Jacob's kitten, Violet, has grown into a sweet young lady. I said as much to Jake the other day, and burst into laughter at his response, "I did a good job with her, didn't I?"
"You did. What's your secret?" I asked, grinning as I awaited his answer.
"Well..." Jacob said, drawing the word out as he furrowed his little brow. "I think I kept really calm even when she wasn't, so she kinda followed my lead. And every time she wanted to attack people's toes, I gave her a toy instead so she could attack that instead, and have fun playing without hurting anybody."
"Oh, I see, you gave her a replacement skill." I commented, my heart doing a happy little jig.
"Yeah, I mean she's a kitten, she's supposed to pounce and scratch and stuff...that doesn't make her a bad girl. I didn't yell at her when she wasn't doing what I wanted. I just gave her lots of love when she was using her toys the right way."
"You sure did." I said.
"We have a really close relationship." he said in closing.
Gosh, Cory, get a load of our boy...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yesterday, was a low, low day. Oliver, my orange tabby cat, and I just laid around all day, too sad to get out of bed. When Jake got home from school, he saw how it was, and gave up some kisses on my behalf. I asked him how he was doing, and he said, okay, but he misses Cory a lot.
I asked him, "How do you think Cory is doing?"
He tilted his head, and met my eyes, puzzled, "What?"
"Well, how do you think she is doing where she is?" I asked.
"I think she's sad cause she can't be with us." he answered.
"Do you think she's happy at all?" I countered.
"I think Cory is happiest when she sees us being happy." he said, and quietly exited the room.
How smart is this kid?
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Oh, Kohl's...
Cory and I were always laughing- a lot of our humor Three's Company-style, a simple misunderstanding ridden into the ground, and somehow, undeniably hilarious.
For instance, around the wind-down of the holidays, Kohl's launched a radio ad, encouraging shoppers who'd waited till the last minute, to spend their dollars with them, understanding wholeheartedly that last-minute shoppers had no idea what to get, they just needed a gift in hand to show up at family gatherings with their integrity intact. People could always return what they didn't like. Kohl's wanted to assure their potential shoppers, that returns would not be a problem at their stores. The first time I heard the ad, I thought it went something like this, "Are we assholes? Not at Kohl's! Returns and exchanges are easier than ever."
More than the words, I think it was the proud tone of voice, "Are we assholes?" and the jolly response, "Not at Kohl's!" that just cracked me up. Of course, a funny isn't nearly as enjoyable unless you share it with someone, preferably someone who shares your sense of humor.
I told it to Cory who said I was silly, and didn't fully appreciate it until we were walking down the aisles of Kohl's a few days later, and heard the spot play over the intercom. She collapsed onto a nearby shelf of sweaters, actually scraping her back, but not even feeling it because she was laughing so hard. For the rest of our Mommy/Cory day, we praised the "No Hassle" return policy of Kohl's department store, and all the joy it brought into our lives.
For instance, around the wind-down of the holidays, Kohl's launched a radio ad, encouraging shoppers who'd waited till the last minute, to spend their dollars with them, understanding wholeheartedly that last-minute shoppers had no idea what to get, they just needed a gift in hand to show up at family gatherings with their integrity intact. People could always return what they didn't like. Kohl's wanted to assure their potential shoppers, that returns would not be a problem at their stores. The first time I heard the ad, I thought it went something like this, "Are we assholes? Not at Kohl's! Returns and exchanges are easier than ever."
More than the words, I think it was the proud tone of voice, "Are we assholes?" and the jolly response, "Not at Kohl's!" that just cracked me up. Of course, a funny isn't nearly as enjoyable unless you share it with someone, preferably someone who shares your sense of humor.
I told it to Cory who said I was silly, and didn't fully appreciate it until we were walking down the aisles of Kohl's a few days later, and heard the spot play over the intercom. She collapsed onto a nearby shelf of sweaters, actually scraping her back, but not even feeling it because she was laughing so hard. For the rest of our Mommy/Cory day, we praised the "No Hassle" return policy of Kohl's department store, and all the joy it brought into our lives.
Home Again
I dreamt about Cory all night. First she appeared out of nowhere, having been "missing" for the last year and some odd months. She just showed up on the doorstep, her hair dyed in three fluorescent colors, all vying for attention, all screaming, "Look at me! Please, somebody see me!" As I looked her over- my only thoughts: is she okay? is she okay? is she hurt?- I took in all the piercings- nose, Marilyn, snakebites. I stopped short at her eyes that had that tell-tale glassy look, the pupils enlarged so much they seemed to be eating her face up.
"Mommy, can I come in?" she mumbled, her eyes on the ground once again.
"Cory!" I shrieked, out of my mind with joy to see her in one piece, safe, and standing in front of me. My arms reached for her blindly, and clutched around her all too skinny frame as she stumbled into my eager embrace.
"I don't feel good, Mom." she said, her face deep in my hair.
I looked up when I heard the screen door shut. In walked a young man toting a baby carrier, looking most uncomfortable- his eyes darting, as if to locate the exits before he'd even finished entering the room.
He said nothing to me or to my girl, just set the baby carrier down on the floor in front of us, and fled the room.
"I'm sorry, Mom." she said, and began sobbing in earnest. "Everything is just so messed up. I've missed you so much."
I grabbed her up and held on for dear life. "Cory, everything is gonna be ok."
She was alive. She was home. What else really mattered?
"Mommy, can I come in?" she mumbled, her eyes on the ground once again.
"Cory!" I shrieked, out of my mind with joy to see her in one piece, safe, and standing in front of me. My arms reached for her blindly, and clutched around her all too skinny frame as she stumbled into my eager embrace.
"I don't feel good, Mom." she said, her face deep in my hair.
I looked up when I heard the screen door shut. In walked a young man toting a baby carrier, looking most uncomfortable- his eyes darting, as if to locate the exits before he'd even finished entering the room.
He said nothing to me or to my girl, just set the baby carrier down on the floor in front of us, and fled the room.
"I'm sorry, Mom." she said, and began sobbing in earnest. "Everything is just so messed up. I've missed you so much."
I grabbed her up and held on for dear life. "Cory, everything is gonna be ok."
She was alive. She was home. What else really mattered?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Strong
This one is for Cory. They all are, in one way or another, but this one especially.
Cory, I have always admired your strength.
Let's talk about strength. What do you think it is?
I see a lot of posts on face book with the miserable looking young woman and a quote, "Smiling on the outside when you're falling apart on the inside...that's being strong." Or, "A strong woman will tell you she's fine even when she's not." These women are always alone in the pictures.
These mottos just aren't my idea of strength or what I tried to instill in Cory.
I think real strength means having the courage to say what people don't necessarily want to hear. If Cory were here today, sitting across from me here in the studio, I think she would tell you that saying you're ok when you're not doesn't help you or anyone else. If someone that you trust asks you how you're doing, and it happens to be far from good, my advice is to sing...sing that shit like a canary. That is the only way to get the support you need and to keep your yourself in honest relationships with others.
The times that Cory did tell people what they wanted to hear- the times she wore the mask for other people's benefit, it wore her down. She had twice the pain and stress- the symptoms themselves, and the added struggle of playing a part she shouldn't have to play.
I think she would say to take the help that is offered to you, even if it is only a listening ear.
So, on that note, I'd like to share the following:
TRUTH: Some days are ugly; some days I feel ugly.
TRUTH: Some days, I don't even feel like I'm really here anymore. I am watching a much older, much weathered, pretty much broken version of myself walk and talk through my "home" set and my "work" set, smiling in the right places, and wearing the right shoes.
TRUTH: I'm really not ok.
I guess anyone who has recently lost a child, and stumbled on this blog might be disheartened to see how things are some fourteen to fifteen months after the unexpected death of your child. Maybe they will need to find another blog with a little more hope. All I know is I promised to tell the truth.
That's what I always asked of my Cory-Girl, and that's what she expects of me. After all her Madre is strong.
Cory, I have always admired your strength.
Let's talk about strength. What do you think it is?
I see a lot of posts on face book with the miserable looking young woman and a quote, "Smiling on the outside when you're falling apart on the inside...that's being strong." Or, "A strong woman will tell you she's fine even when she's not." These women are always alone in the pictures.
These mottos just aren't my idea of strength or what I tried to instill in Cory.
I think real strength means having the courage to say what people don't necessarily want to hear. If Cory were here today, sitting across from me here in the studio, I think she would tell you that saying you're ok when you're not doesn't help you or anyone else. If someone that you trust asks you how you're doing, and it happens to be far from good, my advice is to sing...sing that shit like a canary. That is the only way to get the support you need and to keep your yourself in honest relationships with others.
The times that Cory did tell people what they wanted to hear- the times she wore the mask for other people's benefit, it wore her down. She had twice the pain and stress- the symptoms themselves, and the added struggle of playing a part she shouldn't have to play.
I think she would say to take the help that is offered to you, even if it is only a listening ear.
So, on that note, I'd like to share the following:
TRUTH: Some days are ugly; some days I feel ugly.
