigma that it does, and we should recognize that asking for and accepting help is an extremely difficult thing to do.  The ones that do...I am amazed at their bravery and determination.


Cory-Girl,

I love you sooooo much!  I miss you every moment you're away.  You bring me so much joy and pride.  Be the smart girl you are and take control of your future right now.  Getting better is the most important thing.  I am so proud of you for being so strong.
I know this is a very hard thing to go through- if I could do it for you, and spare you the pain, I would in a second!  But since I can't, let's be partners.  You do your part (the heavy lifing) and I will support you in every way possible.  I am ALWAYS here for you.  Call me and Ill call you.  Get better, love.

                                                                                     You always make me smile, my little lovebird

                                                                                            Mommy

p.s.  I love you more than anything in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD!!!

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First Night

There was a man standing in my shower.  I looked away.  I looked again- still there.  I pulled the covers over my head and silently chanted to myself, "There's nothing there" just like Mommy would say.  I wrapped my arms around my body and hugged.  I sighed, then peeked out from the shelter of my covers.  No, there was no man in my shower...he was standing by my bed.  I held Evelynne close and turned my back on the menacing man in the black suit, who'd decided to come out from the shower.  Evelynne, my stuffed bunny friend, muffled my loud and speedy heartbeats that came erupting from my chest where I clutched her.  There was no man.  There never was.  It wasn't real. 
I shut the bathroom door, anyways.  I didn't care to see "him" anymore that night.

                                                                                                      --Corinne

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Mommy,

I'm so sorry to put you through all t his, I just want for this illness to go away.
I always feel so guilty for all you and Jake deal with, but I'm going to really try to make things better.  I love you both!
The first night was horrible.  I had a hallucination, and it was sooooo scary.  I just wanted you here to hold me and tell me everything's all right.
It's going to be sooo hard, Mom!  This place scares me, and I don't know anyone.
I really, really miss you.  I love you.  Take me home soon.

                                                                                                         Love,
                                                                                                             Your-Corygirl

p.s.  Can't wait for your first visit!  Call me and I'll call you!

Being Bullied

I said it was another story entirely, so here it is:

A bystander called my mom for me as responders moved about the scene.   I couldn't figure out how to work my phone.  My mom told me later she had thought it was a prank call, at first.  She'd spoken to Cory on the phone about twenty minutes before that.  Somewhere, tucked away in a special place in my mom's room is a journal where she wrote down exactly what they said to each other so she will never lose that last conversation.

Somehow, in the mere moments between that phone call and my parents' frantic arrival to the scene, the man whose name I don't even know walked over to me and broke the news.  Now I know why "breaking the news" is a phrase.  Those words have changed my world irrevocably.  And I am and will forever be broken.

"I'm sorry, ma'am.  She is gone."

My ear piercing screams, anguished howls, and dizzy descent to the hot asphault were involuntary.  Kind bystanders tried to comfort me.  Responders tried to hydrate me, or barring that, move me out of the hot sun.  I heard their words, but couldn't really comprehend anything they were saying.  My mind had one thought:  TERROR.

It wasn't until later that I was not only cursing myself for letting her go to the store in the first place, sending her to her death to fulfill my need for the perfectly executed receipe, but also for not fighting the people who held me back as I ran up to the scene and realized it was indeed my baby lying there on the road.  I should have fought them.  I should have pushed my way to her so that I could touch her as she lay there waiting for someone to do something, anything.  Even now, I wrack my brain.  What the hell was I thinking?  Why didn't I?  That was my girl lying there.  Mine.  How could I not go to her, no matter what anyone said or asked of me?

Shock.  Fear of hurting her more as the bystanders said I might if I did not stay back.  Horror.  Simple horror.  Incomprehension.  My brain was taking in an image that it could not and would not process.  It kept trying, and failing, like the time I'd helped my parents move a bulky lazy boy chair into their living room.  You looked at it, and thought, oh, that'll fit, but in reality spent the next 45 minutes or so, sweating and cursing under your breath, as you backed and filled, backed and filled, changing your position by mere degrees, failing, stopping to catch your breath, rallying, and then going at that sucker one more time.

The difference, of course, is that the Lazy Boy chair now sits smugly in my parent's living room, seeming to say, now come one, was that really so bad?, and even after eleven grueling months, the knowledge that Cory is really, truly gone is still not accepted in my mind.

