Marital Conflict

A couple of weeks ago, my dad pulled a muscle in his back, and was pretty much laid up for a few days.  My mom suffers from chronic pain, and dad usually helps her through her days.  He's sort of a cross between a butler, entertainer, and something they don't yet have a name for- a soother.  He just makes everything better by walking in the room.  He makes sure she eats even when she's not hungry, he brings her her medicine, and at night, every night, he rubs her legs down so she will be able to sleep.

So there they were one afternoon last week, the two blessed little things, trying to take turns standing up long enough to get a meal made.  Once they'd eaten, Dad forbid my mother to touch the dishes.  "I'll get them."

"Hon, you can't, you can barely stand.  I can do them.  They won't take that long."  my mom insisted back.

"No, now you don't need to be doing that!  I know you're in pain.  You need to go lie down, and I'll do them."  he argued.

Mom defied him, rattling away elbow deep in soapsuds, while her feet and legs screamed in protest.  Dad, from the living room, called out, "You'd better leave that stove alone!  You leave that for me!  Don't you touch it!  Don't you dare!"

Mom told me this over the phone that night, and I wanted to quit my job and move in with them immediately.  If I could, I would do it in a heartbeat.

After we hung up, I thought about them, seventy six and eighty years old, married for some fifty-six years, if I've done the math correctly, and their arguments have been reduced to who was going to take care of who; who is going to bear their own pain in order to lessen the other person's.

I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd heard in quite some time, and I will always remember it.

Dear Santa

I asked Jake the other day if he wanted us to put up a Christmas tree.  He said no.
I asked him why not, and he shrugged his shoulders.
I asked him if it was because of his sister, and he looked away.  Yes, of course it is.
A couple days later, I asked him what the hardest part of the holidays is for him since losing Cory.  He said Christmas morning.

A lot of times Jacob won't say anything about how he's hurting or what he's thinking.  And sometimes he doesn't have to.  It's as plain as all those empty spaces in our house...invisible minefields, every single one.

Dear Santa,

For Christmas, I want to move away from the scene.  I've had enough of the road.  Maybe Jacob has, too.

Sincerely,
Nicole

Visiting Hours

There's no place more quiet than a cemetery in the middle of the night.  We parked back a few feet so the headlights would shine directly on her stone.  We walked over, and stood in front of her monument, my eyes drawn, as always, to the careful etching of her name.  My sister and her husband had brought out her little Christmas tree, Mom had added colorful ornaments, and it stood there in the moonlight, trying its best to be festive.

I always feel it in my stomach first.  It's been nearly two and a half years on the calendar, but to my body clock, this tragedy may have happened two weeks ago, Thursday.

Tim breaks the silence.  He's already crying.  Lately, he's all he can do.
"No one should have to come here to see their child for Christmas.   It's not fair.  It's not right."

I stay until I can't bear it another minute, and turn my back to go.  I hate leaving her there alone in the dark.  In the cold.

In the car, Tim asks me why I like going at night.  I tell him, "Nights were always the hardest for her.  And she was scared of the dark."

Intellectually, I know she is not trapped down there, fighting for air and begging for light.  This is hard to remember when the feeling of her shaky hand in mine, or her cheek pressed up against mine for a picture is so vivid.  I can look to the side and see her cross a room or plop herself down on my bed, pajamas on and her hair still wet from the shower.

My mom often says that losing Cory is the worst thing that's ever happened to her in her 76 years.  She tries so very hard, to put herself in my place, and feel what I feel, and I think she comes very close.  It shows in her patience and acceptance of my grieving behaviors and timeline.  The thing I've never asked her is if she feels like this thing- this experience- is driving her crazy.  My brain is at such odds with itself.  Acceptance comes and goes like some drunk friend who has no where to crash and always owes you money.

Cory is dead.  Tim stopped me when I said that the other day in conversation.  "I can't say that.  What you just said."

"I couldn't either till about 6 months ago."  I told him.  I wouldn't even say "passed away" sometimes, I mostly referred to what happened as  "the accident".  "I also couldn't say 'funeral' for a really long time.  And I corrected anyone who did- it was her 'service', didn't they know?"

Somewhere along the way, it seemed more honest to say she died, and to call it a funeral since no matter how beautiful and memorable I tried to make it, that's still just what it was.  It wasn't a birthday party.

My brain knows she's gone. Permanently.  Yes, and yet...my heart stirs up all these memories and makes them dance in the shadows.  If you squint your eyes, just right, you can see her move.  Live in my heart?  Hell, I just saw her walk across the room.

Yeah, I'm losing my mind.

Med Review

A med review is supposed to be quick and painless.  How are you?  How have your symptoms been?  Are you having any side effects?  Ok, I've renewed all your scripts, please sign here.

A med review is not the place to lay out all of your irrational anger and rage, working yourself up to a volume that is undeniably too loud for the office.  You really shouldn't find that tears are burning your face and threatening to leave the eyes of your healthcare provider.

I found myself trying to get the nurse on my side with this driver thing, and not having to spare a whole lot of effort to do it.  From there, we talked about the cops, and how cruel it was for the lead cop to bully me into leaving the scene, and demand I leave Cory's body on the road.   I am positive this woman has some children close to Cory's age, because she left her notes forgotten, and just gaped at me.  "They did WHAT?"

She told me about a cousin she has who'd been in a bad accident, who survived, but had horrible scars on her face and neck.  While I drifted off imagining a scarred Cory, but an ultimately ALIVE Cory, who continued to live and grow, becoming a wife and a mother, she continued to tell me her family had always suspected that the driver was protected somehow, since no charges were ever brought.  "The justice system isn't perfect.  It's not much further than us walking around with clubs beating each other."

Sister, don't get me started.

Do I have anger issues?
Oh, and how.

All Apologies

I wish she would apologize.  I realize if you have to prompt someone to say they're sorry, they're probably not.  Still.

So many conversations have been dedicated to the fact that I've never heard from the driver.  Many musings of why she's never reached out or what I or someone else would do in her position have whiled away the hours without my girl.

Tim says she was probably instructed by legal counsel or the like to avoid communication.  I picture myself in the woman's position, and know the last place I'd want to be would be in front of the face of the mother of the child I fatally struck with my vehicle.

