I have been writing in some form or another since the accident happened. I come here to share my experiences, but I also keep a little back to myself (I know, I know...it seemed like I told it all, even when it was too much information). My medium has changed a little, going from the lined journals to Moleskine sketchbooks, to the gigantic Moleskine watercolor that I now tote around town.
Art showed up somewhere in the middle, on a night when I was lost and scared- basically just afraid I would lose my mind if I hadn't already, or that I might just take myself out of this nightmare, once and for all. I remember googling "art journaling" out of nowhere, like maybe Cory had whispered in my ear.
A few months later, if I'm awake and not bound to some other responsibility, I am drawing or painting or both. I have found that my writing and my art take turns holding me up. When I start to get writer's block, which used to drive me absolutely bat shit crazy, I take up with my paints. There are some feelings, indeed, that have no words. These feelings demand color, texture, and images in order to be seen, heard, and felt. However it can be accomplished, these dark feelings must be released or they will eat away your insides like a particularly aggressive kind of cancer.
Alternately, when I am trying to create something, art-wise, and finding I am horribly inadequate for my endeavors, I can take solace with my laptop. Writing is something I have done for a long time, it is comfortable and easy, almost organic. I put my hands on the keyboard and the words just come shooting out. If I have a really good idea to write about, it can sit and simmer for a couple days, but at a critical point, I feel an urgency to capture it on paper, almost like some bizarre sort of mental labor pains.
Not only do these two activities keep my brain busy, and help me process, they are remarkably more affordable than all the mass shopping I did last year. This is good, not only for my credit score and bank account, but also for my self esteem. When I am writing or painting, I am making something, where once there was nothing. I am giving something. I am sharing something, and in doing so, possibly helping someone. Maybe I am not the worthless thirty nine year old woman who let her firstborn be run over in the road like a chipmunk. Just maybe.
I went through some of my older journals today, and stumbled upon a letter I wrote to Cory four months ago. This is what it said:
Dear Cory,
I miss you so much; it is hard to get my breath. You were my very best friend. No one can ever take your place. Cory, I am so very sorry I didn't go to the store myself. It was too hot and I was being lazy. I didn't think for one moment that you could get hurt. I've always thought you to be a strong and brave girl, but now I can't even believe how you kept going day after day, with that beautiful smile. I just want to kiss your face. And talk to you for five more minutes. Just five. You are my heart.
Love,
Mommy
And an entry a few days later:
"I guess I'm supposed to think of how she is no longer in pain, but instead I am typically selfish. I only want to KISS HER FACE. I am drowning! This senseless, grinding ache is pushing me into the ground."
Gosh, it's been about five months since I wrote those words, and not a lot seems to have changed. My breaths are still shallow most of the time, and I despise watching my chest rise and fall when hers is so much dust by now.
I need to paint.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
I Have Gesso On My Foot and I Don't Care
I think Cory may be a little bit irritated with me right now. No matter what hill or valley she was traversing at that time, I forced that baby in the shower daily. I remember when they came out with the dry shampoo spray for those in-between washing your hair days. You spray a little on your roots and it absorbs any oil and makes your hair smell fantastic. I just about fell over when Cory asked me if a person could just use that every day...forever.
So here I am, putting in more time finding creative ways to make it look like I've washed my hair than it would take to just wash it in the first place. Those French girls who traipse around with three day dirty hair that look like supermodels have nothing on me right now. If you really need to divert attention, just throw on some red lipstick. Done and done. So I can only imagine how aggravated Cory must be with me right now to see me steadily avoiding the shower when I forced her into it time after time. If I could hear her speak, it'd be, "Really Mom? Really? How is that fair?"
Yeah, I did feel a little guilty when I settled criss-cross applesauce into my favorite chair at the coffeeshop today and looked down to see my heel was covered in white paint. Oops.
How does one get gesso on their foot, you ask? I'm pretty sure taking your palette to bed with you will do it every time. When I can't sleep, I draw in bed. Last night, I came up with the most fabulously mournful girl, who captured exactly how I was feeling at the time. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came back to bed, I was startled to see her staring back at me. It was one of those rare moments when you are thinking, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe I made that! That's actually not half-bad." If I'd held a mirror up to my face, I'm pretty sure I'd have recognized that look of pride I remember so well from my baby girl's face...that look you only get when you've taken an image out of brain and plunked it down, whole and squirming, on a piece of paper or canvas, completely unchanged from what you saw in your mind.
As I assessed my painting with a critical eye, I could see she needed some highlights. It was after 3 a.m. I could not see myself setting up shop at the dining room table, so I crept in and squirted a little gesso on my paint splattered palette and snuck it into bed with me. I held it stealthily to one side so Tim wouldn't see as I made my way through the living room. I had just sat down with my brush in hand, when my bedroom door swung open dramatically. Tim stood in the doorway, looking at me with a half-smile on his face, "Painting in bed, honey?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.
"Umm, she just needed a little something..." I trailed off, busted, caught. I dropped my head, feeling like a child caught sneaking chocolates into bed. This poor man, used to me running the household like a well-oiled machine, was now saddled with a depressed, unwashed woman who was too lazy to paint in an upright position. Good thing he loves me...a lot. Trying to redeem myself, I turned my paper around to show him.
"Ooooh, that's a good one." he said. "Try to get some sleep, honey."
No lecture about the difficulties of paint removal on fabrics. No demanding that I do anything different than exactly what was providing me comfort at that moment. He let me just be me. He let me have what I needed.
I often complain about Tim not being more affectionate, not wanting to talk, not being interested in traveling memory lane with me. What I don't say is that Tim is always there. That is maybe more important than all the rest. He never leaves, not even when faced with a ripe smelling middle aged woman who doesn't bother with makeup anymore and has trouble finding joy in anything. Even when faced with my shopping addictions, he grins, shakes his head, and says, "You know what they say, honey...never quit quitting."
So here I am, putting in more time finding creative ways to make it look like I've washed my hair than it would take to just wash it in the first place. Those French girls who traipse around with three day dirty hair that look like supermodels have nothing on me right now. If you really need to divert attention, just throw on some red lipstick. Done and done. So I can only imagine how aggravated Cory must be with me right now to see me steadily avoiding the shower when I forced her into it time after time. If I could hear her speak, it'd be, "Really Mom? Really? How is that fair?"
Yeah, I did feel a little guilty when I settled criss-cross applesauce into my favorite chair at the coffeeshop today and looked down to see my heel was covered in white paint. Oops.
How does one get gesso on their foot, you ask? I'm pretty sure taking your palette to bed with you will do it every time. When I can't sleep, I draw in bed. Last night, I came up with the most fabulously mournful girl, who captured exactly how I was feeling at the time. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came back to bed, I was startled to see her staring back at me. It was one of those rare moments when you are thinking, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe I made that! That's actually not half-bad." If I'd held a mirror up to my face, I'm pretty sure I'd have recognized that look of pride I remember so well from my baby girl's face...that look you only get when you've taken an image out of brain and plunked it down, whole and squirming, on a piece of paper or canvas, completely unchanged from what you saw in your mind.
As I assessed my painting with a critical eye, I could see she needed some highlights. It was after 3 a.m. I could not see myself setting up shop at the dining room table, so I crept in and squirted a little gesso on my paint splattered palette and snuck it into bed with me. I held it stealthily to one side so Tim wouldn't see as I made my way through the living room. I had just sat down with my brush in hand, when my bedroom door swung open dramatically. Tim stood in the doorway, looking at me with a half-smile on his face, "Painting in bed, honey?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.
"Umm, she just needed a little something..." I trailed off, busted, caught. I dropped my head, feeling like a child caught sneaking chocolates into bed. This poor man, used to me running the household like a well-oiled machine, was now saddled with a depressed, unwashed woman who was too lazy to paint in an upright position. Good thing he loves me...a lot. Trying to redeem myself, I turned my paper around to show him.
"Ooooh, that's a good one." he said. "Try to get some sleep, honey."
No lecture about the difficulties of paint removal on fabrics. No demanding that I do anything different than exactly what was providing me comfort at that moment. He let me just be me. He let me have what I needed.
I often complain about Tim not being more affectionate, not wanting to talk, not being interested in traveling memory lane with me. What I don't say is that Tim is always there. That is maybe more important than all the rest. He never leaves, not even when faced with a ripe smelling middle aged woman who doesn't bother with makeup anymore and has trouble finding joy in anything. Even when faced with my shopping addictions, he grins, shakes his head, and says, "You know what they say, honey...never quit quitting."
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
The Things We Carried
No matter what type of monotonous reading it may provide, I intend to give an accurate account of this experience. I sometimes fear that instead of reaching my goal of 100 readers as I continue to post, I will instead drive away some or all of my treasured 49 simply because I tend to repeat myself. But if I'm telling the truth about this thing I'm going through, if I'm trying to put you in my shoes for fifteen minutes a day- and encouraging you to take them off when you're finished and go kiss your child- then I have to include the intense weariness, the way you sometimes get swallowed up in the fog for days at a time, and the fear each time it happens that you won't be able to find your way out...because that's what it's really like. It's like being thrown in a dark pit with a flashlight and a package of batteries. Figure it out.
It's not a lot different, I imagine, that having a serious physical ailment- everyday things that used to be taken for granted become difficult. Yesterday -after putting it off as long as I possibly could- I went school clothes shopping for Jake with my mom. Ten steps inside Kohl's, I was pretty much done. What did it, you ask?
Maybe it was turning my head to left to see a half dozen little dresses Cory would've rocked like nobody's business. Maybe it was walking past the lingerie department, remembering how Cory insisted that sometime I buy myself a Barely There bra to experience how bra-wearing should really feel. I never got around to that until after her death, but that girl was a genius. If you are a woman, go buy a Barely There bra or three, and try them out. You won't disagree.
Cory and I always picked out Jake's clothes together- right down to the rainy Saturday afternoon that we suddenly decided Jake needed a suit. We took Jake into a dressing room and transformed him from a video game addict wearing track pants and a slightly wrinkled Angry Birds t-shirt to a slick GQ-looking gentleman who probably didn't mow in his own lawn in about three minutes. Cory provided the hair product and I chose the color palette. We sent pictures to Tim at his work, who cracked up and texted back, "God, he's handsome."
Mom waded through the complicated labyrinth of slim-straight, baggy-straight, and cargos pants on her own; I leaned against a rack of clothes and fought the ghosts that were happily cavorting through the aisles. Sometimes Jake would enlist Cory's help in talking me into buying them each a stuffed animal. They would disappear around a rack of clothes, all whispers and giggles, as I sorted through my final purchases. Cory had decided the best way to emotionally hijack me into impulse purchases was to name the stuffed animals before we hit the register...that way we'd already have a relationship established. "I know how hard it is for you to leave people." she'd say with a sideways grin. I would swat at her and we would scan those puppies, and head to the car before we were late for our movie.
That's where I wanted to be- not here buying fall clothes for one child, instead of two. I cut the trip short, and drove Mom home, keeping it together until I pulled into her driveway, at which point, I burst into exhausted tears. Alarmed, she tried to get me to let her or Dad drive me home; she said I shouldn't be driving in my condition. Dubiously, I looked up at her, "Mom, I drive like this all the time.
This morning I brought Cory into conversation with the boys. If I want to hear her name in my house, I have to be the one to say it. Jake and I had woken up this morning to the screams of Oliver, our orange tabby cat. I ran into the dining room, my eyes still half crusted over to find a panicked Tim bent over Oliver, a fishing pole leaning against the wall, and a tangle of fishing line. Tim had been getting his fishing pole ready, and somehow Oliver had gotten some line wrapped around his foot and leg. As Tim and I tried to help him, he tried his best to bite and scratch us. Using my best everything-is-under-control soothing Mommy voice, I held Oliver's head down as Tim ran for some manicure scissors, and worked him loose. Boy, do I have a new respect for veterinarian assistants.
As we explained to Jake what had happened, I said it was a good thing I was home at the time. Tim waved a hand at me and said, "Jake would've stepped up." I chuckled at the thought. That boy would have ran in the other direction. He would've helped, all right- he'd have called the vet to give them fair warning. I said as much to Tim, and then a memory of Cory popped up in my mind.
It was this:
After Tim and I had separated, I threw myself into organizing the house. If things in my personal life were a little muddy at the moment, that could not be helped, but dammit, I would have order in my immediate environment. The four years Tim and I were separated were the cleanest my house has ever been. When I say this, Tim cringes and demands to be told he is not a slob. I usually back off a little...after all, he does mow my lawn.
Room by room, I went through and made things the way I had always wanted them. Those years of being mostly on my own were a strange and interesting mixture. It was probably the point in my life that I had the most freedom, and yet the most responsibility.
One particular Saturday, I decided the extra tv needed to find its way to the storage room in the basement. Cory cocked her hip and looked at me, "Mom, we can't move that."
Doth my ears deceive me? "Cory, we are two strong, beautiful, independent young women; we could do anything we set our minds to."
I was on a feminist power-mad trip, you understand. The only thing missing was my cheeky t-shirt reading, "I am woman- here me roar." That blasted, dreadfully heavy outdated tv represented to me all the responsibilities I now had, and all the bad feelings from my marriage that I wanted set to the side, for good. If I couldn't move this, how would we get by?
"I don't have a good feeling about this." she said, and reluctantly picked up her side. She hollered out that she needed to set it down after about three seconds.
Undeterred, I announced cheerily, "We'll take breaks."
"Mom, what about the stairs?"
"I'll go down first, and take the weight of it. You just follow behind." I instructed. Huffing and puffing, stopping to set it down every twenty seconds or so, we laboriously made our way through the house to the basement staircase.
We'd made it perhaps a third of the way down when Cory simply let go and walked away. In utter shock, I stood there, a bulky humungous television set teetering precariously in my skinny arms. With primal grunts and furious curses, I jerkily maneuvered it the rest of the way down the steps. Veins stood out on my neck, I'm sure, and my face had flushed a deep red, purple with my efforts. Looking back, I realize I could have seriously hurt myself. I have to wonder why I thought the preservation of an outdated television set was more important than the preservation of my spinal column. I could've just let that sucker fly. But I didn't.
When I'd finally made my way back upstairs, I found Cory and asked her between ragged breaths, my hands on my thighs as I stood bent over in a hopefully temporary stupor, "Cory, you left me! I could've died!! What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't do it anymore. It was too heavy. I was gonna hurt myself." she answered reasonably.
Between breaths, I giggled helplessly. "And what about me?"
She giggled back, meeting my eyes, "Hey, I love you, Mom, but it was every man for themselves."
At that point, we dissolved into giggles, holding on to each other, and falling into a sweaty pile on the living room floor, just inches away from the couch.
"And mom?" she added.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I had no idea you were such an expert in swearing. Were you a truck driver in a previous life?"
"Hells yeah!"
As I relayed this story to the boys, neither of which were present for that little scenario, it rang a little hollow, a little empty. This story had been told a few times before, but always Cory would walk in the room mid-way through or poke her head around the corner just in time to laugh along and add her own commentary.
Sometimes, that's the worst part of remembering. I have spent the majority of my adult life with Cory. All my stories are with her, and in her. If there is a detail I'm not sure of, there is now no one left to ask.
So why share this story today? Well, on my way to the coffee shop to write, I wondered why that memory was triggered today. Well, it's really just like the Barely There bras. I don't think people realized how wise Cory was for her age. Her life experiences had made her an old, old soul. She is still advising me from the grave. As I sit here typing in my Barely There bra (feeling strangely topless in public, I might add), I realize that at nineteen Cory knew a great many of life's truths. One of them was this:
Sometimes you will find yourself letting go of things simply because they are too heavy.
I hear you, Cory Girl. I'm working on it. I love you, baby girl. Always. Always. One hundred baker dollars.
It's not a lot different, I imagine, that having a serious physical ailment- everyday things that used to be taken for granted become difficult. Yesterday -after putting it off as long as I possibly could- I went school clothes shopping for Jake with my mom. Ten steps inside Kohl's, I was pretty much done. What did it, you ask?