TRUTH: Some days, I don't even feel like I'm really here anymore. I am watching a much older, much weathered, pretty much broken version of myself walk and talk through my "home" set and my "work" set, smiling in the right places, and wearing the right shoes.
TRUTH: I'm really not ok.
I guess anyone who has recently lost a child, and stumbled on this blog might be disheartened to see how things are some fourteen to fifteen months after the unexpected death of your child. Maybe they will need to find another blog with a little more hope. All I know is I promised to tell the truth.
That's what I always asked of my Cory-Girl, and that's what she expects of me. After all her Madre is strong.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Pleasant Thoughts
There was blood in her hair. I'm pretty sure of that now. It seemed to hit me all at once one of the nights I couldn't get to sleep, having rolled the dice and lost on that all too familiar gamble called "Should I Take My Sleep Meds Tonight or Try To Wing It"? I was worried about being too groggy for work, and I had an early morning, so I left the pill in its bottle and suffered from insomnia all night. All too often when I can't sleep, the images, the sounds, and sensations of the road sneak up on my exhausted brain from behind, or wherever such intrusive memories are stored.
This night, I stumbled through the pitch black sleeping house by the light of my cellphone, and crept into the studio, hopeful to paint myself sleepy. The pieces I like the best, the ones that feel the most honest, are the ones that have no predisposed plan, just two hands working paper and paint, quite disjointed from my brain. Or so I've always thought.
I had turned on the little space heater that keeps my studio cozy in this unpredictable Michigan weather, and put on one of Cory's hoodies over my sleep shirt, feet bare and tucked up under me as I sat on my knees. I was warm, there was light, and I just floated along in the quiet of 3 a.m., putting down marks, smudging them, adding color, making a grand and beautiful mess.
I stopped at one point, and ventured to the kitchen for a drink. When I came back,, I looked at the face I'd done, upside down from my viewpoint, as I walked into the room, and nearly spilled my juice. It was one of those moments when all the hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you can actually hear the blood pounding, making the rounds, in your ears.
She had blood in her hair. Suddenly, I was certain of it. Just as I thought it to myself, my eyes returning again and again to the disheveled, dirty, almost disfigured face on my journal page, a face with hair that nearly obscured it, and was streaked with gore, the road came back full force.
Sometimes I wonder if I will spend all the rest of my life on that damn road. Just so you know, you can't just "think pleasant thoughts". These are intrusive memories that come triggered or un triggered, willy nilly little harbingers of hell. It hardly seems fair, wasn't once enough?
There were a million little frames of that scene that are all jumbled up in the creases of my brain. I know that two main images - her twisted arm and her impossibly blue lips- have been given top billing. Little by little, more are seeping through.
She had blood in her hair. It wasn't red, that I remember; it wasn't droplets. It was more like a thick black tar that covered so much space, so much, so much...how could anyone have that much blood in them?
I remember washing her hair, what three strands or so she had, when she was a newborn, just home from the hospital...the smell of that baby shampoo; the smell of my baby.
I remember coaxing her shiny blonde toddler strands into a "Pebbles" side pony. For some reason, I am also stuck on pouring her chubby baby self into a red plaid and denim dress she had, complete with bright red cable tights, and tiny Mary Jane black buckle shoes. She was like a living doll.
I remember how she begged to have her hair cut short like Darla's when we watched the remake of The Little Rascals. I told her when she was a little older. She waited to catch me on the toilet, and snuck a pair of scissors stealthily into the room that is now my studio. She emerged moments later, victorious, a lopsided bob of sorts no competition for the joy in her eyes to have accomplished her goal. That was pretty much the last time I tried to weigh in on Cory's hairstyle.
I watched her grow from a gawky preteen to a tiny fairy whose short hair cuts always suited her diminutive proportions. Some days, I would catch sight of her at some new angle, and think to myself, God she is beautiful. Is she really mine?
I watched her hair color span the color wheel, according to her mood. The plum purple had to have been one of my all time favorites. It played off her fair skin, and her eyes fairly leapt out of her face, so large, so luminous...as if they belonged to some fragile creature that didn't really belong to you, only gifted you with their presence as they made their way to a better place.
I piled her hair onto her head in up dos, and the like for every dance she attended. For the junior prom, I gave her a smoky eye to go along with it that she adored. She took one look in the mirror, and just beamed.
My Cory, my girl, giggling and putting away groceries with me and her brother. The next time I saw her,
she had so much blood in her hair. There was blood... everywhere.
"She's only nineteen!
Somebody do something! Why isn't anyone doing anything? Is she breathing? Oh my God, is she breathing? Somebody ANSWER ME!! IS SHE BREATHING? Oh my God, please, please...IS SHE? IS SHE BREATHING? She's only nineteen--"
This night, I stumbled through the pitch black sleeping house by the light of my cellphone, and crept into the studio, hopeful to paint myself sleepy. The pieces I like the best, the ones that feel the most honest, are the ones that have no predisposed plan, just two hands working paper and paint, quite disjointed from my brain. Or so I've always thought.
I had turned on the little space heater that keeps my studio cozy in this unpredictable Michigan weather, and put on one of Cory's hoodies over my sleep shirt, feet bare and tucked up under me as I sat on my knees. I was warm, there was light, and I just floated along in the quiet of 3 a.m., putting down marks, smudging them, adding color, making a grand and beautiful mess.
I stopped at one point, and ventured to the kitchen for a drink. When I came back,, I looked at the face I'd done, upside down from my viewpoint, as I walked into the room, and nearly spilled my juice. It was one of those moments when all the hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you can actually hear the blood pounding, making the rounds, in your ears.
She had blood in her hair. Suddenly, I was certain of it. Just as I thought it to myself, my eyes returning again and again to the disheveled, dirty, almost disfigured face on my journal page, a face with hair that nearly obscured it, and was streaked with gore, the road came back full force.
Sometimes I wonder if I will spend all the rest of my life on that damn road. Just so you know, you can't just "think pleasant thoughts". These are intrusive memories that come triggered or un triggered, willy nilly little harbingers of hell. It hardly seems fair, wasn't once enough?
There were a million little frames of that scene that are all jumbled up in the creases of my brain. I know that two main images - her twisted arm and her impossibly blue lips- have been given top billing. Little by little, more are seeping through.
She had blood in her hair. It wasn't red, that I remember; it wasn't droplets. It was more like a thick black tar that covered so much space, so much, so much...how could anyone have that much blood in them?
I remember washing her hair, what three strands or so she had, when she was a newborn, just home from the hospital...the smell of that baby shampoo; the smell of my baby.
I remember coaxing her shiny blonde toddler strands into a "Pebbles" side pony. For some reason, I am also stuck on pouring her chubby baby self into a red plaid and denim dress she had, complete with bright red cable tights, and tiny Mary Jane black buckle shoes. She was like a living doll.
I remember how she begged to have her hair cut short like Darla's when we watched the remake of The Little Rascals. I told her when she was a little older. She waited to catch me on the toilet, and snuck a pair of scissors stealthily into the room that is now my studio. She emerged moments later, victorious, a lopsided bob of sorts no competition for the joy in her eyes to have accomplished her goal. That was pretty much the last time I tried to weigh in on Cory's hairstyle.
I watched her grow from a gawky preteen to a tiny fairy whose short hair cuts always suited her diminutive proportions. Some days, I would catch sight of her at some new angle, and think to myself, God she is beautiful. Is she really mine?
I watched her hair color span the color wheel, according to her mood. The plum purple had to have been one of my all time favorites. It played off her fair skin, and her eyes fairly leapt out of her face, so large, so luminous...as if they belonged to some fragile creature that didn't really belong to you, only gifted you with their presence as they made their way to a better place.
I piled her hair onto her head in up dos, and the like for every dance she attended. For the junior prom, I gave her a smoky eye to go along with it that she adored. She took one look in the mirror, and just beamed.
My Cory, my girl, giggling and putting away groceries with me and her brother. The next time I saw her,
she had so much blood in her hair. There was blood... everywhere.
"She's only nineteen!
Somebody do something! Why isn't anyone doing anything? Is she breathing? Oh my God, is she breathing? Somebody ANSWER ME!! IS SHE BREATHING? Oh my God, please, please...IS SHE? IS SHE BREATHING? She's only nineteen--"
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Endure
After being down for two days, I am out of bed, and at the coffee shop, back on the blog. I am wearing my Venice earrings for peace, a skull scarf Cory would've loved, and what Cory labeled my "tough" boots. I may not be wearing makeup and my hair is a piled up mess on top of my head, but I am vertical, and that's what really matters.
I've been trying to use "laughter" as my guideword these last few months. While certainly positive, it isn't always honest. Sometimes you just can't get there. So I am going with "endure". That's what Cory did.
We had to make our goals for her illness realistic. While we certainly hoped she would turn out to be one of the blessed souls whose symptoms simply abate once they hit their early twenties, we weren't hanging our hat on it to only be bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Instead our goal working with Dr. Z was something concrete, measurable, and probable- for her episodes to become shorter and farther apart. In other words, for her to have more good days than bad days. And for those bad days, to outfit her with a plethora of coping skills and support.
