The Blame Game

The day after Thanksgiving, my dog, Gizmo, and I laid in bed until five p.m. before finally catching each other's eye, disgusted with ourselves.  Perhaps I should have taken the hint when my cat looked down at my lack of grooming, and took the task on himself, as if to say, "If you're not going to do anything about this, I guess I'll give it a shot- but I'm no miracle worker, lady."  You have to love him for trying.

I had been awake off and on throughout the day, you understand.  But depression had settled further onto my limbs while I slept as if someone had covered my sleeping form with a blanket of bricks.  Move?  Why?  All I wanted was Cory, and she wasn't here.

 The last few days I had good intentions- maybe I'll take Gizmo for a walk, maybe I'll go for Chinese, maybe I'll make beef stew- but in the end, my bed beckoned and was not to be denied.  So there I laid in a place that was soft and warm- really the only comfort available.  Thoughts swirled- both good memories and reluctant trips down It's All Your Fault lane. 

I know I professed to have changed my thinking on the fault business when I returned from Italy.  That was a valiant effort, but didn't last.  The brain is pattern seeking, right?  It seems I will relentlessly look for a reason and the person to blame, even to my own detriment.  Over the last couple days I've blamed everyone from the driver to The Pioneer Woman who cooks on Food Network before circling back to myself.

The Pioneer Woman, you ask dubiously.  Yes.  For a brief moment in time, I blamed her just because she inspired the great spring/summer stock up of 2012.  She did a show on her pantry/freezer, and when I set my eyes upon all the duplicate spices, canned goods, dried goods, and frozen items, my anxiety piped up excitedly, "Oh my God, we've simply got to do that!  It would make me feel so good." 

Never mind the fact that this woman has much more income than I do.  I was determined to stock up, preventing last minute trips to the store, and saving money in the process.  As always, I went slightly overboard, not only stocking up on food, but also household cleaners, paper goods, and pet food.  It was to the point that Tim got into the act, planning a remodel of the spare room downstairs to turn it into a stockroom of sorts.  Sadly, this, as all his other projects born in the fever of hypomania, never quite came to fruitation.

Once the progam year ended at work and unemployment pay began, I found it a little more difficult to keep up on my overdone and endless stocking.  There just wasn't the funds to support it.  I went back to getting only what I needed at the moment, paying whatever price was being asked.  Somewhere, along the way, the chili powder was overlooked...and well, you know the rest.

How does this make The Pioneer Woman responsible?  It obviously doesn't.  She encouraged limited trips to the store and buying things on sale, not sending your daughter out to get hit by an SUV.  Last night, as I lay in bed, medicated but unable to sleep, putting one hand over my face as if I could hold back the images of Cory laid out on the road, knocked out of her shoes, and part of her hair trapped in a stranger's windshield, I entered a truly evil thought pattern.

I started thinking that Cory and I always let each other know when we ran out of something.  She was in on the stock up, you see.  Jacob was not old enough to cook without supervision.  So who did that leave? 

Shit.  That day when I called out, annoyed, that I would need to go to the store, and who used all the chili powder without saying anything, Cory said, "Probably Dad.  You know he makes all kinds of weird stuff to take to work."

Yes, he does- strange rice concoctions with a cube bouillon base and smattered with some spice over the top to make him feel fancy.  Had he used the last of the chili powder and not told anyone?  He was the prime suspect when all the milk was gone, and quite fond of putting an empty box of cereal back on top of the fridge.  One day the family was going to approach him as a lynch mob, and be done with his excuses.

I remember deciding that in addition to my mom not having to see Cory laying on the road before she was covered, the only good thing was that Tim had not been the one to send her to the store.  I had spent a week in Florida a couple months before, and to distract Cory from missing me and give her a role in helping run the household, Tim had sent her to Family Fare every day, pretending he had forgotten some small but crucial item.  Cory did it happily, and felt proud to be helping.  I used to imagine if this had happened on one of those trips, what would my feelings towards Tim be?  I would get ten seconds into this imaginary scenario and have to mentally turn away, not wanting to see myself in such an ugly light.

So last night, I pondered on who forgot to say we were out of chili powder and began to hate my husband until I fell asleep.

When I woke up this morning, I realized I was being ridiculous.  It is unbelievable what unbearable pain can breed.  I shook my head, bemused at how I had latched onto something so nonsensical.