Maybe it was turning my head to left to see a half dozen little dresses Cory would've rocked like nobody's business. Maybe it was walking past the lingerie department, remembering how Cory insisted that sometime I buy myself a Barely There bra to experience how bra-wearing should really feel. I never got around to that until after her death, but that girl was a genius. If you are a woman, go buy a Barely There bra or three, and try them out. You won't disagree.
Cory and I always picked out Jake's clothes together- right down to the rainy Saturday afternoon that we suddenly decided Jake needed a suit. We took Jake into a dressing room and transformed him from a video game addict wearing track pants and a slightly wrinkled Angry Birds t-shirt to a slick GQ-looking gentleman who probably didn't mow in his own lawn in about three minutes. Cory provided the hair product and I chose the color palette. We sent pictures to Tim at his work, who cracked up and texted back, "God, he's handsome."
Mom waded through the complicated labyrinth of slim-straight, baggy-straight, and cargos pants on her own; I leaned against a rack of clothes and fought the ghosts that were happily cavorting through the aisles. Sometimes Jake would enlist Cory's help in talking me into buying them each a stuffed animal. They would disappear around a rack of clothes, all whispers and giggles, as I sorted through my final purchases. Cory had decided the best way to emotionally hijack me into impulse purchases was to name the stuffed animals before we hit the register...that way we'd already have a relationship established. "I know how hard it is for you to leave people." she'd say with a sideways grin. I would swat at her and we would scan those puppies, and head to the car before we were late for our movie.
That's where I wanted to be- not here buying fall clothes for one child, instead of two. I cut the trip short, and drove Mom home, keeping it together until I pulled into her driveway, at which point, I burst into exhausted tears. Alarmed, she tried to get me to let her or Dad drive me home; she said I shouldn't be driving in my condition. Dubiously, I looked up at her, "Mom, I drive like this all the time.
This morning I brought Cory into conversation with the boys. If I want to hear her name in my house, I have to be the one to say it. Jake and I had woken up this morning to the screams of Oliver, our orange tabby cat. I ran into the dining room, my eyes still half crusted over to find a panicked Tim bent over Oliver, a fishing pole leaning against the wall, and a tangle of fishing line. Tim had been getting his fishing pole ready, and somehow Oliver had gotten some line wrapped around his foot and leg. As Tim and I tried to help him, he tried his best to bite and scratch us. Using my best everything-is-under-control soothing Mommy voice, I held Oliver's head down as Tim ran for some manicure scissors, and worked him loose. Boy, do I have a new respect for veterinarian assistants.
As we explained to Jake what had happened, I said it was a good thing I was home at the time. Tim waved a hand at me and said, "Jake would've stepped up." I chuckled at the thought. That boy would have ran in the other direction. He would've helped, all right- he'd have called the vet to give them fair warning. I said as much to Tim, and then a memory of Cory popped up in my mind.
It was this:
After Tim and I had separated, I threw myself into organizing the house. If things in my personal life were a little muddy at the moment, that could not be helped, but dammit, I would have order in my immediate environment. The four years Tim and I were separated were the cleanest my house has ever been. When I say this, Tim cringes and demands to be told he is not a slob. I usually back off a little...after all, he does mow my lawn.
Room by room, I went through and made things the way I had always wanted them. Those years of being mostly on my own were a strange and interesting mixture. It was probably the point in my life that I had the most freedom, and yet the most responsibility.
One particular Saturday, I decided the extra tv needed to find its way to the storage room in the basement. Cory cocked her hip and looked at me, "Mom, we can't move that."
Doth my ears deceive me? "Cory, we are two strong, beautiful, independent young women; we could do anything we set our minds to."
I was on a feminist power-mad trip, you understand. The only thing missing was my cheeky t-shirt reading, "I am woman- here me roar." That blasted, dreadfully heavy outdated tv represented to me all the responsibilities I now had, and all the bad feelings from my marriage that I wanted set to the side, for good. If I couldn't move this, how would we get by?
"I don't have a good feeling about this." she said, and reluctantly picked up her side. She hollered out that she needed to set it down after about three seconds.
Undeterred, I announced cheerily, "We'll take breaks."
"Mom, what about the stairs?"
"I'll go down first, and take the weight of it. You just follow behind." I instructed. Huffing and puffing, stopping to set it down every twenty seconds or so, we laboriously made our way through the house to the basement staircase.
We'd made it perhaps a third of the way down when Cory simply let go and walked away. In utter shock, I stood there, a bulky humungous television set teetering precariously in my skinny arms. With primal grunts and furious curses, I jerkily maneuvered it the rest of the way down the steps. Veins stood out on my neck, I'm sure, and my face had flushed a deep red, purple with my efforts. Looking back, I realize I could have seriously hurt myself. I have to wonder why I thought the preservation of an outdated television set was more important than the preservation of my spinal column. I could've just let that sucker fly. But I didn't.
When I'd finally made my way back upstairs, I found Cory and asked her between ragged breaths, my hands on my thighs as I stood bent over in a hopefully temporary stupor, "Cory, you left me! I could've died!! What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't do it anymore. It was too heavy. I was gonna hurt myself." she answered reasonably.
Between breaths, I giggled helplessly. "And what about me?"
She giggled back, meeting my eyes, "Hey, I love you, Mom, but it was every man for themselves."
At that point, we dissolved into giggles, holding on to each other, and falling into a sweaty pile on the living room floor, just inches away from the couch.
"And mom?" she added.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I had no idea you were such an expert in swearing. Were you a truck driver in a previous life?"
"Hells yeah!"
As I relayed this story to the boys, neither of which were present for that little scenario, it rang a little hollow, a little empty. This story had been told a few times before, but always Cory would walk in the room mid-way through or poke her head around the corner just in time to laugh along and add her own commentary.
Sometimes, that's the worst part of remembering. I have spent the majority of my adult life with Cory. All my stories are with her, and in her. If there is a detail I'm not sure of, there is now no one left to ask.
So why share this story today? Well, on my way to the coffee shop to write, I wondered why that memory was triggered today. Well, it's really just like the Barely There bras. I don't think people realized how wise Cory was for her age. Her life experiences had made her an old, old soul. She is still advising me from the grave. As I sit here typing in my Barely There bra (feeling strangely topless in public, I might add), I realize that at nineteen Cory knew a great many of life's truths. One of them was this:
Sometimes you will find yourself letting go of things simply because they are too heavy.
I hear you, Cory Girl. I'm working on it. I love you, baby girl. Always. Always. One hundred baker dollars.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Shall We Pray?
I wasn't going to come to the coffeeshop today. I didn't sleep well last night again, and my plan was to find a way to carve stamps without moving from my bed without making a mess or injuring myself. Tim had other ideas. "Honey, get up and go to the coffeeshop. You'll feel better."
When I put up a half-hearted protest, he shooed me out of bed, saying, "Get your butt out of bed, and get to work, woman."
Okay, okay. Coffee didn't sound half-bad. As I toted all my supplies out to the car: laptop, art supplies, purse, headphones, and journals, I felt myself transported back in time to that little fifth grader whose anxiety demanded she cart a half dozen bags loaded with paper goods to school each day. The more things change, they more they stay the same?
I set up my little workstation at my usual table, second from the couch, and got plugged in. I was ready to work- how I wish this were my job. A couple of hours passed as I played around in my journal, and listened to music that had me swaying in my seat like a loon. God only knows what people think of this behavior, probably that I am deeply unwell...which would be dead on, come to think of it.
Over the last couple of months, I've gotten past my shyness of drawing or painting in public. Often people are just curious about what you're up to, and will take a peek. Sometimes, they stop and talk to you, others times, not. It's okay. Halfway through my second cup of coffee, a gentlemen in his late forties with kind eyes stopped at my table on his way out the door, to-go-cup in hand, and gestured for me to take off my headphones. When I did, he asked me if I was an artist.
"Umm, not exactly. But my daughter was." I answered. When I shared about Cory, handing him a picture of the handful I carry with me at all times, his eyes widened.
"I lost a daughter, too. She was seven." he said, his eyes meeting mine, and pain slowly rising to the surface, out of sync with the pleasant smile he was still wearing. "What was your name?" he asked.
I told him, and he responded, "Well, Nicole, I don't think it's a coincidence that we met here today. Would you mind if I prayed with you?"
And I, who have not personally called God's name since the fifth of July last year, nodded without hesitation. This man, in the middle of Brownstone Coffeehouse, bowed his head, and began a beautiful prayer, a plea for God to bring me comfort and peace, this day, and all the days of my life. He intoned, "God, you give us only 'this day' and on 'this day' Nicole is here living her life and enjoying her art, a talent given to her by you to help her through these difficult times. Let her continue to find joy in it. Let her remember what you told me years ago when I lost my girl in '98...that it is a huge gain for the one that is now in heaven who now has everything they have ever wanted and needed, and a smaller loss for us. Bring her the peace that she so desperately needs. In Jesus' name. Amen."
I opened my eyes, flooded with tears, and asked for his name. Mike was in town for a men's church retreat, and would keep me in his prayers.
Yes, people are put in our lives for a reason.
When I put up a half-hearted protest, he shooed me out of bed, saying, "Get your butt out of bed, and get to work, woman."
Okay, okay. Coffee didn't sound half-bad. As I toted all my supplies out to the car: laptop, art supplies, purse, headphones, and journals, I felt myself transported back in time to that little fifth grader whose anxiety demanded she cart a half dozen bags loaded with paper goods to school each day. The more things change, they more they stay the same?
I set up my little workstation at my usual table, second from the couch, and got plugged in. I was ready to work- how I wish this were my job. A couple of hours passed as I played around in my journal, and listened to music that had me swaying in my seat like a loon. God only knows what people think of this behavior, probably that I am deeply unwell...which would be dead on, come to think of it.
Over the last couple of months, I've gotten past my shyness of drawing or painting in public. Often people are just curious about what you're up to, and will take a peek. Sometimes, they stop and talk to you, others times, not. It's okay. Halfway through my second cup of coffee, a gentlemen in his late forties with kind eyes stopped at my table on his way out the door, to-go-cup in hand, and gestured for me to take off my headphones. When I did, he asked me if I was an artist.
"Umm, not exactly. But my daughter was." I answered. When I shared about Cory, handing him a picture of the handful I carry with me at all times, his eyes widened.
"I lost a daughter, too. She was seven." he said, his eyes meeting mine, and pain slowly rising to the surface, out of sync with the pleasant smile he was still wearing. "What was your name?" he asked.
I told him, and he responded, "Well, Nicole, I don't think it's a coincidence that we met here today. Would you mind if I prayed with you?"
And I, who have not personally called God's name since the fifth of July last year, nodded without hesitation. This man, in the middle of Brownstone Coffeehouse, bowed his head, and began a beautiful prayer, a plea for God to bring me comfort and peace, this day, and all the days of my life. He intoned, "God, you give us only 'this day' and on 'this day' Nicole is here living her life and enjoying her art, a talent given to her by you to help her through these difficult times. Let her continue to find joy in it. Let her remember what you told me years ago when I lost my girl in '98...that it is a huge gain for the one that is now in heaven who now has everything they have ever wanted and needed, and a smaller loss for us. Bring her the peace that she so desperately needs. In Jesus' name. Amen."
I opened my eyes, flooded with tears, and asked for his name. Mike was in town for a men's church retreat, and would keep me in his prayers.
Yes, people are put in our lives for a reason.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Flashbacks
Yesterday, I took Tim for another back procedure. On the ride home, he asked me if I'd minded waiting so long or if I'd been happy to have so much uninterrupted time to do my art. I smiled sheepishly. Oops, my secret is out- drawing and painting lately is my only joy. He then told me he thought some of my art was really good. He caught me a little off guard with the compliment; I didn't really think he paid attention, other than the hard to miss runs to Hobby Lobby and Michael's for supplies.
"You know I've started putting pearls on all the girls I draw, and sometimes a little Cory-heart on their necks." I offered.
"Really? That's nice." he commented.
Driving down the highway, I decided to share a little of my logic with him. "Don't you think it's amazing that her pearls were the only thing that stayed intact?"
He turned to me, shocked, why "You mean she was wearing them the day of the accident?"
Arrow to the heart, here. How could he not know that? "Yeah, you didn't know that?"
"How would I know?" he responded.
"Umm, she was wearing them the first time we went to see her at the funeral home. Those, and all her bracelets. They left them all on her. Remember?" I asked.
"I guess I didn't." he admitted.
"She hadn't worn them in months. When I got home with the stuff for the tacos, she came out to help me bring the groceries in and I saw she was wearing them. I said, 'Cory-Girl, you're wearing you pearls! I thought you'd forgotten them.' She said, 'Mom, I could never forget my pearls.' So I said, 'Well, they look beautiful. You look so cute today.' And she said, 'Thanks, Mom.' and smiled.
Remember how her and I traded necklaces at the service- I kept her pearls and she kept my dragonfly pendant?"
"She really liked that dragonfly pendant?" he asked.
"Yeah, she loved it. She wanted one so bad, and I was planning to surprise her with one after I went back to work. There just wasn't time."
"So those pearls, for them to stay strung and intact when all her other jewelry was in pieces...they were really strong. My girls that I draw...they can be sad, but I want them to be strong." I said.
"That's cool, honey." he offered.
And just like that, the conversation was over. But in my mind, I had unwittingly triggered myself back to the road. The chain of thoughts went something like this: pearls intact, on her neck, her neck was broken, and her arm, her twisted arm, two broken hips, my baby broke her hips, I let her get hurt, oh my God, her lips were blue, they were so blue, her hair covered her face, she was face down, why isn't anyone doing anything??
In a few seconds, the images had stopped becoming memories and started to become real time. Still driving down the highway, a sedate 70 miles per hour, I could see a shuffle of still frames that clicked by faster and faster (ambulance lights flashing, bystanders gently, but firmly, holding me back, rescue workers firing questions at me as I screamed Is she breathing? between every answer that my rattled brain struggled to find, dirt on her legs, her eyes closed, the horrible fear that swallowed up my heart as they finally turned her over, revealing her too still face bare tortuous degrees at a time) until they became a moving picture, and I could have easily just run up on the scene in my red t-shirt and shorts, my heart galloping out of control in my chest, looking, desperately looking, unable to see her at first until I saw bystanders who were busily trying to find a way to shield the mess from the rubberneckers that were driving by. Was it a wading pool or a piece of tarp that someone held up? That part was fuzzy.
Tim looked up with alarm as I casually whapped myself on the head a few times. Stop, just stop, for the love of God...wasn't once enough?
"Hey, hey...honey, don't do that." he grabbed for my free hand.
"Talk! Talk! Please talk about something! Anything!" I begged, breathing hard and the tears welling. Broken neck...skull fractures, front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures- front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures...
"I wonder if Jake and Jackson at that barbeque pork we left for them or if they just filled up on donuts. What do you think?" he asked.
"Umm..." I tried to answer, but was lost to the sight of my mom getting out of her car as fast as her legs could carry her and making it only a few feet before I had screamed out the awful truth, causing her knees to buckle. "Noooooooo! Oh my God!!!!!! Noooooo!" she screamed, her face which had been a map of worry seconds before becoming a portrait of horror as she discovered that sometimes nightmares are real.
"You know I've started putting pearls on all the girls I draw, and sometimes a little Cory-heart on their necks." I offered.
"Really? That's nice." he commented.
Driving down the highway, I decided to share a little of my logic with him. "Don't you think it's amazing that her pearls were the only thing that stayed intact?"
He turned to me, shocked, why "You mean she was wearing them the day of the accident?"
Arrow to the heart, here. How could he not know that? "Yeah, you didn't know that?"
"How would I know?" he responded.
"Umm, she was wearing them the first time we went to see her at the funeral home. Those, and all her bracelets. They left them all on her. Remember?" I asked.
"I guess I didn't." he admitted.
"She hadn't worn them in months. When I got home with the stuff for the tacos, she came out to help me bring the groceries in and I saw she was wearing them. I said, 'Cory-Girl, you're wearing you pearls! I thought you'd forgotten them.' She said, 'Mom, I could never forget my pearls.' So I said, 'Well, they look beautiful. You look so cute today.' And she said, 'Thanks, Mom.' and smiled.
