One Step at a Time

So I guess I thought that once you went through this hell they call grief, you would come out the other end, battered, but alive, and it would be over.  You would've at last glimpsed the light at the end of the tunnel, and in survival mode, kept crawling towards it, until at last you broke out into the daylight, grateful for those first gasps of free, clean air...or maybe that was the end of Shawshank Redemption?

Well, it has been just over a year; it's no where close to over.  Here is what I have to say:

The grief process has been like climbing The Spanish Steps in the searing heat of July...at times you want to say to hell with it, and just sit down.  But once you get up there, you can look behind you, amazed at how far you have come.  Not too shabby, Nick, not too shabby.

I climbed the half of the 135 steps on the fifth of July with my mother.  It was hot, the sun blinding, and there were hoards of people each way I turned.  I had travelled to Italy for this express purpose:  to leave Cory's shoes, untouched where she'd last left them by our back door, on The Spanish Steps.  Someone would inevitably pick them up, and wear them, allowing her spirit to continue to journey somewhere on this planet.  I don't know about you, but in my opinion, nineteen years is just not enough.

People had asked me before I left home if I was sure I could leave her shoes there.  Could I leave them behind?  Heck yeah, I'd told them.  I believe in the beauty of symbolism and the sacredness of rituals.  Some rituals are commonly used, but the most important ones you make up to fit your need.   

I climbed the steps halfway with Mom, and placed her shoes in a quiet corner, and began snapping pictures.  None of them were turning out.  The sun was too bright, and the spot didn't feel right at all.  I don't know if it was the heat or my realization that I was, in a way, turning a page I'd wanted to reread until I drew my last breath.  I still wasn't ready for my time with Cory to be over.  She'd been gone for a year, I'd flown across the ocean, I'd climbed about 63 steps, and I still couldn't do it.  Nope, not happenin'.

Remember my rage at the cemetery?  Oh, buddy, that was nothing compared to this...  I got so mad that there wasn't the sense of calm and accepting grace that I'd fully expected, that I began to shake all over. 

"Let's just go, Mom.  Nothing is right.  I can't see what I'm doing.  None of the pictures are turning out.  This just isn't working!"  I seethed, hot tears blurring my vision as I stumbled away from the bottom of the Spanish Steps.

Huffing and puffing, I stalked away from those stupid steps, my mother in tow, to catch a taxi.  We were headed to the train station.  Apparently I was going to put my rage on the rails, and hope for the best.  Yeah, I wasn't really in my highest level of problem solving right then.

Figuring out how to travel regionally when in a foreign country is probably a skill best learned when you are not so mad you cannot see straight.  My heart felt shredded, just shredded...like someone had taken it firmly in hand, even as it continued to beat, and grated it against metal far too dull and rusty to do the job. 

If you are one of those people who will cry when mad enough, imagine being too angry to cry, and that is just how I felt on the journey to Naples...what a lovely travel companion I must have been.   Mom and I had our pizza, and travelled back to Rome.  I packed it in for the night, and spent the next day drawing up my courage to try again.

On July seventh, in the early morning, before the crowds had gathered, we went back.  I climbed every step, determined to finish this errand for my girl.  She would think it was cool, she would see the beauty, and I couldn't let her down.

A kind woman saw Mom struggling with the camera, and offered to take pictures.  Kneeling down to kiss Cory's shoes was a humbling, emotional moment.  For that second in time, she was smooshed up against me, her cheek within easy reach, and I was allowed just once more to kiss her face.  It was worth the trip, the heat, the pain, and every one of the steps that I climbed.  It was everything.

Walking away from her shoes, I looked over my shoulder, and began sobbing.  Mom soon joined me.  We stopped midway down to lean on each other and just bawl.  I wasn't angry anymore, just completely heartbroken.  When we reached the bottom, I looked up to glimpse the carriage drivers and their horses waiting for customers, and grabbed Mom's arm.

"Hey, Mom, wanna go for a ride?  Cory would've loved it."  I said.

"Yeah, she sure would've, bless her heart.  She loved horses."  Mom said.

Moments later, we were smiling into the camera, arms around each other, sitting happily behind Profedo the horse, as our driver, Victor showed us the sights of Rome.  Mom and I kept busy counting hot Italian men, and reached an even dozen before we returned to the Spanish Steps.

When we got there, I ran up them to see if her shoes were still there.  They were there, tourists leaning over to look at her picture and read the words on the back.  I smiled, and trooped back down to report back to Mom.  It was a whole lot easier to walk away than it'd been an hour ago.  She was still here; she was being seen.

Later that night, after a delectable pasta dinner at a sidewalk bistro Cory would've loved, we walked back to check again.  They were gone.  Maybe, just maybe, it hadn't all been for nothing.

 Instead of feeling sad to see them gone, I put a hand on my heart, and hoped with all my might that whoever was wearing them would remember the girl in the picture left resting on top of  them, and take her along to places she'd never been before.

One step at a time.

The Problem Child

Another subtle difference in life before and after the loss of a child?  Disney World is no longer the happiest place on Earth. 

This is my third day at the conference I am attending for work, where I am learning how to help adults and children learn to manage their emotions, the ability to do which is the single best predictor of future school success, according to my instructors.

This I believe wholeheartedly.  I have always been drawn to helping those children who came in my classroom door struggling with managing their feelings, probably because I'd seen some people very close to my heart have the same exact difficulty, and I know exactly  how far-reaching the implications could be.

So, imagine what a huge role reversal it was to spend the first 2 1/2 days of this conference being that fabled problem child.  Granted, I didn't throw chairs at any of the nice ladies I'd met, or hurl my beverage across the room when the speaker asked me to please stand up, but I was still a challenge.  I was the sometimes even more difficult child to reach, because instead of acting out, I was extremely withdrawn.  Maybe I was even a tad bit non-compliant, that silent but dreaded behavior of the preschool world.  No, I won't do what you ask me to, I'll just look at you full in the eyes, and watch you squirm.  Having fun yet, lady?

I could not regulate myself.  I was likely annoying the crap out of everyone around me as I traipsed in and out of the conference room every 8.5 minutes to "use the bathroom".  Is my bladder that busy?  No, I just had to find a safe place to collect myself- maybe splash some cold water on my face-over and over again.  I left my own circle time and disturbed the two going on beside me.  I was, for the first time in my meek life, an interloper.

