Paint Your Target

Doubts about every decision I made as Cory’s parent ride on the coattails of my guilt over her death.  Things that I might have done differently take turns standing up quietly in my mind to argue their case with eloquence and ease.  They cite statistics; they quote research.  Relentlessly, they shine light on the patches of my decision making that were too thin or too frayed…insubstantial fabric, flimsy due to lack of experience, lack of knowledge, or lack of plain old common sense.  Behind these pitiful, well-worn sections of curtain peeks Cory’s vulnerable and frightened face.  Each time I spy her, I ask myself the same question:  could I have done better by her?

I left Bob, Cory’s biological father, when she was just eight weeks old.  At that point, things had gotten so bad, it was practically a family intervention, with a clergy man present, and the police on speed dial.  Unfortunately by this time, Cory had already spent nine months in my belly, and a month on the outside, all of which as my helpless hostage to fortune.

I’ve done the research.  Extreme stress during pregnancy causes problems with brain development in the fetus.  These problems can eventually lead to developmental delays, learning problems, and future mental health concerns.

Future mental health concerns…bingo.  I should have gotten out sooner.  Right there was my first question pitched to Dr. Z.  He knew exactly where I was headed with this train of thought, and refused to take the bait.

“Stress during pregnancy can cause some complications, yes, but in Cory’s case, there was a significant family history of mental illness.  She was predisposed to developing her illness.  Biological factors were at work.”  he said.

He paused here to remind me that I did remove myself and Cory from an unhealthy environment, whereas many do not.  In my mind, Bob’s mother’s face materialized, unbidden.  He further reminded me that early diagnosis, and consistent treatment had prevented Cory from succumbing to many bad experiences.  Easily he ticked them off on his fingers:  substance abuse, school failure, criminal conduct, indiscriminant sexual behaviors, possible violence towards herself and others.

I took this home, and chewed on it for awhile.

I went back the next week with a new question.  Had I caused Cory’s illness to begin when Tim and I separated?  Did I put the stress on Cory that set her illness in motion?  Was I responsible for all the suffering she endured?  I feared I was, and knew if it was true, I could not continue to live.  I did not deserve to.

Dr. Z looked at me with deep sadness, before answering me patiently.  “Cory’s illness began shortly after she hit puberty, as we know happens to many young people with this unfortunate illness.  The age of onset is one of the reasons it is so debilitating- it interrupts normal growth and development, schooling, and the acquisition of job skills.”

I listened carefully, not interrupting him.  His opinion meant much to me.

“Hormones, and the chemicals being released in the body have much to do with the onset of these type of illnesses.  Single parent or not, you provided Cory with a stable home environment and nurturing care.  You and she together were heroic in your team approach to fighting her illness.  I have long admired you both for your strength and perseverance.” he finished.

I broke into tears, here, not surprised at all to look up and catch a tear rolling down the cheek of Cory’s psychiatrist.  We had all tried so hard.  This was not the outcome any of us had wanted, or even considered, him included.

My doubts about my own judgment, however, were far from over.  I marched right back into his office the following week, and settled myself in my usual chair, the one next to me painfully empty, as always.  Here was the big one, which scared me so badly, I could barely verbalize it:  had I caused Cory’s illness by allowing her father back into our lives?

Dr. Z sat back in his chair, arching one eyebrow, as if to say, are we going to keep playing this game?  I can play this game all daaaay!  And I think I knew even before he spoke, that I would not get satisfaction in this conversation.  I could keep lining them up, and he would just keep knocking them down…one after another.  He would keep pointing out all I had done right, whether I wanted to hear it or not.

“Well, then, how would it have been for Cory to search out her father without your knowledge, and spend time with him on her own?” he asked.

I was at a loss for words.  Dr. Z was not.

He continued, “How would it have been for her to get to know him and sort out her feelings towards him without your support or supervision?  What if you had not taken her to regular counseling appointments so she could have the help of a professional while taking this all in?  What might the alternative have looked like if she had simply hopped a bus, while manic or depressed, and went off to find him?  Unmedicated and alone?”

Hmmm…I had never even thought of that.

I went home, and continued my search for blame.  The easiest place to find it was my own mirror…after all, I had been her legal guardian, in charge of making all her decisions.  Who better to blame?  I had been her caregiver through the entirety of her illness.  My main charge was her safety.  Keep her safe. 

Safe.

Multiple skull fractures, front and back…a broken neck…a broken arm…two broken hips.

They added up to one incompetent mother.  I had tried so hard, and just lost it all in the end.  How could this be?  Where had I gone wrong?  I would find out if it was the last thing I did.

The next time I questioned Dr. Z, it was about her meds, and my judgment of her mental state that day.  Any other doctor might have thought I’d finally brought both barrels around to a new target, but Dr. Z knew better.  This had absolutely nothing to do with him.

“I’ve been thinking maybe it was the meds.  Maybe I had her on too many meds…and she just…just collapsed into the street.  You know, it was a very hot day, and….”  I trailed off uncertainly.

Dr. Z took a breath and templed his hands under chin comfortably.  He spoke gently, “Cory was actually on less medication than previous times.  Do you remember we had backed it down once the voices seemed to be receding again?”

I nodded, albeit reluctantly.

He continued, “I do not think she was overmedicated.  I think we were prudent to use the least amount of medication needed to control her hallucinations, so that she was not feeling overly sedated.  At the time of the accident, the meds in her body would have been at their lowest point of the day.”

I lifted my eyebrows, in spite of myself.  I had never considered this.  She did take the bulk of her meds at bedtime.

He added, “In my personal opinion, I don’t think the heat of the day was a factor.  Perhaps, the sun shining into the driver’s eyes…”

Before I could latch onto this, he interrupted my thoughts with, “You do not control the sun.  If only we could be so all powerful, no?”

“Well, she just wasn’t ready.  I shouldn’t have let her go.”  I said.