Remember how her and I traded necklaces at the service- I kept her pearls and she kept my dragonfly pendant?"
"She really liked that dragonfly pendant?" he asked.
"Yeah, she loved it. She wanted one so bad, and I was planning to surprise her with one after I went back to work. There just wasn't time."
"So those pearls, for them to stay strung and intact when all her other jewelry was in pieces...they were really strong. My girls that I draw...they can be sad, but I want them to be strong." I said.
"That's cool, honey." he offered.
And just like that, the conversation was over. But in my mind, I had unwittingly triggered myself back to the road. The chain of thoughts went something like this: pearls intact, on her neck, her neck was broken, and her arm, her twisted arm, two broken hips, my baby broke her hips, I let her get hurt, oh my God, her lips were blue, they were so blue, her hair covered her face, she was face down, why isn't anyone doing anything??
In a few seconds, the images had stopped becoming memories and started to become real time. Still driving down the highway, a sedate 70 miles per hour, I could see a shuffle of still frames that clicked by faster and faster (ambulance lights flashing, bystanders gently, but firmly, holding me back, rescue workers firing questions at me as I screamed Is she breathing? between every answer that my rattled brain struggled to find, dirt on her legs, her eyes closed, the horrible fear that swallowed up my heart as they finally turned her over, revealing her too still face bare tortuous degrees at a time) until they became a moving picture, and I could have easily just run up on the scene in my red t-shirt and shorts, my heart galloping out of control in my chest, looking, desperately looking, unable to see her at first until I saw bystanders who were busily trying to find a way to shield the mess from the rubberneckers that were driving by. Was it a wading pool or a piece of tarp that someone held up? That part was fuzzy.
Tim looked up with alarm as I casually whapped myself on the head a few times. Stop, just stop, for the love of God...wasn't once enough?
"Hey, hey...honey, don't do that." he grabbed for my free hand.
"Talk! Talk! Please talk about something! Anything!" I begged, breathing hard and the tears welling. Broken neck...skull fractures, front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures- front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures...
"I wonder if Jake and Jackson at that barbeque pork we left for them or if they just filled up on donuts. What do you think?" he asked.
"Umm..." I tried to answer, but was lost to the sight of my mom getting out of her car as fast as her legs could carry her and making it only a few feet before I had screamed out the awful truth, causing her knees to buckle. "Noooooooo! Oh my God!!!!!! Noooooo!" she screamed, her face which had been a map of worry seconds before becoming a portrait of horror as she discovered that sometimes nightmares are real.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Die, You Stupid Paper
Tim let himself in after work last night to find me sitting at the dining room table, bent over my art journal, working at a furious pace. I say furious because about an hour earlier, the slow burn that had been sitting in my chest all day had caught fire. I was so pissed I couldn't see straight. Looking back, I don't know why in the world I didn't head right for my cleaning supplies- my house could certainly use it. Instead, I took up with my art supplies, so caught up, I didn't even light Cory's candle or listen to music. It was me and my anger, party of two.
Why was I angry? The same reason as always- Cory is dead. What sparked it? I'm not really sure. Was it all the back-to-school hoopla- the ads on tv, the letters from Battle Creek Public Schools, the pics of people's kids on facebook being dropped off at college, safe and sound? Probably. Was it running into my niece and my nephew's girlfriend earlier in the day, one filling out job apps, while the other ran errands to start her college semester, both of them looking healthy and normal, going about life as it should be gone about? Probably. They looked so young, their eyes so bright; they were alive. Why not my girl?
Not fair, not fair, not fair.
So there I was at the table, attacking a piece of watercolor paper as if it had personally wronged me, and must pay. Tim made his way inside, and did his daily check in. He seemed encouraged to see I had showered; the purple bra had been passed off for yellow...always a good sign. Had I eaten? Yes, I maintained stubbornly, I had. Coffee and a granola bar count for something, don't they?
Gingerly, he sat down beside me, watching me spread my feelings across the page. He tried to engage me in conversation, which for Tim generally means interview-style: lots of questions. After about the second one, I cut him off, apologizing as I did so, but unable to stop myself. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to smell his Reuben sandwich, the odor of which was making my stomach roll. What did I want? What do I ever want?
I swallowed past the huge lump in my throat and turned back to my page. Tim finished eating, and moved to the living room. Alone again at last, I grabbed an old credit card and began scraping gesso across the face I'd just made, obliterating it for all of time. I scraped it so hard, my fury could be heard over the tv and my knuckles in my right hand would be sore in the morning. Tim simply turned the tv up and kept his distance, only calling out once when he heard a frustrated scream from my direction. "Honey, you ok?"
"I just want to break stuff!!" I screamed back.
"Oh dear, let's not do that. We just got new plates." he said, and returned to his show.
Determined not to cry, I swiped my hands across my eyes impatiently, smearing paint and gesso all over my face. I could not get this painting to turn out right no matter how hard I tried. How do you capture feelings this big? Disgusted with myself and my less than mediocre art skills, I left it lie, and went to splash water on my face.
In the bathroom mirror, I looked up to find my face streaked with paint, so reminiscent of war stripes. My eyes looked shell-shocked, still; my face was white and gaunt; my hair stuck out in every direction. That was the picture I'd been trying to make- too bad I didn't think to grab my camera.
Why was I angry? The same reason as always- Cory is dead. What sparked it? I'm not really sure. Was it all the back-to-school hoopla- the ads on tv, the letters from Battle Creek Public Schools, the pics of people's kids on facebook being dropped off at college, safe and sound? Probably. Was it running into my niece and my nephew's girlfriend earlier in the day, one filling out job apps, while the other ran errands to start her college semester, both of them looking healthy and normal, going about life as it should be gone about? Probably. They looked so young, their eyes so bright; they were alive. Why not my girl?
Not fair, not fair, not fair.
So there I was at the table, attacking a piece of watercolor paper as if it had personally wronged me, and must pay. Tim made his way inside, and did his daily check in. He seemed encouraged to see I had showered; the purple bra had been passed off for yellow...always a good sign. Had I eaten? Yes, I maintained stubbornly, I had. Coffee and a granola bar count for something, don't they?
Gingerly, he sat down beside me, watching me spread my feelings across the page. He tried to engage me in conversation, which for Tim generally means interview-style: lots of questions. After about the second one, I cut him off, apologizing as I did so, but unable to stop myself. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to smell his Reuben sandwich, the odor of which was making my stomach roll. What did I want? What do I ever want?
I swallowed past the huge lump in my throat and turned back to my page. Tim finished eating, and moved to the living room. Alone again at last, I grabbed an old credit card and began scraping gesso across the face I'd just made, obliterating it for all of time. I scraped it so hard, my fury could be heard over the tv and my knuckles in my right hand would be sore in the morning. Tim simply turned the tv up and kept his distance, only calling out once when he heard a frustrated scream from my direction. "Honey, you ok?"
"I just want to break stuff!!" I screamed back.
"Oh dear, let's not do that. We just got new plates." he said, and returned to his show.
Determined not to cry, I swiped my hands across my eyes impatiently, smearing paint and gesso all over my face. I could not get this painting to turn out right no matter how hard I tried. How do you capture feelings this big? Disgusted with myself and my less than mediocre art skills, I left it lie, and went to splash water on my face.
In the bathroom mirror, I looked up to find my face streaked with paint, so reminiscent of war stripes. My eyes looked shell-shocked, still; my face was white and gaunt; my hair stuck out in every direction. That was the picture I'd been trying to make- too bad I didn't think to grab my camera.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Enter Violet
After Sassy died, I didn't think I would ever get another cat; what would be the point? When my friend, Jenni, sent me a picture of a diminutive feline princess, I was surprised to feel a little tug on my heartstrings. There was no replacing Sassy, of course, but as I watched Jacob moping about the house, never laughing and seldom smiling, I wondered if a kitten might help him feel better. He had never had a pet to raise from a baby and watch grow. Could this experience engage him?
I googled "children in mourning" and saw that, sure enough, a pet can help a child, giving them something to care about when they often don't care about anything or anyone. Animals for those grieving can provide unspoken, but desperately needed touch and comfort.
The most surprising was Tim's reaction, who I had presumed would be the hard sell. I had all my research ready to lay out like a well shuffled deck of cards. Imagine my surprise when he was all for it. He saw the picture and fell in love, asking if he could name her since his parents had never let him name a pet when he was little. I tilted my head and looked at Tim again...who was this man standing in my kitchen?
So just like that, Violet was named and loved before we ever met her.
Gizmo, our elderly dog, and Oliver, our orange tabby cat, were not quite sure what to think of this tiny creature that invaded their homeland. Gizmo was frightened out of his mind, whining and scrambling onto my lap. I soothed him between my giggles; he was easily ten times her size.
I looked on as Jacob cradled Violet in his arms and looked down at her with a tenderness that made my throat tighten. In the next few days, I watched him attend to her every need, talking to her, explaining things to her, showing her around, and decided he was going to make a wonderful father someday. He had my father's patience and my silliness- a recipe for sure success with little ones.
I was baffled at Tim's behavior. Every night when he came in from work, he searched the house for his little fur covered princess and took her to watch tv with him. Sometimes I could hear him talking to her in the tone of voice he'd used only during Jacob's babyhood. Any small indiscretion typical of kittens getting to know a new environment was glossed over with a defensive, "Well, she's just little." I watched him lavishing over the top affection on her, doting on her at every turn, and slowly realized what he was doing.
Tim was giving Violet every bit of love he'd held back from Cory over the years. And maybe, if he'd known Cory from birth, it would have come just as naturally as it did to this tiny kitten. But without that early bond, their relationship was a lot more complicated. I wondered if he felt bad about the hugs he hadn't given or the weekends he hadn't invited her to visit while we were separated. I had a feeling he did, and was working out these feelings as he lavished affection upon this little squirt who streaked about the house, looking up at him with innocent eyes.
As Violet grew, so did her attitude. Within a month or two, she'd gone from the quiet little fluff ball who mainly ate and slept to a spitfire daredevil whose favorite pastimes were climbing curtains and trying to ride Oliver piggyback. It got so bad, we had to institute a household Bully Prevention Program for the pets. We counted down the days until she could be declawed. Jacob summed it up best with this statement as he viewed a picture I'd snapped of them in a rare moment of calm:
"That's the closest she's ever gotten to me without trying to harm me."
Through all the growing pains, Tim's dedication to Violet remained steadfast- he could be irritated as all get out with her, then smile helplessly, and start pointing out her good points to anyone who would listen- this is much how I remember his last days with Cory.
Violet in repose.
I googled "children in mourning" and saw that, sure enough, a pet can help a child, giving them something to care about when they often don't care about anything or anyone. Animals for those grieving can provide unspoken, but desperately needed touch and comfort.
The most surprising was Tim's reaction, who I had presumed would be the hard sell. I had all my research ready to lay out like a well shuffled deck of cards. Imagine my surprise when he was all for it. He saw the picture and fell in love, asking if he could name her since his parents had never let him name a pet when he was little. I tilted my head and looked at Tim again...who was this man standing in my kitchen?
So just like that, Violet was named and loved before we ever met her.
Gizmo, our elderly dog, and Oliver, our orange tabby cat, were not quite sure what to think of this tiny creature that invaded their homeland. Gizmo was frightened out of his mind, whining and scrambling onto my lap. I soothed him between my giggles; he was easily ten times her size.
I looked on as Jacob cradled Violet in his arms and looked down at her with a tenderness that made my throat tighten. In the next few days, I watched him attend to her every need, talking to her, explaining things to her, showing her around, and decided he was going to make a wonderful father someday. He had my father's patience and my silliness- a recipe for sure success with little ones.
I was baffled at Tim's behavior. Every night when he came in from work, he searched the house for his little fur covered princess and took her to watch tv with him. Sometimes I could hear him talking to her in the tone of voice he'd used only during Jacob's babyhood. Any small indiscretion typical of kittens getting to know a new environment was glossed over with a defensive, "Well, she's just little." I watched him lavishing over the top affection on her, doting on her at every turn, and slowly realized what he was doing.
Tim was giving Violet every bit of love he'd held back from Cory over the years. And maybe, if he'd known Cory from birth, it would have come just as naturally as it did to this tiny kitten. But without that early bond, their relationship was a lot more complicated. I wondered if he felt bad about the hugs he hadn't given or the weekends he hadn't invited her to visit while we were separated. I had a feeling he did, and was working out these feelings as he lavished affection upon this little squirt who streaked about the house, looking up at him with innocent eyes.
As Violet grew, so did her attitude. Within a month or two, she'd gone from the quiet little fluff ball who mainly ate and slept to a spitfire daredevil whose favorite pastimes were climbing curtains and trying to ride Oliver piggyback. It got so bad, we had to institute a household Bully Prevention Program for the pets. We counted down the days until she could be declawed. Jacob summed it up best with this statement as he viewed a picture I'd snapped of them in a rare moment of calm:
"That's the closest she's ever gotten to me without trying to harm me."
Through all the growing pains, Tim's dedication to Violet remained steadfast- he could be irritated as all get out with her, then smile helplessly, and start pointing out her good points to anyone who would listen- this is much how I remember his last days with Cory.
Violet in repose.Sunday, August 18, 2013
Comfort
On the way out of the house today, having fought my way out of bed at a shameful one in the afternoon, I paused to say good-bye to the boys. Jake declined my invitation to come with, as he always does. He is a homebody, reluctant to stray too far from his kitten, his main source of comfort. When Tim asked me if I was feeling better, obviously wanting me to say yes, I could feel the pressure Cory must've felt when asked the same. I just looked at him dully, wondering if my greasy hair and the fact that I've been wearing the same purple bra for days on end didn't tell my tale as loudly as one might think it would.
"Not really." I responded, and held out my arms for a Tim hug- short, perfunctory, finished off with a couple of heartfelt pats on the back as if we were athletes who had just lost a big game.
When he pulled away, I said, "I almost crawled right into my mom's lap yesterday."
Honestly puzzled, he asked, "Why?"
Now I'm not saying that most middle aged women while their hours away in their mother's lap. What I am saying is that when you're more miserable than you've ever been in your whole life, and you have a good mother, you want your mom. And in most cases, you want to be held by someone who loves you.
I responded, "Because I don't feel good."
"Call the doctor. Call the doctor. Call the doctor. That's my advice." he called to my back, turning back to the tv, as I walked away. I realized Tim wasn't being insensitive or flippant, he just didn't seek touch as a source of comfort. In fact, when he is really down, he goes out of his way to avoid it.
This is so crazy to me, since we all know touch is the only sense we cannot live without. Those Harlow monkeys were solid proof- touch matters...a lot.
Feeling I'd fallen down that well once again and couldn't see even a slice of daylight above my head, I drove to my mom's yesterday. Dad let me in, taking me in his arms before he'd even shut the door. His shushing sounds were the same ones I remembered from thirty-something years ago. He ushered me into the living room by the arm, squeezing me as we walked along, and delivered me to my mother, who beckoned me to come sit close to her on the couch. I collapsed and leaned up against her, putting my head on her little shoulder, and allowing her to pat me as one would pat a colicky baby. The only thing that stopped me from climbing into her lap completely was the fear that I might suffocate her- she is such a small soul.
At last, I had found a place to rest my misery.
"Not really." I responded, and held out my arms for a Tim hug- short, perfunctory, finished off with a couple of heartfelt pats on the back as if we were athletes who had just lost a big game.
When he pulled away, I said, "I almost crawled right into my mom's lap yesterday."
Honestly puzzled, he asked, "Why?"
Now I'm not saying that most middle aged women while their hours away in their mother's lap. What I am saying is that when you're more miserable than you've ever been in your whole life, and you have a good mother, you want your mom. And in most cases, you want to be held by someone who loves you.
I responded, "Because I don't feel good."
"Call the doctor. Call the doctor. Call the doctor. That's my advice." he called to my back, turning back to the tv, as I walked away. I realized Tim wasn't being insensitive or flippant, he just didn't seek touch as a source of comfort. In fact, when he is really down, he goes out of his way to avoid it.