 It was obvious whose fault it was.  Who did the grocery shopping, Nick?

Happy Holidays

If what it takes to prevent divorce is a brand new absurd pet name sung from three feet away, "Hi, honeybunches!" and the new courtesy of asking before he devours my take-out leftovers, then all my worries and disappointments are over.

Again, I have been courted with a glazed donut, which leaves me to wonder if he thinks I need to put on some weight or if the way to my heart is through the gluttonous consumption of baked goods.  Was there a donut around when he proposed, and I just can't recall it?

My dog, Gizmo, and I spent yesterday, and the better part of today in bed, snoring and staring into space.  I again refused to partake in the family gathering of Thanksgiving, which I fear is being misunderstood as selfishness (why would I deprive my loved ones of my sunshiny personality) and immature (when is she going to just accept it and move on?)  Get back to her old self?

I do not wish to be selfish or immature.  And I have no way, no possible way, to get back to my old self.  That woman is lying six feet under with her arms wrapped around her firstborn.  This shell that walks around, this ghost, is someone different, entirely.

I cannot stand the person I have become when surrounded with happy people, who laugh and eat and gaze upon their children at will.  I turn into an ugly, shriveled, bitter soul who is consumed with covetous thoughts and burning jealousy.  I would rather keep such unkindness to myself.  But mainly, I suppose- selfish if you say so- I want to avoid that empty chair...space unfilled forever.  It is too much to swallow past, even with turkey and dressing.  Just like the cemetery, these final truths only make me angry, vengeful, and frankly, a little dangerous.  I will avoid.

The State of My Union

He chooses his words, carefully, weighing them out, one by one- heavy enough to agree there is indeed a problem, but light enough to avoid any obligations to change anything he is currently doing or saying, (or not doing or not saying).  Even a half-assed compromise is a stretch he can't cover, so he agrees to nothing, promises nothing, just looks at the ground, and waits for her to stop talking. 

Hoping it will be enough, yet another time, he walks away, without looking back.  Looking back is for those that have the energy to do it; he does not.  Or maybe he just doesn't want to see the need written plainly on her face, knowing it is more than he can handle, even if he weren't lost to a disabling depressive episode, which he is.

Why I Sleep So Much

I spent about 10 minutes with Cory last night.  Here's what we did:

We spent five minutes in a Macy's dressing room as Cory tried on a cute little black Calvin Klein dress that fit like a glove.  I zipped it for her, and watched her twirl.  Overcome with joy just to be in the same room with her, I fixed on details:  her hair that lifted ever so slightly in the air when she moved, the proud way she pulled her shoulders back when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and her toes flexing as she stood up on pretend high heels.  She grappled for the price tag behind her with that question in her eyes, "Mom, can I have it?" and I waved a joyful hand,
"Sold!"

Last night, we also relived our last experience watching Children of the Corn together.  I don't care how old it is, how hokey, or how bad the special effects are.  That is a truly creepy movie if only because of cast of characters.  Add in all the murders and time spent outdoors, and I was prepared to never leave my house again.  The movie came out in 1984, and I remember watching it in my basement family room with my best friend, Nicole, amidst heaps of junk food. 

As everything good in life that I have experienced, it only grew better when I shared it with my girl.  Late one night, we watched it huddled under a blanket on the couch with the lights out, fully intending to keep the references going for the better part of a week.  We even got Gizmo in on the act, referring to him as "He Who Walks Behind the Rows" and turning Cory's cat, Church, into the prophet for our new household. 

This sheer ridiculousness was all par for the course for us, but got even better as we watched the credits roll up and Cory noticed that Malachai's character was named Courtney in real life.  She turned to me in disbelief and outright horror.   "Mom, Malachai is a girl!"

Cracking up, we carried on about this for the better part of an hour, peppering our review of his/her performance with heartfelt questions.  Why would they hire a girl to play a male's part?  Was the adam's apple that bobbed up and down on Malachai's neck in moments of uncontrollable rage real or manufactured?  Did the incidents of violence coincide with Courtney's time of the month?

When we could take it no longer, we googled Courtney Gains to discover the person in question was, in actuality, a male.  Slightly disappointed, we grinned at each other, continuing our banter with, "Yeah, but just think if that was a girl..."