By the time they brought the sheet out, and covered her body, I had enough presence of mind to have sorted out two conclusions:  this was my fault, and I wanted to die.  I freely shared the fact that it was my fault, in fact couldn't stop saying it over and over again as I fought to catch my breath.  My wish to die I shared with no one, just recognized gratefully it as it surfaced in my heart. 

Dad drove.  Their car pulled in to the empty lot beside the scene.  Mom came on the run.  "Where is she?"  was all she could get out before I cut her legs out from under her with these words, "Mom, they keep telling me she's dead.  They covered her up."  She followed my horrified gaze to the sheet covered body by the roadside, and began to scream, calling God's name, as if that possibly make any sort of difference.  Yeah, already tried that.  I thought bitterly.

Did Mom fall down or just falter in her steps toward me?  I don't remember.  She wailed, and reached for me.   I could not breathe.  I could not see.  Panic was loose and raving through my veins.  This cannot be happening...cannot be happening...cannot be happening.

Moments later, my oldest sister arrived.  The paramedic came over and told me that there had been absolutely nothing that could be done for my daughter, that her injuries were just too severe.  She tried desperately to get me to drink some water, which I refused.  She got me to sit on the ground, and began pouring water over my neck.  Eventually, someone suggested that we get into one of the cars to sit, out of the sun.

So there we were, my parents in the front seat of their car, and Tammy and I in the back.  I could only cover my face and scream at the top of my lungs.  When I began hitting myself in the head and face, Tammy pulled my hands away gently, but firmly, stating over and over matter of factly, "It was not your fault.  It was not  Do you hear me?"

At some point, a police officer got into the driver's seat of the car, and turned around to face me.  He told me that their forensic specialists would be soon setting up to map out of the scene or some shit.  "Ma'am, I really think it would be best if you would go on home now.  Your pastor has offered to stay with your daughter until she is picked up."

My eyes just goggled at this fool.  What? 

"I'm not leaving her."  I stated blankly.

"Ma'am, there is nothing left that you can do for her.  It is time to let us take care of what needs to be done, and we really feel this is nothing that you need to see.  Why don't you go on home?"

Let me break into to say that I am the very definition of compliance.  Especially, when it comes to someone in authority...and if they're male, well, yeah, double that.  I remember this phenomenon from childhood even.  When I got the letter in the mail saying my 6th grade teacher was a man, I became so hysterical that my mom had to call and get me switched to the other class.  This makes absolutely no sense since my dad is the kindest and gentlest man I've ever met, but somehow that is just how it has always been for me.  Authority scared the crap out of me, and if it came toting a penis, even more so.

So, here was the one moment in my life, that I would argue with authority.  I looked at him square in the eyes, and said, "Would you?  Would you just leave your child by the side of the road...like a ...like a chipmunk?"

He didn't answer me, only resumed badgering me, "Ma'am, I really need you to go on home now.  I need you to cooperate..."

"What?  Are you going to arrest me if I won't?" 

"Ma'am, we are going to take care of her.  Your clergyman has offered to stay so someone will be with her, but I need you to go on home now.  Just go on home..."

I sobbed, feeling that he was pushing me and pushing me when I couldn't even  hold steady on my feet.  Why was he bullying me?  What had I done?  I was in my parents' car, not bothering anyone.  I wasn't fighting people to get to her body.  I wasn't throwing myself in front of oncoming traffic- that idea was another two days in the making.  I just wanted to be with her.  How could he not understand that?

As he resumed his speech, a droning unemotional robot, I interrupted him,  "FINE!  FINE!  I'll go, just leave me alone!"

That is how I was made to leave my child's dead body on the road.  Looking back, I again see myself as weak and an utter failure.  I should've refused.  Why didn't I? 

A very kind woman who had stayed with me the whole time drove us the short distance to my house.  When I started to walk up my driveway, my legs buckled, and I nearly fell.  This compassionate stranger picked my up in her arms and carried me to my back door. 

Beyond that door, Jacob waiting for news.

Back at the roadside, Cory's body lay in the hot sun...
for another 90 minutes.

Battle Creek Police Department, you should be ashamed of yourselves.