This is so crazy to me, since we all know touch is the only sense we cannot live without. Those Harlow monkeys were solid proof- touch matters...a lot.
Feeling I'd fallen down that well once again and couldn't see even a slice of daylight above my head, I drove to my mom's yesterday. Dad let me in, taking me in his arms before he'd even shut the door. His shushing sounds were the same ones I remembered from thirty-something years ago. He ushered me into the living room by the arm, squeezing me as we walked along, and delivered me to my mother, who beckoned me to come sit close to her on the couch. I collapsed and leaned up against her, putting my head on her little shoulder, and allowing her to pat me as one would pat a colicky baby. The only thing that stopped me from climbing into her lap completely was the fear that I might suffocate her- she is such a small soul.
At last, I had found a place to rest my misery.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Road Rage
We all know it's not a safe idea to drive when you're emotionally distraught. It's also not the best idea to talk on the phone while driving. How I ended up doing both right after Cory's death is a complete mystery. Somehow, there I was, alone, at the wheel of a moving vehicle, headed across town to pick out candles for the beginning of the service and the next day, a frame for Cory's portrait.
I was at Target when the doors opened. My mind was so rattled, I doubt if I could have came up with my phone number or address, if asked. Was it any wonder that I ended up in front of their extensive aisle of candle choices, just checked out? Those long rows of endless colors and scents just swam before my eyes, a sort of mirage, overpowered by the sight of Cory, facedown in the road, her hair obscuring her face, her arm twisted, her legs scraped and dirty.
Before long, a cute little young lady in red shirt and khakis stuck her head in the aisle to ask if I needed help. This poor Target associate did not know what she was in for. Did I need help? Yes, and how...
Probably looking to be in the midst of a complete breakdown, I babbled to her about needing a candle for Cory's service. You'd think the accident would be the last thing I'd want to discuss, but any time a stranger crossed my path in those early days, I felt an overwhelming need to tell them the whole story. Later, I would discover this is all part of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and is actually a good thing. What I knew at the time was I must have scared the hell out of people. There were usually two responses to my overshare: a misty eyed hug or eyes that found the floor as they pretended they hadn't heard me.
This kind Target employee helped me find candles that would fit the horrifying occasion. I took them to the register, looking around the store in disbelief...would I really never be here with Cory again? How was that even possible?
The next day I pulled out of my driveway, deep in conversation with my mom about the things I'd written to have read about Cory at the service. Mom and I love each other deeply, but quickly discovered that planning a funeral- like a wedding to the nth power- brings out the worst in everyone. That whole sense of free fall makes everyone crave a sense of control. We were soon at each other's throats about seemingly every detail of the service. I finally bit out these words as I merged onto the highway, "Mom, when your daughter dies, you can say whatever you want at their service, but this is MY child, and I am going to say what I feel" I hung up before she could respond, and began crying hysterically. I took my hands off the wheel and put them at my temples. My foot pushed down on the gas, and I considered just letting the car drift into the lane of oncoming traffic: no more decisions I didn't want to make, but was bound heart and soul to make as Cory would've wanted them. No more arguing with well loved family members. No more feeling like I didn't belong anywhere- home, out, alone, with family and friends, in a crowd.
Just then, my phone began ringing. I thought it would be mom, and I picked it up, barking hoarsely into it. It was Tim, asking why I hadn't woke him, and where was I? Just like that, the moment was over; my hands were back on the wheel, and I was on my way to make new friends at Hobby Lobby while I picked out a frame for my daughter's funeral.
No one else would know the one she'd have liked best. No one.
I was at Target when the doors opened. My mind was so rattled, I doubt if I could have came up with my phone number or address, if asked. Was it any wonder that I ended up in front of their extensive aisle of candle choices, just checked out? Those long rows of endless colors and scents just swam before my eyes, a sort of mirage, overpowered by the sight of Cory, facedown in the road, her hair obscuring her face, her arm twisted, her legs scraped and dirty.
Before long, a cute little young lady in red shirt and khakis stuck her head in the aisle to ask if I needed help. This poor Target associate did not know what she was in for. Did I need help? Yes, and how...
Probably looking to be in the midst of a complete breakdown, I babbled to her about needing a candle for Cory's service. You'd think the accident would be the last thing I'd want to discuss, but any time a stranger crossed my path in those early days, I felt an overwhelming need to tell them the whole story. Later, I would discover this is all part of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and is actually a good thing. What I knew at the time was I must have scared the hell out of people. There were usually two responses to my overshare: a misty eyed hug or eyes that found the floor as they pretended they hadn't heard me.
This kind Target employee helped me find candles that would fit the horrifying occasion. I took them to the register, looking around the store in disbelief...would I really never be here with Cory again? How was that even possible?
The next day I pulled out of my driveway, deep in conversation with my mom about the things I'd written to have read about Cory at the service. Mom and I love each other deeply, but quickly discovered that planning a funeral- like a wedding to the nth power- brings out the worst in everyone. That whole sense of free fall makes everyone crave a sense of control. We were soon at each other's throats about seemingly every detail of the service. I finally bit out these words as I merged onto the highway, "Mom, when your daughter dies, you can say whatever you want at their service, but this is MY child, and I am going to say what I feel" I hung up before she could respond, and began crying hysterically. I took my hands off the wheel and put them at my temples. My foot pushed down on the gas, and I considered just letting the car drift into the lane of oncoming traffic: no more decisions I didn't want to make, but was bound heart and soul to make as Cory would've wanted them. No more arguing with well loved family members. No more feeling like I didn't belong anywhere- home, out, alone, with family and friends, in a crowd.
Just then, my phone began ringing. I thought it would be mom, and I picked it up, barking hoarsely into it. It was Tim, asking why I hadn't woke him, and where was I? Just like that, the moment was over; my hands were back on the wheel, and I was on my way to make new friends at Hobby Lobby while I picked out a frame for my daughter's funeral.
No one else would know the one she'd have liked best. No one.
Watching Cars
A day after the accident, or it might have been two, I walked out of the house around six in the morning leaving Tim and Jake sleeping, and retraced the steps I'd ran to the scene. When I got to her spot, I just stood there, the horror washing over me, every sight and sound back in tortuous real time. I took the few steps to the curb, and poised myself there, toes just over the edge.
I knew what I'd come there to do. My insides were churning, not with fear but with the worst mental pain I'd ever experienced. I was too scattered to begin labeling or sorting out my emotions. All I knew, and what I knew with every molecule of my being was that I wanted everything to stop. Everything needed to hurry up and stop while I could still see her face and hear her voice. I could not imagine living without her. I could not imagine ever missing her less. I could not live with the guilt of what I had done. I did not deserve to.
I rocked unsteadily on my feet, and started watching cars. This was all about timing. The last thing that I wanted was to finish this day alive, with a broken back, mourning Cory from a wheelchair. I had to find that perfect vehicle that was big enough and moving fast enough to do the job completely.
This was my first experience with suicidal thinking, and for me it wasn't a question of did I really want to or not. It was a question of making good on the attempt. As my head whipped left to right, searching out some unfortunate driver that I was about to run out in front of, I spared not a single thought to anyone I might be leaving behind. I stood there, no one knowing where I was or what I was up to; now was the time. I braced myself for that feeling, the sudden smack...would the pain be hot and searing? Would I feel anything at all? What had Cory felt? Had she seen the car at the last second, but remained frozen in mid step, the terror making her already big round eyes bigger and wider? Did she have time to scream? Would I? Did it matter?
Knees knocking together, the sound practically audible, I folded at last, falling to the curb like something built with weak supports, destined to crumble. It just wasn't sure enough. What if I survived? That was the scariest part of the whole concept to me...not dying, but living.
I put my hands over my face and did that silent, tearless weeping that comes from dehydration. Whooping in great big gulps of air and holding it in, involuntarily, I began to see stars. Without someone beside me to remind me to take a breath, I just didn't bother.
It must have been the shock, but I remember long silent periods during those first few days when I just couldn't cry, my face a big shock-stricken slab of stone. I remember vaguely noticing Tim wandering around the house shuffling his feet like a zombie, shreds of toilet paper stuffed up both nostrils. He, a man who seldom showed any type of emotion, had cried so much he gave himself a bloody nose.
I picked myself off the curb, head down, and stumbled home. I still remember how my body felt, as if it wasn't attached to my brain, but just a heavy thing I was forced to drag along. I realized my arms didn't move with my body when I walked, they hung slack and apelike, at my sides. I couldn't look anyone in the eyes- to meet their eyes would drive me the rest of the way out of my mind. I would share my pain with no one; it was all I had left of her.
My first concrete plan thwarted, I crawled reluctantly back inside myself, my brain going so fast- the images of her body on the road popping up unbidden every few minutes. I took to my bed; my next suicidal impulse just days away.
---To Be Continued
I knew what I'd come there to do. My insides were churning, not with fear but with the worst mental pain I'd ever experienced. I was too scattered to begin labeling or sorting out my emotions. All I knew, and what I knew with every molecule of my being was that I wanted everything to stop. Everything needed to hurry up and stop while I could still see her face and hear her voice. I could not imagine living without her. I could not imagine ever missing her less. I could not live with the guilt of what I had done. I did not deserve to.
I rocked unsteadily on my feet, and started watching cars. This was all about timing. The last thing that I wanted was to finish this day alive, with a broken back, mourning Cory from a wheelchair. I had to find that perfect vehicle that was big enough and moving fast enough to do the job completely.
This was my first experience with suicidal thinking, and for me it wasn't a question of did I really want to or not. It was a question of making good on the attempt. As my head whipped left to right, searching out some unfortunate driver that I was about to run out in front of, I spared not a single thought to anyone I might be leaving behind. I stood there, no one knowing where I was or what I was up to; now was the time. I braced myself for that feeling, the sudden smack...would the pain be hot and searing? Would I feel anything at all? What had Cory felt? Had she seen the car at the last second, but remained frozen in mid step, the terror making her already big round eyes bigger and wider? Did she have time to scream? Would I? Did it matter?
Knees knocking together, the sound practically audible, I folded at last, falling to the curb like something built with weak supports, destined to crumble. It just wasn't sure enough. What if I survived? That was the scariest part of the whole concept to me...not dying, but living.
I put my hands over my face and did that silent, tearless weeping that comes from dehydration. Whooping in great big gulps of air and holding it in, involuntarily, I began to see stars. Without someone beside me to remind me to take a breath, I just didn't bother.
It must have been the shock, but I remember long silent periods during those first few days when I just couldn't cry, my face a big shock-stricken slab of stone. I remember vaguely noticing Tim wandering around the house shuffling his feet like a zombie, shreds of toilet paper stuffed up both nostrils. He, a man who seldom showed any type of emotion, had cried so much he gave himself a bloody nose.
I picked myself off the curb, head down, and stumbled home. I still remember how my body felt, as if it wasn't attached to my brain, but just a heavy thing I was forced to drag along. I realized my arms didn't move with my body when I walked, they hung slack and apelike, at my sides. I couldn't look anyone in the eyes- to meet their eyes would drive me the rest of the way out of my mind. I would share my pain with no one; it was all I had left of her.
My first concrete plan thwarted, I crawled reluctantly back inside myself, my brain going so fast- the images of her body on the road popping up unbidden every few minutes. I took to my bed; my next suicidal impulse just days away.
---To Be Continued
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Back to the Beginning
So, here's the secret about the first year after losing your child: it starts all over again.
Seriously?
I need to have a few words with Dr. Z because this is just asinine.
I can remember sitting in the back of someone's car going to pick out the flowers for the service. It had suddenly hit me that Cory's artwork should be at the visitation and service - that people should know all she had been and done. Tim got ahold of someone at the funeral home- not Mark, who was out- who told him we could bring two or three pieces; that was all they could accommodate. He covered the phone with his hand and relayed this message to me with a frightened expression on his already miserable face.
I threw both hands up in the air, and just started screaming, "You know what? You know what? Tell them just forget it! If I can't even do this the way it's supposed to be, then I'm just not gonna do it at all! I'm done!"
Tim looked at me, knowing full well that I was referring to the funeral as a whole and not the inclusion of Cory's artwork. Instead of trying to explain to a completely traumatized and irrational individual that the funeral must take place- one way or another- he turned back to his call.
"I'm gonna need to talk to Mark." he said firmly into the phone.
Back at the house, I stomped into the house, and began going through her canvases. I was head and elbows into the wooden crate her loose paper paintings were in when I stumbled upon a piece I'd never seen before. I pulled it out and looked closer. It was a painting of a figure facing a casket with writing underneath that said, "I had a horrible vision of me dead and my mother crying over my casket at the funeral." It was dated 2010. I held it and watched as the paper began first shaking and then whipping wildly about as my wrist jittered helplessly. I opened my mouth and uttered a blood curdling scream that brought all the family members in the house at the time on the run.
Tim took the painting from me and hid it on a high shelf of a closet. It was too late; it was one of those things that once seen can never be unseen. Mom came on the run with a pill. I'd refused to take anything up until then, but this time I grabbed it greedily with one shaky hand and gobbled it down.
Tim took me by one arm and led me away from the toy room where canvases were now spread out from one end to the other. "C'mon, honey, how about if you just lay down?"
When I opened my eyes groggily a couple hours later, Tim came in to tell me he had talked to Mark and we were welcome to bring all the pieces we had- they would make room. Tim searched my face for some sign of recognition- this tiny victory. I stared blankly. Did it really matter? Did it?
She was still dead.
That's how it feels now. The last year has been the most unimaginable sort of hell. I have crawled through the majority of it. I made it through one calendar year, only to discover there is no major victory to be had for those who survive.
She's still dead.
Seriously?
I need to have a few words with Dr. Z because this is just asinine.
I can remember sitting in the back of someone's car going to pick out the flowers for the service. It had suddenly hit me that Cory's artwork should be at the visitation and service - that people should know all she had been and done. Tim got ahold of someone at the funeral home- not Mark, who was out- who told him we could bring two or three pieces; that was all they could accommodate. He covered the phone with his hand and relayed this message to me with a frightened expression on his already miserable face.
I threw both hands up in the air, and just started screaming, "You know what? You know what? Tell them just forget it! If I can't even do this the way it's supposed to be, then I'm just not gonna do it at all! I'm done!"
Tim looked at me, knowing full well that I was referring to the funeral as a whole and not the inclusion of Cory's artwork. Instead of trying to explain to a completely traumatized and irrational individual that the funeral must take place- one way or another- he turned back to his call.
"I'm gonna need to talk to Mark." he said firmly into the phone.
Back at the house, I stomped into the house, and began going through her canvases. I was head and elbows into the wooden crate her loose paper paintings were in when I stumbled upon a piece I'd never seen before. I pulled it out and looked closer. It was a painting of a figure facing a casket with writing underneath that said, "I had a horrible vision of me dead and my mother crying over my casket at the funeral." It was dated 2010. I held it and watched as the paper began first shaking and then whipping wildly about as my wrist jittered helplessly. I opened my mouth and uttered a blood curdling scream that brought all the family members in the house at the time on the run.
Tim took the painting from me and hid it on a high shelf of a closet. It was too late; it was one of those things that once seen can never be unseen. Mom came on the run with a pill. I'd refused to take anything up until then, but this time I grabbed it greedily with one shaky hand and gobbled it down.
Tim took me by one arm and led me away from the toy room where canvases were now spread out from one end to the other. "C'mon, honey, how about if you just lay down?"
When I opened my eyes groggily a couple hours later, Tim came in to tell me he had talked to Mark and we were welcome to bring all the pieces we had- they would make room. Tim searched my face for some sign of recognition- this tiny victory. I stared blankly. Did it really matter? Did it?
She was still dead.
That's how it feels now. The last year has been the most unimaginable sort of hell. I have crawled through the majority of it. I made it through one calendar year, only to discover there is no major victory to be had for those who survive.
She's still dead.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Unsteadily Gaining
Okay, the sensitive topic for the day: fat is relative. It doesn't matter if you start out a size zero or a size ten, once your body is going in a direction you'd rather it didn't, you develop the same insecurities as all the other folks on the size spectrum.