I think my goal should be the same. This will never go away. I need to be committed to enduring, having more good days than bad, and building my coping skills and support circle. It's okay to fall in the ditch every so often, but I don't want to spend months there. I want to follow Cory's strong example, and get up and walk on, over and over again. I want to make her proud.
I've found that the busier I stay, the fewer flashbacks I have. Since I've been back to work, using my brain to solve problems that have nothing to do with my loss, they have decreased a lot. As soon as I noticed that, I jumped on it. I have few different things I'm working on: the blog, my art journal, my goal of drawing 100 faces, making the moody girl stickers and magnets, adding finishing touches to my little studio, and painting 100 canvases. Add to that, trying to cook at least 4-5 times a week and getting Jake outside, even if it means putting his beloved kitten in a harness, and walking her right along with the dog.
Does that sound like a to-do list? It is. And I am sharing it because I want to be held accountable.
I've been trying to use "laughter" as my guideword these last few months. While certainly positive, it isn't always honest. Sometimes you just can't get there. So I am going with "endure". That's what Cory did.
We had to make our goals for her illness realistic. While we certainly hoped she would turn out to be one of the blessed souls whose symptoms simply abate once they hit their early twenties, we weren't hanging our hat on it to only be bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Instead our goal working with Dr. Z was something concrete, measurable, and probable- for her episodes to become shorter and farther apart. In other words, for her to have more good days than bad days. And for those bad days, to outfit her with a plethora of coping skills and support.
I think my goal should be the same. This will never go away. I need to be committed to enduring, having more good days than bad, and building my coping skills and support circle. It's okay to fall in the ditch every so often, but I don't want to spend months there. I want to follow Cory's strong example, and get up and walk on, over and over again. I want to make her proud.
I've found that the busier I stay, the fewer flashbacks I have. Since I've been back to work, using my brain to solve problems that have nothing to do with my loss, they have decreased a lot. As soon as I noticed that, I jumped on it. I have few different things I'm working on: the blog, my art journal, my goal of drawing 100 faces, making the moody girl stickers and magnets, adding finishing touches to my little studio, and painting 100 canvases. Add to that, trying to cook at least 4-5 times a week and getting Jake outside, even if it means putting his beloved kitten in a harness, and walking her right along with the dog.
Does that sound like a to-do list? It is. And I am sharing it because I want to be held accountable.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Be Careful Who You Invite In
Even in the midst of joy, there is a palpable sense of despair...it bleeds relentlessly into every other emotion. It is sneaky, this fellow, pushing down your shoulders as you walk along, busily pressing creases into your face as you sleep, and gleefully patting some grays into your tousled bedhead. He is always with you, like a houseguest who won't leave, and you have frankly become a little afraid to ask to leave. What would happen then? What might your newfound friend be capable of when shown the door? So instead of confronting him, you uncomfortably soldier along, just enduring.
I think he and I crossed paths today at the window of the Dairy Queen. As I opened my mouth to order, gleeful to be procuring some chocolate frozen goodness, I slipped in my super cute -but admittedly not practical- high heels, and nearly bit it. Nervous laughter bubbled up on autopilot. Once my brain had secured my safety to its satisfaction, my first thought was to remember to share this giggle with Cory when I got home...how she would cackle! "Sure, Mom, high heels aren't scary at all!"
How is possible to still have these kind of thoughts, being honestly caught by surprise when my brain corrects itself seconds later? Are Despair and my brain in cahoots together? How is that fair? That bastard should be forced to work alone.
I have done remarkably well all work week, giving myself pats on the back as I went along...right up until that moment when the smile felt stale on my face- just a Mrs. Potato Head with a big lipstick grin pasted on, that's me.
I ate my ice cream, my taste buds singing hallelujah, while my heart burned, just burned. What little light had been behind my eyes snuffed out that quickly, that completely. Despair looked at me, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head, "Lost, lost, lost..."
I think he and I crossed paths today at the window of the Dairy Queen. As I opened my mouth to order, gleeful to be procuring some chocolate frozen goodness, I slipped in my super cute -but admittedly not practical- high heels, and nearly bit it. Nervous laughter bubbled up on autopilot. Once my brain had secured my safety to its satisfaction, my first thought was to remember to share this giggle with Cory when I got home...how she would cackle! "Sure, Mom, high heels aren't scary at all!"
How is possible to still have these kind of thoughts, being honestly caught by surprise when my brain corrects itself seconds later? Are Despair and my brain in cahoots together? How is that fair? That bastard should be forced to work alone.
I have done remarkably well all work week, giving myself pats on the back as I went along...right up until that moment when the smile felt stale on my face- just a Mrs. Potato Head with a big lipstick grin pasted on, that's me.
I ate my ice cream, my taste buds singing hallelujah, while my heart burned, just burned. What little light had been behind my eyes snuffed out that quickly, that completely. Despair looked at me, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head, "Lost, lost, lost..."
Monday, September 16, 2013
Dance Like No One is Watching
Today on the way home from getting Jake a haircut, I asked him, as I do every so often, if he wanted to go by the cemetery. Immediately, he said, "No!", and then softened it with a, "not right now. Maybe some other time."
That was more than ok with me. I didn't want to go see her final resting place, how the earth had robbed me of my baby and swallowed her whole, any more than he did. I felt obligated to at least offer him the opportunity often. He almost always says no. His steadfast logic, so in step with his quiet, no nonsense personality is this, "Part of me wants to go, but part of me doesn't. And I know that most times I go, I feel worse afterwards. Cory wouldn't want that."
My eleven year old is more adult than I am. He is, as of yet, unaffected by all the guilt and misgivings we pile on ourselves about a situation out of our control. He lets the love he shared with his sister shine through, pure and unmarred, guiding his decisions about how and where to spend time with her.
I, personally, can only think of one time I felt anything but horror beside her spot. I visited daily just after the accident, only able to get through the experience by doing it the same way each time- parking in the same spot, playing her a song when I got there, and a song when I left. On this one particular afternoon, I just felt like Cory wanted happy music.
I put my I-phone on shuffle to our Making Dinner playlist, and crept up to the edge of her still dirt covered plot to see how it would feel, listening to our dance music in a place such as this. It strangely felt better than I would have thought, so I cranked it. Before I could think about what I was doing, I was dancing beside Cory's grave to "Booty Bounce", my steps lighthearted and joyous as they always were when I was in my favorite room of the house with my favorite person in the world. Just as I started to really work it, I glanced up and saw people rolling along the narrow lane, their necks craned in my direction, confused and bewildered. Mortified, I sat down on the bench so fast, my blood sugar dropped, and killed the music. My cheeks red, and my body warm- it was usually so cold in this place until the wailing started-I smiled looking down at her.
"Hahahahaha!!! Mom, you're so crazy! I love you!", said the pile of dirt.
I shook my head, unable to resist smiling at this girl, no matter what she said, "I love you, too, Cory Girl. Only for you, Cory Girl, only for you..."
That was more than ok with me. I didn't want to go see her final resting place, how the earth had robbed me of my baby and swallowed her whole, any more than he did. I felt obligated to at least offer him the opportunity often. He almost always says no. His steadfast logic, so in step with his quiet, no nonsense personality is this, "Part of me wants to go, but part of me doesn't. And I know that most times I go, I feel worse afterwards. Cory wouldn't want that."
My eleven year old is more adult than I am. He is, as of yet, unaffected by all the guilt and misgivings we pile on ourselves about a situation out of our control. He lets the love he shared with his sister shine through, pure and unmarred, guiding his decisions about how and where to spend time with her.
I, personally, can only think of one time I felt anything but horror beside her spot. I visited daily just after the accident, only able to get through the experience by doing it the same way each time- parking in the same spot, playing her a song when I got there, and a song when I left. On this one particular afternoon, I just felt like Cory wanted happy music.
I put my I-phone on shuffle to our Making Dinner playlist, and crept up to the edge of her still dirt covered plot to see how it would feel, listening to our dance music in a place such as this. It strangely felt better than I would have thought, so I cranked it. Before I could think about what I was doing, I was dancing beside Cory's grave to "Booty Bounce", my steps lighthearted and joyous as they always were when I was in my favorite room of the house with my favorite person in the world. Just as I started to really work it, I glanced up and saw people rolling along the narrow lane, their necks craned in my direction, confused and bewildered. Mortified, I sat down on the bench so fast, my blood sugar dropped, and killed the music. My cheeks red, and my body warm- it was usually so cold in this place until the wailing started-I smiled looking down at her.
"Hahahahaha!!! Mom, you're so crazy! I love you!", said the pile of dirt.
I shook my head, unable to resist smiling at this girl, no matter what she said, "I love you, too, Cory Girl. Only for you, Cory Girl, only for you..."
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Moody Girls
Someone asked me the other day why I always draw or paint faces. Why not landscapes or flowers? I think it's pretty much subconscious, almost like the subject chooses the painter instead of the painter choosing the subject. So why am I subconsciously drawn to faces?