Planning the Death of My Dog

Gizmo, our Pekinese/Pomeranian, has been suffering from sort of skin allergy.  Monday, Tim took him in for a recheck.  He called me mid-morning to say that the vet had done tests and found that something was pressing against Gizmo's stomach.  They'd like to do an ultra-sound and exploratory surgery. 

The next morning, our thirteen year old little man was laid out on their table, ready to be explored.  My phone rang shortly after they opened him up.  He indeed had a large mass that had spread to his spleen, and kidney.  The veterinarian wanted to know if we wanted him to be woken up or let go.

Let him go?  Are you kidding me?  If this kind woman thought I was able to make any but the most mundane decisions, she was mistaken.  If shealso  thought she had a mature, unselfish woman on the line who would put her pet's suffering above her own desperate needs for love and affection, well, she clearly had the wrong girl.

Once I had pulled over to the side of the road, and told her through huge gasps of air, that she was to wake him, and we would bring him home to say good-bye before putting him down, I hung up and let those huge donkey-braying sobs fly.  Why did it feel like every member in my sacred circle was on hit?  Oh, right..because they have been.  Cory...her cat Church...my cat Sassy...now Gizmo- every aging pet another chapter of Cory's childhood closed, and set to the side.

Gizmo was the only male in the house who didn't sigh and look equal parts sad and resentful when I brought up Cory's name.  He also slept in my bed, which is more than I can say for my spouse.

When Gizmo dies, I will be even more alone in a house that already screams of loneliness.

When Jake got home from school, I told him the news.  He responded with a single tear that fought a grisly three minute battle to be allowed the journey down his all-boy cheek.  Once, that single tear got underway, though, he gave up his tough pretenses, and climbed right into my lap like the little boy he still is.  His head on my shoulder, he clung for nearly twenty minutes...an eternity in a preteen's world.

That night, I knew not a wink of sleep.  Wolf Teeth, were in full abundance, and the next day I struggled to pay attention at my tasks, cradling my jaw as I zoned out.  Cognitively, I certainly understood that thirteen years and some odd months was a good long time for a small dog, but my heart cried out that it was unfair...we needed this small soul just a little bit longer, please.

 He was tied up in Cory's childhood, enmeshed to the point that one could barely be seen in your mind's eye without the other.  I felt as though some cruel hand was prying loose my connections to my girl, one white knuckled finger at a time.  What would I do when I had nothing left?  Would that be the point I would succumb to all the shitty self-help books that demanded you "let go" of your dead child, moving her from center stage to the sidelines so you can live your long, happy, satisfying life without her?  Eff that.\

Grocery Shopping With Sven

Okay, maybe it wasn't planned, and we only bumped into each other near the checkout...

One evening, after work, last week, I braved the curse that is Family Fare in the Urbandale Plaza.  As I'm sure I have mentioned, I hate going there.  However, it is so close to my house that my exhaustion usually gauges whether or not I will make the extra effort to drive out to Meijer's or WalMart.  I was having a decent sort of day, but wanted to get home in time to actually cook something for my son, instead of stopping for take out as I'd done the majority of the last two months, so I went for it.

One of the new changes in the store has helped at least a bit.  There are a few self check-outs, which is nice when you don't feel like having to smile or make small talk.  This is especially convenient when you are ready to burst into tears or feel like screaming. 

I was past the prepackaged produce, when I spied the Pistachios on sale, and reached to grab a couple for my cart.  My hand stopped partway out, and my chest began to burn and boil, so much lava and fire.  Pissed off at myself, I jerked my hand back to my side, and wondered how long my brain would continue to play these cruel tricks on me.  When will I know all the time that she's gone?  And once I do, will it feel better or worse?

I rolled on to the deli counter, getting my cold cuts, and walking away, chin on my chest, remembering all the times Cory had grabbed up the ham with glee, and snuck a few bites as we did the rest of our shopping.  I scolded her every time, and she grinned at me, her mouth full of ham, looking happy and alive.

Passing the center aisle, with its treasure trove of frozen goods, I paused, noticing Family Fare was moving up in the world.  You could now purchase frozen lobster tails for your cooking pleasure.  I grabbed at them, thinking of how excited Cory would be, and dropped them just as quickly.  Who knew seafood could be so infuriating?