I watched Cory put on weight during some of the med trials. Her middle thickened seemingly overnight, making her even more critical of her appearance. I tried to empathize with her situation, but what they say is true, you can't really understand someone until you've walked a day in their shoes. Enter, me, one hundred and three pounds for as long as I can remember. I was back in my jeans a week after Cory was born, and nine years later, I was sliding into them a month after Jacob joined us. I really had no idea what she was going through back then.
Thanks to my meds, I do now.
The first time I had to jump up and down to get into my pants was an a-ha moment for my previously skinny self...oh, this is what they're always talking about! How horrible!
As the fabric of my pants seemed to develop a personal vendetta against me, refusing to accommodate my new fuller behind, I began to hate them passionately. Getting dressed in the mornings had been one of my few remaining joys, and a good problem for my brain to latch onto that it could actually solve. Fashion was my bread and butter. I was discovering, as time went on, a sliding scale starting with the wiggle and snap dance and ending when the zipper refused to budge. Did I have a pot belly? Well, no. But suddenly (and I mean seemingly while I slept), there was more of me. What might not seem like a big change to someone else seemed to me, a girl whose weight had been static since basically 1989, unthinkable. In particular, there were these unfamiliar soft curvatures on each side that were apparently called hips. Crazy.
I spent at least one week at my workplace, diligently following the dress code, but striding around the office with a floaty blouse hanging over my fly, which was unbuttoned and unzipped, the entire day. No one suspected a thing. Or if they did, theygenerously kept it to themselves.
Before anyone starts to throw rocks at me for complaining about an extra few pounds which most say looks great, I want to remind you of what Dr. Z said, which is so, so true. We do not see ourselves accurately, and a lot of that has to do with the state your brain is in on any given day. I know this to be true. I watched Cory do it constantly, and I have now experienced it for myself. On good days, I will check myself out in the full length mirror and realize I probably rock a bikini better now than I ever have, which is not too shabby for 39.
On the bad days, I miss my hipbones. I miss them. I feel like someone else has taken over my body, making changes without my consent. I don't feel like me. Having never really experienced that before - except when pregnant- I can now say it is a scary and uncomfortable feeling.
Needing my body's cooperation to close my pants in the morning is stressful, and the very worst way to the start the day. As I complained to my friend, Angie, about this, she hid a giggle behind her hand, and made serious her expression as she queried, "Miss Nicole, haven't you ever had skinny pants, so-so pants, and fat day pants?"
Horrified, I stared at her. What in the hell is she talking about?
The day we left for Florida, I stopped by Target to surrender to my new body shape by buying a pair of shorts that I could fit into. Angie had assured me that if I didn't buy more than say 2 pair, I was not taking up residence in the new size, but merely stopping by for a visit. I picked up a couple of candidates listening to our other friend assure me this was completely normal, and by no way meant defeat.
On the way back to the dressing room, I came up with the single most cost-effective way of accommodating all these different days- skinny, medium, fat, mortifying. I snatched up a pair of shorts and ran triumphantly back to the junior's section to find them, waving the pair of stretch panel maternity jean shorts. They took one look at them, and just shook their heads. I slunk back to hang them on the rack. It seemed like a brilliant idea to me, but I had a feeling they were over there calling me some choice names.
In the dressing room, I put those shorts- a size up from my usual- on and snapped them with ease. I turned around and surveyed my rear in the mirror.
What was this? Now, that was a hot ass.
I watched Cory put on weight during some of the med trials. Her middle thickened seemingly overnight, making her even more critical of her appearance. I tried to empathize with her situation, but what they say is true, you can't really understand someone until you've walked a day in their shoes. Enter, me, one hundred and three pounds for as long as I can remember. I was back in my jeans a week after Cory was born, and nine years later, I was sliding into them a month after Jacob joined us. I really had no idea what she was going through back then.
Thanks to my meds, I do now.
The first time I had to jump up and down to get into my pants was an a-ha moment for my previously skinny self...oh, this is what they're always talking about! How horrible!
As the fabric of my pants seemed to develop a personal vendetta against me, refusing to accommodate my new fuller behind, I began to hate them passionately. Getting dressed in the mornings had been one of my few remaining joys, and a good problem for my brain to latch onto that it could actually solve. Fashion was my bread and butter. I was discovering, as time went on, a sliding scale starting with the wiggle and snap dance and ending when the zipper refused to budge. Did I have a pot belly? Well, no. But suddenly (and I mean seemingly while I slept), there was more of me. What might not seem like a big change to someone else seemed to me, a girl whose weight had been static since basically 1989, unthinkable. In particular, there were these unfamiliar soft curvatures on each side that were apparently called hips. Crazy.
I spent at least one week at my workplace, diligently following the dress code, but striding around the office with a floaty blouse hanging over my fly, which was unbuttoned and unzipped, the entire day. No one suspected a thing. Or if they did, theygenerously kept it to themselves.
Before anyone starts to throw rocks at me for complaining about an extra few pounds which most say looks great, I want to remind you of what Dr. Z said, which is so, so true. We do not see ourselves accurately, and a lot of that has to do with the state your brain is in on any given day. I know this to be true. I watched Cory do it constantly, and I have now experienced it for myself. On good days, I will check myself out in the full length mirror and realize I probably rock a bikini better now than I ever have, which is not too shabby for 39.
On the bad days, I miss my hipbones. I miss them. I feel like someone else has taken over my body, making changes without my consent. I don't feel like me. Having never really experienced that before - except when pregnant- I can now say it is a scary and uncomfortable feeling.
Needing my body's cooperation to close my pants in the morning is stressful, and the very worst way to the start the day. As I complained to my friend, Angie, about this, she hid a giggle behind her hand, and made serious her expression as she queried, "Miss Nicole, haven't you ever had skinny pants, so-so pants, and fat day pants?"
Horrified, I stared at her. What in the hell is she talking about?
The day we left for Florida, I stopped by Target to surrender to my new body shape by buying a pair of shorts that I could fit into. Angie had assured me that if I didn't buy more than say 2 pair, I was not taking up residence in the new size, but merely stopping by for a visit. I picked up a couple of candidates listening to our other friend assure me this was completely normal, and by no way meant defeat.
On the way back to the dressing room, I came up with the single most cost-effective way of accommodating all these different days- skinny, medium, fat, mortifying. I snatched up a pair of shorts and ran triumphantly back to the junior's section to find them, waving the pair of stretch panel maternity jean shorts. They took one look at them, and just shook their heads. I slunk back to hang them on the rack. It seemed like a brilliant idea to me, but I had a feeling they were over there calling me some choice names.
In the dressing room, I put those shorts- a size up from my usual- on and snapped them with ease. I turned around and surveyed my rear in the mirror.
What was this? Now, that was a hot ass.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Black, Blacker, Blackest
This might be totally inappropriate, but I'm gonna go there anyways. First of all, I said I'd tell the truth. Secondly, if I cared enough about what other people think, my hair would be clean.
Here goes:
Where is that woman? Seriously, where is she?
I have tried so hard to be the bigger person, put myself in her shoes, blah, blah, blah...
but look, that was Cory that she mowed over, and I have not heard one word from her since I ran hysterically onto the scene.
I never even saw her face. I heard a voice from my right side say, "I'm sorry, I didn't see her!". And then she was gone.
Apart from those fantasies of bashing her head in with her own garden gnome, I try not to think about her at all. I listen to other people talking about how I should feel bad for her and the hell her life must be, and I come up short every time. I'm sorry, guys, I'm just not that good of a person. I can't feel bad for the woman who ran my daughter over, making her body fly high up into the air. Did you know the police report lists one of the witnesses describing the "thump" they heard upon impact? What kind of sick shit is that?
I have tried and I have tried, but "knocked out of her shoes" is a phrase you just can't get past. I do sometimes wonder how Cory's one time serious boyfriend who happened to be pulling into the Urbandale Plaza and saw her body go up into the air is dealing with that image burned into his brain. I seldom wonder how the driver is doing- maybe because I've had no contact with her whatsoever, whereas I've talked to Cory's ex-boyfriend a dozen times or more.
I have, in better times, tried to put myself in the driver's shoes. Anyone who knows me knows I am not the best driver. What if I had made that sudden snap decision? What if I had killed someone's child? It is hard to imagine, but I would like to think that I'd be begging the family for an audience, or at least sending a heartfelt written apology.
So this silence is maddening. Like, what, you hit her, you killed her, and you have no remorse? Did she just walk away, and go on with her life? No ticket. Not even twenty bucks. Like Cory's life was worth nothing to the city of Battle Creek. Still behind the wheel. Another death of someone's beloved child a real possibility. Is that mean to say or just harshly realistic?
When I discussed this with Hannah, my new friend that I met at the Florida conference, she was quick to correct me. "Nicole, she must be pushing it all down. She is in survival mode, just as you are." I looked at her, the disgust palpable on my face.
She looked up to the right, tucked her hair absently behind her ear, and met my eyes with an intense gaze, "But at the same time, I would want to hunt that woman down. Do you understand me? I would want to hunt her down, and grab her up, and scream into her face, 'How dare you? How dare you take my daughter without my permission?' And then I would smash her head in."
Yes, Hannah, that's how it really feels. She took my daughter without my permission.
When I got home from the police station with Cory's things, I cleared out the narrow little lingerie drawer in the dresser nearest my bed. Inside it, her glasses (frames only), her belt, her rubber bracelet, and her Hello Kitty shoes sit. I've opened that drawer maybe twice since I put them there. I can't look at them, but I want them near. Any time I look at them, I begin to shake all over.
That's what I'm going through. What is the driver going through?
Beats the hell out of me.
Little Lessons
It is a huge goal of mine to make sure Jacob is affectionate and able to talk about his feelings. Since he naturally introverted, I've had to invent a wide variety of little games to give him a safe space to do so. It's not so much that I don't want him to be introverted, because I think we are quite the undervalued lot, but more that I want him to be able to connect with people when he needs them- and when they need him. I've watched him over the last few months, drift further and further away from others.
So, this morning:
I asked him to give me a hug, which he did, the first to break away, and checking around the house to see if any of the pets were watching. I pounced on him, and demanded another, asking if this time he would hug me as much as he loved me. He took this on, saying dubiously, "Okay...but I hope no one gets hurt here." I laughed, and then asked him to hug me as much as he missed Cory. I braced myself, expecting to be flung violently across the room with the force of his grief. Instead, he hugged me gently, and clung. When I asked him to explain his hug, he said it was slow and steady, how much he missed her, and that she is always with him.
So, in this playful way, we have developed our own little emotional language. He insisted that I hug his kitten, Violet, when I left for the coffee shop, and then tell her exactly what it had meant.
This game will be good for him.
So, this morning:
I asked him to give me a hug, which he did, the first to break away, and checking around the house to see if any of the pets were watching. I pounced on him, and demanded another, asking if this time he would hug me as much as he loved me. He took this on, saying dubiously, "Okay...but I hope no one gets hurt here." I laughed, and then asked him to hug me as much as he missed Cory. I braced myself, expecting to be flung violently across the room with the force of his grief. Instead, he hugged me gently, and clung. When I asked him to explain his hug, he said it was slow and steady, how much he missed her, and that she is always with him.
So, in this playful way, we have developed our own little emotional language. He insisted that I hug his kitten, Violet, when I left for the coffee shop, and then tell her exactly what it had meant.
This game will be good for him.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Project Life
You know how when you couldn't sleep the night before, but you have a busy day, you are able to buzz right along, mostly on the adrenaline of fulfilling all your scheduled obligations, and you are thinking, wow, I don't need eight hours of a sleep after all, I can totally do this. I've been one of those lucky three-hour-a-night souls all along. What was I thinking sleeping my life away? It's all a rather amazing revelation until you sit down. Once you've settled your body into a position of rest...couch, chair, bed- you can no longer move, not even to blink.
I've been treading water since my return from Florida, fighting the depression that loomed like so many dark thunderheads. I was doing so well- Cory's art display, the trip to Italy, the newspaper article, the training in Florida; what happened? That's easy. I sat down.
It's funny how when you are ripe for the fall, the tiniest thing will catch you off balance.
Here's what happened yesterday:
The cats were out of food, and ready to take over the house for fresh meat. I hinted to Tim how cool it would be if he ran over to Family Fare, saving all of our lives from death by hungry felines. He took one look at me- unwashed, uncombed, carrying my stuffed Eeyore around the house like a toddler- and gently ignored my request. He knew I'd eventually cave and go myself, and was desperate to see me out of the house and in motion, any kind of motion at all.
Slightly put out, I slipped on my shoes, and grabbed my debit card. If I had to go, I was going au naturel. Family Fare did not deserve my personal grooming. In I trooped, dirty, miserable, having eaten nothing in the last day but a couple of grapes and lots of coffee.
I grabbed the cat food, and stopped to pick up some cosmetic sponges on the way to the register. I didn't have the slightest intention of putting on makeup, you understand- rather, they are great for dabbing paint on a stencil without bleed-through. My art supplies have commandeered the dining room table, for which my own rule was once "don't set anything on the table unless you intend to eat it or light it on fire". That rule went by the wayside some time ago, as did my ability and desire to organize. Since I never cook anymore, I've briefly flirted with the idea of cleaning the oven really well, and then storing my art supplies in it, but that would involve cleaning...so it remains a notion.
I stopped at the little E.L.F. cosmetic display to grab the sponges, and noticed they've come out with a whole little line of purse products: bobby pin packs, shine sheets, ponytail holders in a cute little case. My chest just burned. I wanted to grab up one of each item and take them home to Cory, who would jump up and down over six dollars worth of trinkets, and fill her purse happily to the brim.
When Tim and I were separated, there wasn't a ton of money coming in, and extras were shaved down to what we really couldn't live without. Cory and I at one point had shared a $1 E.L.F. black eyeliner pencil- not exactly healthy to be sharing eye makeup products, but, boy, did it build our cooperation skills. If you want to make two females bond, force them to share cosmetics.
I stumbled out of that stupid store, pulled out onto fricking West Michigan Avenue, and drove to my house which was no longer a home without Cory there, just a place to be tortured- equal turns- by her absence and her memory.
Once inside, wondering if this is what living in a mausoleum would be like, I took to my bed. Tim came in before he left for work, watched me cry, and backed carefully out of the room, telling me to be sure to call the doctor on Monday. Tim doesn't like to talk and he doesn't hold people. He will, however, offer you an excellent doctor referral. Medical professionals are his tried and true brand of comfort.
I fell asleep still crying, and woke up with the answer to it all. I had quite a bit of my meds. No one locked it up anymore. Laying there, under the blanket with Cory's face on it, I went through the motions in my head. Going to sleep and not waking up? What was not to like?
Awhile later, I texted my friend, Nicole, my best friend since fourth grade. I am always a little hurt that she never tells me that she completely understands and to just lay down and die. That is what I expect her to say when I've finished telling her my woes. Instead, she always offers tough love. This time around, it went something like this,
"Get up! Get busy!" she typed.
Was this girl for real? I just lay there, rolling my eyes at my ceiling that needed to be cleaned.
"Go clean out a drawer or a closet." she suggested.
Seriously? I typed back rather snottily, "Cleaning does not make me feel better."
This is true. Cleaning is what I do best when I'm angry. If you want me to clean your house from top to bottom, invite me over, and piss me off royally. My hands will begin to move of their own accord.
Nicole responded, "Don't think of it as cleaning. Think of it as a project."
When depressed, I am seldom cooperative. "I have no energy for a project."
She came back with this, "It's not a project. It's saving your life."
I typed back, "It doesn't seem worth the trouble." and shut the lid to my laptop. I rolled over, and went to sleep, hating everything, and myself most of all. That thought crept in just as I drifted off, You killed your girl. You killed the one you loved most.
Why is the guilt creeping back in? You've got me. The flashbacks have been bad lately, sometimes during the day, but most often at night. When I see her bloody and broken body laid out on the road, it is hard to look down at my hands, and find them clean.