“But she was ready.  We talked about her walking an errand to the store together.  She had made the trip many, many times.   It was exercise for her, which was good for her depression.  More importantly, she was developing some independence and growing more comfortable in her interactions with others.  This was part of her recovery process, no?” he stopped there, and waited.

“But maybe she wasn’t feeling well that day, if she was hearing voices…”

He stopped me, kindly, but firmly, “If she were feeling ill, she would never have offered to go.”

My tears began rolling.  “Maybe I didn’t teach her how to cross the road as well as I thought I did.”

Again, his gentle insistence, “You taught her many things, and you taught her well.  You gave her everything she needed.  You did a phenomenal job.  She was very blessed to have you.  You were blessed to have each other.”

At this, I began sobbing in earnest.

He continued, “You did everything for her that you could possibly do.  You believed her when others did not.  You listened to her.  You got her help.  You fought for her education.  You gave her the best of care.”

I became an unsavory sobbing pile on the cushioned chair, tears and snot running a crude race down my cheeks.

“I tried so hard!”  I wailed.

“Yes, you did.  And so did she.  She is a lovely young lady... and we must now keep her alive... in our hearts.”  he said.

And wasn’t that what all these accusations towards myself were all about?  Missing her?  I didn’t want her to be dead.  I was arguing with every fiber of my being against an unthinkable reality.  The longer I argued, the longer I could deny her death.  God help me, I was “bargaining”- one of those blasted stages of grief that I swore I’d never go through.  Even I recognized it when I saw it in action.

I also realized that it didn’t matter what I had done right or wrong through all the years, she was gone regardless.  And she wasn’t coming back.  There were no do-overs, here.

As Eninem so truthfully stated, “Life is no Nintendo game.”

 

Mirror, Mirror...the next generation

"Hey, Mom, can you do my eyeliner?"  Cory would ask.

Whether I was sitting on the toilet or butterflying a chicken, I always tried to answer her immediately, "Sure, baby girl, one sec."

See, I could only imagine how difficult it must be to have to ask for help doing such a simple and personal task.  Her tremors from the Lithium robbed her of independence at an age she should be steadily gaining it.

It hurt my heart; I'd be damned if I was going to make her feel bad for asking for help.  The last thing I wanted was for her to feel like a burden.  So many times she would bookend her request for help with, "I'm sorry."
More often than not, I would pause what I was doing, to take her face between my hands and look her in the eyes,
"Baby Girl, you have nothing to be sorry for."
"Are you sure, Mom?  Are you sure you don't wish you had a regular daughter without all these problems?" she'd question.
"Cory Girl, I wouldn't trade you for anything or anyone.  Do you hear me?"
"Thanks, Mom.  I'm so lucky to have you." she'd say.
"No, Cory, I'm the lucky one."  I'd return, using my sleeve to wipe a tear away before she could see.
I'd take a deep breath, and sit her down, my hands on her shoulders.  I'd urge her to keep still, as I took an eyeliner crayon in hand, and carefully traced the outline of her huge green eyes.  I'd smudge gently with a practiced pinkie, and pronounce her done, "Gorgeous!"
"Thanks, Mom."  she'd say with a smile, "You're the best."
"No problem, pretty girl." I'd say back easily, watching as she wandered over to the hallway mirror to check out my handiwork.
I'd go back in time a little as I watched her examining her reflection a little too closely...often no smile, just a heavy sigh, which indicated to me that the criticisms had already begun in her head.  So many of her mannerisms- and her symptoms- were so much like her father's.
My heart ached as I wished she could see what I saw.  I wished she knew she was worth it all, and always would be. 

Always, baby girl, always.

120 Minutes More

What if you had only two more hours to spend with your child?  I had no idea that is all I had with Cory when she woke up that day.  I started wondering today what I would have done differently had I known?  Well, first I would’ve hugged and kissed her a million times.  Told her how much I loved her and what she meant to me.  Made sure she knew that I loved her beyond all reason and would do anything in the world for her.  Made sure that she knew that I was proud of her, that she brought me joy I never could have imagined.  I would’ve made sure she knew that bringing her into this world was the very best decision I have ever made.  I wouldn’t have changed a thing about her.  She was the very best daughter and friend I could ever hope for.  I would’ve told her one more time that she was truly beautiful…inside AND out.

Then I thought about what I did manage to do in those two hours.  In about 120 minutes, I talked to her on the phone three times.  I told her I loved her- in fact, it’s the last thing we ever said to each other.  I made her smile when I complimented her outfit and hairdo for the day.  I made her laugh with our inside joke about Matthew McConaughey’s behind. I made sure she took her medicine, and ate.  I bought her pistachios- the very last thing she ate.   I read to her.  I have always loved to read to Cory since she was little.  And that day, I had written something I thought she had to hear… so I shared it with her. 

Looking back at those two hours, I think a lot took place.  None of it was breathtaking, but I think it all made her glad to be alive.  That baby knew she was loved.  She KNEW.  The reason she knew is because it was just an ordinary day.

And our days were always filled with love, laughter, and hope.

  “I got you, girl”                          

Denial Times Two

I said I would tell the truth.

A couple days after the accident, I again found myself sitting on my kitchen tile.  But this time, I was on the phone with Bob’s uncle, a kind man who had never done me or my girl any harm.  The day before I had gotten a message from Bob that he’d heard about the accident, was devastated, and would be on the next plane out.

I remember being in the back of the car, going somewhere with my sisters and my mom to make arrangements.  I held the phone in my hand, and just began shaking all over.  It had already occurred to me, vaguely, that he needed to be notified.  I was dreading it.  There was a deep sense of shame and pure panic that came over me when I imagined giving him the news.  I couldn’t begin to imagine what his response would be.  I knew that face to face, even an honest question from a good heart, if he was in that sort of mood,- “Nick, what happened?”-  would instill guilt, shame, and failure.  And frankly, I was carrying so much of that already, I could barely walk.