I thought about it driving to the coffee shop this morning. I taught preschoolers for ten years. I certainly strove to have my 34 children ready for kindergarten, academics-wise, but I think I always viewed a good social emotional base (and a love of books) to be the most important things I could teach them in my short time with them. How well would they really do in school and in life, if they couldn't manage their feelings, get along with others, and problem solve? When you're working with three and four year olds, the first step is to help them identify their feelings and feelings of others. This means a lot of looking at faces.
Then Cory developed her illness. Having a mood disorder can mean your feelings change on a dime, you have lots of very strong feelings simultaneously, or at times you even become devoid of feelings. As Dr. Z worked with her in the beginning, he asked her to do mood charts. Daily, she wrote down a few notes about her day and circled some smiley, sad, angry, tired faces. Eventually, she got a little bored with it, but kept at it because she wanted to feel better and she dearly loved Dr. Z.
After the accident, I used a lot of pie charts to sort out my feelings. Nowadays, I still keep a journal, and I usually jot down "I smiled today" or "I laughed today" when it happens. It seems to be happening a lot more since I went back to work, which speaks volumes for my wonderful co-workers. Sometimes I'll read back over the last few days and see something good generally happened almost every day. That helps a lot. It's nice when you are suffering from depression to have some encouragement from yourself that there is light at the end of the tunnel, or bright spots that are worth sticking around for.
My daughter, and the fathers of both my children have had mood disorder related illnesses. Feelings are a big deal in my life. Is it any wonder I am drawn to painting faces?
So here was my idea. How many other teenage girls are going through what Cory went through right now? Are they also disenchanted with the 4 cartoony faces to complete their mood charts? How many of us keep a journal, which is great for your mental health, no matter what your situation? What if I took some of my "moody girls" that I've drawn or painted and labeled them with the emotion they seem to convey? What if I made them into stickers or even magnets? They could be used in journal writing or on a magnetic monthly calendar to track your moods. Would anyone be interested? Well, call me a dork, but I would use them. I personally think Cory would have loved them.
One small problem. My girls are reflective of my moods, mostly. I don't think I have a single one that is happy or joyous. This could be a problem. I think I will sort through my pictures of me and Cory. I remember putting up a montage of pictures of Cory on my Facebook page. Someone commented on the beautiful selfie she took of herself in front of the living room with the natural light streaming in on her. They said she seemed to glow. One of her friends commented back on my page, "She glows most in the ones of you together."
That was the best compliment of I've ever been given.
I will go through the pics of us together. I'm sure I will find what I need.
I thought about it driving to the coffee shop this morning. I taught preschoolers for ten years. I certainly strove to have my 34 children ready for kindergarten, academics-wise, but I think I always viewed a good social emotional base (and a love of books) to be the most important things I could teach them in my short time with them. How well would they really do in school and in life, if they couldn't manage their feelings, get along with others, and problem solve? When you're working with three and four year olds, the first step is to help them identify their feelings and feelings of others. This means a lot of looking at faces.
Then Cory developed her illness. Having a mood disorder can mean your feelings change on a dime, you have lots of very strong feelings simultaneously, or at times you even become devoid of feelings. As Dr. Z worked with her in the beginning, he asked her to do mood charts. Daily, she wrote down a few notes about her day and circled some smiley, sad, angry, tired faces. Eventually, she got a little bored with it, but kept at it because she wanted to feel better and she dearly loved Dr. Z.
After the accident, I used a lot of pie charts to sort out my feelings. Nowadays, I still keep a journal, and I usually jot down "I smiled today" or "I laughed today" when it happens. It seems to be happening a lot more since I went back to work, which speaks volumes for my wonderful co-workers. Sometimes I'll read back over the last few days and see something good generally happened almost every day. That helps a lot. It's nice when you are suffering from depression to have some encouragement from yourself that there is light at the end of the tunnel, or bright spots that are worth sticking around for.
My daughter, and the fathers of both my children have had mood disorder related illnesses. Feelings are a big deal in my life. Is it any wonder I am drawn to painting faces?
So here was my idea. How many other teenage girls are going through what Cory went through right now? Are they also disenchanted with the 4 cartoony faces to complete their mood charts? How many of us keep a journal, which is great for your mental health, no matter what your situation? What if I took some of my "moody girls" that I've drawn or painted and labeled them with the emotion they seem to convey? What if I made them into stickers or even magnets? They could be used in journal writing or on a magnetic monthly calendar to track your moods. Would anyone be interested? Well, call me a dork, but I would use them. I personally think Cory would have loved them.
One small problem. My girls are reflective of my moods, mostly. I don't think I have a single one that is happy or joyous. This could be a problem. I think I will sort through my pictures of me and Cory. I remember putting up a montage of pictures of Cory on my Facebook page. Someone commented on the beautiful selfie she took of herself in front of the living room with the natural light streaming in on her. They said she seemed to glow. One of her friends commented back on my page, "She glows most in the ones of you together."
That was the best compliment of I've ever been given.
I will go through the pics of us together. I'm sure I will find what I need.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Taking It as It Comes
I talked a little with a friend who recently lost her husband. She is seeing a grief counselor, and said she was relieved to hear that the stages of grief are not a linear graduation, but instead you can think you are past, say, the anger, just to be outraged by the most unexpected trigger. The counselor told her that people are individuals who flow in and out of the stages as they need to as they process their loss, and new circumstances.
This conversation sparked 2 thoughts for me and my "journey"- really, there's got to be a better word for this path through hell, but I'm at a loss for it right now.
One, I should take it easy on myself. If one of my closest friends or loved ones was going through a similar situation, I would fully expect them to be pretty darn dysfunctional. I would have to separate myself from their irrational bouts of anger, their inability to feel joy, their constant gnawing guilt. I would have to understand that a person grieving must go through all of these feelings, in some measure or another, possibly for the rest of their lives. I would be kind to my friend; I would be accepting; I would listen. I would try to help them not get stuck in a stage, if I could. So if I would do that for someone else, why wouldn't I do it for myself?
It's not a bad thing to have big emotions, to question, or to even be depressed at times. It is all a part of the process, and from what I've read, if you don't go into the feelings, they will chase you down in the end, and control you before you can control them. Dr. Z said from the beginning, "Trust the process."
The being kind to yourself part is just good common sense. You are learning to live without your loved one. Whenever someone is learning something new, you must go over things repeatedly. You must teach the skill in the way the person learns best. You might have to let them make mistakes, and learn from them. You observe. You support. You scaffold. You expand. So again, if you would do that for someone else, don't you deserve the same courtesies? Grief is a huge and complicated lesson. New Normal is a foreign, terrifying world to navigate. Be patient as you find your way around.
And secondly, I am learning to take laughter where I can find it. If I laugh once or twice a day, I have a better day. It's true! When I think about how Cory and I got through her dark days, I remember laughing as much as we possibly could. (And cooking her a lot of steak- steak crusted with fresh ground peppercorns and covered in a brandy cream sauce, steak covered in sautéed mushrooms and a vermouth cream reduction, steak with a red wine sauce... steak, steak, steak).
It was a beef bonanza, and Cory's very favorite comfort food. I might have to give it a try.
This conversation sparked 2 thoughts for me and my "journey"- really, there's got to be a better word for this path through hell, but I'm at a loss for it right now.
One, I should take it easy on myself. If one of my closest friends or loved ones was going through a similar situation, I would fully expect them to be pretty darn dysfunctional. I would have to separate myself from their irrational bouts of anger, their inability to feel joy, their constant gnawing guilt. I would have to understand that a person grieving must go through all of these feelings, in some measure or another, possibly for the rest of their lives. I would be kind to my friend; I would be accepting; I would listen. I would try to help them not get stuck in a stage, if I could. So if I would do that for someone else, why wouldn't I do it for myself?
It's not a bad thing to have big emotions, to question, or to even be depressed at times. It is all a part of the process, and from what I've read, if you don't go into the feelings, they will chase you down in the end, and control you before you can control them. Dr. Z said from the beginning, "Trust the process."
The being kind to yourself part is just good common sense. You are learning to live without your loved one. Whenever someone is learning something new, you must go over things repeatedly. You must teach the skill in the way the person learns best. You might have to let them make mistakes, and learn from them. You observe. You support. You scaffold. You expand. So again, if you would do that for someone else, don't you deserve the same courtesies? Grief is a huge and complicated lesson. New Normal is a foreign, terrifying world to navigate. Be patient as you find your way around.
And secondly, I am learning to take laughter where I can find it. If I laugh once or twice a day, I have a better day. It's true! When I think about how Cory and I got through her dark days, I remember laughing as much as we possibly could. (And cooking her a lot of steak- steak crusted with fresh ground peppercorns and covered in a brandy cream sauce, steak covered in sautéed mushrooms and a vermouth cream reduction, steak with a red wine sauce... steak, steak, steak).