I needed a drink every five minutes.  My mind wandered.  I could not follow directions for any small or large group activity by listening.  Instead, I relied on looking to others for cues, and discovered I didn't always completely understand what was happening.  And sometimes I found I didn't even care.  In short, there was zero learning taking place.  Oh, and my attitude sucked.  Just ask Angie.  I have been a complete and total bitch.

The problem?  I was holding in my feelings about being back in Orlando, a four minute walk from Downtown Disney, whose walkways I had last shadowed with my daughter a mere seven years ago, when she was still alive, and before her mental illness struck...the days when I held the world in my hands, and didn't even know it.

Every place I went, I remembered a meal we'd shared, saw a souvenir I wanted to give her, or recalled something funny that had happened with her and her little brother.  I talked about this a little with my friend, Angie, my traveling companion, but felt guilty about burdening her with my plague of dark feelings since I've talked her ear off this past year.  So for the most part, I attributed my sour mood and lack of focus to the fatigue of traveling.  I'm tired.  I'm so tired.  And I feel like crap. 

There may have been some truth to that because I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since I've landed.  Instead, I have lain awake- my insides a miserable stew of aching nostalgia, anger, resentment, and defeat.  Back from Italy a mere two weeks, and already I'm back in this sad, dark place...really?

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but this afternoon I did something about it.

 I had passed a shiny haired gazelle like creature with wedge ankle-strap sandals  that lovingly encircled her slim ankles with a pop of perfectly cut kelly green ribbon one too many times.  I wistfully eyed the woman from head to toe, taking in the crisp form-fitting cotton sundress, the carefully chosen jewelry, and the impeccable eyeliner.   I looked down at myself- so much wash and wear hair, bare face, and wrinkled clothes, before turning to Angie, with a whine normally reserved for a very young child- perhaps one of these exhausted toddlers that we keep seeing ran like foaming overworked horses from the parks' opening to closing hours, "That used to be me."

Angie turned to me, "And that'll be you again...just give it time."

Cantankerous as all get out, I argued, "No, I don't think it well!  I used to care what I looked like, but I just don't care about the same things anymore."

Angie was silent beside me, probably taking a deep breath to center herself as we'd been taught in the conference to do when someone, child or adult, is steadily working your last nerve.  It probably took everything she had within her to wish my whiny ass well.  Becky Bailey should have it on video.

Sitting down at my conference table, waiting for the training to begin, I thought about my statement.  Now, I knew a designer handbag turned out in a color that popped still turned my head.  My sense of fashion wasn't gone, necessarily, but it had certainly moved down my priority list.

So, I scrunched up my forehead that could certainly use a dusting of facepowder, and questioned myself, What do I care about?

Obviously, my loved ones are at the top of the list- although, if I'm to be honest, as I have promised everyone who reads this blog- it's a dicey thing at best.  I love my family and friends, but I wonder when it's just me at night, in the dark, my troubled head on the pillow, trying to press past thoughts of Cory sprawled out on the pavement, lights flashing, sirens wailing, fire engines blatting...will I ever love that fully again?  I know I should be ashamed of myself, since my son, Jake, is at the tippy top of that revered list, but honestly, it is damned hard work to allow myself to get as close to another human being as I was to Cory, given what happened to her.  I don't want to be hurt that way ever again.

  I know what Jake deserves; I do.  And I hope to give it to him, but it's gonna be a process, folks.    I am frankly gun shy right now.  I am still shattered.  I have many more pieces glued back onto my plate since I went to Italy, but I am in no way whole.

So then, besides my loved ones, what do I care about?  Where is my passion these days?  That's easy enough, if I'm not at work, sleeping, or spending time with Jacob, I am writing or making art.  Why am I so compulsive about these activities?
I want desperately to be understood.

When you feel you are understood, you can begin to connect to others, and isn't that the way to open your heart to take those risks again?  So this afternoon, during an activity, I took a shot, decided it didn't matter if I ended up looking like the screwed up depressed grieving mother in my group, and told a nice woman I'd met about Cory. 

What did it feel like?  It felt like I'd been holding my breath since I landed three days ago, and was just right that moment, able to exhale and take a deep breath.

If I were looking at this from that fabled problem child's point of view, how did "misbehaving" feel?  It felt amazing.  I was getting my message across about how I felt inside.  It was freeing.  There was now room in my brain for other things.

By the end of the day, I'd shared with a couple more people.  On a break, I ran up to my room and brought down my sketchbook and watercolors.  My mood had changed.  I was ready to participate, but I knew I would need some supports.

So there I sat, happily sketching and painting my tablemates as I learned.  No one else had art supplies while they listened, but I quickly found no one minded if I did.  That was what I needed to be able to focus, and I was now learning...instead of being told to pack it up, missy, I was smiled at by several people who recognized my brain needed some type of visual activity while I drank in all that audio.

I found I didn't have to go the bathroom quite as often.  I spoke up at table discussion.  I nodded when the speaker made a valid point.  I smiled and participated in the games.

Why the huge difference?  I had let go of some of that pain I was keeping to myself.  I had connected to others.  They were individualizing for my learning experience by letting me doodle to my heart's content, or go sit on the floor if I felt like it when my butt started to fall asleep in the hard chair.

At the end of the day, I thought about all the preschoolers who come into our classrooms, tired, disengaged, possibly housing a disturbing trauma in his or her small chest.  What do those babies need from us, the educators, the caregivers?

They need to feel safe enough to be able to learn.  They need to be accepted, just as they are.  They need to have someone teach them some ways to make it through the day with all the feelings they are forced to carry around.  They need to have someone teach their parents to be able to do the same.  They need to be individualized for. 

They are not problem children.  They are human and they have feelings that many adults wouldn't be able to express, so why in the world should we expect three and four year olds to walk in our doors knowing how to do it?  They should be taught. 

Isn't that why we're here?

At Last, He Speaks

I've been trying to get Jacob to talk to me about the loss of his sister for the last year.  Despite every open-ended question I've tried (what do you think about?  how did you feel when?  can you tell me more about that?), he has kept me at an internal arm's length.  I've had to try some out of the box approaches to get him to open up at all.

 The first time I got anything out of him was in the car.  He, being one of those males who would just as soon leave the room than talk about their feelings, could only bear doing it when he didn't have to see my face straight on, and basically had no method of escape.  So, I in my driver's seat, and he in the back, sang a made up song, just like we used to with Cory.  Usually, we'd sing about the pets, or each other, or make up goofy rhymes, with the goal to be as ridiculous as possible. 