When I woke up, it was after five in the afternoon. I had to get out to pay a bill, or there would be a late fee, which I certainly couldn't afford...hell, I can't even afford the bill itself. I tried to get Jake to come with me, but he begged to stay home. He has, in recent months, become a little agoraphobic. It takes a lot to get him to leave the house, and a boring errand with his mother is just not one of them.
Not even running a brush through my hair, I headed out. Waiting in line to make my payment, I glimpsed myself in the mirror, and scared myself. Really, I jumped. It was like that scene in Sixteen Candles, where the outcast is drinking shots in the bathroom, sees himself in the mirror, and is like, "Oh my God!"
Back in the parking lot, I got behind the wheel that led me of its own accord to Michael's craft store. I had been toying with the idea of learning to carve rubber stamps. Sixteen dollars later, I was headed home, completely oblivious that I had just taken Nicole's advice: start a project.
I fed Jacob, and planted myself at the dining room table. With my Beats on, I sat and carved for the next couple of hours. It was unexpectedly soothing. I think what I like best about carving is that you can assess where you are, and then make it better. A small stroke or cut can make a huge difference. It made me think about how much I've wanted things in my life to look different, but despite my best efforts, they never turned out like I wanted. I couldn't make Cory well. I couldn't make her father well. I never got my family with him, no matter how hard I tried.
So as I sat and patiently carved, I realized some things have been out of my control, but this rubber stamp, at least, could be shaped the way I wanted. I could make mistakes all night long, and go back in to make them better. I think that's also why I like to paint...mistakes are easily forgiven. Nothing is permanent. Someone once said, "A painting is never really finished; it simply stops in an interesting place."
Hours later, I had two finished stamps. One was of hearts that Cory drew- one of which I have inked on my hand. The other was a copy of a drawing I'd done. I felt pretty proud of myself.
And thinking about all this carving also gave me a question to answer: what else do I want to make before they carve my name in stone?
I've been treading water since my return from Florida, fighting the depression that loomed like so many dark thunderheads. I was doing so well- Cory's art display, the trip to Italy, the newspaper article, the training in Florida; what happened? That's easy. I sat down.
It's funny how when you are ripe for the fall, the tiniest thing will catch you off balance.
Here's what happened yesterday:
The cats were out of food, and ready to take over the house for fresh meat. I hinted to Tim how cool it would be if he ran over to Family Fare, saving all of our lives from death by hungry felines. He took one look at me- unwashed, uncombed, carrying my stuffed Eeyore around the house like a toddler- and gently ignored my request. He knew I'd eventually cave and go myself, and was desperate to see me out of the house and in motion, any kind of motion at all.
Slightly put out, I slipped on my shoes, and grabbed my debit card. If I had to go, I was going au naturel. Family Fare did not deserve my personal grooming. In I trooped, dirty, miserable, having eaten nothing in the last day but a couple of grapes and lots of coffee.
I grabbed the cat food, and stopped to pick up some cosmetic sponges on the way to the register. I didn't have the slightest intention of putting on makeup, you understand- rather, they are great for dabbing paint on a stencil without bleed-through. My art supplies have commandeered the dining room table, for which my own rule was once "don't set anything on the table unless you intend to eat it or light it on fire". That rule went by the wayside some time ago, as did my ability and desire to organize. Since I never cook anymore, I've briefly flirted with the idea of cleaning the oven really well, and then storing my art supplies in it, but that would involve cleaning...so it remains a notion.
I stopped at the little E.L.F. cosmetic display to grab the sponges, and noticed they've come out with a whole little line of purse products: bobby pin packs, shine sheets, ponytail holders in a cute little case. My chest just burned. I wanted to grab up one of each item and take them home to Cory, who would jump up and down over six dollars worth of trinkets, and fill her purse happily to the brim.
When Tim and I were separated, there wasn't a ton of money coming in, and extras were shaved down to what we really couldn't live without. Cory and I at one point had shared a $1 E.L.F. black eyeliner pencil- not exactly healthy to be sharing eye makeup products, but, boy, did it build our cooperation skills. If you want to make two females bond, force them to share cosmetics.
I stumbled out of that stupid store, pulled out onto fricking West Michigan Avenue, and drove to my house which was no longer a home without Cory there, just a place to be tortured- equal turns- by her absence and her memory.
Once inside, wondering if this is what living in a mausoleum would be like, I took to my bed. Tim came in before he left for work, watched me cry, and backed carefully out of the room, telling me to be sure to call the doctor on Monday. Tim doesn't like to talk and he doesn't hold people. He will, however, offer you an excellent doctor referral. Medical professionals are his tried and true brand of comfort.
I fell asleep still crying, and woke up with the answer to it all. I had quite a bit of my meds. No one locked it up anymore. Laying there, under the blanket with Cory's face on it, I went through the motions in my head. Going to sleep and not waking up? What was not to like?
Awhile later, I texted my friend, Nicole, my best friend since fourth grade. I am always a little hurt that she never tells me that she completely understands and to just lay down and die. That is what I expect her to say when I've finished telling her my woes. Instead, she always offers tough love. This time around, it went something like this,
"Get up! Get busy!" she typed.
Was this girl for real? I just lay there, rolling my eyes at my ceiling that needed to be cleaned.
"Go clean out a drawer or a closet." she suggested.
Seriously? I typed back rather snottily, "Cleaning does not make me feel better."
This is true. Cleaning is what I do best when I'm angry. If you want me to clean your house from top to bottom, invite me over, and piss me off royally. My hands will begin to move of their own accord.
Nicole responded, "Don't think of it as cleaning. Think of it as a project."
When depressed, I am seldom cooperative. "I have no energy for a project."
She came back with this, "It's not a project. It's saving your life."
I typed back, "It doesn't seem worth the trouble." and shut the lid to my laptop. I rolled over, and went to sleep, hating everything, and myself most of all. That thought crept in just as I drifted off, You killed your girl. You killed the one you loved most.
Why is the guilt creeping back in? You've got me. The flashbacks have been bad lately, sometimes during the day, but most often at night. When I see her bloody and broken body laid out on the road, it is hard to look down at my hands, and find them clean.
When I woke up, it was after five in the afternoon. I had to get out to pay a bill, or there would be a late fee, which I certainly couldn't afford...hell, I can't even afford the bill itself. I tried to get Jake to come with me, but he begged to stay home. He has, in recent months, become a little agoraphobic. It takes a lot to get him to leave the house, and a boring errand with his mother is just not one of them.
Not even running a brush through my hair, I headed out. Waiting in line to make my payment, I glimpsed myself in the mirror, and scared myself. Really, I jumped. It was like that scene in Sixteen Candles, where the outcast is drinking shots in the bathroom, sees himself in the mirror, and is like, "Oh my God!"
Back in the parking lot, I got behind the wheel that led me of its own accord to Michael's craft store. I had been toying with the idea of learning to carve rubber stamps. Sixteen dollars later, I was headed home, completely oblivious that I had just taken Nicole's advice: start a project.
I fed Jacob, and planted myself at the dining room table. With my Beats on, I sat and carved for the next couple of hours. It was unexpectedly soothing. I think what I like best about carving is that you can assess where you are, and then make it better. A small stroke or cut can make a huge difference. It made me think about how much I've wanted things in my life to look different, but despite my best efforts, they never turned out like I wanted. I couldn't make Cory well. I couldn't make her father well. I never got my family with him, no matter how hard I tried.
So as I sat and patiently carved, I realized some things have been out of my control, but this rubber stamp, at least, could be shaped the way I wanted. I could make mistakes all night long, and go back in to make them better. I think that's also why I like to paint...mistakes are easily forgiven. Nothing is permanent. Someone once said, "A painting is never really finished; it simply stops in an interesting place."
Hours later, I had two finished stamps. One was of hearts that Cory drew- one of which I have inked on my hand. The other was a copy of a drawing I'd done. I felt pretty proud of myself.
And thinking about all this carving also gave me a question to answer: what else do I want to make before they carve my name in stone?
Friday, August 9, 2013
Courageous
I will never forget taking Cory for her first ECT treatment. She'd been in the hospital for about ten days, poked, prodded, and interviewed by a team of psychiatrists. Med changes were not helping. She was what they called "treatment resistant" which was a fancy way of saying that no matter what we threw at her symptoms, they kept right on like a runaway train.
The decision to try ECT had been a difficult one to reach. More than anything, Cory wanted some relief. In the face of her suffering, anything was worth a try.
Mom and I met her in her room, and waited on a little bench in the hall as they arranged a driver to take us from one wing of the hospital to the ECT clinic. Cory was nervous, but hopeful. Her main fear was that the agents were in cahoots with the doctor who would be conducting the procedure, and they would make a mistake with the anesthesia. Ever since her second grade teacher had shared that she'd lost her husband in a routine surgery due to problems with the anesthesia, Cory had feared being put under. The delusions didn't help one bit.
Later, Cory would declare that the worst part of having ECT was getting the IV put in her hand. They had a devil of a time with it. That poor girl was already poked at the lab weekly to track the levels of medication in her system. Needles were not her friends.
Once she was situated, Mom and I could wait with her until it was her turn to go back. When I looked down at her pale face, her hair fluffed haphazardly against the pillow, and her arms full- Duck nestled into one and her American Girl doll clutched in the other- I didn't see fear. I saw strength- sheer strength and a brute determination.
As we took turns reassuring her -or maybe ourselves- that all would go well, she spoke up, "I know it will. Rebecca has a prayer cloth tucked under her dress." she said, and gestured to her doll. The pastor and elders of my parents' church had anointed and prayed over a cloth, and sent to Cory for this trying time.
I looked down at my girl, who was seventeen, but spoke to me in the same little girl voice I remembered from years gone by. If I could trade places with her...If I could take it from her, bear it for her...
The clinic sent a clergy person to pray with us. Cory's face was calm. She clutched my hand, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out if she was trying to draw strength from me or pass it to me.
Before we knew it, it was her turn. I kissed my girl full on the lips, and told her I loved her. They wheeled her away.
Mom and I were shown to the waiting room. My insides were a jumbled mess that immediately demanded to be taken to the nearest restroom. I took the short trip down the corridor, and found it. When I returned to the waiting room, I was preparing to sit, when they called my name. It was over...that soon.
In the time it had taken for me to find the restroom, they had somehow (because no one really knows how ECT works) reset the neurotransmitters in my baby's brain. Amazing.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
A Shopping Tiger Cannot Change Her Stripes
The most fun I had in Florida was going to the outlet mall with Angie- go figure. I didn't really expect to have as much fun as I did; I was mainly looking forward to seeing Angie, the most frugal minded soul I've ever met, completely lose her inhibitions in the Vera Bradley outlet. I could not wait to see what complete unapologetic obsession looked like on her face- caution thrown to the wind, plunking that plastic down with a smile.
Like the favorite chocolate in your Valentine sampler, she saved her beloved Vera for last. She watched me drool over a bright pink bag at Dooney, impressed with my restraint as I blew it a kiss and took those difficult steps out of the store without it. I am a grownup, now.
We visited Coach so Angie could hunt for a purse for her soon to be step-daughter. Coach isn't really my favorite, but I can always find something that whispers to me. As I wandered around the store, moving in subconscious circles (Cory used to say I shopped like a velociraptor on the hunt), my eye happened upon the male mannequin in the front of the store. Could this be?
I called to Angie, in delight, as I stepped closer. Indeed, this fly faceless gentleman was carrying none other than a manbag...an extremely large, extremely well made manbag. A smiling, portly male sales associate with a receding hairline stepped over to offer his assistance. "Can I help you with something?"
And just like that, he had entered a conversation he probably never expected.
"Yeah, what is up with the man bags? Are they getting super popular or what?" I asked, as Angie listened, that watchful look on her face that says she's not sure just what I might say next, but here oh Lord, here we go.
"They are, actually. Are you looking for one for someone?" he asked.
"Umm, I guess I was just curious." I said, and shot Angie a smile.
Angie led in with, "She was just in Italy, and she said the men over there all carried them."
The salesman, I think his name was Jared, responded politely, "Oh, did they?"
I warmed to the conversation. "They sure did. They were everywhere, but much smaller, like a square shaped purse. I just could not figure out why they felt they needed them. Like what do they need to carry that won't fit in their pockets?"
Jared grinned, "Did you ever figure it out?"
I smiled back, "I did. You wanna know what they tote around town?"
"What?" he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.
"Condoms! Just dozens and dozens of condoms!" I announced cheerily.
Jared burst into laughter, blushing to the roots of his sparse baby fine strawberry blonde hair.
"Oh...wow. Why would they need...so many... I wonder." he managed.
Always helpful, I burst out, "Well, they are very good-looking over there."
Poor Jared flushed a nearly eggplant color, and fixed his eyes on the floor. "Well, gee, thanks, us poor American guys can't compete with that..."
Oops, insert foot in mouth, and I felt horrible since Jared's strengths are clearly in his personality.
Oh, what the hell? flashed across Jared's face before he asked in a rush, "How did you find that out?"
At this point, Angie and I were cracking up. I sputtered, "I googled it! I didn't...like, personally research it!"
Angie broke in to let him know that in addition to a wide array of condoms, the European men also carry sunglasses, ID, smartphone, medication, lipcare products, and snacks for eating on the go.
Italian men don't like being referred to as feminine, so they have changed the term purse to il borsello, which translates to he-bag. Very manly. This would work for all the man-bags I saw in Rome, except the patent leather cherry red one strapped cross-body around a man with the face of an angel strolling the cobblestone with his equally attractive boyfriend.
Jared was still laughing as he walked off to answer the call of another customer, saying, "You guys have made my day."
Laugh if you will, Jared, but I wonder if you are now prowling the streets of Orlando, Coach manbag on your shoulder, filled to the brim with condoms. They do say hope springs eternal.
But onto Vera:
I must confess (and Angie, if you're reading, please forgive me) that I was not looking forward to spending a lot of time in Vera Bradley. Previous to my outlet visit, I have always associated Vera Bradley products with women of a certain age- upwards of forty, and embracing old age happily. Was it the stationary and pen sets I'd seen back home in Barnes and Noble? Was it the matchy-matchy principle of style that women my mom's age hold strong to? Your purse must match your shoes exactly and both must match your dress? Matchy matchy said conservative to me, and that is just not my style. I've always been a more little black dress with a pop of red shoes sort of girl. Was it the fact that the line is made of cotton, a durable, sensible fabric? I mean, if you can throw your purse in the washing machine, is that really a good thing? Or was it the signature quilting that took me back to those floor length robes that all mothers seemed to have when I was a child?
So as we crossed the threshold to the Vera outlet, I turned to Angie to see her eyes starry and bright. I grinned and asked her, "Miss Angie, are you feeling it in your vagina?"
She shook her head at me, and crept deeper into the store, picking up purses, wallets, and bags along the way. If you've every been shopping with me, you know that my idea of shopping together is to travel to the store together, then split up. I shop best alone, feeling free to misbehave without judgment. I wandered about the store, inspecting the clientele, so many middle aged women, new moms, and the occasional gawky teenager. These were not my people. I circled the racks, sniffing at purses that could be folded flat, and stacked on a shelf...how could they? Why would they?
Then something happened.
In a back corner, my eyes happened upon a retro looking brown pattern. I pulled the purse out of its stack, and examined it closer. It was a frame bag, in a shape reminiscent of Three's Company. I could see Chrissy slinging this over her arm to head out the door in her powder blue turtleneck and bellbottom jeans, worn with stacked heel toffee colored boots.
Now, wait a minute. I took a deep breath, slung it over my arm, and located the nearest mirror. There were possibilities here. It looked sort of bohemian. Maybe some wood bangle bracelets, a lace doily looking cream colored top, some hiphugger jeans, platform sandals. Dude, I haven't worn heels in a year. If this purse could get me in them, it would pay for itself. Or so I told myself.
Fast forward two hours.
In a bleary state of accessory induced bliss, I found Angie, who during the last two hours had systematically put down item after item, until all that remained was a measly little wallet, and an interchangeable strap. I was crushed.