It was a beef bonanza, and Cory's very favorite comfort food. I might have to give it a try.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Another Day, Another Dollar
Is it bad if today, at work, while diligently placing to do items on my calendar, I scrolled back to last year's outlook calendar just to see her name in print? I counted three and a half weeks of layoff last year before she died.
Not enough time.
But then, would any amount of time be enough with the one you hold closest to your heart?
Not enough time.
But then, would any amount of time be enough with the one you hold closest to your heart?
Monday, September 9, 2013
Being Present
Headed back to work today, and it went surprisingly well. As much as I hate to admit that Dr. Z may have been right all along about how getting back into your routine helps tremendously while grieving, I have to say this:
I was upright today. I was clean. I ate regular meals. And most importantly, I was thinking about someone other than myself.
I also read a quote I wanted to share,
"Worry is an attempt to control the future. Guilt is an attempt to control the past."
I have been indulging in massive amounts of both; which, when you think about it, seems like a pointless waste of energy. I'm going to try to be more present, because I'm sure Cory would tell me you have to live life to the fullest; you never know when a day will be your last.
I, for one, am going to go cook my son a household favorite: whiskey bbq sloppy toms. Then, I'm gonna head out to my studio to finish painting the nudie I started.
Why a nude? One, I think the human body is a beautiful subject. And two, I've learned all too well, that grief strips you of all your defenses, and bares you to the world, such as you are.
Then, it's to bed at a reasonable time. After all,
I have a job to do.
I was upright today. I was clean. I ate regular meals. And most importantly, I was thinking about someone other than myself.
I also read a quote I wanted to share,
"Worry is an attempt to control the future. Guilt is an attempt to control the past."
I have been indulging in massive amounts of both; which, when you think about it, seems like a pointless waste of energy. I'm going to try to be more present, because I'm sure Cory would tell me you have to live life to the fullest; you never know when a day will be your last.
I, for one, am going to go cook my son a household favorite: whiskey bbq sloppy toms. Then, I'm gonna head out to my studio to finish painting the nudie I started.
Why a nude? One, I think the human body is a beautiful subject. And two, I've learned all too well, that grief strips you of all your defenses, and bares you to the world, such as you are.
Then, it's to bed at a reasonable time. After all,
I have a job to do.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Sneaking a Smile
Okay, this one is just pure silliness. Cory and I were absolute dorks together. One fall, we decided to make getting dressed in the mornings easier. What was our strategy?
We tried on all of our outfits, taking turns photographing each other, and printed them out in tiny squares. From there, our plan was to laminate them, and put Velcro on the back of each outfit. We photographed accessories separately for a mix and match effect. From there, it was easy to make a big square calendar, where we could line up outfits for the week, and rotate as needed for the month.
We had effectively made ourselves into paper dolls. Super smart or just plain ridiculous? Maybe a little of both. As I sit here planning in my head what to wear to work tomorrow, I wish my accomplice was here to offer her vote.
Who else would play paper dolls with me?
We tried on all of our outfits, taking turns photographing each other, and printed them out in tiny squares. From there, our plan was to laminate them, and put Velcro on the back of each outfit. We photographed accessories separately for a mix and match effect. From there, it was easy to make a big square calendar, where we could line up outfits for the week, and rotate as needed for the month.
We had effectively made ourselves into paper dolls. Super smart or just plain ridiculous? Maybe a little of both. As I sit here planning in my head what to wear to work tomorrow, I wish my accomplice was here to offer her vote.
Who else would play paper dolls with me?
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Daydreamer
Today after I took Jacob to his friend's to spend the night, I was alone in the house for a few hours. Tim was at work, so it was scary quiet. I put my Iphone on the deck in my studio, and let Justin serenade me. As I drew, I daydreamed about Cory bouncing through the doorway, the biggest smile on her face to see me, eager to grab a stool, and sit down, talking and laughing, until the last thirteen months were nothing but a stupid nightmare. If I could see her again, I'd most want to say, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Roll Call
Okay, this is likely going to offend a lot of people.
Noted. Let's proceed:
I hate it when people suggest I seek God for comfort to get through this mess. Like, seriously? How backwards, is that, exactly? If he really is in charge of the whole shooting match, then what was he doing on the fifth of July at just past four in the afternoon?
I feel bad saying these things because I know how very important some of my loved ones consider their relationships with God. But look, I said I would be honest. This is from my perspective. This is what I have to go on.
So here goes:
I, Cory, and many others prayed for God to take that stupid illness from her. Never happened. I began to pray less for it to be taken, and more for the doctors treating her to be successful in stabilizing her. Did God make that happen? Did science? Who knows? What I do know for certain is that it was a long, hard, nightmarish journey in the dark, with nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and monsters all around. No one but Cory and I, and my parents-at least a little- understand just how bad it really was...how bone weary, pull your hair out, bang your head against the wall horrible it was to watch your baby slip away from you day by day. She was a Carson scholar. I forgot to have them say at the service. Stupid, just stupid.
But okay, let's soldier along, with no sleep, with no support from her biological father, on my own for the majority of her illness, depending on my parents and siblings to help out, since neither Tim or Bob's parents had anything to do with her, although they all knew full well what she was going through.
Lets make our way through that, crawling, like we're stuck in a pipe full of shit for three years. Let's watch her getting passed up by all her friends as they continue to grow and progress, and she gets stuck, paralyzed with fear by things that weren't real. Let's listen to her crying her heart out because she thought the police were after her, because she thought I wouldn't love her anymore because she'd killed one of the agents that were following her- stabbed him in the backyard and dragged his body in the house, and hid it under the bed. Let's watch her eyes, wide as pie plates, as she struggled to understand why I couldn't smell the decomposing body like she did. "Can't you smell it, Mom? Can't you smell it?!"
Let's get past the fact that her and I spent night after countless night awake, her terrified, me worried sick while her biological father lived his life like he didn't even have a child, going about his business not knowing if she were alive or dead. Let's get past Tim coming to pick up Jake for the weekend and not even acknowledging her. Let's just get to the road, shall we?
Did I call God's name, even if I was used to getting no answer? You're damn right I did. Guess what? Nothing. Wanna know why?
There wasn't anyone there. There was Cory splattered on the pavement with her bones sticking out of her flesh. There were EMT who did nothing but look sick to their stomachs. And there was me.
That was the roll call.
Noted. Let's proceed:
I hate it when people suggest I seek God for comfort to get through this mess. Like, seriously? How backwards, is that, exactly? If he really is in charge of the whole shooting match, then what was he doing on the fifth of July at just past four in the afternoon?
I feel bad saying these things because I know how very important some of my loved ones consider their relationships with God. But look, I said I would be honest. This is from my perspective. This is what I have to go on.
So here goes:
I, Cory, and many others prayed for God to take that stupid illness from her. Never happened. I began to pray less for it to be taken, and more for the doctors treating her to be successful in stabilizing her. Did God make that happen? Did science? Who knows? What I do know for certain is that it was a long, hard, nightmarish journey in the dark, with nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and monsters all around. No one but Cory and I, and my parents-at least a little- understand just how bad it really was...how bone weary, pull your hair out, bang your head against the wall horrible it was to watch your baby slip away from you day by day. She was a Carson scholar. I forgot to have them say at the service. Stupid, just stupid.
But okay, let's soldier along, with no sleep, with no support from her biological father, on my own for the majority of her illness, depending on my parents and siblings to help out, since neither Tim or Bob's parents had anything to do with her, although they all knew full well what she was going through.
Lets make our way through that, crawling, like we're stuck in a pipe full of shit for three years. Let's watch her getting passed up by all her friends as they continue to grow and progress, and she gets stuck, paralyzed with fear by things that weren't real. Let's listen to her crying her heart out because she thought the police were after her, because she thought I wouldn't love her anymore because she'd killed one of the agents that were following her- stabbed him in the backyard and dragged his body in the house, and hid it under the bed. Let's watch her eyes, wide as pie plates, as she struggled to understand why I couldn't smell the decomposing body like she did. "Can't you smell it, Mom? Can't you smell it?!"
Let's get past the fact that her and I spent night after countless night awake, her terrified, me worried sick while her biological father lived his life like he didn't even have a child, going about his business not knowing if she were alive or dead. Let's get past Tim coming to pick up Jake for the weekend and not even acknowledging her. Let's just get to the road, shall we?
Did I call God's name, even if I was used to getting no answer? You're damn right I did. Guess what? Nothing. Wanna know why?
There wasn't anyone there. There was Cory splattered on the pavement with her bones sticking out of her flesh. There were EMT who did nothing but look sick to their stomachs. And there was me.
That was the roll call.
Falling Down
I left my cellphone in my bag, and slept until five p.m. today, which leads me to this question: is depression contagious? As few as five days ago, while certainly not happy, I was at least moderately level, and seeking comfort and satisfaction in the art studio Tim and I had worked so hard to put together. Tim was up; I was as up as I can get these days.
Then for no tangible reason, other than perhaps the shift in the weather, Tim fell down. I had noticed him talking less, smiling less until eventually his face was one of those stony statues that gaze down with striking features, but no real emotion. Paths of traffic through the house became strategic- anything to avoid being engaged in a conversation; anything to avoid being touched. I am affectionate by nature, nurturing by choice. When someone is hurting, I touch them, hug them, cradle their head to my bosom. He was having none of it. The more I tried, the more feet he put between us.