I picked up my pace, grabbing things without looking at prices, in a hurry to get the hell out of this wretched store.  With each step, I became more and more angry with the store, with West Michigan Avenue, with the driver, with myself.  My steps quickened in time with the raising of my blood pressure.  By the time I nearly struck Dr. Z with my cart, I had surely worked up some patches of color high on my cheekbones that he likely took for signs of good health and cheer.

We each smiled and said hello, and I broke the professional boundary by giving him a hearty hug that he returned with a slightly embarrassed but equally hearty pat between my shoulder blades.  Looking back, I can see that as we made small talk, his assessment of my presentation was as automatic as breathing, even a full forty-five minutes off the clock:  the patient, a quiet woman in her early forties, was clean and reasonably groomed.  She was dressed in business casual attire, appropriate for a workday. 

Indeed, I had even matched my Hunter boots to my overcoat.  I had remembered to put on earrings.  My hair was squeaky clean and pinned back in some type of style.  I was even wearing makeup; my carefully applied eyeliner belying my desperation.

We bent our heads into each other's carts.  Dr. Z had his bag of navel oranges, and the makings of a bachelor dinner or three.  He glanced at the contents of mine, and asked politely, "Getting ready for the holiday?"

At the mere mention of the "H" word, I flinched.  "I don't really do the holidays anymore." I said quietly, sad to disappoint him.

He smiled warmly, anyways, asking after Jake and my parents, as he always does.  We soon said good-bye and wheeled away from each other.

Imagine his surprise, when days later I appeared in his office at 8 a.m. wanting to die.  All he kept saying, his puzzled expression genuine, was, "But when I saw you in the store..."

Yes, Sven, I know, I had matched my clothes, I had fresh fruit and veggies in the cart, but I still want to die the majority of the time.  I work to fight the urge, the same as I work to get out of bed, shower, and dress...facing the day without my girl is like those first steps into Family Fare that feel like walking on knives.  It's like that every day.  The worst days are the ones where I sit down and really question if it's worth it.  That's how I ended up your emergency appointment- I sat down, and really thought about it.

Night Walker

I have never seen a ghost.  I've been pretty much ambivalent on their existence all my life.   Until now. 

On the way home from coffee after work the other night, I took the usual route, taking care to avoid going too far down West Michigan.  I will pass the scene if I have to, but avoiding has become as automatic as stopping at a red light.  Without a lot of thought, my hands will do the work of avoiding the trigger:  hanging a right on Bedford, followed by a left on East Willard- which brings me to my street, two houses from my own.  Every time I pause at the yield sign, I register that I am partway through the last walk Cory ever took, and shudder either outwardly, inwardly, or both. 

On the worst sort of days, the ones in which flashbacks run rampant and comfort does not exist, I can just make her out there on the other side of the road:  blonde wavy hair streaked with pink, Where the Wild Things Are t-shirt, her new shorts from Macy's, woven belt, and the Hello Kitty sneaks.  I can see her there, a sort of half illusion/half conjured figure, walking with her head down, intent on finishing the task at hand, eager to get back to the a.c. and her family.

Each time this happens is torture enough, and I am merely glad I only have a few hundred yards to the driveway.  Better this stretch of my road, then the other two-thirds, that ends in images that will never leave my mind.  They are red and blue and black, dark and ominous, the colors of hurt, the colors of suffering.

Have I told you I hate living on this street?  In this neighborhood?  That every time I make a run to anywhere, I have to navigate against my emotions to get there?   That every time I pass her "spot" as her friends call it, I remember being there, screaming, and demanding that someone do something.  Or maybe that's what I wish I'd done.  I think, more likely, I only screamed, and asked every two seconds if she was breathing, unable to understand why no one would answer me.  Was it so obvious to everyone but me that she was clearly dead?

And all I can think about, on the heels of those memories that burn and scourge, are her final moments.  What was she thinking about?  Did she see the car coming for her?  Did she hurt?

That is the final indignity that feeds my rage.  There had been months and years of anguish for her that I couldn't do a damn thing about.  It killed this mother's heart to watch her suffer.  The only comfort I could provide was my presence.  "You're safe, Cory-Girl.  I won't let anyone hurt you."  It was never enough.  It made me feel useless.  Parents are supposed to be able to help their children, to stop their pain, to kiss those boo-boos, no matter how big and ugly they might be.  So after all that, all those nights and days of appointments and meds and night terrors and delusions...it somehow all led to this unbelievably unfair ending- my brave girl, broken and bleeding on the road, left to die alone.