Fear?  Maybe.  Maybe somehow she's picking up the vibe that if consequences weren't an issue, I'd dearly love to go after her face with a hammer.  Maybe she reads the blog.

Confrontation is something I've gotten a little better at since Cory died.  But it's still not something I seek out.  When I really search myself, imagining I had inadvertently killed someone's child, I know I wouldn't go to them.  I couldn't.

But I would write.  I would write a letter.  And I would reread it.  And I would change it.  A few hundred times.  I'd obsess over it.  I 'd search for the right words, and they would never come.  I'd sent that letter anyway.  I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.

Tim says maybe she's afraid of being sued.

Okay, let's talk about money.  Money means nothing anymore.  Do I feel she or her insurance company should have paid to bury Cory?  Yes, I do.  That's just common decency.

That being said, money has nothing else to do with this.  I don't want a dime from her.  This is about guilt; it's about blame; it's about intent.

If the city of Battle Creek didn't value Cory's life enough to issue the driver a fucking ticket, could this woman at least say she's sorry?  Could she say she didn't mean to, and she feels horrible? After a million apologies in other situations that have never changed the final outcome of my broken heart, I can say they are at least a balm over the hurt.  To know someone is living with regret for hurting you matters.  It does.

When she doesn't take any type of responsibility for hitting Cory with her car, and the Battle Creek Police Department showed no interest in laying blame, all that responsibility settles firmly back onto my shoulders.  Mother.  Guardian.  Caretaker.

You try to walk with that on your shoulders.  If I didn't have Jake to take care of, I'd have escaped into drugs long along.  It would be such a luxury to not care about anything anymore, and then to die.

Sometimes people tell me I have to forgive myself, which honestly confuses me even more.  These are usually the same folks who've told me Cory's death was not, and will never be, my fault.  If it wasn't my fault, what am I supposed to forgive myself for?  Shouldn't I forgive the person responsible?

Who would that be?  Isn't it the driver?  So what she didn't get a ticket, and there wasn't a trial?  I find that to be pure laziness and incompetence on the part of Battle Creek's finest.  Does it change the fact that this woman, whose full name and address are forever emblazoned on my heart, hit Cory with her car resulting in multiple skull fractures, front and back, a broken neck, a broken arm, and two broken hips?  Does it change the fact that Cory was pronounced dead on the scene?  Does it change the fact that she never even hit her brakes?  That there were no skid marks?

I want you to think, just for a moment, about the severity of Cory's injuries, and ask yourself...do you think the woman was doing the speed limit? Does 35 miles per hour do that to a human body?  Can it?   Do you think she was looking in front of her?  Does it seem more plausible that she was distracted?

I know what I think.  I know what most people profess to believe.
But even so, even if it was a freak accident...
isn't she sorry?

She took someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's grandchild.

DRIVER, WHERE ARE YOU?  

Superstar!

When you are visibly feeling better, people bombard you with positive feedback.  It's pretty heady.  You feel like a superstar, but know somewhere deep inside, you'll never be able to live up to this image of yourself forever.

My oldest and dearest friend recently told me, "at times, it seems like you're making progress, but then you slip, and it's like day one."

She may have just described my entire life since July 5th, 2012 in one sentence.  Why is she not a writer?  Seriously?  

That is just what this is like.  Being every bit as cheery and optimistic as I've been since fourth grade, I told her that, and she responded with a question,

"What is bigger, you or the pain?"

Fair enough question.  And I will give a fair answer:

It depends on the day.

Last week I had three excellent days...days I felt alive and a certain measure of peace.  

Of course, what is up must come down.  And where should I fall down but my old worrying place, the shower, on Friday evening?

Another dear friend of mine would call it sabotage.  I recognized my happiness, and decided I didn't deserve it- insert crying jag, here.

If it is self-sabotage, it's buried deep, folks.  As much as it might to appear to someone who's never gone through this, I do not enjoy the pain.  It's not a good place to live.  And to get out of it, or stay out of it, it's not all choice and attitude.  To the loved one who told me it's impossible to be depressed while skipping, I challenge you to a skip-a-thon, and we'll see which one of us gets over the death of our child first.

Some of it is depression.  Some of it is trauma.  Some of it is grief.  Some of these are natural responses and others are, at least in part, rooted in brain chemistry.  I would be foolish to think the dark times won't be round my way again.  The best I can is hold tight to the memory of my three days while I go through them, and wait for another three to come.  

It can't rain forever.

Bright Eyes

Feeling better goes like this:

I catch myself running up the steps at work instead of using the handrail to pull my dead weight along.  My eyes look brighter (but then again maybe that's the meds).  My brain works better to solve problems, and I feel like I might actually be worth something.  Or at least I could be.

I spend more than three minutes deciding what to wear in the morning.  I remember how blue my eyes look when I wear brown eyeliner.  I look down and remember I have cleavage.  The dresses come out of my closet, and I begin to wonder if maybe I could be pretty again.  My posture changes.  A whole day will go by before I realize I haven't had to take any of my anxiety meds.  Wolf Teeth fade to an unpleasant memory, and the packs of gum sit in my purse untouched.

When I go on Facebook, I accidentally click on my timeline and find myself scrolling through the years, reading posts that I made when the world was in my hands, and chuckling over comments Cory made.  I keep going backwards through the years, seeing Jake's face become rounder and babified, and Cory's illness grow smaller and smaller until it was hidden somewhere inside her, sleeping quietly.

I pull up all my photos, and stare for a long time at the one of her going to junior prom.  She looked...radiant.  I look at the one of her standing beside her biological father, and remember the magnitude of hope that she and I held for that little family to be realized...and to last.  I regret nothing.

Hey, Mom...

Tonight, it's about Cory's words instead of mine:

"Thank you,
for loving me,
for staying with me,
for holding my hand,
for keeping me safe,
for telling me I'm beautiful,
for cooking for me,
for watching movies with me,
for EVERYTHING
and more!
I love you."

- Cory

Maybe She Could

I made dinner tonight.  Spaghetti with a decidedly anti-climatic jarred sauce.  Not my best work, I admit, but I still cooked.  Yay, me.