This time, though, we sang the blues.  I would go first, and to some forlorn tune, would offer up one thing I missed doing with Cory or something I remembered about her.  I was so happy that he played along when I said, "Your turn."  A few rounds was all he could handle, and that was more than enough.  I just wanted him to know that it is okay to be sad...really, really sad.  And, that it is okay to talk about it with others...even comforting, at times. 

This call and response method has worked pretty well.  I have also urged him to come draw with me, paint with me...just play.  He has declined every offer.

Until last night.

Last night, when we were eating dinner together, just the two of us, this past Sunday's newspaper, propped against a shelf caught his eye.  He turned  to me, and said quietly. "Mom, I really like that headline."

What's this?  A voluntary reference to Cory, to the accident, to grief?

I smiled.  "You do?  What do you like about it?" 

He furrowed his little brow, and half turned from me, "Your writing is really good."

I thanked him, and asked, "What did you like about the headline?"

He looked equal parts miserable to be on the spot, and desperate to get something out.  You could see the battle played out on his face- those eyes of his, so solemn, so old, and so cautious.  He is not eager to give too much of himself away.  He watches, and he waits, needing to know he has chosen a safe audience, and most importantly that he will not undo himself.

"Well, the healing part."  he said, and stopped short.

"Oh, was there something you liked about that?"  I countered.  Boy, these open-ended questions are exhausting. 

He considered me.  "I'm glad you're feeling better." he said, and with one look said the rest of his sentence..cause I've really missed my mom.

"Was it scary when I wasn't feeling good?"  I asked, knowing the answer full well.

"Yeah."  he confirmed, and looked down at his hands, which was a gesture so much like having a serious conversation with his father that I nearly felt Tim had simply shrunk, and somehow regained his smooth, unlined pre-puberty baby face.

Knowing the conversation was closed, for now, I reached over to hug and kiss him. 

After dinner, I put in some laundry, and settled down at the dining room table to paint.  Who should come walking in to draw with me, but my boy?

I happily gave him paper, let him choose a pencil, and asked him if he knew what he'd like to draw.  "Well, one of me and Cory, and then some of Violet."  he answered.  This was his compromise:  one that might hurt and several of his new kitten that he adores beyond all reason.

Trying not to jump up and down in my seat, I turned calmly back to my own work.  I don't like to be watched when I'm making something, and assumed Jake would feel the same way. 

I was surprised to hear him say shyly, "You can watch me, if you want.  I'd like you to."

So, there we sat; I watched as he swirled his pencil lightly around his paper, both of us thinking about Cory as we talked about contour and blind contour drawings.

When he'd finished, he turned it to face me.  "We sort of have giraffe necks." he commented.

"I think the giraffe necks are very charming.  I see you both have big smiles.  What were you doing in this picture?"  I asked.

"Hmmm, I don't know.  I wasn't really thinking about it."  he said.

"Well, if you want to, you can think of a time that you felt that way with Cory, and even write it  down at the bottom of the paper...if you want."  I offered.

He put a little hand to his temple, like he was figuring out mortgage rates, or how to flip an investment, and then wrote in his tiny, bold, somewhat messy script at the bottom of the page, "Making brownies."

I should have known all along.

He will never forget his big sister, and all that they shared.  Whether, he says it out loud or not, he is thinking of her all the time.
And most of the time, the pain of having lost her is unspeakable.

Here Is a Heart

I've been planning two tattoos since I found Cory's tattoo list last July.  One of them is the heart I'm about to tell you about; the other will be two birds, preferably sparrows...a mama, and a baby.  Birds as tattoos mean a variety of positive things:  freedom, peace, joy of living.  Mine will mean all of those to me, and will take it one step further.  If you've seen Cory's art on display or pictures online, you may have noticed, she was an avid Stephen King fan.  I raised her well, that one.  (Smile).

The movie The Dark Half was just unfortunate, but the book was great.  There was a phrase in it, "the sparrows are flying" that one of the character's used to communicate that he was having an out of body experience.  This became Cory's secret code if we were out around others, and she began hearing voices.  It was a quietly whispered plea for me to be aware she was having a hard time, and if it got to too much, she would need to bail.

Well, maybe the ONLY thing I can be happy about in losing her is I know that where she is, my baby girl is not hearing those stupid voices.  She is free from that.  She is experiencing peace.  She is quiet in her mind.  She knows joy.

She wants me to follow her.  So the sparrows- baby, then Momma- will fly across my wrist, placed  there in the case things ever get particularly dark again, I will see that baby bird and remember all she endured.  That, if nothing else, will stop me from slicing open my wrist.  I'm not gonna lie; there were some times I could have used that this past year.

So the heart-

Seeing her at the funeral home for the first time was a trauma in itself.  It many ways, my brain reacted the same way it did on the road.  It could not, could not, take it all in.  At the road, there were minute details that my brain latched onto, refusing to take it all in...her twisted arm, her blue lips...those images are etched into my brain, and cannot be scrubbed clean- they are deep into the grooves.

So at the funeral home, although my eyes took in the small cut under her eye, and the deep gash along her forehead, carefully covered with a discreet fringe of bangs, it was a tiny scratch on one hand, in between the webbing of her thumb and first finger that I focused on.  It was all I could handle.  At that time, I did not know the extent of her injuries- that horror wasn't shared with me until she was already in the ground.

What do you do when you are standing above your child's lifeless body?  Well, I can't speak for everyone, but for this Momma, I found the first boo boo my eyes happened across and began kissing it non-stop, as if I could remedy this unthinkable situation with a deeply engrained habit, logical thought never once overriding  my pitiful attempts to comfort her or somehow bring her back from the dead with a mother's kiss.  Out of my mind?  Yes, ma'am. And yes, sir.

I knew immediately when I saw the tiny, imperfect heart she'd drawn on her tattoo wish list that it would go in that exact place on my own hand.  How could it not?

What does it mean?
 I think it's Cory's way to remind me to keep going and keep loving- love myself, love my family, love her little brother.  I can't make things different for her, and at this point I realize that she may not even want them to be.  But she would want her Madre to be the mother to Jacob that I was to her.  He was her baby, too, and he deserves no less.  He deserves my heart, which I've been horribly afraid to give him since July 5, 2012.  Hey, Mom, don't forget Jacob...he needs you, too.

That girl is wise beyond her years.  It's time I started listening.