So I avoided.  I didn’t try to call.  I didn’t get ahold of his family up here to convey the news.  I just avoided.  I plodded through the surreal experience of planning my baby girl’s service as though it were a research paper I desperately needed to ace.  I did it to occupy my mind, and I did so that those who attended Cory’s service would know who she had been, what she had done, and possibly leave changed forever.

Once I had received Bob’s message, I knew a decision was at hand.  I had as many conflicting emotions about his coming as Cory would have.  It was a confusing, miserable jungle to wade through.  In the end, my mother’s heart spoke up, and demanded that Cory, who had never asked for any of what she had received- an absent father, a serious mental illness, abandonment issues- be protected at all costs. 

So there I sat on my kitchen floor, crying hysterically, bitter anger coating my every word, trying to explain to Bob's uncle the aftermath of Bob’s abuse to me and his indifference to Cory. 

This is not a conversation you can have in ten minutes.

There was so much I wanted to say, but just couldn’t find the words.  I did tell him that Bob had hurt Cory too much.  He had hurt and disappointed her far too many times.  I told him Bob didn’t deserve to be there.  I explained some of the horrible things Bob had said to Cory when we broke off all contact with him, even though it hurt to say them aloud.

When I realized just how ill Bob was during one of his episodes two years ago, I told him he couldn’t talk to Cory on the phone.  She was very delusional at the time, and having difficulty just functioning.  She was convinced there were agents stationed all throughout the community watching her, meaning to do her harm.  She thought they had planted cameras and recording devices in the house and around the yard.  It was getting worse by the day.

Bob called when I was in the shower and got Cory on the phone.  She began telling him she thought he might be an agent, as well.  He became very angry with her, and told her that he wasn’t an agent, but that her mother was a double agent, and working from the inside to keep her from him…that, in fact, her mother wasn’t really her mother at all.  Cory came crying into the bathroom, practically hysterical.  Right then and there, I knew that whether his actions stemmed from his illness or not, we were done communicating with him. 

When Bob’s uncle pressed me to at least allow Bob’s mother to attend or come to visitation, my fury at her inability to help herself, her son, or my daughter reared up in my body, something devoid of empathy, even though I knew all too well what it like to be stuck in an abusive relationship with a man you loved beyond reason.

In that instant, my cellphone clutched in one hand and the other fluttering near my face, I held this woman responsible for all- Bob’s untreated mental illness, his subsequent life course, Cory’s unforeseen illness, my failed attempts to make them both well, and my failed attempts to mold her son into a family man.  So much, for all of us, could have gone very differently if she had sought help for him when he was young.

Could she come?

Absolutely not.  When I visualized the two of them approaching her casket, arm in arm, tearful and outdone by the sight of her slight, still body, I could practically hear Cory’s voice in my head, hurt and furious, “Where were you?  Why come now?  Don’t you know it’s too late?”

And she was right.  It was too late, too late for apologies, too late for grand declarations of love, too late to show her what she meant to you, if she meant anything at all.  Let them seek their solace elsewhere.  When had she ever gotten what she truly needed from either of them?  They would not get what they needed from her here.

Family and close friends who knew the whole story understood my decision.  Others who didn’t know the history may have thought me the most immature and vindictive woman to walk the earth… not allowing a father to say good-bye to his own flesh and blood.

What they didn’t realize is that Bob had already said good-bye to Cory many, many times and he hadn't needed to be in front of her casket to do it. 

 

 

Enchiladas, Baby!!!

"What's for dinner tonight, Mom?" Cory would ask as I drove home from work.

"Enchiladas, baby!!"  I would sing into the phone.

  She would laugh and say, "Mom, you're so crazy!"

Proud of myself for cooking tonight even though I feel like crap.
Had a little tango with the spice cupboard, but I won that round.  Let me explain:

As I was searching for the spices I needed tonight, I went back in time to the afternoon of July 5th, as my hands went through the same exact motions as I hunted for the chili powder.  I had moved containers, rummaged, and searched some more, but ultimately came up empty handed.  I had then took out the Anchole Chili Powder and actually Googled it to see if it was too spicy to be used as a substitute for regular chili powder.  Turned out, it was.  And well, you know what happened next.

Can you see how close it was?  Can you try to put yourself in my shoes, and understand why I hate myself so much, and find it so hard to push away the guilt?
I could have scrapped the whole thing, and made pancakes instead.
But I didn't.
Cory offered to walk to the store, and I let her.  The next time I saw her, she was broken and laid out on the road.
Okay.  I have just taken some deep breaths and read my index card.  Let's continue, shall we?

Feeling overwhelmed at the spice cupboard tonight, I pushed away those thoughts, and invited in the memories of Cory as my little helper in the kitchen.  I would get chopping while she found the spices.  She'd perch on the stool, and watch me cook while we talked and laughed. There was always music; there was always dancing.  It was joy.

She'd take one bite of the finished product, and say, "Oh my God, Mom, this is sooo good.  I am NEVER leaving home."
And she didn't.
Love you, Cory Girl, you are my heart.

Rachel Ray's Chicken Enchiladas:

Ingredients

• 8 soft corn tortillas

Filling:

• 3 cups chicken broth
• 4 pieces boneless skinless chicken breast, 6 to 8 ounces
• 1 bay leaf, fresh or dried
• 2 sprigs fresh oregano
• 1 small onion, quartered
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste
• 1 teaspoon chili powder, 1/3 palm full
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• Salt

Sauce:

• 2 cups tomato sauce
• 2 teaspoons hot cayenne pepper sauce, several drops
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 2 pinches
• 1 teaspoon chili powder
• 2 1/2 cups Monterey Jack shredded cheese, available on dairy aisle

Directions

Preheat the oven to 275 degrees F.

Wrap corn tortillas in foil and warm in the oven. Bring broth to a boil in a saute pan. Set chicken into broth with bay and oregano and onion. Return to a boil, cover and reduce heat to simmer. Poach chicken in broth 10 minutes. Remove chicken breasts to a bowl and shred with 2 forks. Add 1/2 cup of cooking liquid and tomato paste, spices and salt and work through the chicken using the forks.