So...

lately, I've been seeing Cory when she was little, dressed in corduroy jumper dresses with cable-knit tights- one in particular that had cat faces for pockets on each side- her hair pulled away from her round little cheeks.  I cannot look at pictures of her when she was little, and haven't since the funeral, but they've been coming to my mind a lot lately.  She was the tinest slip of a girl with an incredibly advanced vocabulary, and a temper like you wouldn't believe.

 I can remember picking her up and resting her comfortably on my bony hip, and just toting her around, and I especially remember squeezing our faces close together in front of the mirror, "Look at those pretty girls!"  How she would smile!  All the selfies we took over the last three years or so of her life were just that old game reinvented, weren't they?

Yes.  That is such a bittersweet realization.

Now, then, let's get on to the guilt-begat-panic-attack business about going to Thanksgiving.  I'd like to think my therapist likes me, but I'm certain I was wearing her patience thin this last visit as I tried to explain why going to the holiday seemed like a slight to my girl.  All I could think about, as she reasoned, and I came out with wilder and yet wilder excuses, was how Cory's separation anxiety had been- as a child, and again during her mental illness.

I nodded in all the right places to my kind lady's logic, but refused to agree. "I left her!"  I insisted, tears hot on my face.  "Wasn't it bad enough that I left her to die on the road?"  I cried, the sobs coming from deep within my chest.  My therapist has now seen me in every sort of condition; all formalities have been waved.

"But you didn't.  You didn't leave her to die on the road.  You would never have done that."  she said calmly, oozing of logic and objectivity.

"Why does it make you feel so guilty to have shared the holiday with your family?"  she asked again.

I took a deep breath and said this,
"I showed her my back."

I'm not sure if anyone besides Cory and I know just how significant that one action can be.  It is the reason I nearly killed myself working forty hours and driving to Grand Rapids every single night she was hospitalized.  I would never let her feel abandoned by me.  Never.  To be someone's rock, you have to stay.

By now, my therapist was more than a little misty-eyed herself.  She, too, took a deep breath, and said this,
"Maybe instead of you showing her your back, she could be hugging you from behind and looking over your shoulder."

I burst into tears.
Maybe she could.

Gettin Muh Girl's Hair Did

I have to tell you this before I forget.

Just now I was raiding the bathroom for cosmetics as I packed for my trip.  Tim was in the shower, and we were trying to name the colors of each of Cory's winter coats from grade school.  From there, we came up with the cartoons she watched in the morning as she got ready for school, and Tim shared this unexpected treasure:

"You know I curled her hair for her, right?"  he asked.

"Curled her hair?  With a curling iron?"  I said in disbelief.

"Yes, with a curling iron!"  he answered back.  "You had to be at work at the same she had to be at school, remember?  You didn't have time to do it, so I did it."

I giggled, delighted at the picture of Tim laboring over a second or third grader's curls.  "Did she stand still?"

"Well, yeah, she did.  She wanted it done, and you weren't here.  What was the girl supposed to do?  I told her, 'I can do it', and I did."

Awwwww...

Journaling

In my mind, I can see her head turn, her mouth move.  She is still so alive to me.

Tales of Jacob Volume III

Tonight Jacob had trouble getting to sleep, and tiptoed down the hall to my room.

"Mom, what would the punishment be if you caught me reading under the blankets with my flashlight?"

Despite whatever I responded to him about the importance of sleep and being prepared for school in the morning, I am certain I was grinning like a fool.

Yesterday, Jacob was struck with a bug, and spent the entire day and part of the evening on the toilet.  When he finally perked up a little towards nightfall, he said this, "Thank you, Mom, for taking care of me when I was sick."

And Thanksgiving day at my sister's, he was his post-Cory's-death reserved self.  He has always been a quiet boy, but his interactions with others now have become scant and slightly concerning.  Once he and I were rolling down their driveway, headed out to see Cory at the cemetery, he broke into silly song.

"Jacob, am I the only one who gets to see you this way?"  I asked him.
He grinned and answered, "Quite possibly."

At the cemetery, we were joined by my parents, who also couldn't bear to leave Cory out of the day.  We all stood in a despondent line before her grave, sick in our hearts.  Mom and Dad broke away to their car, and we made to say our goodbyes to our girl.  I watched as Jacob kissed her monument, and had no doubts, whatsoever, about his attachment to her.

And lastly allow me to share his negotiation tactics the last time I told him to get off his game on the computer:

"Mom, I know I've been on awhile already and I understand your concern.  But in my defense, I'd just like to say that I am socializing with kids my own age- four of them!  It's practically a community!"

Dear Lord, I am in so much trouble with this boy.

Keepin It Real

And because I tell it all...

This would not be a genuine representation of this experience if I didn't tell you that right after I posted last night about how well going to Thanksgiving dinner went, I began to feel incredibly disloyal to Cory.

It hit me about the time I finally turned out the lights, and tried to go to sleep.  Tears always brew in the middle of your chest, and I could feel mine there.  Wolf Teeth soon followed.  Did I tell you I finally figured out what Wolf Teeth (the sudden and pervasive feeling that my teeth are too big for my mouth) are all about?  Excuse the sidebar:

Criterion E: alterations in arousal and reactivity

Trauma-related alterations in arousal and reactivity that began or worsened after the traumatic event: (two required)

1. Irritable or aggressive behavior
2. Self-destructive or reckless behavior
3. Hypervigilance
4. Exaggerated startle response
5. Problems in concentration
6. Sleep disturbance

[Above taken from DSM-V Criteria for Post  Traumatic Stress Disorder]

Number three, folks- that's what Wolf Teeth is all about.  In case you're curious, it sucks!

So some guilt, some Wolf-Teeth, and then my heartbeat started thumping away like a runaway horse.  I turned my light on, and tried to get a grip.  Tim, God love him, recommended that I chew a piece of gum.

I will try anything.  I chomped away for a few minutes, and settled myself down.  I spit the gum out, wiped my tears, which for once had been blessedly silent, and turned out the light again.