Marked: For Life

Cory was my little color chameleon.  Part of it was the artist in her that wanted to express herself in every way possible, changing her hair color the way other girls changed clothes- blonde, dark brown, red, purple, blue streaks, pink streaks, and every possible combination in between.  Although she looked adorable no matter what hue she chose, she usually ended up disappointed, sometimes even angry when the look she imagined in her head didn't show up in her mirror.  Was that edgy, beautiful girl there that turned many a boy's head?  Yep.  Did she ever see her?  Hardly ever.

Instead, every hair cut, every color change ended with her sobbing on the hallway floor in front of the mirror, screaming that she hated herself, and wanted to shave her head, and be done with it.  "I am hideous...HIDEOUS!  Can't you see?"  she'd scream, raking her little hands through her hair, sometimes pulling strands out with the brutal force of her upset.

If she was in the middle of an episode, I'd convince her to wait just a little longer before making a change.  Once on medication, she stopped having the rages, and instead dealt with a much less violent, but still exhausting bout of racing thoughts and occasional flight of ideas. 

I remember sitting with her in Dr. Z's office once as he asked her, "How fast are the thoughts going through your mind?"

Cory responded instantly, snapping her fingers, "So fast...boom, boom, boom.  I can't keep up."

Dr. Z nodded, making a note on his paper.  "And, have you been having lots of ideas?  Thinking of lots of projects?"

Cory looked at me, and grinned.  I chuckled.  Had she?  This illness did not play fair.  There were days she would wait to eat something until I got home at five in the afternoon because she didn't have the energy to get out of bed, and the thought of making a sandwich - all those steps- was just not worth it, no matter how hungry she was.

On the other side of the schizoaffective coin, there were the days, she suddenly decided to reorganize her drawers (at 3 a.m.), draw a design for a dress and sew it to completion in less than two hours, paint furiously for hours, one canvas right after another, and then maybe decide it was a good idea to start training for the Olympics gymnastics team.

This could all take place in a single day.  At the time, it seemed she would simply go on forever, no rest required.  Eventually, though, she would crash, and end up as worn out as if she'd had one of those rages spent screaming her lungs out and throwing things, remembering nothing afterwards.

All this creativity was great in some ways, and dangerous in others.  I loved seeing her making things, and encouraged her to channel her energy in positive ways.  Unfortunately, sometimes the voices would join her on those artistic endeavors, criticizing her every move.  She sometimes ended up agitated, paintbrushes thrown with disgust  to the side and her head in her hands, wailing.

I hope you can understand why I was hesitant for her to get a tattoo just yet.  I had seen too often how impulsive actions to her outside exterior couldn't fix the storm raging on the inside.  It never seemed to work.  I'd seen her take scissors to a haircut she didn't like, whacking off locks in anger one too many times.  What if she decided she didn't like her ink?  Would she be hacking away at it with a razor blade, back to the cutting that had taken so long to stop?

I told her when she'd been stable for a nice, long spell, she could look at getting a tattoo then, but I was just afraid if she got one when she was still having symptoms, she might regret it.  I didn't want to see her go through that.  Like every teenager told no by their parent, she wasn't thrilled with me, but she respected the limit I gave her, perhaps because I gave her a reason other than I just didn't like the way tattoos looked on girls.  That would be my reason, and have nothing to do with her.  Cory knew that the decisions I made when I threw down the Mom card were always in her best interest, not mine.

So after the accident, I went through her things, sobbing over  nearly every item her hands had touched, whether it was her hairbrush with the pink-streaked strands still in it, or her secret stash of Taco Bell Fire Sauce in practically every purse she owned. 

I also went through the little cedar bench in the dining room, that had become, for all general purposes, her school locker.  She kept her art projects in it, her history videocassette tapes, her textbooks with enlarged print, and her color coded folders and notebooks.  Towards the time of the accident, Cory was showing so much improvement, I knew she'd be able to take on more classes in the fall.  She was making a huge effort to be organized, and finish projects, which was something she had struggled with since her illness began.  All of those executive functions (planning, attention, memory, multi-step tasks) had been compromised by her illness.

Along the way, we came up with some little tricks to make that easier to do- such as the color coded system her special education case manager had suggested.  One Saturday, she was complaining of the horrid on-line computer class she was trudging miserably through.  I asked her what was hard about it.  She responded that she took notes down, but since her hands shook so badly because of the tremor, she often couldn't read her own handwriting. 

We were driving in the car, on the way home from dropping Tim at work, when it hit me that she could use a tape recorder, and play back her notes verbally.  She screeched, "Mom!  That's a great idea!  Can we go get one right now?"

Can we go get something that will help you do your homework, get your credits, and feel successful?  Ummm, yes, please!  We turned around right there on the road, and headed out to the mall area.  We picked up an affordable recorder at Staples, and celebrated by getting frappes to go from Barnes and Noble.  While Cory was inside, paying for them, Jake and I left her a surprise message on it that said, "Hi Cory!  We hope you like your new tape recorder, and it helps you with your class cause we love you and you're a smartie!"

I still have that, the message saved, and a few units of Cory toiling over computer basics, sounding completely frustrated...oh, how she hated that online class!

Another thing I picked up for her was a skinny little notebook covered in horses.  I thought maybe she could use it to keep track of her assignments and check them off as she finished.  Sure enough, when I pulled it out of the bench days after the accident, there was her shaky handwriting, with her assigned reading and other school projects listed faithfully, checks beside the ones she'd finished.
It broke my heart then, and it breaks my heart now to see how hard she tried to do something so many kids take for granted, and something she would've sailed through prior to her illness.

When I flipped past the assignments, I found her tattoo wish list.  She had drawn some tiny hearts, described their color, and the locations she wanted them to be.

One more thing my good girl who didn't ask for a lot would never get...such crap!

I decided right then and there, to get one of her hearts, replicated exactly in her own shaky hand, and put somewhere meaningful on my body. 

----TO BE CONTINUED

The Cookie

You know that point during long-distance traveling when you are so bone-tired and weary, you could easily imagine barging into the nearest hotel and just flopping down on one of their sofas in the lobby “just to rest your eyes”?

That’s the point Mom and I had reached.  The flight had been nearly ten hours.  Mom’s seatmate to her right, Marla, had been extremely friendly, evoking a wide ray of emotions from us both.