Combine all sauce ingredients and heat through, keeping warm until needed.

Remove tortillas from oven and switch broiler on high.

Pile chicken mixture into warm corn tortillas and roll. Line casserole or baking dish with enchiladas, seam side down. Pour hot tomato sauce over the chicken enchiladas and top with cheese. Place in enchiladas in hot oven 6 inches from broiler and broil 5 minutes to melt cheese and set enchiladas. Serve.

 

My Commentary:

• You can totally cheat and use shredded rotesserie chicken...a life saver on work nights.  Just be sure to add the spices, tomato paste, and chicken broth to flavor the filling.
• Don't be stingy with the hot sauce...it gives a delicious spicy counterpart to the sweet cinnamon! Mmmm!  This is the best enchilada sauce I've ever had.
• Love to add chopped scallions or chopped cilantro over the top
• Don't forget the sour cream!

My Heart Came Home in a Bag

 A couple of days after the service, my husband came home from the funeral home with an even heavier walk, his shoulders down, his eyes to the ground.  In one hand was a plastic bag with handles bearing the name of the funeral home, and in his eyes was some terrible knowledge he knew I would get out of him eventually.

I think there were days following the accident that Tim feared my sanity, and even more than that, feared he would come home one day or walk into a room after waking up to find I had finally made good on my word to get myself out of this situation at all costs.

Bearing in mind that Tim had refused to get help for his depression and mood swings steadily for three or four years prior to the steady erosion of our relationship and subsequent separation, there were times that I questioned his love for me.  Much had happened since then.

 It wasn’t the fact that he was institutionalized shortly after he realized our separation was indeed real, and perhaps irreversible that told me how much he cared for me.  Neither was it his kindness and support during Cory’s last eleven day hospitalization and ECT treatments.  It wasn’t even his determination to get help, and stay in treatment, something I knew firsthand that not everyone was willing to do, no matter how much they professed to love you.  It was the days after this unthinkable tragedy that demonstrated his devotion and unconditional love.

I was checked out of reality for all general purposes.  Without Tim, Jacob and the pets in our home would have went unfed, unwatered, and unnoticed.  One of the ways Tim supported me was to step into my role as Jacob’s caregiver to the best of his ability, considering the fact he’d had a horrible shock, as well, and was mourning his own loss. 

The very first time I saw him do this was minutes after he arrived home on the day of the accident.  I had finally been able to make contact with him, after many fruitless tries.  When I finally got him on the phone, I was screaming into it, crying, hysterical, Cory’s sheet-covered body still within my gaze.  As I told him what had happened, he began screaming hysterically himself.  He was at work at the time, in the middle of a well-populated shop.  He wasn’t supposed to answer his cell during work hours, but I had called so many times, he finally picked up.  As he made sense of my words, pieced out between harrowing sobs, he began screaming, “No! No! No!” and fell to his knees there in front of everyone.

“Just come home, Tim.  Please come home.”  was all I could get out.

And home he came.  He took him over an hour.  He had no car there at work.  No one offered to bring him.  He started walking, disoriented and on the verge of some kind of break down.  He called a cab on the way, who informed him that could not pick him up on the side of the road, it was too dangerous.  He argued with them, finally resorting to screaming his emergency out to the dispatcher, who finally agreed to send a car.

Once he was picked up, the taxi had trouble getting through to our neighborhood.  The main road had been blocked off so the police could reenact the scene.  Cory had been taken away.  Tim saw police cars, fire trucks, lights flashing, cones, and people roaming all over.

I was sobbing on the cold kitchen tile, refusing to come sit in the living room or to sit on a chair, like a normal person.  I was no longer normal.  The floor was where I needed to be, so there I was.  Jacob flitted nearby, undecided of whether he wanted my comfort or if it was safer to keep a distance. 

Tim burst in the backdoor, flinging the door open like a gunslinger in a western.  He stood there a second, and that frame froze in my mind.  His eyes were huge, his terror trying to push its way out of his body.  The expression on his face was one of absolute fury.

He ran across the room and knelt in front of me, taking me in the biggest bearhug imaginable.  His tears wet my neck, as Jake joined us.  We were a family three, lost and bereft without our Cory Girl, the glue that bound us all together in so many ways.  Our embrace lasted minutes, hours?  I’m not sure.  I know that for awhile, there was a sense of comfort, of warmth, of the three of us united in our pain and love.  Our bodies moved together as our shoulders shook, as our tears ran freely.  By the time we broke apart, we would each be on our own journey of grief, and no one path would look like the other.

Eventually, I went to hide in the bathroom.  I sat on the toilet and cried in private.  I may or may not have walloped myself a couple good ones as I thought about what I had done.  In letting her go to the store, I had certainly sent my only daughter, my heart, to her death.

When I came out of the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of Tim and Jacob together in Jacob’s bedroom.  They were sitting on the hardwood floor, with toy cars and bouncy balls littered between them.  Neither of them were talking.  Silently they rolled a car or ball back and forth between their spread legs.

Anyone else would have thought, bless Tim’s heart, look at him trying to distract Jacob.  He is such a good dad.

I, half out of my mind with grief at the time, thought, He still has his boy.  I will never have my girl again.  Hate rose up in my breast.  For a moment, I resented them both, able to be there in their own private world, getting what they needed from each other, when I would never have what I needed ever again in this lifetime.

Now, looking back, I can see Tim was trying to help Jacob, and likely trying to help himself not fall complete apart by doing something.  He was comforting Jacob in a way Jacob was comfortable with, in a way that wasn’t scary...something that spoke of normal.

Tim made many good decisions in the days that followed.  He chose the casket because I could not.  My body physically repelled my being in the showroom.  He chose the cemetery because I could not.  He chose the spot she would rest because at that point, my anger had taken over, making any spot just another hole in the ground.  What difference did it make?