Sprayed my pillow with lavender mist; turned my Sleep Sheep to gentle rain, put a soft, chunky Infinity scarf around my neck, and grabbed one of Cory's stuffed animals.  Laid there.  Felt my teeth with my tongue.  Couldn't stop.  Literally felt like they were growing right out of my mouth.  What is wrong with me?

Responder cutting Cory's shirt open..."Is she breathing?!!  Is she breathing?!!"...Cory's legs splayed and dirty..."I'm sorry, I didn't see her." ...Cory's eyelashes sooty against her cheeks..."I'm sorry ma'am; she is gone."...Cory's arm in a floppy pretzel shape...blood, so much blood...something is wrong with her head..."NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"...hot pavement, gritty, under my knees and forehead.

I put my right hand over my eyes.  It never helps, but it's reflex.

My heartbeat kept speeding up until I thought I might die.  Mostly I feared I wouldn't, and would instead sit crouched in bed feeling this way forever.  Trapped.  

This is what my panic attacks or whatever you'd like to label them are like.  This is what my sleep is often like.  

This is the exact reason I avoid every possible cue to the events of that day: the road, the grocery store, cooking, my kitchen.

Yes, I did pop a pill.  And yes, it eventually stopped.  I drifted off and had a dream that Jacob died.

On the Prowl

Another first, this year:  I marginally participated in Black Friday shopping.  It happened purely by default, but it still happened.  Here we go:

My sisters, Mom, and I have always gone Black Friday shopping as a sort of bonding experience.  I remember many Black Fridays mornings spent outside the Toys R Us waiting for it to open so I could nab Cory the "must have"  Barbie contraption of the season.  We would usually break after a few hours, and eat breakfast together somewhere, before heading back out.  One memorable year, we actually had to drive home, and unload the vehicle to fit in anymore.  We would always buy each other's children's gifts, and gradually begin to develop the slap stick humor that comes from sleep deprivation.  It was a grand time.

The last Black Friday that Cory was alive, she came with us.  My niece, Alisha, and nephew's girlfriend, Cayla, came too.  We all split up at one point so we wouldn't see each other's purchases.  Cory had a fabulous time.  She had her own money to get gifts for loved ones, and I suspect she felt super grown up to be shopping in the middle of the night.

Cory, modeling herself after me, went entirely overboard shopping for me.  That sweet girl spent the bulk of her budget on her Madre, and was so excited to see me open the gifts.  One thing was a cream bouncy knit scarf, with sparkles in the thread; do you know the kind?  I had been wanting one for awhile, and she went to Maurice's and enlisted shopping help from our friend who has known us since Cory was little.  My friend later told me how joyful and proud Cory was picking it out.

Here's what Cayla told me, much later, "She really wanted that scarf for herself.  She even said so, but she wanted you to have it because she thought it would be beautiful on you."

Deep breath.  Tears.  Carry on.

That's the baby girl I raised.  Is it any wonder I can barely function without her?

So, then, this year:

Mom and I were supposed to go to a movie, but unfortunately everything was either highly inappropriate, animated, or sci-fi.  What were we to do?  I asked Mom if she'd like to run out to Target and Michael's with me, and maybe have coffee while we were out, and she assented.

What was on my list, you ask?  A set of flannel sheets and Christmas washi tape.  I am so bereft of holiday spirit, I have decided to try to infuse myself by adding Christmas symbols into my planner and journal, almost like sublimal advertising for my brain.

Running errands with Mom is very reminiscent of running errands with Cory... minus the blasting our favorite songs in the car, dancing in our seats, and singing along.  We find ourselves so lost in chatter, we often forget where we parked.  We startle each other with a shouted out piece of information we'd forgotten to share the last twelve times we've talked to each other.  We people-watch.

On this particular occasion, I found myself grabbing for Mom's hand, holding hands with her around the store, and checking every so often to make sure she hadn't strayed too far away.  Mom is a tenacious shopper, and will not give up till she has uncovered every rock looking for a certain item.  We were having a horrible time finding any holiday washi tape, and had worked our way around the entire store, before discovering them hidden on an endcap at the edge of nowhere.

Now keep in mind, this woman does not even use washi tape.  Nonetheless, her unbridled glee was equal to mine, and we were soon lining up the eight or so different varieties to narrow down to a couple of choices.  What I love about Mom is this:  she couldn't pick either.  We ended up carrying them around to see which ones we'd made an emotional bond with before checking out.  I have been trained by the best, my friends.  Mom, take a curtsy.

As we wandered around the stores and hit the Starbuck's drive thru, we talked about all manner of things, and as always, Mom was sharp as a whip, sensitive, kind, and funny.  I was whiny and emotional throughout the entire trip, every few minutes spotting something I'd like to get Cory for Christmas, which would trigger another declaration of "I miss Cory", tears, or both.  I must've said it no less than 23 times.  Mom simply patted my arm, and agreed, never tiring of my complaints.

Without doubt, Mom has been and continues to be my strongest comfort and support in this ghastly new existence.  I don't know if you can tell, but I just adore her.

Giving Thanks

No one can take your steps in grief for you.
This was just as true as ever when Jacob and I hesitated outside the door to my sister's house.  I wanted him to open the door and walk in first, and he wanted the same from me.  So we just sort of stood there a couple minutes, while I took a deep breath and readied myself to walk in to the first family holiday gathering since Cory died.

Did I mention I didn't really want to go?  It was thinking about how precious time is with the ones you love that finally set my body in motion.  I would never forgive myself if something happened to my parents before I felt "ready" to rejoin holiday land.

On the other side of the door was everything I was afraid of...new memories that might interfere with keeping my girl front and center of my mind, being one of them.  As I barely shut the door behind me, I was tackled by a jubilant Cayla, my nephew's fiance, and a treasured friend of Cory's.  "You came!" and into my hair whispered, "I know how hard this is for you, and if you need to go talk, just find me."

I got you, girl.

For the first five minutes, I hovered near my mother like a small child.  Finally, I went to go see my dad, and he stood up out of his chair to grab me up in a giant hug, "Ohh, I love ya, I love ya.  Did you hear me?  Did you hear what I said?"

Sweetest man alive.

Jake went to hang with his cousins, and I decided to go ahead and give it my all, seeing as I was already there, anyways.  One thing I can do is turn it on.  Full blast.