Last of all, came the sleep. Within maybe two days, he had gone from puttering around the house, tackling one small desperately needed project to another to falling into bed immediately upon arriving home, sans shower, and staying there until he was due back at work. I was again, alone. Not just emotionally alone, as I've had to grown accustomed to in this relationship, but physically alone, as well. I could be living alone, raising a kind-hearted, quiet, and depressed son on my own.
This bipolar stuff is really something- change so severe so quickly. It took three minutes for me to pull my head out of my butt and stop feeling sorry for how his illness was affecting me, and start thinking of how it was affecting him. These were the three minutes:
He stumbled into my little studio, and without meeting my eyes at all, said, "I don't like it outside anymore. It smells like when we went to the cemetery."
Before I could ask him anything, he had shuffled back out, his eyes wet, and was fumbling for Dr. Z's number.
What a crap deal...to be going along just fine, feeling good, feeling as normal as anyone could after losing a child, and then just have the rug pulled out from underneath you. At least he is willing to ask for help when he needs it, because let me assure you, not everyone is.
So last night, after work, he drove straight to the E. R. Their prognosis: post traumatic stress from losing Cory, exacerbated by his mood disorder. They also said any stress at work, home, or from day to day life, such as finances, could be contributing factors.
Yeah, do ya think? At the beginning of his decline, perhaps four days ago, he told me he wasn't sleeping well. He'd been having nightmares about being shot in the head, and a particularly gritty one about me prostituting myself out to random men on a dirty gas station floor to pay our bills.
I tilted my head, and just stared at him. "Wow. That's a nightmare, all right. Don't worry, honey," I reassured him, "the most you'd ever have to worry about with me is topless dancing."
That earned me a half grin before he wandered out of the room, likely already running figures through his mind, and coming up short, broke, in the red. What're we gonna do? What're we gonna do?
Then for no tangible reason, other than perhaps the shift in the weather, Tim fell down. I had noticed him talking less, smiling less until eventually his face was one of those stony statues that gaze down with striking features, but no real emotion. Paths of traffic through the house became strategic- anything to avoid being engaged in a conversation; anything to avoid being touched. I am affectionate by nature, nurturing by choice. When someone is hurting, I touch them, hug them, cradle their head to my bosom. He was having none of it. The more I tried, the more feet he put between us.
Last of all, came the sleep. Within maybe two days, he had gone from puttering around the house, tackling one small desperately needed project to another to falling into bed immediately upon arriving home, sans shower, and staying there until he was due back at work. I was again, alone. Not just emotionally alone, as I've had to grown accustomed to in this relationship, but physically alone, as well. I could be living alone, raising a kind-hearted, quiet, and depressed son on my own.
This bipolar stuff is really something- change so severe so quickly. It took three minutes for me to pull my head out of my butt and stop feeling sorry for how his illness was affecting me, and start thinking of how it was affecting him. These were the three minutes:
He stumbled into my little studio, and without meeting my eyes at all, said, "I don't like it outside anymore. It smells like when we went to the cemetery."
Before I could ask him anything, he had shuffled back out, his eyes wet, and was fumbling for Dr. Z's number.
What a crap deal...to be going along just fine, feeling good, feeling as normal as anyone could after losing a child, and then just have the rug pulled out from underneath you. At least he is willing to ask for help when he needs it, because let me assure you, not everyone is.
So last night, after work, he drove straight to the E. R. Their prognosis: post traumatic stress from losing Cory, exacerbated by his mood disorder. They also said any stress at work, home, or from day to day life, such as finances, could be contributing factors.
Yeah, do ya think? At the beginning of his decline, perhaps four days ago, he told me he wasn't sleeping well. He'd been having nightmares about being shot in the head, and a particularly gritty one about me prostituting myself out to random men on a dirty gas station floor to pay our bills.
I tilted my head, and just stared at him. "Wow. That's a nightmare, all right. Don't worry, honey," I reassured him, "the most you'd ever have to worry about with me is topless dancing."
That earned me a half grin before he wandered out of the room, likely already running figures through his mind, and coming up short, broke, in the red. What're we gonna do? What're we gonna do?
Friday, September 6, 2013
The Micheal Angelo Memorial Service
Everything ends. Cory's first face to face experience with the loss of a loved one took place in 2006. She was thirteen years old. At that time, we housed a slew of cats, a new puppy, and Micheal Angelo, Cory's beloved lizard. Up to that point, we had never really had a pet die, other than some of my classroom pet frogs who went up against an afterschool program and lost in a sad and violent manner. There were also the standard fish of childhood, but you know how that goes...those losses are a little easier. First of all, no matter how hard you try to project a personality on a fish, it never quite takes. Secondly, there isn't a lot of touch involved, which produces all those wonderful chemicals and facilitate attachment.
How did Cory take the loss of her pet? She was deeply saddened, and with my encouragement, channeled her grief in the dramatic way that only she could. She single handedly went about making all the proper arrangements. Loved ones (namely me and Tim) were notified and given elaborate yarn-tied invitations to his ceremony.
I will never forget that sunny afternoon in August. Cory, with tears still drying on her cheeks- cheeks that announced to the world she had exited childhood and would soon be a young woman- flipped calmly through her dressy clothes until she found a black dress. She put her hair up on her own, befitting a somber occasion. She encouraged Tim and I to wear something dignified. Grinning behind my hand, I put on a dress and heels, showing her I was on her team. Tim hemmed and hawed, showing up in his pajama pants, and getting elbowed in the stomach by yours truly about every two minutes.
Here is what the invitation, typed by Cory, said:
You are invited to celebrate the memory of our deceased friend, Micheal Angelo, at the Micheal Angelo Memorial Service this week. Come and celebrate the accomplishments this wonderful lizard made in his lifetime and join us in saying our final farewell.
When: Tuesday, August 8th, 2006
Where: 53 Miller Avenue
Time: 1-3 p.m.
If you can, please prepare something to share with us at the service.
Poems, songs, drawings, speeches, or interpretive dance routines are acceptable.
Thank you,
Cory Mansfield
As we walked into the porch, Cory ushered us personally to the small row of chairs she'd set up. She gave Tim and I a program, and walked solemnly up to the makeshift podium she'd put together.
This was the program:
Micheal Angelo Memorial Service
These were her notes:
Thank you all for joining me today to honor our friend, Micheal Angelo. He was one of the best pets I ever had. It was always a pleasure to be around him. I was shocked and dismayed to hear of his death. I thought it was only right to say one last good bye to him.
I will now read a poem by Robert Frost. It is one of my favorites, entitled: Nothing Gold Can Stay. The time I had with Micheal Angelo was wonderful, but didn't last nearly as long as I'd have liked.
Now I asked you all to prepare some sort of ode to our friend. At this time I would like for you all to present your work. Who will go first?
Thank you for that. At this time, I will read aloud an original poem I wrote to honor Micheal Angelo.
I have another poem- my favorite- Annabelle Lee, by Edgar Allen Poe. I believe Micheal Angelo and I share a bound similar to the one expressed in this poem.
Now let us all bow our heads in a moment of silence as we listen to a song.
Bible reading.
She was thirteen, people...thirteen. Can you see why it is so hard to say goodbye to someone so beautiful, and so embedded in my soul? I wish I were able to do it with half as much grace as she did.
Smart, funny, eloquent, well-read, sensitive...how could anyone not want to be part of this child's life? How could anyone walk away from the pure wonder of her?
Instead of carrying myself with the same sort of respectful dignity, I find myself sobbing in odd locations, ordering things off the internet late at night, going through periods when I can't get out of bed, and engaging in passive- aggressive behavior with my loved ones and strangers, alike.
When I got the mail today, I discovered yet another American Girl catalogue. As I brought the mail in, I berated the American Girl company for their lack of sensitivity to continue sending these catalogues. After a full two minutes of declaring them stupid, cruel, and just plain mean, I remembered I haven't contacted them to tell them there is no longer a girl living here that collects their dolls. I could call them; the catalogues would stop coming. Would I do this? Not a chance. Yet, I would still bitch and complain the next time one shows up in my mailbox.
Try as I might, I continue to pull people in, and just as quickly push them away. This grief experience is so confusing, almost like when you step off one of those carnival rides that spins in circles, and can't put one foot in front of the other.
I wish I could handle this as well as Cory handled the loss of her pet. I so want to make her proud.
Edgar Allan Poe
How did Cory take the loss of her pet? She was deeply saddened, and with my encouragement, channeled her grief in the dramatic way that only she could. She single handedly went about making all the proper arrangements. Loved ones (namely me and Tim) were notified and given elaborate yarn-tied invitations to his ceremony.