Yeah, I asked all the academic questions of the people in the know.  Most offered that she likely died on impact.  I question if this is true or the only cheap comfort that can be given to a mother out of her mind with grief.  I will always return to the bystander, a neighbor from just around the way, who said when they first checked her, she was still breathing.  But by the time the ambulance got there, she wasn't. 

I think about this night after night when sleep won't come, and the road beckons, Cory being turned over so slowly, her blue lips throwing an ice cold bucket of water over my heart as I began to consider the impossible.  She was still breathing said the witness, one of the only people who would actually know for sure.  Did she hurt?  Did she want me, and I wasn't there? 

Somehow, that seems the most bitter failure of all.  What kind of parent lets their child die alone?

These are the thoughts that run through what's left of mind when I drive on my road.  I was well into them, when I rolled up to the Yield sign the other night, in the twilight that was just becoming full dark, and glanced to my left.  I slammed on the brakes, and just gaped at the small figure trudging along the nearest side of Miller Avenue.  Cory?!!!!  Oh my God, is that Cory???

Joy I haven't felt since that summer afternoon leapt up into my heart.  Could this be happening?  I pulled further into the fork in the road and looked, putting on my left turn signal.  As I did, the figure looked over its shoulder, and I clearly saw the face.  Not Cory's.

Same build.  Same height.  Same jean/hoodie uniform she'd be wearing this time of year.  Same headband/ponytail running-to-the-store everyday casual hair do.  Same walk, even:  head down, eyes on the road, shoulders slightly rounded in.  But it wasn't her. 

I guess I should've known.  I'd never my girl walk in the dark.

Dissing the Symbol of Our People

A couple of Thanksgivings before the accident, Cory and I decided that although we had a huge Thanksgiving dinner to partake of at my parents, we would put on our own.  We started out discussing how the best part of Thanksgiving dinner is always the sides, and how fun it would be to make a dinner of sides only- even introducing some yummy newcomers, like roasted asparagus and garlic roasted mashed potatoes.

This whimsical discussion grew until a week later found me hot and sweaty, giggles gone by the wayside of ruined homemade rolls, and not nearly enough oven space for my liking.  We had decided to go whole hog since neither of us were huge turkey fans, and had always questioned why one should have to have turkey in an traditional American Thanksgiving feast in the first place.

We brought this debate on hot and heavy at the Sunday dinner before the big holiday.  Eric, one of Cory's cousins, latched onto the argument with humor and glee.  He declared us the most un-American, un-patriotic eaters of the holiday he had ever personally known, and shook his head sadly.  "How you gonna diss the symbol of our people?"
  Cory and I grinned widely, arguing earnestly that America was a melting pot of many cultures- could we not break a variety of bread (and foul) while we said our thanks?

What had began as a Sides Only feast of epic proportions slowly grew to include:  a succulent roast chicken (gasp), a kettle of sizzling sherry soaked shrimp, a pot roast complete with baby red skinned potatoes, and glazed carrots, and even medium rare steaks covered with sautéed mushrooms swimming in Manhattan sauce. Basically, Cory and I sat down and made a ridiculously large menu of every dish we hoped was served in heaven.  Having never hosted a large holiday meal before, I did not realize that oven space determines the scope of your menu.  I merely smiled at our ambition, and declared, "We are strong, smart, beautiful independent young women!!  Let's do it!" 

It took us hours to shop for all the ingredients, with more than one return trip to the store because we'd forgotten some essential ingredient.  We made desserts the night before- pumpkin pies and an amazing chocolate pecan pie with a chocolate crust.  I was in the kitchen by 8 a.m. the morning of said feast, joined by Cory when she woke up, and we had great fun for a couple of hours until the Emeril's homemade stuffing incident.  Was it too much enthusiasm when measuring the unsalted butter?  Was the bread too fresh?  We may never know.  What greeted us coming out of the oven that afternoon was a gloppy, soggy bread pudding type concoction, that boasted a golden puddle of melted butter floating on the top.  We looked at it, and then looked at each other.  "Maybe, it'll taste better than it looks."  Cory said, always the optimistic one.