I bantered and smiled, made people laugh, and finally began to feel Cory's presence right about the time I began ribbing my sister, Ronda, about her skinniness.  I have so often been the target with my sisters, I simply couldn't help myself.  The meds have given me an extra ten pounds, and I weigh the most I have ever weighed when not pregnant.  True to sibling form, I must pick on someone else.

My niece, Alisha, is also a tiny creature, and the two of us began debating who out of the three of us had more meat on their upper arms.  Can you feel the ridiculousness that is our family?  It's good stuff, folks.

We argued on, until finally I declared we would never really settle this without a measuring tape.  Cayla stood up from her chair like a shot, and ran off to get one.  Oh, Cory, are you seeing this?!

Arms were measured, with Alisha beating me by a half-inch.  I hung my head in shame.

Before long, the food was ready and everyone filled their plate a time or three.  After desserts were sampled, the mayhem continued with an impromptu sister selfie session.  I haven't taken pics like that with anyone since Cory died.  I could feel her somewhere right in the middle of it all, laughing and snorting in the proper places.

My sisters and I got a picture taken with our parents, because well...treasures.
This was Thanksgiving without Cory.

 It was awful, but kind of nice, all at the same time.

Holiday Shopping

When the current holidays have little cheer to offer, I go back to visit the ones that did.  Today, I found myself thinking about the time Cory and I hit the mall during the holiday season.  Basically, I took her around to show me all the things she was hoping to get, and I kept a careful mental list.  One of the items she was crazy for that year was a grey velvet choker from Twilight at Hot Topic.  She was wild about that book series and the subsequent movies.  I noticed there was only one left on the rack, and practically pulled her out of the store, reassuring her that Santa had many ways of procuring out of stock items.

We walked down to Applebee's, and soon snuggled into a booth.  Once we'd placed our orders, I excused myself to go to the restroom.  Once out of immediate eyesight, I ran like hell out of the restaurant, and back to Hot Topic.  I scooped that necklace up, paid for it, and shoved it into my big purse.  Then looking very strange indeed, I'm sure, I ran back to the restaurant and headed for the restroom.  I returned to the table via return route from the bathroom to Cory's question, "What took you so long?"

I blamed it on my IBS, and changed the conversation.
Cory never suspected a thing.

She was delighted to pull the Twilight necklace out of her stocking on Christmas morning.  It rests now upstairs on her dresser, carefully laid out, as if for display.

I really miss making her happy.

Medicate Me

Cory, my beloved, my dear sweet chicken (yes, at my house poultry are highly favored and being called a chicken or a turkey is to be held in the highest of regards), used to do something that drove me absolutely nuts.  She couldn't help doing it, no more than I could help being irritated by it.  What was it?  Sometimes she would start crying, and she literally couldn't stop.

I think it irritated me most because there was nothing I could do to help her.  When these jags first began, I didn't know a lot about her mental illness, and only knew that past a certain age, most people are able to self-soothe.

Well, Cory, my love, I get it.  For the last couple days, I have only been able to stop crying or lesson the feeling that I must cry by taking meds...really, really often.  It was in doing so that I discovered another dilemma my girl faced:  if you don't take the meds, you feel like shit, if you do take them, you fall asleep.  So, basically, suffering on one hand and missing out on life around you on the other.  Wow...some choices, huh?

A couple of weeks ago, I wanted to die.  I just wanted to not hurt anymore.  The only way I could see to not hurt anymore was to not be here.  I scared myself enough to go get some help and within a few days, I was feeling better.

Now the holidays are looming, and I am feeling just wretched again.  Last night, I laid with my head on my pillow and my body tense as images ricocheted back and forth, one for another:  Cory laying in the casket, Cory's arm twisted unnaturally on the road-back and forth, back and forth...casket, road, casket, road.  It was a wrestling match to get my brain on something else, and I couldn't get a leg up to save my life.  Finally, I got up and took another Ativan in hopes it would knock me out, which it mercifully did.

So yeah, I'm taking the meds.  They don't take the horror away; they only dilute it.  And as a bonus, I get to look half-stoned (or "slow on the uptake" as a good friend told me today) at my workplace.

But Cory had it so much worse.  I wish she were here so I could hug her and tell her how strong she was.  I am finding out more and more about her everyday.

These holidays will come and go, regardless of my wishes, pointed out same said friend.  Yes, this I know.  But I also know I have no desire to participate.  Joyful?  Hardly.  Togetherness?  How?
 I thought and thought of a way I could include Cory in the season without sitting in a roomful of family members without her, sick with jealousy.

Cory collected nutcrackers.  Every Christmas, Santa left one under the tree for her.  I will take one out and put it in front of her monument.

For now, that's all I've got.

More Smile Than Face Returns

Today, I heard from a loved one who for a minute was able to remind me that before I had Cory, I was a whole person...a whole person who smiled, and laughed, and regularly shaved her legs.  I used to be a whole person who made people laugh, was a terrible flirt, had outstanding taste in music, and considered herself at least moderately attractive.
 This person who comforts me, without even really trying,  gently but firmly blocked every one of my protests that I cannot get past my guilt that Cory's death was my fault.
Somehow this exchange ended with me wondering if one day I might be a whole person again.  In someone's eyes, if not my own.
And I was smiling a real just-for-me smile, not the sort that are manufactured to please other people.

We call it "more smile than face".

At Last He Speaks Part II

This morning, I remembered I have a son, and ran to dig a hat out of the bench in the dining room so he wouldn't freeze to death on his walk home.  Hurrying while only half-dressed, I held up the bench top with one hand while studiously looking away, so as not to have to see Cory's bright pink purse that keeps watch on its cushion.  With my other hand, I blindly hunted for a knit hat, and pulled one out just as Tim came in the back door from starting my car.

I looked down to see one of Cory's hats in my hand.  Tim saw it, and said, "Her sc-at?"

Yes, it was a pretty brown, cream, and fuchsia scarf and hat sewn into one cozy piece. Her...scat. Cory wearing it?  Almost too cute for words, all big green eyes and creamy white skin.