Tim made all these decisions with love and thoughtfulness.  To each question, he asked himself, What would Cory have wanted?  If that isn’t what a father does, that I don’t know what is.

With all of that behind us, but fresh horrors in our minds, I could hardly think of what hard truth lay behind Tim’s eyes as he walked in the door with that bag.

“Honey, the funeral home sent some of Cory’s things home.  It’s what she had on when they got her.”  He gingerly sat the bag on the dining room table in front of me, like a bomb.

My eyes rested on it for a moment, and then searched Tim’s face.  “What took so long?  Was everything ok?”  I asked.

“Yeah…you know, Mark and I just got to talking…”  he stopped, looking away.

“What did he say?”  I asked.

“Honey, let’s talk about this later.  We’ve had some horrible days, and I think–“

“What did he say?”  I demanded.

Tim took a deep breath, and measured me with his eyes.  “Are you sure you want to know?  It’s about her injuries.”

Sharp intake of breath here.  “Tell me.”  I said.

He tried again.  “Are you sure?”

“Tell me.”

“Cory had multiple skull fractures, front and back…a broken neck…a broken arm…and two broken hips.”

I fell into the chair beside me, covered my face, and just wailed.  “I broke her.  Oh my God, I broke her.  I broke my baby!”

I was crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.  Tim came over and rubbed my back, reminding me to breathe, just breathe.

“I’m so sorry, honey.  I’m just so sorry”  he said over and over again.

Finally, he fled the room, leaving me alone with that despicable bag.

Knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to stop myself, I opened it and looked inside.

Her glasses, frames only.  Of course, all the glass had been broken out. 

A rubber bracelet.

Her canvas belt from her brand new shorts she’d been so excited about.

Her Very Hungry Caterpillar change purse that had been hooked to her belt loop.  Inside it were her ear buds and a single dollar bill.

All of this was enough to rob me of my sanity right there of the spot.

But there was more.  I examined these objects.  They were all covered with dust, and debris from the road.

And in the bottom of the bag was a heavy layer of dust, dirt, debris.

I breathed in, but couldn’t smell anything but the road.

My heart closed in on itself, and I went away for awhile.

Retraining My Brain

I woke a couple weeks ago in the early morning hours, my body bathed in a light, clammy sweat, my heart pounding, my eyes searching the dark of my bedroom for Cory.  Where is she?  I have to help her!  I have to get her to the hospital!
It was the dream again- the one that stalked my sleep relentlessly.  Cory, her shoulders shaking with the weight of her distress, would run to fill the doorway of whatever room I happened to be in.  She would call to me, crying out for my attention, my help, my comfort.  I would turn to her, horrified to see her remaining teeth covered in blood, some broken, some gone.  "It hurt, Mom, it hurt a lot!"
At this tearful cry for help, I would awaken, unable to do anything to comfort her...the final indignity to a mother.  I had been robbed of my ability to do the thing I did best in the world.  How often had she said she didn't know what she'd do without me?
As I slowly placed items, textures, colors in my room, I also placed the certainty that it had been a bad dream.  Cory was not here, she was not bleeding, she was not crying.  She did not want me.
But had she?

These were undoubtedly the unanswered questions that fueled this seldom changed nightmare.  My brain was obviously not going to give up the quest for these answers.  As I thought to myself, I'd give anything not to dream that again, I gave myself an idea.
I didn't know if my idea was healthy or unhealthy.  What I did know was myself, and that my subconcious's nagging urges to have these questions answered was not going to give up until it was satisfied.  My subconscious can be a pain in the butt that way.
As I considered going to someone to get these answered, I felt slightly empowered.  Healthy or unhealthy, at least I would be taking action.  And as gruesome as it seemed, I did want the answers to my questions.
This idea simmered in my mind throughout the day, until I had a chance to run it by my friend.  She had taught me from the very beginning, to ask her for exactly what I needed, without shame.  After all, this grief wasn't coy; why should I be? 
So I pitched the idea to her:  would she be willing to call the funeral director who had prepared my daughter and ask him some specific questions in an effort to bring my mind some peace?
She didn't even bother to ask why I didn't make the call myself.  She already knew my reasoning.  Yes, I wanted the answers, but I needed the filter of Angie's thoughtful word choices and soothing tone of voice to hear them in the least harmful way.
That is how my friend, Angie, came to call the funeral home, reintroduce herself to the kind and compassionate funeral director, explain my sleep disturbances and flashbacks, and ask for some answers to my disturbing questions.

They were as follows:

• Were Cory's teeth broken in the accident?
• Was Cory delivered naked to the funeral home?
• Was Cory's spinal cord broken in the accident, making it likely that she did not have conscious thought or suffering?
• Was there a great deal of blood?

I sat near her, nearly gnawing my fingernails off as I listened to the one-sided phone conversation, my heart thumping away for all it was worth, and the tears already welling up.  They would be shed regardless of what I was about to learn...either way this was still my precious Cory we were talking about, and either way, she was still gone.
Moments later, Angie hung up the phone, and turned to me calmly.  "Okay, are you ready?"
I was.  Angie explained gently that Cory's teeth were all intact.  Cory had not been delivered naked to the funeral home, but in the clothes she had been wearing on the scene.  The funeral director was absolutely positive due to the nature of Cory's injuries that she had died upon impact.  Yes, there had indeed been a great deal of blood.
I covered my face with my hands, and bawled without shame.  My emotions were an exhausting stew:  relief that her teeth were not broken, relief she had been clothed, horror that she had been hit hard enough to have gone on impact, gratefulness that she did not suffer, confirmation that I was not crazy because certain details from the scene stuck in my mind like a burr, while others were simply a mystery...and overriding it all- simple heartbreak, sweeping over me in a fresh wave as concrete answers to questions no parent should ever have to ask made her death all the more real to me, and impossible to deny.
Healthy or unhealthy, it had been done.  Now my brain knew all it seemed to seek when I was sleeping and defenseless.  Perhaps, at the very least, the nightmare about Cory's teeth would slowly stop happening. 