I will never forget that sunny afternoon in August. Cory, with tears still drying on her cheeks- cheeks that announced to the world she had exited childhood and would soon be a young woman- flipped calmly through her dressy clothes until she found a black dress. She put her hair up on her own, befitting a somber occasion. She encouraged Tim and I to wear something dignified. Grinning behind my hand, I put on a dress and heels, showing her I was on her team. Tim hemmed and hawed, showing up in his pajama pants, and getting elbowed in the stomach by yours truly about every two minutes.
Here is what the invitation, typed by Cory, said:
You are invited to celebrate the memory of our deceased friend, Micheal Angelo, at the Micheal Angelo Memorial Service this week. Come and celebrate the accomplishments this wonderful lizard made in his lifetime and join us in saying our final farewell.
When: Tuesday, August 8th, 2006
Where: 53 Miller Avenue
Time: 1-3 p.m.
If you can, please prepare something to share with us at the service.
Poems, songs, drawings, speeches, or interpretive dance routines are acceptable.
Thank you,
Cory Mansfield
As we walked into the porch, Cory ushered us personally to the small row of chairs she'd set up. She gave Tim and I a program, and walked solemnly up to the makeshift podium she'd put together.
This was the program:
Micheal Angelo Memorial Service
- Introduction
- Poem 1 (Nothing Gold Can Stay)
- Readings from the Family
- Micheal Angelo (an original poem)
- Poem 2 (Annabelle Lee)
- A moment of silence. Song, (Dear Friend)
- Bible Reading
These were her notes:
Thank you all for joining me today to honor our friend, Micheal Angelo. He was one of the best pets I ever had. It was always a pleasure to be around him. I was shocked and dismayed to hear of his death. I thought it was only right to say one last good bye to him.
I will now read a poem by Robert Frost. It is one of my favorites, entitled: Nothing Gold Can Stay. The time I had with Micheal Angelo was wonderful, but didn't last nearly as long as I'd have liked.
Now I asked you all to prepare some sort of ode to our friend. At this time I would like for you all to present your work. Who will go first?
Thank you for that. At this time, I will read aloud an original poem I wrote to honor Micheal Angelo.
I have another poem- my favorite- Annabelle Lee, by Edgar Allen Poe. I believe Micheal Angelo and I share a bound similar to the one expressed in this poem.
Now let us all bow our heads in a moment of silence as we listen to a song.
Bible reading.
She was thirteen, people...thirteen. Can you see why it is so hard to say goodbye to someone so beautiful, and so embedded in my soul? I wish I were able to do it with half as much grace as she did.
Smart, funny, eloquent, well-read, sensitive...how could anyone not want to be part of this child's life? How could anyone walk away from the pure wonder of her?
Instead of carrying myself with the same sort of respectful dignity, I find myself sobbing in odd locations, ordering things off the internet late at night, going through periods when I can't get out of bed, and engaging in passive- aggressive behavior with my loved ones and strangers, alike.
When I got the mail today, I discovered yet another American Girl catalogue. As I brought the mail in, I berated the American Girl company for their lack of sensitivity to continue sending these catalogues. After a full two minutes of declaring them stupid, cruel, and just plain mean, I remembered I haven't contacted them to tell them there is no longer a girl living here that collects their dolls. I could call them; the catalogues would stop coming. Would I do this? Not a chance. Yet, I would still bitch and complain the next time one shows up in my mailbox.
Try as I might, I continue to pull people in, and just as quickly push them away. This grief experience is so confusing, almost like when you step off one of those carnival rides that spins in circles, and can't put one foot in front of the other.
I wish I could handle this as well as Cory handled the loss of her pet. I so want to make her proud.
Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year
ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom
you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with
no other thought
Than to love and be loved
by me.
I was a child and
she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that
was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd
seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that,
long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud,
chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen
came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy
in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as
all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the
cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my
Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger
by far than the love
Of those who were older
than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in
Heaven above
Nor the demons down under
the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from
the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel
Lee;
For the moon never beams,
without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel
Lee;
And the stars never rise, but
I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel
Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I
lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my
life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by
the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding
sea.
Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
In the Studio
It really only took a full day to do the bulk of it- half a day to sort through toys, and another half a day to hangs things up. It is now, hands down, my favorite room in the house. I even briefly considered setting up a futon on the far end, and sleeping out here. As a bonus, I could take the bed out, and turn my bedroom into a walk-in closet.
Basically, being in the studio gives me the same kind of feeling as being at the coffee shop without having to leave the house, except the fact that I don't have a steaming hot, delicious salted caramel mocha in front of me. But that feeling of going to see Cory is still there. She is here as I look at her paintings, her love as visible as every brushstroke. Cory would've have went absolutely nuts over this space, made solely for creating. I feel so guilty for not thinking to make it when she was here...the times we could've had together out here, laughing, listening to music, and making a genuine mess. It would've been beautiful. Last night, I stayed up till 2 a.m., a funny movie playing on my laptop as I painted. I felt certain Cory was watching along. Crazy?
Going to the coffee shop daily was my way to commune with Cory. The cemetery is still counter productive. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, but I am never lovely or peaceful when I am there. Instead, I turn into a bitter, hate-filled, sobbing wreck, ready to stick my head out the car window as I pull away, screaming, "Give me back my child!" to the trees standing there in a silent, wistful line.
Just so you know, there is never an answer to this demand. I leave with pains in my chest, and an urge to destroy. Faces start shuffling through my mind...who contributed to this madness? Who can I yell at? Who can I blame? All too often, I glance up into my rearview mirror, and settle on my most frequently abused target...myself. What punishment is suitable for killing your own child through bad judgment and pure laziness? Not eating? Not sleeping? Not being alive, when she is not? So many ways to suffer, but none enough to pay my dues.
So yes, this little studio of mine will at least keep me from breaking things, and it allows me to spend some quality time with my girl, at any hour, in any state of dress. I am now in one of her Hello Kitty t-shirts, rocking some polka dot pajama pants, getting ready to eat a yogurt and draw. Maybe tell Cory about my day.
Basically, being in the studio gives me the same kind of feeling as being at the coffee shop without having to leave the house, except the fact that I don't have a steaming hot, delicious salted caramel mocha in front of me. But that feeling of going to see Cory is still there. She is here as I look at her paintings, her love as visible as every brushstroke. Cory would've have went absolutely nuts over this space, made solely for creating. I feel so guilty for not thinking to make it when she was here...the times we could've had together out here, laughing, listening to music, and making a genuine mess. It would've been beautiful. Last night, I stayed up till 2 a.m., a funny movie playing on my laptop as I painted. I felt certain Cory was watching along. Crazy?
Going to the coffee shop daily was my way to commune with Cory. The cemetery is still counter productive. It is a lovely, peaceful spot, but I am never lovely or peaceful when I am there. Instead, I turn into a bitter, hate-filled, sobbing wreck, ready to stick my head out the car window as I pull away, screaming, "Give me back my child!" to the trees standing there in a silent, wistful line.
Just so you know, there is never an answer to this demand. I leave with pains in my chest, and an urge to destroy. Faces start shuffling through my mind...who contributed to this madness? Who can I yell at? Who can I blame? All too often, I glance up into my rearview mirror, and settle on my most frequently abused target...myself. What punishment is suitable for killing your own child through bad judgment and pure laziness? Not eating? Not sleeping? Not being alive, when she is not? So many ways to suffer, but none enough to pay my dues.
So yes, this little studio of mine will at least keep me from breaking things, and it allows me to spend some quality time with my girl, at any hour, in any state of dress. I am now in one of her Hello Kitty t-shirts, rocking some polka dot pajama pants, getting ready to eat a yogurt and draw. Maybe tell Cory about my day.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Get a Room
Envy is a funny thing. It is a powerful feeling that can spur on actions...some good, some bad. One thing that holds true for me is when I am truly envious, I only see the part of the picture. Driving home from Detroit the other day, I was super jealous of my best friend since fourth grade. I love her like a sister, but man, I was wanting her life.
For starters, her four absolutely beautiful children are all still alive, which is something I envy of everyone around me...even my own mother. Secondly, she is a stay at home mom, which means she gets to be fully present as they grow and change. When her children are grown, they won't remember waiting anxiously for the key to turn in the door, desperate to hear her call out, "Babies! I'm home!", as I still do to this day, unable to stop this engrained habit. Every time I do it, my heart is fractured a tiny sliver, and I try to comfort myself by pretending I meant Jake and the pets, and not Jake and Cory. For the record, my heart is not fooled.
And lastly, she has been involved with the same man, the father of all her children, since she was a teenager. He worships her, which was plainly evident when she led me down to her "scrapping corner", a peaceful little alcove of their basement that he had fixed up just for her. This was her place to go when she needed to recharge, when she wanted to dream, when she needed to be alone...or as alone as one could possibly be with four children wandering around the house. My eyes greedily ate up all the careful details...the pegboard, the hooks, the shelving, the lighting...and could see love and commitment flowing directly from her husband's hands onto all that wood and hardware.