Meanwhile, I had went around, sniffing out all the diamonds in the rough. Angie doubled over in laughter to see me approaching with Vera bags laddering both arms, wrist to shoulder, and any number of trinkets clutched to my chest.
"Miss Nicole, what has happened here?" she said, giggling.
"I love Vera!" I gushed. "I take back every bad thing I ever said. Look at all this cute stuff!"
Angie just shook her head as we found a bench and went through the painstaking process of picking through my haul for final purchases.
She walked out having spent a modest forty bucks.
Me? Not so much.
It would appear, that even in Angie's favorite store in the world, her core values remain unshakable.
And I, apparently, will shop wherever you take me. But I will find the cutest stuff in the joint. Guaranteed.
Like the favorite chocolate in your Valentine sampler, she saved her beloved Vera for last. She watched me drool over a bright pink bag at Dooney, impressed with my restraint as I blew it a kiss and took those difficult steps out of the store without it. I am a grownup, now.
We visited Coach so Angie could hunt for a purse for her soon to be step-daughter. Coach isn't really my favorite, but I can always find something that whispers to me. As I wandered around the store, moving in subconscious circles (Cory used to say I shopped like a velociraptor on the hunt), my eye happened upon the male mannequin in the front of the store. Could this be?
I called to Angie, in delight, as I stepped closer. Indeed, this fly faceless gentleman was carrying none other than a manbag...an extremely large, extremely well made manbag. A smiling, portly male sales associate with a receding hairline stepped over to offer his assistance. "Can I help you with something?"
And just like that, he had entered a conversation he probably never expected.
"Yeah, what is up with the man bags? Are they getting super popular or what?" I asked, as Angie listened, that watchful look on her face that says she's not sure just what I might say next, but here oh Lord, here we go.
"They are, actually. Are you looking for one for someone?" he asked.
"Umm, I guess I was just curious." I said, and shot Angie a smile.
Angie led in with, "She was just in Italy, and she said the men over there all carried them."
The salesman, I think his name was Jared, responded politely, "Oh, did they?"
I warmed to the conversation. "They sure did. They were everywhere, but much smaller, like a square shaped purse. I just could not figure out why they felt they needed them. Like what do they need to carry that won't fit in their pockets?"
Jared grinned, "Did you ever figure it out?"
I smiled back, "I did. You wanna know what they tote around town?"
"What?" he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.
"Condoms! Just dozens and dozens of condoms!" I announced cheerily.
Jared burst into laughter, blushing to the roots of his sparse baby fine strawberry blonde hair.
"Oh...wow. Why would they need...so many... I wonder." he managed.
Always helpful, I burst out, "Well, they are very good-looking over there."
Poor Jared flushed a nearly eggplant color, and fixed his eyes on the floor. "Well, gee, thanks, us poor American guys can't compete with that..."
Oops, insert foot in mouth, and I felt horrible since Jared's strengths are clearly in his personality.
Oh, what the hell? flashed across Jared's face before he asked in a rush, "How did you find that out?"
At this point, Angie and I were cracking up. I sputtered, "I googled it! I didn't...like, personally research it!"
Angie broke in to let him know that in addition to a wide array of condoms, the European men also carry sunglasses, ID, smartphone, medication, lipcare products, and snacks for eating on the go.
Italian men don't like being referred to as feminine, so they have changed the term purse to il borsello, which translates to he-bag. Very manly. This would work for all the man-bags I saw in Rome, except the patent leather cherry red one strapped cross-body around a man with the face of an angel strolling the cobblestone with his equally attractive boyfriend.
Jared was still laughing as he walked off to answer the call of another customer, saying, "You guys have made my day."
Laugh if you will, Jared, but I wonder if you are now prowling the streets of Orlando, Coach manbag on your shoulder, filled to the brim with condoms. They do say hope springs eternal.
But onto Vera:
I must confess (and Angie, if you're reading, please forgive me) that I was not looking forward to spending a lot of time in Vera Bradley. Previous to my outlet visit, I have always associated Vera Bradley products with women of a certain age- upwards of forty, and embracing old age happily. Was it the stationary and pen sets I'd seen back home in Barnes and Noble? Was it the matchy-matchy principle of style that women my mom's age hold strong to? Your purse must match your shoes exactly and both must match your dress? Matchy matchy said conservative to me, and that is just not my style. I've always been a more little black dress with a pop of red shoes sort of girl. Was it the fact that the line is made of cotton, a durable, sensible fabric? I mean, if you can throw your purse in the washing machine, is that really a good thing? Or was it the signature quilting that took me back to those floor length robes that all mothers seemed to have when I was a child?
So as we crossed the threshold to the Vera outlet, I turned to Angie to see her eyes starry and bright. I grinned and asked her, "Miss Angie, are you feeling it in your vagina?"
She shook her head at me, and crept deeper into the store, picking up purses, wallets, and bags along the way. If you've every been shopping with me, you know that my idea of shopping together is to travel to the store together, then split up. I shop best alone, feeling free to misbehave without judgment. I wandered about the store, inspecting the clientele, so many middle aged women, new moms, and the occasional gawky teenager. These were not my people. I circled the racks, sniffing at purses that could be folded flat, and stacked on a shelf...how could they? Why would they?
Then something happened.
In a back corner, my eyes happened upon a retro looking brown pattern. I pulled the purse out of its stack, and examined it closer. It was a frame bag, in a shape reminiscent of Three's Company. I could see Chrissy slinging this over her arm to head out the door in her powder blue turtleneck and bellbottom jeans, worn with stacked heel toffee colored boots.
Now, wait a minute. I took a deep breath, slung it over my arm, and located the nearest mirror. There were possibilities here. It looked sort of bohemian. Maybe some wood bangle bracelets, a lace doily looking cream colored top, some hiphugger jeans, platform sandals. Dude, I haven't worn heels in a year. If this purse could get me in them, it would pay for itself. Or so I told myself.
Fast forward two hours.
In a bleary state of accessory induced bliss, I found Angie, who during the last two hours had systematically put down item after item, until all that remained was a measly little wallet, and an interchangeable strap. I was crushed.
Meanwhile, I had went around, sniffing out all the diamonds in the rough. Angie doubled over in laughter to see me approaching with Vera bags laddering both arms, wrist to shoulder, and any number of trinkets clutched to my chest.
"Miss Nicole, what has happened here?" she said, giggling.
"I love Vera!" I gushed. "I take back every bad thing I ever said. Look at all this cute stuff!"
Angie just shook her head as we found a bench and went through the painstaking process of picking through my haul for final purchases.
She walked out having spent a modest forty bucks.
Me? Not so much.
It would appear, that even in Angie's favorite store in the world, her core values remain unshakable.
And I, apparently, will shop wherever you take me. But I will find the cutest stuff in the joint. Guaranteed.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
What You Can See
When Cory was here with us, I could tell what type of mother she would be if she had children someday by watching her with Jake. She was watchful, patient, affectionate, and delightfully silly.
I took the kids to buy them new shoes a few days before the accident. Jake wanted checkerboard Vans like his big sis wore, and Cory ended up falling in love with the new Hello Kitty vans. It turned out that Jake's were not available in his size in the store, and would have to be ordered. One look at his disappointed face, and Cory was second guessing her purchase. "Mom, I just don't know if I can get these when Jake can't get his. He's so upset...just look at his face."
Yep, this was the girl who would give her brother the last dollar in her pocket, and had difficulty denying him anything, only able to do it if absolutely necessary. This was the girl who when at her most ill point, named her eight year old brother as her best friend in the world.
He is pretty amazing. Jacob, an old soul from infancy, had the ability to separate his sister who loved him dearly from the symptoms of her illness, and possessed an endless well of compassion and forgiveness when those symptoms scared him or hurt his feelings. By age eight, he had learned how to love unconditionally- a skill many of us struggle with as adults.
Their bond was so tight- so embedded in the way they cared for one another and freely offered their help and support without even thinking about- I am astounded that losing her has not completely destroyed my son.
I had watched as Jacob patiently entered each of Cory's contacts into her new phone a week before the accident. Sure, he had other things he'd rather be doing, but he knew Cory needed his eyes which were sharp, while hers were fuzzy from the meds. I knew no one else could make his face light up like she did when she entered a room, trilling, "Little brother!!!!!" Apparently, so did he.
These, my babies, my dynamic duo, were an unstoppable team...planning an interpretive dance to turn dinner into "dinner theatre" any given night of the week, filming, acting in, and producing a rap video when Jake was 5, signing a three page contract written by Cory to share the new bunk beds in Jake's room at ages 3 and 12...there was no end to their shenanigans. I know there can be no end to their love story.
It breaks my heart all the same.
I took the kids to buy them new shoes a few days before the accident. Jake wanted checkerboard Vans like his big sis wore, and Cory ended up falling in love with the new Hello Kitty vans. It turned out that Jake's were not available in his size in the store, and would have to be ordered. One look at his disappointed face, and Cory was second guessing her purchase. "Mom, I just don't know if I can get these when Jake can't get his. He's so upset...just look at his face."
Yep, this was the girl who would give her brother the last dollar in her pocket, and had difficulty denying him anything, only able to do it if absolutely necessary. This was the girl who when at her most ill point, named her eight year old brother as her best friend in the world.
He is pretty amazing. Jacob, an old soul from infancy, had the ability to separate his sister who loved him dearly from the symptoms of her illness, and possessed an endless well of compassion and forgiveness when those symptoms scared him or hurt his feelings. By age eight, he had learned how to love unconditionally- a skill many of us struggle with as adults.
Their bond was so tight- so embedded in the way they cared for one another and freely offered their help and support without even thinking about- I am astounded that losing her has not completely destroyed my son.
I had watched as Jacob patiently entered each of Cory's contacts into her new phone a week before the accident. Sure, he had other things he'd rather be doing, but he knew Cory needed his eyes which were sharp, while hers were fuzzy from the meds. I knew no one else could make his face light up like she did when she entered a room, trilling, "Little brother!!!!!" Apparently, so did he.
These, my babies, my dynamic duo, were an unstoppable team...planning an interpretive dance to turn dinner into "dinner theatre" any given night of the week, filming, acting in, and producing a rap video when Jake was 5, signing a three page contract written by Cory to share the new bunk beds in Jake's room at ages 3 and 12...there was no end to their shenanigans. I know there can be no end to their love story.
It breaks my heart all the same.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Let It Be- Part II
Back to Florida, wanna come along?
I think I mentioned the conference was about how the brain works, and learning how to manage your emotions. There are basically three brain states, as follows:
Survival- fight or flight. Picture me jumping out of Angie's car barefoot, screaming, running with no destination in mind.
Emotional- Lots of verbal. Picture me screaming at Tim that he would never understand because it wasn't Jacob, he still had his boy. "If it were Jake, you'd be saying his name all the time!"
Executive- Able to problem solve. Picture me making the plan to take Cory's shoes to the Spanish Steps in Italy, and following through.
(For more information, visit www.consciousdiscipline.com.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the conference went on, we were urged to keep positive intent in mind when looking at behaviors. Sometimes behaviors that could be viewed in a negative light are just the window through which a person's brain state can be glimpsed. The more we learn to be good observers, the better we are able to help ourselves and others move to the higher part of the brain, where we can make our best decisions.
As I sat at the table, surrounded by my new friends, just screwing around with my watercolors as I listened, I began to think about my own behaviors in the last year since Cory died, and even further back to some of Cory's behaviors when she was ill. I realized I have spent the last twelve months living in survival and emotional states, dipping a toe into executive only on my good days, and mostly only within the last three months or so. I thought about all of Cory's struggles, and realized my girl lived in a survival state for the better part of a year; a good day for her was to step into emotional. The things that became difficult for her were all a result of her executive skills being compromised by her illness: initiating tasks, organizing, memory, impulse control, prioritizing, and many more.
I tried to explain it to Tim when I got home. He used to be absolutely infuriated with the state of her room. It was towards the end of her life, when she was recovering from a long bout of psychosis that her living space started to reflect a healthier brain, which I pointed out to Tim, but he didn't really seem impressed by.
Finally, I thought, I might have the words to explain it well. If Cory came home with a new book or clothing, she would take it to her room. The bag and tags or receipt never made it to the trash. Her trash basket sat empty most of the time, but her drawers were full of a modge podge of clothing, books, schoolwork, half-full water bottles, and general trash. Why? Tim would say she was lazy. I would bristle, and round the mulberry bush we would merrily go. I argued my girl wasn't lazy. I would point out that she would do pretty much any task you asked of her, but you had to ask, and you had to give it to her one step at a time. Cory loved to help.
When left to her own devices, Cory simply couldn't always prioritize what was worth keeping from what needed to be thrown away. In her mind, everything in the bag, and the bag itself was hers, and her things belonged in her room...hadn't Mom reminded her of that over and over again?
When I thought about her reluctance to shower sometimes, I thought it was a combination of factors. First of all, she was often depressed, and when you are clinically depressed, rolling over is too much work, let alone hauling your butt into a moving body of water. Secondly, there were all those steps. A lot of times, I could get Cory into the shower, amidst many protests, where she would stand under the spray until she thought enough time had passed that she could shut it off. All those steps...they made her anxious. She did better when I posted some small cheater pics inside the shower: wash body, shampoo, shave. And occasionally, it was those damn voices working her into a state of delusional thinking: that the water coming from the showerhead was acid, and would burn her skin...best to stay away from that...it might be acid one day, and plain water the next...you never really knew, best to play it safe.
Could I apply this same positive intent to some of my own behaviors in the past year? It would seem we are often the last ones to give ourselves a break. When I looked at things from a brain perspective, my mass shopping seemed irresponsible, yes, but a coping skill at the time, maybe the only one I knew thus far, and I wasn't exactly in the shape to learn new ones for the first few months. If you think about it, 22 pairs of Hunter boots doesn't exactly scream impulse control. I have always been a avid collector/borderline hoarder (perhaps my anxiety peeking through), but even this was unheard of prior to losing my firstborn child.
During the last day of the conference, we broke into small groups and played games to review what we are learned. I will never forget the open honesty and bravery of the young woman at one of the game tables, who shared that mistakes are bound to happen, despite your best efforts, and you should be just as kind to yourself as you are with others- viewing mistakes as an opportunity to learn a new skill. The personal example she gave was that she had left an abusive relationship after several years. The thought that she should have left sooner would start to creep up on her, and she would cut it off. It was over; today is a new day. She would never wish her situation on anyone, but she had learned from it, and came out the other side stronger.
I marveled at her ability to share this very personal information with a handful of strangers, not fearing their judgment (she already had forgiveness from her biggest critic- herself) just feeling good in her own skin...how very brave. That is the kind of person I want to be. So when I spied Becky Bailey wandering about when I took a bathroom break, I stalked her.
Becky is an extremely intelligent woman who has made differences in the lives of so many others. Was there any way I could not ask her how to stay in my executive state from here on out? More importantly, could I use positive intent on myself, for a past decision?
She stopped mid-way through her response, when I told her why I wanted the answers to these questions. I told her what happened to Cory, that I was the one who allowed her to walk to the store, that she was, in fact, running the errand for me. I added that I'd spent the last year in survival and emotional states, and wanted her advice on how to keep my head above water.
Becky took me by the forearm, and stepped so close to me that our eyes were just inches from each other. She waited until my nervous darting glances stopped. She asked quietly, "Do you have other children?"
"Yes, I do. I have a son. He's eleven."
She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. "Okay, then. I want you to listen to me." She spoke gently but firmly, punctuating her words with little squeezes on my arm, "You cannot disappear. You have a child, and you cannot leave this world. Do you understand that?"
I nodded, saying nothing. Does my face still say I want to die? Does it?
She asked me why I felt responsible, and I went through all the carefully constructed logic that placed the blame on my shoulders.
"But if it had been you, instead of your daughter...if you had been killed- walking, driving, whatever- would Cory have been as well equipped to handle losing you as you -terrible as it may be- are equipped to handle losing her? If you had been taken instead of her, two children would have been without a mother, and I can't think of anything more harmful to a child. When it is someone's time to go, it is their time. You were left here because you are the oxygen for your son. You have a job to do."