Time would tell.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

It was New Year’s Eve.  I’d only seen Bob twice in the last five or six months, and the last time had been close to Christmas, when he had gifts for Cory.  It had been uncomfortable, and full of tension.  Every time I glanced his way, keeping my voice pleasant and neutral, his dark eyes were boring into me.  I expected him to look at me with hatred, but he only looked miserable and, perhaps, chastised.  In his eyes, I saw the relentless question that should have been mine – why? 

            So on New Year’s Eve, Cory at a friend’s and Jake at his dad’s, I set out to answer the question.  I believed that he deserved the explanation I needed to give.  I showed up on his doorstep unannounced.  He looked surprised to see me, and nervous.  As he offered me something to drink like I was formal company coming to call, I began to wonder if this was what being “estranged” really meant. 

            I sat on the couch, while he sat in an armchair across the room.  Small talk ensued.  He asked the questions, while I answered them.  How was the kids’ Christmas?  Had Jake been sledding yet?  How was Cory doing?  How were my parents?  These pleasant, harmless questions narrowed down steadily to the one, “Nick, it’s so great to see you.  But why are you here?”

            This was it.  I took a deep breath and tried to figure out where to start.  While I was getting my bearings, the tears began rolling down my cheeks, silent and hot.  I could feel them burning my face.  I couldn’t stop them.  I didn’t even try.

            When I looked up, he was sitting on the coffee table directly in front of me, studying the carpet.  He wouldn’t meet my eyes.  I waited to see what he would say.  I expected anger that I had left him without an explanation, anger that I dared to leave him at all, or perhaps a plea for my heart.  He could persuade me to follow him into hell and had, on many occasions. 

            He opened his mouth, then closed it.  Still no words.  Before I could blink, he had put one arm under my legs and the other around my back, scooping me up in one swift movement as he pressed his lips urgently to mine.  He carried me carefully to his bed where everything was said without saying anything at all.

            Later, as I dressed, I realized I had just willingly returned to the lion’s den.  Forget what was wrong with him… hell, what was wrong with me?

Back in the Saddle Chili

Ok guys, sorry I ditched you on the dinner blog over the last week.  Losing my cat, Sassy, threw me for a loop.  But I am back with a yummy chili recipe.  I think it was one of the first meals I cooked after the accident.  It's easy to make, and one of Jake and Tim's favorites.  Jake can be a picky eater, but I've discovered if I arrange anything into a bar (taco bar, chili bar, salad bar) where he can serve himself, he is twice as likely to try new things, and to eat more.

What You Need:

1 lb. ground turkey (lean)
1 onion, diced
2 cubanelle or poblano peppers (charred and chopped)
salt, pepper
palmful of the spice we do not speak of (its initials are c.p.)
1/2 palmful of cumin
1/2 palmful of Emeril's Original Essence (spice blend)
2 TBS tomato paste
28 ounce can of whole peeled tomatoes
14 ounce can of white beans
2 1/2 cups water

• Brown turkey.
• Season turkey with salt, pepper.
• Add diced onion, and chopped peppers.  Peppers are most flavorful if they have been charred, the skin peeled, seed removed, and then chopped
• Add spices to pan
• Add tomato paste
• Use half to entire can of tomatoes, depending on how much tomato you like.  I use full can.  Do not use liquid.  Pull out each tomato and squish into pot.  Kids love to help do this.
• Drain and rinse cannelli beans.  Add to pot.
• Add water
• Bring chili to boil, then return to simmer
• Simmer at least 30 min. or longer.  Add additional water, if needed.

My commentary:

• Have the kids help assemble the bar.  Use whatever toppings you like.
• We always have cubed cornbread, shredded sharp or smoked cheddar cheese, sour cream, avocado, and chopped green onions.  Crumbled bacon is ridiculously good, too.
• If you make a double batch of this chili, you won't have to cook for 2-3 nights...love!

Thank You

For my mom and dad,

 

 

These are the hands that helped me

shape Cory into a sweet, kind, and lovely young woman.

These hands have held her, dressed her, and fed her.

They have held her hand, buckled her seatbelt,

and zipped her coat.

They have clapped for her, and they have soothed her.

These hands have prayed for her, countless times.

There is nothing I could ever give you that would be

enough to repay everything you both brought my child.

I can only give you my thanks.

Daddy's Little Girl (Part II)

I picked Tim up from work one night a few weeks ago.  He’d had an appointment with his psychiatrist earlier that day.  Winter is a hard time of year for him, even under the best of circumstances.  I watched his gait as he approached the car.  You can tell a lot from a person’s walk.  Just as I feared, his head was down, eyes on his feet, movements slow, nearly those of a sleepwalker.

He opened the car door, and his voice rang through the car with false cheeriness, “Well, hey honey! How’re you?”  It was a lie, that voice- for it didn’t match his body, his face, his eyes. 

Without meaning to, his attempt to bring normalcy by using the same happy tone he’d used prior to Cory’s death just set my teeth on edge.  At the sound of that hollow, fake joy, my shoulders tensed, my jaw tightened, and my hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. 

I longed to snap back with some hurtful, sarcastic response, but I held it back… just barely.  He was trying.  This was him trying.  I had to remember that.  When I tried, I put my feet on the floor in the morning, and got out of my bed.  When he tried, he boomed his greetings like he was auditioning for a job as a mall Santa. 

 "Fine."  I finally said, evenly.

Occasionally, if I weren’t all the way to the bottom of the well that day, I’d even play along.  This happened to be such a day.  “So, honey, how was your dr’s appointment?”  I asked.

“Good.  Good.  She increased my anti-depressant.”  He said.

“Oh?  Well, what did she say?”  I asked.

“Oh, you know.  She asked what was new, so I told her about starting the new job.  Told her I’ve been having trouble getting to sleep.  She said starting a new job is one of the biggest stressors there are, even if it’s in the same field.  She said that’s probably what’s been causing my sleep problems.”  He paused.