As I said earlier, though, I only see part of the picture. As envious as I was of these things, I didn't stop to think about how they came to be. To be a stay at home mom meant sacrifice, financially and personally. To be available to your children twenty four hours a day does not leave a lot of leisure time or time to be with other adults. Her long-standing marriage is admirable, but I wasn't even considering what challenges had brought her to this point, what concessions had been made on both sides. And the scrapping corner? Well, I'm betting a couple of my favorite purses' price tags could outfit one quite nicely. Maybe I needed to continue resetting my priorities. As far as having the man who would set it up for me? I strongly suspected he was at home, painting the front of the house, and keeping an eye on our son, while I went to visit with a friend and tried to feel better. "Go have fun, honey" is his most frequently used phrase.
So the next day, napping as I fell back into depression, my friend and her husband began texting me about making the toy room off the living room into a little makeshift art studio. "You just tell Tim if he won't do it, we're coming down. Hell, I could move that train table by myself...on my back."
I giggled. I just bet she could. Was there really anything my giggle sister couldn't do?
Tim, who has been doing little projects lately- tangible proof that he is feeling so much better since he started seeing Dr. Z and got his meds adjusted-jumped all over the idea. I'm not sure if he was eager to have all my art crap off the dining room table so he'd have more room to savor his daily takeout or if he was deliriously excited to see something -anything- that put a spark in my eye and a genuine smile on my face.
That is how Tim and I ended up knee deep in toys from both the children's childhoods last night. Jake, who starts middle school in two days, held fast to his nerf guns, lego sets, and our collection of boardgames- just in case he ever wants to go old school and peel his eyes away from the computer screen.
Cory's things were handled reverently. Her favorite childhood toys were placed high on a shelf where I could see them if I needed to. Her other stuffies and American Girl accessories were tubbed to store in her room. I had mixed feelings about this. In one way, I was simply cleaning out toys which should've been went through some time ago, and because I was doing Jake's, also, it hardly seemed like I was "going through her things". But on the other hand, with her gone, each item her hand had touched -whether eight years ago or not- was so incredibly precious. I found myself holding a pink, plastic Little Pony hairbrush, paralyzed, unable to decide whether or not it was a keeper.
Typical of a recovering hoarder, I cleared out an area, and simply moved the objects from one place to another. Cut me some slack, people, I am doing the best I can. In the end, some of Jake's baby toys made their way to the garage where they can be donated. That is progress.
I made it a good hour and a half before I broke down. What telling object caused my meltdown? Cory and I had watched Camp Rock on the Disney channel about fourteen times. She had the Selena Gomez doll that sang the theme song. Feeling a sharp pang in my heart, I pushed on Selena's chest. Her voice blared, "This is real. This is me. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be..." In a rush, I was transported back to sitting cross legged on our red couch, sharing a blanket, giggling with my girl. I could almost turn my head and see her smiling face. Horror. Just horror. My entire face just sagged, and the hoarse sobs began. Tim was in the garage making more room.
I clutched Selena and wailed loud enough to scare the cats, pulling myself into the smallest ball my body would make.
"Okay. Okay. Come here." said a voice from the door. In strode my niece, still in her work attire. She knelt down, all barely five feet of her, and gathered me, sweaty and crying, into her embrace. "We're gonna do this. I'm going to help. Come on, girl. We can do it."
She held the doll out to me, "Keep or send away?"
Between sobs, I blurted out passionately, "We have to keep her...she's Selena Gomez!"
Just like that, there was laughter again. Alisha stayed another hour or so, patiently sorting through all the stuffed animals that made my heart ache. When we had made more progress than I had thought possible, she sat with me while I ate a pastry. Somewhere, Cory was looking down and smiling.
As I tried to get to sleep, I realized this was a big step, setting up this little space. It meant that I considered myself an artist, and that I thought enough of my work to dedicate a special space to do it. More importantly, it meant I was, in some small way, setting a goal for the future. Maybe sitting in my former toy room, listening to music and painting with Cory's artwork surrounding me wasn't a lot, goal wise, but it was measurably better than wishing I was dead.
Wasn't it?
One thing I know, Cory wants to see me be brave.
For starters, her four absolutely beautiful children are all still alive, which is something I envy of everyone around me...even my own mother. Secondly, she is a stay at home mom, which means she gets to be fully present as they grow and change. When her children are grown, they won't remember waiting anxiously for the key to turn in the door, desperate to hear her call out, "Babies! I'm home!", as I still do to this day, unable to stop this engrained habit. Every time I do it, my heart is fractured a tiny sliver, and I try to comfort myself by pretending I meant Jake and the pets, and not Jake and Cory. For the record, my heart is not fooled.
And lastly, she has been involved with the same man, the father of all her children, since she was a teenager. He worships her, which was plainly evident when she led me down to her "scrapping corner", a peaceful little alcove of their basement that he had fixed up just for her. This was her place to go when she needed to recharge, when she wanted to dream, when she needed to be alone...or as alone as one could possibly be with four children wandering around the house. My eyes greedily ate up all the careful details...the pegboard, the hooks, the shelving, the lighting...and could see love and commitment flowing directly from her husband's hands onto all that wood and hardware.
As I said earlier, though, I only see part of the picture. As envious as I was of these things, I didn't stop to think about how they came to be. To be a stay at home mom meant sacrifice, financially and personally. To be available to your children twenty four hours a day does not leave a lot of leisure time or time to be with other adults. Her long-standing marriage is admirable, but I wasn't even considering what challenges had brought her to this point, what concessions had been made on both sides. And the scrapping corner? Well, I'm betting a couple of my favorite purses' price tags could outfit one quite nicely. Maybe I needed to continue resetting my priorities. As far as having the man who would set it up for me? I strongly suspected he was at home, painting the front of the house, and keeping an eye on our son, while I went to visit with a friend and tried to feel better. "Go have fun, honey" is his most frequently used phrase.
So the next day, napping as I fell back into depression, my friend and her husband began texting me about making the toy room off the living room into a little makeshift art studio. "You just tell Tim if he won't do it, we're coming down. Hell, I could move that train table by myself...on my back."
I giggled. I just bet she could. Was there really anything my giggle sister couldn't do?
Tim, who has been doing little projects lately- tangible proof that he is feeling so much better since he started seeing Dr. Z and got his meds adjusted-jumped all over the idea. I'm not sure if he was eager to have all my art crap off the dining room table so he'd have more room to savor his daily takeout or if he was deliriously excited to see something -anything- that put a spark in my eye and a genuine smile on my face.
That is how Tim and I ended up knee deep in toys from both the children's childhoods last night. Jake, who starts middle school in two days, held fast to his nerf guns, lego sets, and our collection of boardgames- just in case he ever wants to go old school and peel his eyes away from the computer screen.
Cory's things were handled reverently. Her favorite childhood toys were placed high on a shelf where I could see them if I needed to. Her other stuffies and American Girl accessories were tubbed to store in her room. I had mixed feelings about this. In one way, I was simply cleaning out toys which should've been went through some time ago, and because I was doing Jake's, also, it hardly seemed like I was "going through her things". But on the other hand, with her gone, each item her hand had touched -whether eight years ago or not- was so incredibly precious. I found myself holding a pink, plastic Little Pony hairbrush, paralyzed, unable to decide whether or not it was a keeper.
Typical of a recovering hoarder, I cleared out an area, and simply moved the objects from one place to another. Cut me some slack, people, I am doing the best I can. In the end, some of Jake's baby toys made their way to the garage where they can be donated. That is progress.
I made it a good hour and a half before I broke down. What telling object caused my meltdown? Cory and I had watched Camp Rock on the Disney channel about fourteen times. She had the Selena Gomez doll that sang the theme song. Feeling a sharp pang in my heart, I pushed on Selena's chest. Her voice blared, "This is real. This is me. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be..." In a rush, I was transported back to sitting cross legged on our red couch, sharing a blanket, giggling with my girl. I could almost turn my head and see her smiling face. Horror. Just horror. My entire face just sagged, and the hoarse sobs began. Tim was in the garage making more room.
I clutched Selena and wailed loud enough to scare the cats, pulling myself into the smallest ball my body would make.
"Okay. Okay. Come here." said a voice from the door. In strode my niece, still in her work attire. She knelt down, all barely five feet of her, and gathered me, sweaty and crying, into her embrace. "We're gonna do this. I'm going to help. Come on, girl. We can do it."
She held the doll out to me, "Keep or send away?"
Between sobs, I blurted out passionately, "We have to keep her...she's Selena Gomez!"
Just like that, there was laughter again. Alisha stayed another hour or so, patiently sorting through all the stuffed animals that made my heart ache. When we had made more progress than I had thought possible, she sat with me while I ate a pastry. Somewhere, Cory was looking down and smiling.
As I tried to get to sleep, I realized this was a big step, setting up this little space. It meant that I considered myself an artist, and that I thought enough of my work to dedicate a special space to do it. More importantly, it meant I was, in some small way, setting a goal for the future. Maybe sitting in my former toy room, listening to music and painting with Cory's artwork surrounding me wasn't a lot, goal wise, but it was measurably better than wishing I was dead.
Wasn't it?
One thing I know, Cory wants to see me be brave.
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