My mother made a simple inquiry about the mask the lady next to her was wearing, and before you knew it, she and Marla were becoming fast friends.  I read and sketched, as I wasn’t feeling particularly social, but I was curious when I heard Marla mention schizophrenia.  It turned out Marla’s sister has schizophrenia, and is unable to live independently.  As she described her sister’s routine at the facility and her twice-monthly visits,  I sat imagining first how horrible for Marla’s sister and her family, and then on the heels of that, what if this had been Cory’s life?   I turned my head and silently bawled.

It was sort of like when you go to a wedding, and whether married, separated, divorced, or remarried, you remember your own wedding day(s).  It was especially like attending a funeral of someone you don’t know very well, and find yourself transferring the heartfelt emotion of all those loved ones and friends weeping around you to a still living loved one of your own.  Is this what it will feel like at Mom’s funeral?  At Dad’s? 

What if Cory had gotten worse?  Is that why she was taken?  Had there been something even more horrible lying in wait in her future?

Feeling distraught, I grabbed my I-phone and earbuds and shut out Mom and Marla’s continued conversation.  In two seconds, those voices were gone.  If only my girl could’ve done the same.

I fell asleep to my plane mix, and woke up to mom nudging me.  She had her ever faithful steno notebook open to her trip budget page (what every financial wizard in the know takes on holiday), and was running figures with Marla.  To my dismay, mom was revealing openly what type and amount of cash we were traveling with, with cards we had, and what our plans were for carrying cash and credit cards throughout our stay.  As I napped, they had made plans for us to all go to the airport ATM together when we got to Rome.

Internally, I cringed.  How do you say to your mother, “Mom, I know she seems nice but she could be a total criminal, and rob us blind as she looks over our shoulder at the ATM when we land” when the seemingly nice, helpful fellow passenger is less than a foot away?  I tried to whisper in Mom’s ear, but she couldn’t hear me, and naturally I couldn’t repeat myself.

As I tried to figure out why Mom was planning her trip expenditures with Marla, when she wasn’t even our traveling companion, a new thought struck me….perhaps they’d hatched yet another plan while I was asleep...a plan to meet up and travel together… the three of us.

Dear God.

Here, I must break in to say, Marla, if you are reading, you seemed like a lovely person.  It wasn’t you; it was me.  I was not in any emotional state to be traveling with anyone, if you really got down to it, so please don’t take offense that I didn’t want to go ahead and make it a group event.

Also, I do not necessarily think you a criminal, I was merely being cautious.  In my defense, anxiety is prevalent in my family, although where mom’s was as she did her financial planning and monetary reveal with you, the world may never know.

Mom and Marla, those devil may care world travelers added and divided various modes of transportation from the airport to our hotels, determined to find the cheapest route.   Math makes me nervous, and in the past few months, math about money makes me break out in hives.  It was at this point of the flight, with Marla repeatedly explaining to Mom the exchange rate of  American dollars to euros, that I eyed my shoulders, which had become covered with  swollen patches of red dots.  My right side began itching uncontrollably, and I stopped scratching it only long enough to dig my anxiety meds out of my carry on. 

These pills, no bigger than the moon of my fingernail are not very powerful.  I had been taking them since the accident when I had to do public speaking or be around a lot of people.  In the last week or so, as the anniversary date of Cory’s death loomed, I had openly snubbed them and stolen my husband’s Valium, instead. 

So there, on the plane, I took my four tiny nerve pills like an old lady, and laid back to not worry  about bills, debt, the purchase of Cory’s monument, and how I really couldn’t afford to be taking this trip in the first place.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  Yeah, sure.

Sure enough, when Mom and I got off the plane, Marla was right with us.  When Mom’s suitcase did not appear on the luggage carousel, Marla waited patiently with us.  Or I should say, when Mom didn’t at first recognize her suitcase when it came around on the luggage carousel?  Mom’s suitcase was one of the first ones out of the chute, but turned over on its back, looked slightly different than what she remembered.  When the plane officials came over to take down her information, she described her bag to them in detail.  The chignoned woman in the collared shirt and blazer promised to do her best, and strode efficiently away in her sensible black pumps.  Two minutes later, she was motioning us over…Mom’s suitcase had been found!  We were jubilant!

Yep, there it was, all right… right there on the carousel, taking perhaps its 75^th trip of the morning. 

 It rolled dutifully our way, every bit as tired and disgusted as we were.  If it could’ve spoken, it would’ve said, “Really?  Really, lady?  I’d know you anywhere.”

Mom and I looked at each other, and instead of laughing, just sighed with relief.  It is a sad situation when you may be, in fact, too tired to laugh.

 Marla, in tow, we then visited the ATM.  I prepared myself to run after her, and tackle her to the ground if she tried any funny business, but Marla demurely used her card, and then just stood there waiting for us, patient as Job.   It seemed perhaps I had been wrong, and she was not a con artist.  Marla, again, I apologize.

Mom and Marla worked out all the particulars of sharing cab fare, as I got to know our cabbie better in my mind, in a variety of soothing positions.  Before getting out at her hotel, Marla pressed a paper with her contact information into my hand, and suggested we all get together for some wine before the week was over.  I shoved it in my bag, and wished her well.

Finally, we made it to the Plaza Hotel, only to discover check in wasn’t for another three hours.  I paid the bellboy to take our bags off our hands, and we practically crawled our way into the sumptuous salon area that was teeming with velvet couches, ornate gold statues, and gilded mirrors. 

“Mom, I don’t know if I can move.  Can we just sit here for a while?”  I pleaded- me, the nearing forty year old, pleading for the seventy-five year old to let us rest.  Life can be funny sometimes.

“Yes, yes.  We sure can.”  she said, sinking down into an embroidered armchair.

I looked around, taking in my surroundings, and scanning the area for caffeine.  As a waiter wandered through, I asked him if there was a café in the hotel.

“Latte?  Cappuccino?”  he queried.

I nodded eagerly, too exhausted to come up with “yes” in Italian.

“You sit.  We bring.  Prego.”  He murmured, and bowed in the direction of my beloved couch.

“Mom, do you want any?” I asked, pausing the waiter in mid-step.

“No, honey, I’ve got my water.”  She answered, pulling it out of her purse.

Moments later, Mom and I watched, enthralled as the waiter, with a cloth napkin over his forearm, as if serving a fine bottle of Bordeaux, approached our little traveler’s respite nook.  He balanced a giant silver tray on one hand, and began laying out smaller silver trays before us, like a well-practiced magician.  First, sweeteners: three kinds, then a napkin holder and napkins, folded just so, my saucer and doll-sized cappuccino cup, and finally an even smaller saucer with a tiny baked good positioned exactly in the middle.  It was like having a tea party with Cory and her American Girl dolls.  She would have loved it.