“Well, what did she say about Cory?”  I questioned.

“She didn’t mention her.”  He answered.

Internally, I bristled.  I prodded, “Well, then, what did you say about her?”

“She didn’t come up.”  he answered.

His words just fell out of mouth and laid there in the air between us.

My mouth may have formed a perfect O.

My sharp intake of breath was likely lost under the music that was playing on the car’s stereo.   He probably didn’t even notice.  While he sat there unaware, babbling on about dinner, work, and a dozen inconsequential things, I was seething.  For the three minutes left to get to our driveway, the anger boiled up inside me until it felt white hot.  It stretched my muscles out stiff; it elongated my limbs.  Suddenly I felt ten feet tall, strong, and ready for battle.  My jaw clenched together, keeping the words in, holding them prisoner for a little while longer.

I didn’t say a word as I pulled into the driveway.  Calmly, I shut the car off, got out, shut the door, and headed in the house.  Tim trailed behind me, still talking.  He didn’t realize I had ceased to listen five minutes ago.  At this point, he was talking to himself. 

Inside the house, I strode to my bedroom, changed into my pajamas, and headed to the kitchen to take my medication.  Tim looked up as I came in, pausing to say “Hey, honey”, as he got a plate of leftovers ready for the microwave. 

I looked at him, and said nothing.  I began to walk away.  Walk away, Nick, just walk away. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”  he asked.  “Honey?”

I spun on my heel.  “Do you really want to know what’s wrong?”  I asked, the tears coming against my will.  I am an angry crier, the kind every man fears. 

“Yeah, what’s the matter?”  he asked.

I spat out his words, “She didn’t come up?  She didn’t come up, Tim?  How did she not come up?  What the hell kind of quack are you seeing over there?  She thinks you need a med change because you started a new job?”

“Honey, job changes can be difficult…” he began.

I cut in, “You were happy about that job until you talked to her.  You said you felt less stressed.” 

“Well, she said sometimes we’re not even aware of our stressors.”  He said.

“Tim, how could she not ask how you were doing after the loss of your daughter?  Or should I say your step-daughter?”

“Honey, she’s a doctor, not a counselor.  She doesn’t really do..”

I interrupted him again, “Then why didn’t you?  I guess you just don’t care.  I guess you are doing just fine since you never talk about her!  You never even say her name!  So, yeah, I guess you are doing just fine.  Why bring up the dead daughter when you are so stressed over your stupid job?”

Tim didn’t even attempt a response at this point.  He just sat, resigned to my tantrum.  And tantrum I did.

“But you know what, Tim?  You know what really hurts?  If it were Jake that got mowed down in the street, I have a feeling you might have thought to mention him!  What do you think?  Think you would’ve said his name?  Cause I’m pretty sure you would say it ALL THE TIME!”  I screamed through my tears.

“I don’t know what I would say.  Honey, I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.  It was early in the morning.  I was tired–”

“Yeah, I know you weren’t thinking.  That’s just it.  That’s what hurts the most-  she wasn’t even on your mind.  Do you have any idea what it is like for me to go to work every day, to come here to this house where I see her everywhere, to try to walk in this kitchen and stand at that counter to cook you food?  It is killing me!  Do you hear me?  It is killing me.  I don’t even want to be here.  I wish I were dead! That’s how much I miss her.  But she isn't even on your mind.  You know what, whatever.  This is pointless.  I can’t make you feel something for her that you don’t.”  I turned, temporarily blinded by my tears, and completely ruined my dramatic exit by running into the wall.  Thunk. 

I stomped out, sobbing hysterically.  I ran to my bedroom like every teenager in the world who hasn’t gotten what they simply must have, crawled into my bed, and curled up into the smallest ball my body would make.  I clutched her stuffed animal, and just wailed. 

Tim never came in to see what wild animal was making all the primal sounds in my room.  He just steered clear.  Can you blame him?

My Own Worst Enemy

 I have been my own worst enemy from the moment I was told she was gone.  I remember being driven to my knees with pain and horror.   My first conscious thought was, I shouldn’t have let her go.  In that split second, I had placed my neck willingly in the noose.  By the time my parents pulled into the empty lot near the site, I had already begun panicking… what my mom would say to me when she found out I had killed Cory? 

And yet, even as I stumbled over my words to tell her, “Mom, they covered her up!  They keep telling me she’s dead!”  I was plainly illustrating my denial of her death.  Words were important to me, and it seemed if I simply stated it another way – they keep telling me she’s dead- this horrible thing could simply be a lapse in judgment.  Perhaps, if someone who actually knew what they were doing checked her out, they would clearly see she was still alive.

I know now that my reaction was typical to those who witness trauma, and to anyone grieving the loss of a loved one.  The guilt I carry daily is staggering.  Walking around, and appearing to be normal around others is a full time job.  Being a mom, being a wife, being a good employee…those things just frankly seem impossible.  I can barely hold my head up.

 Every once and awhile, usually when I’m writing, I am able to look at my role in Cory’s death in a more logical light.  It doesn’t happen all that often, so I’ve decided to capture it on paper for later review…you know, for the next time I have one of those screaming in the car, plate slinging, punch-myself-in-the-leg-till-I-bruise sort of days.

So here it is: today at the coffeeshop,  I imagined what I would do if I were driving along  to pick up Jake from my mom and dad’s after work, and was pulled over by the police.  If they were to run my ID, and decide I was indeed their perp, I would demand to know what they thought I had done.  If they told me I was being arrested for vehicular manslaughter of a young woman, age 19, who had been killed crossing the street, what would my reaction be?  Well, I imagine, my first words would be, “You’ve got the wrong person.  I didn’t do that.”