 Aggravated with my cooking ineptitude, I grouched, "We can't eat that, it'll cost us our arteries.  Damn you, Emeril!  What's with the butter, man?  Is that even legal?"

We giggled, and turned our attention to the green bean casserole instead.  When it was safely snuggled into the oven to brown, we began the joyous task of seasoning the potatoes, which often required that we eat close to a quarter of the pan as we tasted...such were the sacrifices of our times.

In the end, we made way too much food for fourteen people, let alone four.  We had leftovers for a week, and decided to downsize just a bit next time, but declared the feast a success on two counts.

 One:  no turkey.  Two:  It was purely us.

We didn't get around to trying it again that next year.  Looking back I have to wonder if the crazy need to cram it all into one tasting event wasn't some premonition to wring as much joy out of the holiday as I could while the getting was still good.  Someday, all too soon, she would not be at my table, and I wouldn't want to sit at a single one without her.

Things

I had never heard of keeping a loved one's fingerprint before.  My cousins got together, and arranged for it to be done.  When they told me about it, I could scarcely contain my joy.  To have her mark, her unique marking with me always?  What an incredible treasure.  I asked further into it right away, wanted to be sure I found every way to make the most of this opportunity.  What is better than one precious photo of your dead child?  A hundred.  What is better than one precious piece of fingerprint jewelry?  As many as I could carry away, obviously.

Was this reaction a typical example of  the anxiety that has driven me to  "collect"  handbags in every hue and fabric?  Or was this something more?  Maybe some weird survival instinct burning deep in my chest every time I realized that if I'd had an extra container of chili powder in my spice cupboard, Cory would be here right now.  Stock up, stock up, stock up...beats the rhythm in my head, sometimes consciously, sometimes subconsciously, but steady and relentless, either way.

It would seem, when I think back, that my first solid action after I realized a funeral home had indeed retrieved my daughter's sheet covered body from the road, and would not let me see her until they had "done some work" was to go buy her the last thing I remember her asking me for.  I asked to be taken to the store to buy her the stuffed Hello Kitty she'd spied just days ago.  I also bought her beads for her Pandora bracelet.  I bought her earrings.  I bought her new underwear.  I bought her perfume that I wasn't sure they would use, but hoped they would because she loved to be told she smelled good.

I... shopped.  Sitting here, now, over a year later, I shake my head, and try to figure it out.  Like what did I think she was going to do with all those things?  Why did I feel I needed to buy them for her? 

That's easy enough.  Cory and I were poor, okay?  We were, and it made me feel inadequate, especially when I only had myself to give her, and not the mommy/daddy/doggy family like the one in her Barbie dream house.  I took great pride in providing for her. Being a young mom was scary, and more than anything I was afraid of not giving her enough.  As I grew older, I slowly realized what she craved most was free, but I still had that deep seated desire to give her everything that I could.

After the accident happened, someone eventually got me off my knees.  I stopped puking.  I disjointedly but successfully planned her day.  I have looked back at the stages of grief a half dozen times, and wondered if I simply skipped over "denial".  I knew she was gone.  I had seen.  And with what I had seen, there simply wasn't room to question.  Was I ever truly in denial?

Well, based on the fact that I continued to shop for her, steady and unwavering, as if in a rush to fill her Christmas stocking-  yeah, I think maybe I was.

This shopping that began with a stuffed Hello Kitty went on for well over a year.  Thousands of dollars later, I try to figure out just what in the heck I thought I was doing. 

Here's what I've come up with:
every object that I bought was placed in between me and the pain.  Bright, shiny buffers...every single thing.  I swathed myelf; I booted myself; I adorned myself.  I made myself smell good; I moisturized; I covered myself in every fabric known to man.  I think of all the clothing, hats, boots, purses, books, trinkets, candles, and the like and try to imagine them in a single slightly wavy line.  How far would they stretch?  That depends...how big and how forgiving is your imagination?  Miles, my friend.  Sick, debt-inducing miles.  All with one basic behavior at the core:  avoid the task.  Or delay the task.  Or these last few months, at least, soften the task.

The more objects I bought, the more things I had to manage...physically, in my hands and in my home, and in my mind.  The more "things" required my attention, the less room I had left to look the truth in the face.  See it.  Smell it.  Breathe it.  Cory was never coming home.  I would never see her again.  To think about it for longer than a second was to risk my very sanity.  Sometimes, it still is.