To Tim, I nodded.  "Yeah."  I squeaked out, sniffed it once, and shoved it rudely away from my body, trading it out for one of Jake's striped hats.

This is just one example of the little deaths we die as we move about our day.

I know, I know.  The cynic out there says, "Why don't you get rid of her things?"

I can't.

So I finished dressing, slapped on some I-am-okay-don't-worry-about-me makeup (which usually consists of strong eyeliner and a bright lipstick...which sounds suspiciously like a hooker, if I really stop to think about it), and dragged myself to work where I had a baseline miserable day.

I busied myself with some repetitive tasks and tried not to see her face.

As I worked today, I remembered Tim coming in after working late last night, and waking me up.  He was crying.  A lot.

Tim cried after the accident.  I don't remember it much, just him stumbling around the house with toilet paper hanging out of both his nostrils.  I don't remember talking to him.  I don't remember him talking to me.

 I picked flowers.  He buried her cat.  I threw up in the funeral home's bathroom.  He chose her casket.  I walked around in shock, not knowing where I was or what was happening.  He cut the check for her plot.  He ordered the food for the ghastly luncheon.  I chose the music for her service.  Tim fed Jacob, fed the dog, fed the cats, and took the garbage out.  I fell down.  A lot.  For a really, really long time.

Well, last night, Tim sobbed so hard it shook the bed.  And, finally, finally...he spoke.  What did he say about my girl?  What did he say about her?

"I miss her so much!she was such a good girl, such a good, good girl...she was so thoughtful...she made everything fun...nothing's fun anymore...how are we supposed to do this?  how do people even do this?  ...it's not the same!  it's never gonna be the same!  we can't be happy!  we'll never be happy!  I don't want her to be dead!!"

I bawled right along beside him, answering, "I don't know!"  and "I know we won't!"  to his questions.  That's truth right there.

Eff this life.  And the holidays, too.  Eff the holidays.  And grocery shopping.  Screw the store.

Conversations With Jacob

Where am I right now?  That's an easy one.  I'm in a very crowded Starbucks coffee shop, crammed into a side table, kitty corner from a delightful old man, sitting with his wife, who just said this to me with a grin, "Someone must really love you!"  before holding out his gnarled left hand, and pointed to the ring finger with his right.

I smiled back at him.  "Do-overs cost extra!"

He and his wife giggled politely.

Where am I really?
That's a harder question to answer.  I'm out of the well, that much I know.  I wore makeup three out of five workdays this week.  I showered daily.  I'm not to the point of cooking dinner every night or anything; let's not be ridiculous.

There is snow flying, and as much as I want to pull out the pics of Jake and Cory on sleds, I haven't.  I have been told by nearly everyone to stop living in the past.  This sounds like such a healthy and reasonable piece of advice.   Unless, of course, the person receiving it happens to be a mother who has lost her child.  How am I supposed to try, on purpose, to live in a world in which she doesn't exist?  Forget disloyalty, and all that...it just doesn't even sound like a place I'd want to be.

Cory being forgotten is my biggest fear.  I don't mean to, but I drill family members for memories of her regularly.  I go up to complete strangers and show them her picture.  I can't help myself.

And Jacob, being ten when Cory died...how much will he really remember about her and their life together?

Jacob and I rode to the post office the other day and back.  On the way, we got into a conversation about how Veterans are treated, and from there about the accusations being made to certain psychiatric hospitals in the news of late.  We talked about how horrible it is for people in authority to take advantage of people whose illnesses have put them in a very vulnerable place.

This, of course, led to conversations about when Cory was hospitalized, and how she was treated where she stayed.  And from there, the couple of times that Tim was hospitalized, which was something Jacob wasn't even aware of.

I asked Jacob if he remembered when Cory was sick.  He said yes, and ticked off a list of memories:  when she thought the cats were spies, when she thought there were cameras hidden all over the house, the clown in the basement.

I shook my head to all.  He was right.  There was all of that, and more.

Curious, I asked him how he remembered Cory being when she was sick- scared, sad, mean?

He answered back in the same order, "I remember her scared and sad, sometimes mean.  Remember that one time at grandma and grandpa's when she pushed me down the stairs?"

"Yes.  You remember that?  I wasn't sure if you did; you were so little."

"I remember."  he repeats, and then says nothing, eyes to his lap.


"You know Cory didn't mean to hurt you or ever hurt your feelings."

"I know."

I asked them if it was scary to him when Cory was sick.

He said this, "yeah, like when she saw people at the top of the stairs that weren't there or talked about the clown, I knew it wasn't real, but it was still creepy to hear her talk about it, because she was really really scared.  It made me scared."

Yes, that I had known.  Heck, it made me scared, and I'd been an adult.

We didn't say anything for a minute or two, just rode along, both us lost in our memories of that particular nightmare.

Before I could ask him if he remembered when Cory thought she could fly, he broke in with this,
"I was sad for her, Mom.  But now that I'm older, and I understand it better, I'm even more sad for her."

I grabbed his hand and held it till the next stoplight.

After we'd returned home and wrapped our evening, I asked him one last question.  It was this:
"Jake, do you remember Cory before she got sick?"

He responded reluctantly, "Not really.  I remember stuff like going to Florida a little bit.  But mainly I remember when she started getting sick and after.  You know, it was kind of a big deal."

I went to bed with this on my heart, hating that mental illness could overshadow a little boy's memories of his big sister.  But at some point, in the dark, my chin came up because Cory was never her illness, and bits of her fought to get through those voices and delusions every moment of every day.  She was strong that way.

Just like the accident for me, certain memories have been assigned a certain weight and significance in Jake's mind.  Sooner or later, all the moments that weren't filled with trauma will float to the top.  It might just take a little while.

BTW

By the time you realize you are estranged from someone, you've been that way for quite some time.

Dreamscape

And just because it's interesting, sometimes, to hear about other people's dreams.  And, I'm keeping a dream journal, now, so I remember more of my own, here's last night:

A Three Part Act Called Panic, Terror, and Horror

Jacob, after being reprimanded for trying to ride his bicycle on the roof of the house (don't ask), got upset, and climbed a tree.  He got scared and couldn't get down.  As my mom showed up out of nowhere (as she so often does in my dreams), looked on, I reached up my arms to catch him as he let go.  He hit his head on the ground, and upon hearing the snap, I immediately knew he'd broken his neck.  C-4?!!  C-5?!! 
I looked down at his eyes closed.  He was unresponsive.
PANIC!!