  If my denial was not enough to prove my innocence, you can bet I would make the most of my one phone call.  I would be seeking help to clear my name.  I would be working desperately with my lawyer to build my case, to establish an alibi, to show I had no direct contact with the actual accident (hell, I wasn’t even there when it happened, hello!) and that I had certainly not conspired with anyone else to make this death occur.

Wouldn’t you do the same?  I think anyone in their right mind would.   So why in the world am I so willing and eager to take the blame just because the young lady in question was my daughter?  Is it logical?  Did I somehow transport myself in time to West Michigan, push the driver out of her seat, and take the wheel?  Of course not, that’s crazy, right?

Furthermore, I have pushed away every person who has tried to help me realize that my thinking on this subject has no basis in facts.  I have refused medication, therapy, and shut my ears to the words, “It’s not your fault.”

How much sense does that make?

It started when I went to the first two counselors I’ve seen on this little journey.  I left both sessions mad as hell, and thinking they were an absolute waste of my time.  “They did nothing to help me, not a solitary thing!” I told people.

What would have been a more accurate statement?

 “They didn’t give me what I wanted.”

 I was just as frustrated and angry as any small child denied the candy at the grocery checkout.  I am positive I walked out of those offices with my fists bunched up and my lower lip pooched out.  It would be comical if it weren’t such a nightmare.

See, when I saw those counselors, I wasn’t looking for help accepting what had happened or help to feel better.  In my illogical state of mind, I went in there, fully expecting one of the kind ladies would listen to my tear-filled rendition of July 5^th, hand me a tissue, and say, “Just a moment, Ms. Mansfield.  I think I have the solution to your problem.”  The counselor would walk out, returning a couple of moments later with Cory in tow- fully intact, smiling gently, and looking at me with concern.  “Hey, Mom, what are you doing here?”

That’s what I wanted from these people.  When they didn’t deliver, I wanted nothing more to do with them.  Useless.

Medication was the same.  I pushed away the meds for so long, not because I didn’t think they might help…I had seen the benefits of medication to Cory’s depression and suicidal thoughts.  No, I pushed the meds away because I didn’t want to feel better.  You see, if I felt better, I would go on, and going on without my Cory Girl was just not something I wanted to do.

I think  I may have kept my arms crossed across my chest for the better part of three months.  Just try to get me to change my mind on any of the above.   I fear my friend, Angie, my true therapist –who is on call 24/7 and doesn’t get paid a dime- was itching to choke me, wondering the whole time how such a tiny creature could be so damn bull-headed.

  It was weeks before I even tried to defend myself.  It’s a funny story, in a way.  I was in the shower, my thinking place.  I had been fighting off a burning urge to contact Bob, Cory's biological father,  and clue him in on just what he missed out on this time around.  I really wanted to share the pain.  It just wasn’t fair that he had left me holding the bag on every single thing that happened over the years… especially this.

 My only reservation in doing so is that I knew he would likely say something to make me feel worse.  I could not imagine him being kind or fair… I had refused to let him attend the funeral.  As I shampooed my hair, the conversation played out in my mind.

 I knew Bob in and out, like the back of my hand.  He would consider anything I said to be an attack (and in this case, he would be right).  When attacked, his only defense is to come back twice as hard, hammering his point home until the listener is just too exhausted to defend themselves any longer.  So I surprised myself (in this imaginary conversation) when some sense of self-preservation rose in my chest, and a hot burning, righteous anger took over.  How dare he?

I knew that once I had laid all the gruesome details out for his close examination and berated him for being three thousand miles away while his only child’s lifeblood seeped into the concrete,  he would say, “Yeah?  Well, it wasn’t my fault.  I wasn’t even there.  You’re her mother.  Why weren’t you watching her?”

He would cut straight to the heart of my underlying insecurity, as he always had…you are not good enough.  This had long been a theme, perhaps born in my formative years when I struggled with my body image, but mostly cultivated through his physical and verbal abuse in years gone by.  Every time he lost his temper, every time I found the courage to look for the door, the thought that I could have done something better- something to prevent his rage, prevent his displeasure, make him calm, make him happy would follow me, closer than my own shadow, pestering me until I turned right back around again… head down and ready to accept any and all of the blame.

Well, there was a difference from that young woman and this one.  This one had finally, after two decades, realized that she could not change anyone but herself.  And that she deserved better.  This man had a major mental illness that had gone untreated for decades.  Without significant treatment, he may never be able to sustain a healthy relationship with anyone.  It was sad, and it was true.

So, in the shower, I shifted my weight to one foot, cocked one bony hip, and just went for his jugular.  “Where was I?  Where was I?  I was cooking her dinner!  I was taking care of her!  Like I always have!  When have you ever bothered to cook her a meal?”

As I considered this, I began to make a mental list of all the things I did manage to do for Cory that day, the last day I saw her alive.  I’d only seen her for about two hours, but I was amazed at all we had shared during that short time, once I stopped to really think about it.   When I got out of the shower, I wrote it all down, a beautiful list that made me feel better than I had since it happened.  As I reread it, I realized I had likely done more for Cory in that brief period of time than Bob had done for her in her whole life.  What did I have to be ashamed of?

That was the very first time since the accident that I actually began to challenge my faulty thinking.  I never would’ve done it without Bob’s voice in my head.  Gee, thanks, babe.

I saw a third therapist a couple weeks ago, hopeful that she would have some techniques and strategies to help me manage the flashbacks, and begin to feel less guilty.  When she told me to think pleasant thoughts, and let time do the rest, I was out of there.  Lady, I can do better than that by myself.

So, I got out some index cards, and made myself some prompts.  I remember Cory’s first therapist using these to show Cory how cognitive behavioral therapy works.  In a nutshell, if you can change your thoughts, you change how you feel, which in turn changes your behaviors.

 The thing is, changing your thoughts is hard work.  Sorry, therapist #3, I can’t just “think pleasant thoughts” when I am seeing my daughter’s broken body on the road.  It’s a little more complicated than that.

So here goes my experiment:  keeping these cards handy, and referring to them often.  I will let you know how it goes.