Then she said this,
"You're gonna have a few more years of survival and emotional; you just are. And when you start to feel guilty, I want you to dive under that feeling of guilt, get down deep, and crawl into the sadness. It's okay to be sad. When you need to go underwater...go... just keep high enough-", she gestured with a hand level at her nostrils, "so that you can still breathe, and make sure you come up often enough to take care of your son."
She looked at me for a moment, hugged me tightly, and released me. "That's just the way it is. Sorry."
I walked away feeling I had been given a gift...permission to have my feelings, and the right to take my time.
I need to just let it be.
I think I mentioned the conference was about how the brain works, and learning how to manage your emotions. There are basically three brain states, as follows:
Survival- fight or flight. Picture me jumping out of Angie's car barefoot, screaming, running with no destination in mind.
Emotional- Lots of verbal. Picture me screaming at Tim that he would never understand because it wasn't Jacob, he still had his boy. "If it were Jake, you'd be saying his name all the time!"
Executive- Able to problem solve. Picture me making the plan to take Cory's shoes to the Spanish Steps in Italy, and following through.
(For more information, visit www.consciousdiscipline.com.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the conference went on, we were urged to keep positive intent in mind when looking at behaviors. Sometimes behaviors that could be viewed in a negative light are just the window through which a person's brain state can be glimpsed. The more we learn to be good observers, the better we are able to help ourselves and others move to the higher part of the brain, where we can make our best decisions.
As I sat at the table, surrounded by my new friends, just screwing around with my watercolors as I listened, I began to think about my own behaviors in the last year since Cory died, and even further back to some of Cory's behaviors when she was ill. I realized I have spent the last twelve months living in survival and emotional states, dipping a toe into executive only on my good days, and mostly only within the last three months or so. I thought about all of Cory's struggles, and realized my girl lived in a survival state for the better part of a year; a good day for her was to step into emotional. The things that became difficult for her were all a result of her executive skills being compromised by her illness: initiating tasks, organizing, memory, impulse control, prioritizing, and many more.
I tried to explain it to Tim when I got home. He used to be absolutely infuriated with the state of her room. It was towards the end of her life, when she was recovering from a long bout of psychosis that her living space started to reflect a healthier brain, which I pointed out to Tim, but he didn't really seem impressed by.
Finally, I thought, I might have the words to explain it well. If Cory came home with a new book or clothing, she would take it to her room. The bag and tags or receipt never made it to the trash. Her trash basket sat empty most of the time, but her drawers were full of a modge podge of clothing, books, schoolwork, half-full water bottles, and general trash. Why? Tim would say she was lazy. I would bristle, and round the mulberry bush we would merrily go. I argued my girl wasn't lazy. I would point out that she would do pretty much any task you asked of her, but you had to ask, and you had to give it to her one step at a time. Cory loved to help.
When left to her own devices, Cory simply couldn't always prioritize what was worth keeping from what needed to be thrown away. In her mind, everything in the bag, and the bag itself was hers, and her things belonged in her room...hadn't Mom reminded her of that over and over again?
When I thought about her reluctance to shower sometimes, I thought it was a combination of factors. First of all, she was often depressed, and when you are clinically depressed, rolling over is too much work, let alone hauling your butt into a moving body of water. Secondly, there were all those steps. A lot of times, I could get Cory into the shower, amidst many protests, where she would stand under the spray until she thought enough time had passed that she could shut it off. All those steps...they made her anxious. She did better when I posted some small cheater pics inside the shower: wash body, shampoo, shave. And occasionally, it was those damn voices working her into a state of delusional thinking: that the water coming from the showerhead was acid, and would burn her skin...best to stay away from that...it might be acid one day, and plain water the next...you never really knew, best to play it safe.
Could I apply this same positive intent to some of my own behaviors in the past year? It would seem we are often the last ones to give ourselves a break. When I looked at things from a brain perspective, my mass shopping seemed irresponsible, yes, but a coping skill at the time, maybe the only one I knew thus far, and I wasn't exactly in the shape to learn new ones for the first few months. If you think about it, 22 pairs of Hunter boots doesn't exactly scream impulse control. I have always been a avid collector/borderline hoarder (perhaps my anxiety peeking through), but even this was unheard of prior to losing my firstborn child.
During the last day of the conference, we broke into small groups and played games to review what we are learned. I will never forget the open honesty and bravery of the young woman at one of the game tables, who shared that mistakes are bound to happen, despite your best efforts, and you should be just as kind to yourself as you are with others- viewing mistakes as an opportunity to learn a new skill. The personal example she gave was that she had left an abusive relationship after several years. The thought that she should have left sooner would start to creep up on her, and she would cut it off. It was over; today is a new day. She would never wish her situation on anyone, but she had learned from it, and came out the other side stronger.
I marveled at her ability to share this very personal information with a handful of strangers, not fearing their judgment (she already had forgiveness from her biggest critic- herself) just feeling good in her own skin...how very brave. That is the kind of person I want to be. So when I spied Becky Bailey wandering about when I took a bathroom break, I stalked her.
Becky is an extremely intelligent woman who has made differences in the lives of so many others. Was there any way I could not ask her how to stay in my executive state from here on out? More importantly, could I use positive intent on myself, for a past decision?
She stopped mid-way through her response, when I told her why I wanted the answers to these questions. I told her what happened to Cory, that I was the one who allowed her to walk to the store, that she was, in fact, running the errand for me. I added that I'd spent the last year in survival and emotional states, and wanted her advice on how to keep my head above water.
Becky took me by the forearm, and stepped so close to me that our eyes were just inches from each other. She waited until my nervous darting glances stopped. She asked quietly, "Do you have other children?"
"Yes, I do. I have a son. He's eleven."
She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. "Okay, then. I want you to listen to me." She spoke gently but firmly, punctuating her words with little squeezes on my arm, "You cannot disappear. You have a child, and you cannot leave this world. Do you understand that?"
I nodded, saying nothing. Does my face still say I want to die? Does it?
She asked me why I felt responsible, and I went through all the carefully constructed logic that placed the blame on my shoulders.
"But if it had been you, instead of your daughter...if you had been killed- walking, driving, whatever- would Cory have been as well equipped to handle losing you as you -terrible as it may be- are equipped to handle losing her? If you had been taken instead of her, two children would have been without a mother, and I can't think of anything more harmful to a child. When it is someone's time to go, it is their time. You were left here because you are the oxygen for your son. You have a job to do."
Then she said this,
"You're gonna have a few more years of survival and emotional; you just are. And when you start to feel guilty, I want you to dive under that feeling of guilt, get down deep, and crawl into the sadness. It's okay to be sad. When you need to go underwater...go... just keep high enough-", she gestured with a hand level at her nostrils, "so that you can still breathe, and make sure you come up often enough to take care of your son."
She looked at me for a moment, hugged me tightly, and released me. "That's just the way it is. Sorry."
I walked away feeling I had been given a gift...permission to have my feelings, and the right to take my time.
I need to just let it be.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Let It Be- Part I
"The moment is as it is." - one of the seven powers of Conscious Discipline.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have felt rushed at every stage of this nightmare from the cop who bullied me into leaving my daughter's sheet covered body alone on the pavement to the scant moments I had alone with her corpse at the viewings to the funeral home staff at the end of her service, who insisted gently, "It's time, Nicole.", all too eager to close the lid on my sun forever, leaving me lost in the blackness.
Then it was the unspoken, but sometimes outright verbalized demand for me to accept what could not be changed, pick myself up, and get on with my life. As I look back, it is interesting to note that not one of the people who said something along these lines to me had lost a child. Also interesting was the timeline that this advice was paid out on...from thirty minutes after leaving the graveside service to the fever pitch of the six month mark when a handful of well-meaning friends and loved ones approached me within the same week, desperate to see me look like...well, like the Nicole they used to know, and longed for me to wipe that death wish off my face once and for all. Yeah, that's not asking much.
One thing I have learned in this experience is that grief is individual- the ways we cope, whether or not we express it, whether we crave company or solitude, and the time we need to process what has happened, and how long we need to recognize that it is irreversible.
So on this work trip to learn about how the brain works, and how to teach children and adults to manage their emotions, I had a couple of conversations that I want to share.
One conversation took place in the lobby of the Hilton, as Angie face-timed her family, and I wrote for the blog. We looked up to see our new friend from the Netherlands sweep over, and tap us on the shoulder. I'll call her Hannah, and tell you she is a gorgeous, hilarious, compassionate soul who is an amazing listener. Within five minutes of our initial meeting conversation, which was peppered with exaggerated hand gestures and full body movements on both our parts to compensate for the slight language barrier, I wished for this woman to become one of my new best friends.
After a dinner at which I laughed harder than I have in months, I wanted to roll her up into a compact little roll, and tuck her into my carry on. I need to know this woman; she is healthy for me.
So down in the lobby, Hannah grabbed a seat, and crossed her legs criss cross applesauce on the sofa beside me. Within minutes, I had opened my facebook, and was scrolling through pictures of Cory to show her. It struck me how showing someone I'd just met pictures of my children would've been a happy, carefree event a couple years ago. It would've been a speedy clicking through a handful of pictures, and then on to the next topic.
Loss redefines your priorities, all right. Even if I didn't realize it, I was cradling my laptop, touching the screen reverently as I took my time describing moments with Cory, facets of her personality, and then did the same for Jacob.
Hannah and I showed each other our blogs, two middle aged women every bit as proud and excited as two little boys comparing baseball card collections. She asked me if I felt comfortable telling her about the accident. Talk turned to the service, at which point, Hannah covered her face with one hand, shocked and dismayed to discover there were vast differences between how her country and mine handle the death and burial of a child.
I listened, nearly in disbelief to hear that in her country, the child is taken home for the days before the funeral, and then transported to the place of the service. The parents are given days of contact with their deceased child, to look at them, to touch them, to hold them. I looked at her, stunned into silence. She went further to explain, "There are, you know, blocks of ice, and they are placed in a special bed or in the casket..."
I covered my face in the busy lobby, and tried to imagine what that would have been like. Angie watched my face, probably certain I was about to enter into hysterics. I could not believe that somewhere in this world some group of people had actually considered what the parents actually needed, and gave it to them.
Anyone reading this who has not lost a child might think this practice sounds a little morbid, but I am here to tell you if this unthinkable thing ever happens to you, ALL that will comfort you, ALL that you will crave- above food, above water, above shelter- is to be in the presence of your child...to see his or her face for as many moments as you possibly can before it is taken away from you for all of time.
Hannah looked puzzled at the mutual shock on our faces, and questioned, "You are not allowed this?"
"Oh my gosh, no! I only wish!" I declared emphatically and turned to Angie so she could explain what some of our rituals for parting with our children are here in the states.
Hannah listened carefully, her eyes widening every bit as much as mine had. "But why? Why are you not given this time? It's your child."
Exactly.
Like really, United States, what the hell are we thinking here?
Hannah asked pretty much the same question of Angie, who said she thought it was a cultural belief that maybe it would be more psychologically harmful than helpful to the family.
Hannah, a child psychologist, took this in, before raising a hand in the air and throwing it down on her thigh with this, "But they must know that the contact is needed...even the elephants...have they never watched the mother elephant standing over their baby? They stay until they are ready to move. No one makes them move, even if it takes days..."
At this, I burst into tears, wishing I had been given this consideration, wishing all mothers were given this last chance at time with their child. I also cried over the sheer relief of being understood at last.
I lifted my head, wondering for a flip moment if I would eventually settle in Italy, or the Netherlands, just in case something ever happened to Jacob.
---to be continued
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have felt rushed at every stage of this nightmare from the cop who bullied me into leaving my daughter's sheet covered body alone on the pavement to the scant moments I had alone with her corpse at the viewings to the funeral home staff at the end of her service, who insisted gently, "It's time, Nicole.", all too eager to close the lid on my sun forever, leaving me lost in the blackness.
Then it was the unspoken, but sometimes outright verbalized demand for me to accept what could not be changed, pick myself up, and get on with my life. As I look back, it is interesting to note that not one of the people who said something along these lines to me had lost a child. Also interesting was the timeline that this advice was paid out on...from thirty minutes after leaving the graveside service to the fever pitch of the six month mark when a handful of well-meaning friends and loved ones approached me within the same week, desperate to see me look like...well, like the Nicole they used to know, and longed for me to wipe that death wish off my face once and for all. Yeah, that's not asking much.
One thing I have learned in this experience is that grief is individual- the ways we cope, whether or not we express it, whether we crave company or solitude, and the time we need to process what has happened, and how long we need to recognize that it is irreversible.
So on this work trip to learn about how the brain works, and how to teach children and adults to manage their emotions, I had a couple of conversations that I want to share.
One conversation took place in the lobby of the Hilton, as Angie face-timed her family, and I wrote for the blog. We looked up to see our new friend from the Netherlands sweep over, and tap us on the shoulder. I'll call her Hannah, and tell you she is a gorgeous, hilarious, compassionate soul who is an amazing listener. Within five minutes of our initial meeting conversation, which was peppered with exaggerated hand gestures and full body movements on both our parts to compensate for the slight language barrier, I wished for this woman to become one of my new best friends.
After a dinner at which I laughed harder than I have in months, I wanted to roll her up into a compact little roll, and tuck her into my carry on. I need to know this woman; she is healthy for me.
So down in the lobby, Hannah grabbed a seat, and crossed her legs criss cross applesauce on the sofa beside me. Within minutes, I had opened my facebook, and was scrolling through pictures of Cory to show her. It struck me how showing someone I'd just met pictures of my children would've been a happy, carefree event a couple years ago. It would've been a speedy clicking through a handful of pictures, and then on to the next topic.
Loss redefines your priorities, all right. Even if I didn't realize it, I was cradling my laptop, touching the screen reverently as I took my time describing moments with Cory, facets of her personality, and then did the same for Jacob.
Hannah and I showed each other our blogs, two middle aged women every bit as proud and excited as two little boys comparing baseball card collections. She asked me if I felt comfortable telling her about the accident. Talk turned to the service, at which point, Hannah covered her face with one hand, shocked and dismayed to discover there were vast differences between how her country and mine handle the death and burial of a child.
I listened, nearly in disbelief to hear that in her country, the child is taken home for the days before the funeral, and then transported to the place of the service. The parents are given days of contact with their deceased child, to look at them, to touch them, to hold them. I looked at her, stunned into silence. She went further to explain, "There are, you know, blocks of ice, and they are placed in a special bed or in the casket..."
I covered my face in the busy lobby, and tried to imagine what that would have been like. Angie watched my face, probably certain I was about to enter into hysterics. I could not believe that somewhere in this world some group of people had actually considered what the parents actually needed, and gave it to them.
Anyone reading this who has not lost a child might think this practice sounds a little morbid, but I am here to tell you if this unthinkable thing ever happens to you, ALL that will comfort you, ALL that you will crave- above food, above water, above shelter- is to be in the presence of your child...to see his or her face for as many moments as you possibly can before it is taken away from you for all of time.
Hannah looked puzzled at the mutual shock on our faces, and questioned, "You are not allowed this?"
"Oh my gosh, no! I only wish!" I declared emphatically and turned to Angie so she could explain what some of our rituals for parting with our children are here in the states.
Hannah listened carefully, her eyes widening every bit as much as mine had. "But why? Why are you not given this time? It's your child."
Exactly.
Like really, United States, what the hell are we thinking here?
Hannah asked pretty much the same question of Angie, who said she thought it was a cultural belief that maybe it would be more psychologically harmful than helpful to the family.
Hannah, a child psychologist, took this in, before raising a hand in the air and throwing it down on her thigh with this, "But they must know that the contact is needed...even the elephants...have they never watched the mother elephant standing over their baby? They stay until they are ready to move. No one makes them move, even if it takes days..."
At this, I burst into tears, wishing I had been given this consideration, wishing all mothers were given this last chance at time with their child. I also cried over the sheer relief of being understood at last.
I lifted my head, wondering for a flip moment if I would eventually settle in Italy, or the Netherlands, just in case something ever happened to Jacob.
---to be continued
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