Tim and i were driving somewhere- out of town, I would assume, since I was napping in the passenger seat.  I sat up, a little sweaty and disoriented to see Tim sleeping and snoring, with both hands tucked behind his head, the wheel free.  We began to veer off the road.
TERROR!!

And last but not least, this little gem:
Cory's body was exhumed and transferred to another cemetery without my permission.  I showed up there demanding to see her plot.  The guy in charge finally caught on to what I was saying through my screaming and tears, and responded easily, "Oh!  The folks from Bedford?  Yeah, we got 'em.  They were doing some major changes to their layout there and had to displace a lot of plots.  People are not happy."

I just looked at him.  "WHERE IS SHE?"

"Now, calm down, ma'am...she's not been reinterred yet.  We can't plant till Spring.  She'll be just fine in the deep freeze."

I lunged forward and began beating this man on the chest with my fists.
HORROR!!

What's Working?

Okay, and I have to add this.  I have a very smart and talented colleague who always begins planning interventions for children with this question, "What's working?  Is anything you've tried so far working at all?"

This is my nod to him.

I may be miserable.  I may be less than impeccably groomed.  But I am alive.  And I think I'm on my way out of the pit once again.  So what, if anything,  has helped?

I have been writing consistently, if not on this blog publicly, than privately in one of my many journals nearly every day of this nightmare.

And therefore, on the advice I imagine he would give, if he did grief counseling on the side (and trust me, I'd be the first to sign up and keep his book full) I'm gonna "stick with it."

Good Housekeeping

And the dull, average first step I've taken to get out of this pit of despair is to wash a load of my laundry.  Are you unimpressed?  I haven't done any of my laundry in about four-five weeks...and yes, I have that many clothes, that many pairs of underwear, but I am down to my last pair of clean socks.

Cory used to do this exact thing.  Only instead of finally caving to wash her clothes, she'd try her best to get me to buy her a few new things to stretch her options just a couple more days.  I used to get so aggravated with that child.  "How can you just let it pile up like that?  It's going to smell!"

At that time, I knew next to nothing about the places depression could take you, and the self-loathing that occurred when you finally lifted your head enough to see where you had ended up.

Now I do.  And I'd like to say this,  I'm so sorry, Cory.  I had no idea what you were dealing with.

 I think about how bad things got for her, how afraid she was every day, and I truly marvel that she ever got out of her pajamas, or even out of bed.

 Laundry?  Are you freaking kidding me?

I am grateful now to understand so much more about Cory's illness and symptoms, but I so wish I'd known a little more first hand about them back then, so I could have been a little more understanding.

Some things I'll never really be able to fully grasp.  The first time she was afraid to stay home alone while I dropped Jake off at school around the corner, I was puzzled.  A few minutes later, crouched down in the car like she was hiding from someone, she whispered, "I think he listens through the vents."

Gooseflesh.  Everywhere.  He?  He, who?  What is happening to my child?

"The squatter that lives in the basement."

Can you even imagine?  It breaks my heart all over again just remembering it.

By that point, Cory had stopped staying in her bedroom anyways, but I remember being so shocked when I went through it the first time she was hospitalized.  It made no sense to me- what she'd saved, and what she thought was garbage.  There was no organization whatsoever, not even the meager sort that a teenager puts forth to keep their privileges.

I thought about her room this morning, when I finally crawled out of my bed for the second time this weekend and took a really good look around my house.  Disaster would be a fair descriptor.  Dishes are clean, thanks to my husband, but the dust bunnies and general clutter have gradually claimed every surface.  Combine two depressed adults and a withdrawn, slightly depressed twelve year old, and you will create an immediate environment full of dark corners and disorganization.  I've had a set of broken blinds at one set of windows for probably three months.  Where's the logic?

The day after the accident, Cory's nurse from the Clozaril clinic said this, "She never stopped trying to have a good day."

I wish I could say the same about myself, but sometimes, I find, it's easier to just float.

Cory, I'm coming up for air, baby girl.  I don't have any socks left.

Bedtime

If Cory were sitting at the foot of my bed right now, dressed in sleep boxers and a t-shirt, her hair still wet from the shower, I'd have so many things to tell her.  I can see her if I squint, smiling to have my whole attention with brother already off to bed, and leaning forward to hear something funny from my day.  I've been collecting a laundry list of things to be sure to cover with her if I ever wake up and spy her crossed-legged on my quilt.  Wanna hear some?

I'd tell her she looked so cute in glasses.  I don't know why she ever worried or fussed- but then, maybe I do, because it is a rarity that I get a picture of myself taken wearing glasses.

 I'd ask if she remembered embarking on pet ownership together- her all of two years old, and me twenty-one.  Church, that sly tomcat took over the joint like he owned the place, and neither of us were quite sure what to make of him.  Neither of us had ever had a real live animal living with us, and I speak for both us quite confidently that we were shocked when he didn't sleep in the little cat bed we so carefully selected for him.  Instead, he would, gunslinger-like, if you will, bust open your bedroom door without asking, and jump up onto your chest, emitting his rusty purr.  This, quite literally, scared the daylights out of us both.  We were not cut out for this wildness.  We were indoor folk.  Within two days we had politely returned Church to his benefactor, who was most disappointed, as she was not allowed pets at her residence.  By the weekend, my tiny blonde-headed girl was crying for the cat she barely had an acquaintance with, and I had to do some major schmoozing to get that tomcat back.

And back he came, to live the next seventeen years with us, as Cory's object of affection and steady father figure.