At the end of walking those long miles, picking things up and setting them down again, I am just exhausted, but I am still loathe to turn my attention to the task at hand.  Who goes willingly to the blade?

Accept.  Accept it, Nick.  You lost her.  It's real.  There's no waking up, this time.

A lot of my shopping I regret.  Here's one purchase that I don't:

Mark, the sweet and kind funeral director called me in when her fingerprint charm was ready.  He sat me down on one of the little settees, and told me about fingerprinting my girl.

 He said, "When you reach out to touch something, which hand do you use?  Your right if you're right handed; left if you're left-handed.  But then...what finger?  Your pointer, of course.  That's what you use to touch something you see or are being shown."  He paused here, and put out his own finger to demonstrate.  "So that's the finger I printed.  I did it carefully and I took my time, because I know how important these lines and whorls are.  There is no one else's just like your daughter's.  When you miss her, you will be able to reach up and touch this piece of silver, and feel her finger right against yours.  No one else's.  Just distinctly hers."

He was right.  On the worst days, I place it around my neck, and it's my touchstone all day long.  Unlike all my other purchases that put distance between me and the reality that she was gone...this one somehow brings it closer, but gently. 

It comforts, but it's honest.  The finger this imprint was made from was cold and hard, and would never reach for my hand again.  But it was hers, and it had been held in mine more times than I could count.

Sometimes instead of needing to know the nightmare is indeed real life, I need to know that the sweet dreams happened, too.   Every hard, silly, crazy, scary, laughter filled, tear streaked moment of nineteen and a half years...all captured, per se, on a disc of silver, in the spaces between those lines and whorls. 
What we had.  What she was.  It was real, and I refuse to give it up.  It is priceless.

Statement to the Press

The last time I was in to see Dr. Z, he told me I was "recovering nicely".  To his face, I flashed him a genuine smile.  Dr. Z is just one of those dear men that you can't bear to disappoint.  Cory'd had the same problem.  His bedside manner was just so cute and charming, you found yourself not wanting to say anything to trouble him.  He is an eternal optimist, a pretty good trick for a psychiatrist, I would say.

I remember sitting out in the lobby that day, waiting to be called back, my surroundings all too familiar:  the tired stacks of magazines that no one ever really read, just leafed through and peered over, the receptionists who joked and smiled kindly, to them life could still be funny, and they could afford to be kind.  The automatic doors that locked after you once you'd been called back reminding you that this was some serious shit, not an appointment with the skin doctor for your dry scalp condition.

All of the times I'd been there with Cory, I had never once imagined that things would end up this way...me as Dr. Z's patient, and Cory gone- no more clozaril clinic for her, no update on her progress, ,no discussing the book she was currently reading for English, just the weary sadness on my face and his- her doctor and her friend.

So I smiled into Dr. Z's eyes- bless his sweet soul- and kept my dubious comments to myself.  What constitutes 'recovered'?  Because I can string a sentence together that makes sense?  Because I remember to wear deodorant these days? 

Naturally, I went home and looked up the meaning of recovered, asking myself, if I felt that I had indeed "regained strength" or "gotten better".  "Better at what?" might be the real question here. 

Was I stronger now because I could say her name without crying?  Or was I stronger because I could say her name and smile? 

During the work week, I'd like to imagine that I seem half-way put together.  I have been busting my ass to focus on my job, and I hope that part of me at least appears better, and stronger.  Take me home afterwards, surrounded by her things, and I am anything but. 

I spend every weekend in my pajamas, just "recovering" from my participation in the real world for the last five days.  People might think it's all depression, and a large part of it may be, this purposeful isolation, but another part is the need to rest my mind, my body, my soul.  This looking normal crap is for the birds.  Dude, I have no idea how Cory ever did it.  I really don't.  She is three times the woman I am, because in her place, I don't think I'd had ever gotten dressed again...for anything, no matter what my loving momma with the sparkling personality said to me.

Sleep is still elusive.  This past weekend was windy, so in between my catnaps, her chimes played all night long.  It's a comforting sound, but after awhile, I wished the wind would die down just a bit...after all, how many times do you need to be reminded that your child is underground while you're trying to escape into sleep?  What kind of escape is that?