The whole thing was so orchestrated, so graceful, it felt like a fluid dance, and completely unnerved me, causing me to forget the poor man’s tip.  As he tactfully backed away, pockets empty, I surveyed the bounty before me, and clapped my hands together like a small girl.

After all these years of taking care of everyone, someone was finally taking care of me.

 I felt like a princess.

"Mom, I feel like a princess."  I said.  My mother smiled dutifully, likely wondering what the world had come to, hearing such a ridiculous statement from her thirty nine year old daughter.

(Never mind that I was paying for this treatment, which I remembered before I’d finished my cappuccino.  Mom and I took turns guessing what the bill might be.)

Mom looked from the doll-sized coffee cup to the tiny saucer, and then to what could only be a quarter sized cookie.  She adjusted her glasses, and looked again.

I waited for her to say something in complaint…the hotel was stingy, the prices were outrageous, Italy was a total rip off, but instead, she grinned a tiny grin…about the size of that cookie, and eyes twinkling, said this,

“Well, honey, try not to eat it all in one bite.”

Our eyes met, and the years between us fairly melted away.  It could have been Cory and I sitting in that salon, howling and snorting in laughter at the diminutive cookie that somehow struck us as deliciously funny.  It was the sort of thing that slumber parties as a girl are made off…equal parts sleep deprivation and chance observations.

Always one to keep the joke rolling, no matter how lame, I asked her,

“Mom, where are my manners?  Would you like a bite?”

This only made her fall back against her chair, helplessly lost in another gale of laughter.  For the next hour we spent gathering the strength to go find lunch, we giggled every few minutes as our eyes happened upon the tiny saucer, and the now empty saucer.

Yes, looking back I think all our laughter in Italy started with that cookie.

It was one of those nearly imperceptible moments, where you stop being just family, and start being friends.

 

 

 

The Prize Tree

What with all this talk of my mom, I thought I’d take you to meet my dad.  Got a few minutes?

 In between the butt-dial and the confrontation of the overheard butt-dial conversation between my mother and an unnamed party, a friend and I dropped in on Dad to get his opinion on mom’s ability to travel internationally.  If we thought a fish sandwich value meal was going to buy away his loyalty to his queen, we were sadly mistaken.

We pulled up in the drive, and found Dad working in his private utopia:  the backyard.  I may have mentioned that Dad is a homebody, an introvert, and that if left to his own devices, he would be satisfied to live out his days watching things take root, and grow.  This patient, nurturing nature may explain why he is so exceptional with children.

Dad smiled shyly, wiped his hands on the thighs of his well-worn blue jeans, and asked my friend if she’d like the tour.  Smiling, she said, “Of course!”

He rubbed his hands together, every bit as excited as the kid who has just been told he can begin to unwrap his birthday gifts.  “Well, first, come see my prize tree.”

I smiled, wondering if I’d just been so lost in my grief that I was out of the loop or did I really not know my own father as a person?   I’d never heard him mention a prize tree.

We travelled across the immaculately kept lawn, as he pointed out plants and flowers, naming them, their origins, and their temperaments.  Since I can’t keep anything green alive, I had no idea plants and flowers even had temperaments.  Fresh cut flowers are the only thing you will ever find in my immediate environment.  I used to joke around back in my classroom days when I was responsible for the welfare of 17 preschoolers, as well as my own two children at home, saying I could only keep children and pets alive. Obviously, I don’t say that anymore.

My dad is 79, but looks easily 10-15 years younger.  Somewhere along the way, he’d taken on that old adage of “a body in motion stays in motion” to heart.  Nearly eighty, he still cuts his own lawn, he sweeps out his driveway meticulously, and in the winter, more than an eighth of inch of frost is not allowed to accumulate on my father’s pavement.  Snow fears my father.  He takes maintenance of the home and yard to an efficiency I’ve seldom seen.

So to be in the backyard, where rare flowers (one coaxed four years before it bloomed), lobbying for space with bushes, well-manicured shrubbery, and haphazardly placed hummingbird feeders, I could see where I may get some of my creativity.  His outdoor space was his studio:   the greenery and flowers so many paint-splattered brushes and well-squeezed tubes of acrylic.  He went from one all absorbing passionate project to another.  Where someone else would be awestruck at his time and dedication, he simply knew it looked somehow exactly right to his eyes, and was shy, but excited to show it to the world, introvert-style:  one new person at a time.

When Angie complimented all of his hard work, he beamed.  “Sometimes, a car will slow down, like maybe someone is taking a peek back here, and I have to stop myself from just flagging them down, and saying ‘hey, come on back here, and take a look around….you know, if you want…”  Amused at this unlikely scenario, he chuckled out loud, looking young, looking boyish, and in that moment so much like my sister’s son, Blake, age 20, that my eyes filled with tears.  Did I love this shy, gentle man?  He was my world.

Somehow or another, Angie and I worked the conversation around to Dad’s opinion on whether or not Mom really wanted to go on the trip to Italy with me, or rather her anxiety was driving her to appoint herself my international babysitter.

My respect for him only grew as he refused to answer one way or another.  “I cannot speak for your mother.  I imagine she may feel a little of both ways, but it’s really not my place to say what she wants, only she can do that.”  That said, he perked up at the thought of my mom, and pointed out an empty patch, “I’m gonna put some climbing roses over there, where your mother can see them from the window.”

The smile still on his lips, he bent his head, and suddenly changed topic, “We all miss Cory.  I, myself, miss her something awful.”  He fetched a deep sigh, and shook his head as if to confirm the fact to himself.  “Little Cory is gone, and life is for the living.”

His quiet observation cut me to the quick.  It was not what I wanted to hear, but perhaps as my father it was not his job to give in to my wants, but to do as he always has, and give me what I need.  I remember a few years back, he laced some piece of advice with this telling question, “Have I ever lied to you, child?  Have I ever?”

No, he had not.  As I stood in his backyard showpiece, with the mosquitos and bees buzzing about their business, I could think of no reason for him to start then.  His gentle, wistful comment was one my heart would return to, puzzling over, and trying to find a way to acknowledge my father’s wisdom.  Someday.