I've felt for a couple of weeks now that the stress and heartache has been building and swelling to the point that my mind would just break under the weight of it.  Like, Okay, chick, look, I've put up with an ungodly amount of ugliness here and kept you afloat, but I am fricking dog ass tired and I just cannot take another step.  I'm done.  Right then, my mind would fold, and sit right where it was, like every stubborn three year old in the world who uses their dead weight silently, but masterfully- the least amount of work ever needed to win a power struggle.

One of those restless nights, I thought about the term "mental breakdown" and wondered how a body comes to such a condition.  What would it look like?  Was there a CEO of my mental well-being in a well cut power suit and French twist, who would state, however stylishly in her peep toe pumps and French tip pedicure, that we were being forced to shut down until processes could be improved to the point that the public could be assured quality output and quality interactions from this particular corporation?

I shifted to my side, and grinned in the darkness, charmed, in spite of myself, by this image.  If there was a CEO, was there a board of trustees, as well?  Had there been a special meeting to discuss the fate of the company?  What did that look like?

With Cory's wind chimes going to beat the band outside my window, I closed my eyes, and pictured a long slab of mahagony wood shiny enough to see your reflection in.  All my departments of head gathered around this mammoth table in their rolling chairs, busily shuffling their papers, and sitting up straight, ready to report out on their turn.  What would they say of my current state of affairs?

Physical health:  We're running at half capacity folks.  She's not eating healthy at all.  She's pretty much back on the Chips Ahoy and milk diet, and I think we all remember how that worked out last time.  (Pause here, with a moue of disgust across his face).  She's not kicking this flu stuff, either- just not able to recoup with the reserves down as long as they have been.  Sleep?

Sleep:  Look, I'm not gonna lie.  I had to throw some nightmares from the road out there.  She gave me no other choice.  If I didn't, she'd have been sleeping the clock right around.  Besides, I was told she was ready for more details of the accident.  Sleep looked both sheepish and defensive before turning to anxiety.

Anxiety:  I am on call 24/7.  It hasn't been this bad for months.  She's even got a new name for me these days:  "going wolf teeth".  She's started to clench her teeth in her sleep when she's stressed, and she tried so hard to avoid it one night that her teeth started to feel too big for her mouth.  It really freaked her out.  Full scale panic attack.  I had to bring some extra man power in to cover that shift.

Socializations:  She has pretty much isolated herself during her free time.  I try to get her out there...call someone, get in the car, but it just doesn't work these days.  Her thought patterns read:  hurt, angry, jealous.  She doesn't seem to think anyone else understands, so why bother.

Reality Testing:  She's doing pretty well, actually, guys.  But I catch her every once in awhile trying to slip back into that "maybe Cory's just gone on a trip" business.  And you know we can't have that.  I usually put a call into Flashbacks for immediate assistance.

Flashbacks:  Not a problem, Reality Testing, that's what I'm here for.  She doesn't like me one bit, but over time, I will make sure she has processed this whole disturbing event, small detail by small detail.  There's no denial on my watch.  Someone's gotta play the hard ass.

Thinking processes:  She does well with one problem at a time, and I can keep her distracted for up to 90 minutes, but if I throw too much into the mix, she gets overwhelmed easily.  Mistakes are common.  This makes her feel stupid, and slow, but hopefully it will pass with time.

Relationships:  Not functioning well at this time.  She is ready to cut her losses and go it alone, rather than count on anyone who might not be there the next time she turns around.  It's a common protective strategy.  Sad to say, this has drifted down even to her relationship with her son.  She is apt to avoid, rather than try, just in case she gets rejected yet again.

Depression:  We are full steam ahead.  She is not even painting anymore right now.  There is a lot of "never"  and a lot of "always".  The upcoming holidays are just adding to it, really.  The other day,   she actually wanted to punch a happy couple walking through a public parking lot with their children.  She's hit a new all time low, folks.

Suicidal thinking:  Yes, yes,  I've been called in quite a few times.  The good news is that she's let someone know either openly or inadvertently each time. I think what we have going for her is her split belief system- on one hand she thinks Cory would be disappointed in her if she "got out of this", but she is equally certain that if anyone would understand, it would be Cory.  This indecision slows her down...which is good for us.