The visit that afternoon ended with Dad fishing in his jeans for his trusty pocketknife to cut a blossom for each of us off his prize tree.  Later that night, I sketched the scene, and painted the blossom, never wanting to forget those moments with my dad. 

Clutching our blossoms, we got in the car, no further ahead than when we’d arrived about mom’s ability or desire to travel.  All the same, I knew when I got home, and spied my kitchen table, laden with art supplies, and projects all in varied stages of completeness, I would realize I was tending my own garden.  It’s just my thumb isn’t green; it’s multi-colored.

Pre-Trip Drama

I was going to go to Italy alone.  That was the original plan.  My mom, who will dispute it to all who know and love her, suffers from anxiety.  She thought it was a great idea for me to get out of the city, and make a move- any move, other than turning to my side in my bed to better stare at the wall- but could not bear the thought of me traveling alone.  She started out with trying to get me to take my husband.

Happily, Tim had no interest in going.  I say happily because this was to be a Mommy/Cory adventure of epic proportions.  The last thing I wanted to do was turn it into a strained, look-like-your -having-fun-every-moment would be romantic getaway.  In other words, the last thing I wanted was to make my daughter's memorial trip into "kissy-kissy"  moonlit gondola rides and bland hotel sex.

Mom's next idea was to see if Tim would be interested if we made it into a family vacation.  This was even worse yet.  To be at every café, staring across the table at Tim and his mini-me, while my totebag kept Cory's seat beside me warm would not be healing.  It would be every meal out that I endured back home.  No new perspectives to be had there.

Repeatedly, I assured Mom that I was perfectly capable of traveling abroad on my own.  I know how to get on a plane.  I can read signs.  I know how to ask for help.  She was having none of it.  She had watched "Taken", and was convinced that the kind Italian folk over there would get one glimpse at me traveling alone- a female- and slap a burlap sack over my head, and chain me to a wall somewhere.

This made me feel that my dear mother might secretly think I was a little stupid.  Since the majority of my sisters agreed with her thoughts of women traveling alone, I also felt a bristling of feminist pride...did they honestly think you must have a penis in order to see the world or what?

When I discussed Mom's concerns with Tim, he used his dry humor to put things into perspective.  He explained to me as I folded towels, "It's like this, honey-  no offense, cause I personally think you are totally hot....but, you are almost forty.  Even if the major tourist areas you will be visiting are full of criminals looking for sex slave prospects...you're almost forty- financially speaking, it just wouldn't be a good investment."

Tim isn't the funny one in our relationship, but at that I burst into laughter.
"Right?"  I said.  "You get it."

Mom did not.  In a last ditch effort to preserve my safety, she volunteered to go with me.  At first I laughed her off, but began to give it a little more thought.  Cory's untimely death has taught me that tomorrow, and any future plans you may have to spend time with your loved ones, is not promised.  When would I ever have another chance to spend that much time with my mom?  It held a certain sort of poetic sense...a mother/daughter trip to replace the mother/daughter trip that should have taken place with my girl.

Mom and I went to get our passports, and then all the other opinions about a seventy-five woman traveling abroad began to weigh in.  If I wasn't worried to begin with about whether or not it would be too much walking for her to handle or if she would have some type of diabetic attack and collapse into one of the fountains, I certainly had them now.  Word on the street (aka the sibling grapevine) was that Mom really did not want to go on the trip; she was only going because her anxiety insisted that I not travel alone.

I confronted Mom; she denied these rumors vehemently, even appearing to be sincerely offended. 

A couple days later, lounging, depressed in my bed, I heard my cellphone ringing, and picked it up.  It was Mom's number, but she would not respond, although she appeared to be having an animated conversation with someone else.

She had butt-dialed me!  Getting ready to hang up, I heard my name, and pressed my ear to the receiver.  I heard something along the lines of, "Well, her dad and I hoped she would give up the idea or at least decide to go somewhere closer to home, but she is just bound and determined.  I know.  I know.  I am worried about it, too.  But I just don't know what else to do.  I can't let her go alone!
Silently, I clicked off, feeling sick and betrayed.  I mused on this information for a couple days before revealing my eavesdropping intell to her in her own kitchen, as my father doubled over laughing to hear she had been busted.

Despite my revelation, she insisted it may have started out like that, but a part of her that may never have another chance to see Italy genuinely wanted to go.

Okay, I could get with that.  No more was said; I simply booked the trip.

 In the end, I have this to say.
I am so, so glad that she came.  We made memories I will always treasure. 
She may not have saved me from being kidnapped or sold into human trafficking, but she certainly kept me from running off into the rain with Mimmo. 

There's something to be said for that, too.
Good looking out, Mom.  I love you.

Cory's Wishes

Mom and I stayed near the Trevi Fountain in Rome, which is one of the most famous fountains in the world.  It is staggeringly beautiful, towering over us mere mortals from 86 feet above.  Legend has it that visitors who throw a coin into its water will be ensured a return to Rome someday.  Mom and I had read your chances were increased if you turned away from the fountain, and tossed the coin over your head with eyes closed.  Reminding myself of the travel costs of this incredible trip, I obediently followed directions to the letter.  We took pictures of each other with arms in flight, smiling at the unlikelihood of our wishes coming true, but unable NOT to hope that maybe, just maybe the legend would hold true for us, the chosen ones.

Our Trevi Fountain expedition was on our self-declared “day off” in Italy.  We were running ourselves ragged trying to make sure we saw everything and did everything on our wish list, when in fact we were cutting short the time to do the things that would bring the most comfort and healing. I longed to sit at the outdoor cafes and draw.  I needed to take the hectic pace out of my agenda, and just breathe in the air of a foreign land.  So the day after the Vatican, an amazing half day walking tour that nearly disabled us both, we declared a holiday in the middle of our Italian holiday.  Can you think of anything more decadent and outrageous?  We would visit the fountain- mere blocks away- eat more gelato, people watch, and just relax. 

After making our wishes at the famous fountain, I walked away, my mind turning, as it always does to Cory.  Had she been with me this day, pitching coins with glee, and laughing as she came quite close to conking a fellow tourist in the ear with a mislaunched euro, what would her wishes have been?  Returning to Rome would be lovely, but certainly not at the top of the list of her heart’s desires.

After so many conversations with my girl, here’s what I think they may have been:

She would have wished her illness away, or at least for the symptoms to retreat to the point that her life could progress nearly as normally as anyone else’s.

She would have wished for the love of a boy who made her laugh, made her feel safe, and whose hand was always there when she reached for it.

She would have wished to finish school, and begin college, the first step to finding a career doing something she loved- like writing, making art, or helping others.

She would have wished to reconnect with all the friends she’d lost contact with over the years of her illness.

She would have wished for the driver’s license, the clunker, and a part time job where she would prove to everyone, but most of all to herself, that she was a productive member of society.

She would have wished for yet another kitten (God help us all), and a goldfish in her room. After her death, I read in her journal that she desperately wanted a fish in her bedroom like Jake had in his, and I wept for nearly an hour.  She never said a word.  Her wants were so small.

She would have wished to feel like Tim’s little girl, no longer measuring the hugs he gave Jake against the ones he gave her.

She would have wished for her biological father, Bob, to stabilize himself in treatment so they could be a healthy part of each other’s lives.  No matter how rocky the road, or how many times he disappointed, it would always be something she desperately desired.  As would I.

There was a song by Superchick that started out as a breakup song with her one serious boyfriend, but ended up being about her father.  She told me about this new perspective on the song about three months before the accident with eyes that were equally sad and hopeful, and then swallowed hard and asked me if I still loved her father; would I always? 

 Here are the words:

"Wishes" by Superchick

The saddest thing is you could be anything

 That you could want

 We could have been everything

 But now we're not

 Now it's not anything at all

 The hardest part was getting this close to you

 And giving up this dream I built with you

 A fairytale that isn't coming true

 You've got some growing up to do

 I wish we could have worked it out

 I wish Ididn't have these doubts

 I wish I didn't have to wonder just what you are doing now

 I wish I didn't know inside

 That it won't work out for you and I

 I wish that I could stop this wishing and just say my last goodbye

 After all the things you put me through

 Tell me why I'm still in love with you

 And why am I, why am I still waiting for your call

 You broke my heart

 I'm taking it back from you

 And taking back the life I gave to you

 Life goes on before and after you

 I've got some growing up to do

I wish we could have worked it out

 I wish I didn't have these doubts

 I wish I didn't have to wonder just what you are doing now

 I wish I didn't know inside

 That it won't work out for you and I

 I wish that I could stop this wishing and just say my last goodbye

 It's time I said my last goodbye

 Goodbye

 Goodbye

 It's time I said my last goodbye

 

Card Shark

My mother is full of surprises.  I remember the time she had her knee replacement surgery.  Cory and I went up to the hospital to see her before she went back  to surgery.  There had been a lot of apprehensive talk about how her recovery would go.  All of us girls were most worried for my father, who already waited on mom like she was some type of royalty on the daily.  How much more could the poor man give?  We tentatively planned to break him in shifts so he didn’t fall over from pure exhaustion.

Cory and I tried to give Mom the pep talk about recovery being a snap, although privately we pictured a long and drawn out ordeal, ending in my father with a permanent stoop in his back from leaning over her bedside to brush the hair out of her eyes or sing her a lullaby when she couldn’t sleep.

We decided to take “before” and “after” pictures, hoping it would spur Mom into at least putting on a brave face, and perhaps ringing the bedside bell a little less often.  Dad would have to go to the bathroom sometime, after all.

When we returned to take the “after” picture, we were nearly dumbstruck at the clear eyed, smiling, strong, little bulldog fighter masquerading as my mother.  She had taken on her recovery like a fierce card game she was determined to win.  If you’ve never played some type of organized table game with my mother, you may not know that this gray haired five foot squirt is a ruthless shark when it comes to competition.  She is smart, she is determined, and she will take you down…smiling sweetly while she does it.

Mom applied this same spirit to becoming mobile again, and was back in church in no time, walking without a cane before the predicted time, and kicking everyone’s ass in rehab.  She gloated over her progress,  proving to every one of her children that we did not know her quite as well as we thought we did.

Cory and I just stared at this wondrous creature, looking behind the years, erasing the lines, smoothing out the wrinkles, ignoring the gray, until we could see the dark haired, blue eyed beauty with the bikini worthy body that had captured my father so many years ago.  As I wondered if he still saw her the way she looked when they fell in love, I realized it didn’t matter.  The body and face may have changed, but the smart, cunning, mischievous personality that had landed an absolutely amazing man like my father had not changed one bit.  She could -and likely did-  look up at him sleepily when he came in during the early hours of the morning to turn off her tv, and take the glasses off her face, and just gloat.  She was married to the best man she knew, and he lived to make her happy.

 Game well played, Mom.  You amaze me.

Read To Me

Cory felt good going to run that errand for me and Jake.  How do I know?  Yet, another Italy revelation.  Here it is:

Throughout the trip, I found myself in the sometimes subtle and sometimes obvious role reversal that comes when your parent has reached an older age.  I found myself taking her hand, or linking arms with her, without even thinking about it, as we prepared to cross busy streets.  When we had stairs to climb, I was there to steady her, and bridge the gaps between handrails.  I found myself wanting her at a close distance if we needed to part ways, and checking back on her often.

One night when I came up from writing in the lobby, I found Mom still awake, with the TV turned to the only channel that was in English- CNN.  She asked me how the writing was going.  I told her it was going great.  She then said, "I wish I could read your blogs, but my eyes bother me at night."

"Do you want me to read them to you?"  I asked, with a bittersweet smile.  One of the pieces on my blog is the last thing I ever read to Cory, about thirty minutes or so before she died.

"Well, if you don't mind...I'd love to hear them." she responded.

That is how I found myself staying up until four in the morning reading to my mother, recreating that sweet, sweet memory of the marathon reading session of  Dolores Claiborne to Cory.  Only this time, the words were my own, and the stories were my soul.

As I finished each one, parts of which caused her to giggle and parts which made her cast her eyes downward, lost in some memory, I'd ask her if she wanted me to go on.

"Oh yeah, keep going.  You write so good."  she smiled, closing her eyes, all the better to hear.

I read to her until she was fully caught up with our doings in beautiful Italy.  I turned out the lamp, and put my head on the pillow, feeling full and happy to have helped someone so important to me, even in a small way, that has helped me so much throughout my entire life.

There in Rome, in the dark which would give way to sunrise soon, I smiled, knowing Cory had felt exactly the same way.  I recalled the light in her eyes, the nonchalance with which she threw over her shoulder, "It's just down the road.", and the bounce of her steps out the back door.  Cory loved to help.

She was a caregiver, too.