I'd also tell Cory that I thought about the blue corduroy skinnies incident lately.  One weekend, on a gear up to holiday shopping, we talked Tim into hauling us over to Old Navy in Kalamazoo.  Everything was on sale, it had just become sweater weather, and we were nearly the same size.  Could you imagine a more perfect storm?  I have no idea to this day if Tim or Jacob walked out with a single item of clothing.  I should feel ashamed, but Cory and I had so much fun, I quite forgive myself.  We bought sweater capelets, when they were just getting popular.  She chose purple, and I chose grey, promising tradesies, of course.  There were cute layering shirts, reasonably priced and not too cheap looking booties, and then...and then, there were the skinny cords. If you've seen me or my girl, or better yet, remember me and my girl together, you will agree skinny cords were made for us.  All that extra ribbing added up to a slightly more curvaceous figure.  Unsure on their sizes, we grabbed a handful and got dressing rooms next to each other.  For whatever reason, we both HAD to have the navy blue.  I got the size zero, and Cory got the size one.  We may or may not have also picked out a couple of sweaters to top our giant bags off; there's really no telling.

We finished the day out by eating at Sonic, and going home to gloat over our purchases.  All was well until the following week, when I came home from work to find Cory padding around the house in her underwear.  "Oh my God, Mom, those skinny pants are mis-sized or something.  I felt like I was going to burst right out of them."

"No way?  Oh man, we'll have to hope they'll take them back.  Where'd you put them?"  I asked her.

Big green eyes said, "Crumpled on my floor, likely covered by a cat's sleeping body by now."

"Go get them, and I'll try to find the receipt."   Dutifully, she tromped upstairs.

As I dug in the giant Old Navy bag stuffed in my closet, I stumbled upon a brand new pair of size one blue skinny corduroys, and just started cracking up.

She heard me laughing like a loon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and demanded to know what was so funny.  I could only hold up the very large and seemingly accusatory numeral one to her face before she snorted out loud, which set me off laughing so hard, I had to grab her arm to steady myself.  When I could breathe, I said, "Honey, how did you....get them...on?"

She cackled madly.  "I just sucked it in and kept pulling."

"Could you breathe?"  I asked her.

"Not really. It was more of a corduroy induced stupor."

We fell back on my bed and laughed until our stomachs ached.  

I have never laughed with anyone like I've laughed with you, Cory.  Sometimes there didn't even have to be words, just a look.

I think I'd tell her she never needed makeup to look beautiful, she just was.  But she looked very pretty when she wore it, also.  I'd tell her how smart she was, and wise for her years, learning some lessons way before her time.  I would tell her how she made everything more fun just by being in the room, unless she was in a mood, and then it was at least more interesting.

I would tell my girl that I miss talking about books and music, movies and art...about love and hate, fairness and struggles.  All the nights I cut her off with, "Cory, I gotta get up for work in the morning."  Man, I wish I could get those back.

I'd tell her I miss her riding beside me in the passenger seat of the car, sneakily manipulating the radio to play all her fav new songs, over and over again, incessantly.

I'd tell her I miss going to get coffees with her and Jake and window shop, inevitably bringing home two animal puppets, one for each of them, because, well...why wouldn't you?

I'd tell her she was worth every blessed moment I got to spend with her, even the hard ones, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

I'd tell her I wish I'd gotten there in time.
I'd tell her I'm sorry I let her walk to the store in the first place.
I'd tell her I'm lost without her because she always made me strive to be a better person.
Hell, I'd probably ask her advice.  How do I just make up this new identity, Cory?  I was supposed to have that job until I died, and I'm quite sure what else I'm really qualified to do, you know, highly qualified, with experience and recommendations and shit.

What would she say?

I wonder.

Rituals

November 2012 and November 2013, I really wanted to set up Cory's spot or grave with things for Day of the Dead.  Cory was partially Hispanic, and since she was young, I'd taught her about that culture.  Her very first doll that she was old enough to remember was named Josephina, and oh, how she loved that thing.  It rests with her now.

Each year following the accident, my intentions were full of sugar skulls and an intricately created altar that screamed her name, but each year, I turned my head on the pillow, and let the date pass.

I almost let it happen again.  But at the last minute, I sprung up from my bed and urged Jake into his shoes.  We ran out and got just a couple of things, and rushed to her spot.  Jacob had learned about Day of the Dead at school, so he knew what we were up to.  Together, in the light that was quickly fading, with a chilly wind blowing, we set it up at her spot.  Jacob knows this is a place that is hard for me to be.  He was silent as he handed me things- scissors, candles, matches- as if we were in the midst of a complicated surgery.

Once the few things were laid out, small but lovely- we caught hands in the cold wind.  I could feel his hand, although still smaller than mine, growing decidedly out of its childhood shape and into something that would soon be adult.

What did we say?  What could we say, in that hellish spot as the traffic rushed back and forth behind us?  We knelt down close and told her we loved her over and over again.  We told her we missed her until there were tears running down both of faces.  It hit me momentarily that there was no father figure here to join in this ritual.

That's okay...Cory, Jake, and I had always done just fine on our own.

Nothing Compares

The only place I really wanted to go today was to my parents.  I think their place may be the safest one in my world right now.  When I'm feeling under attack by the intrusive thoughts that are so hard to push away, it is automatic to go to my mom and dad's, much like running into the house with a fresh scrape after falling off my bike when I was little.  It's...instinctive.

The comfort begins the moment my dad opens his door.  His face fills the frame like a blessing.  He beckons me in, patting my hair and commenting on the sudden downpour outside.  "Are you cold?  Did you wear a jacket?  You're gonna have to start wearing something on your head, child.  It's getting cold out there."

Just like that, I am said child again.  All will be well because my parents say it will be.  They always make it so.  They are powerful that way.  It is a beautiful way to feel.

"Edna, your baby is here."  he calls down the hall.

I can hear Mom question him.  "What baby?"

"How many babies you have?  You have some other baby out there I don't know about?"  he teases, smiling broadly.

If I've never said this before, let me share it now.  It is awfully good to be the baby.

Mom comes out into the living room where we settle into our accustomed spots:  Dad in armchair, Mom and I on the couch- the space between us empty where Cory used to sit.  Mom looks me over, I'm sure running all sorts of crisis analysis in that sharp mind of hers:  weight, eye circles, cleanliness, level of dishevelment.  That woman misses nothing.  Like as not, a question about what I've eaten last and if I'm hungry or thirsty is thrown in for good measure.

Dad having just settled comfortably into his chair, hops up, as if on a spring, to stoke a fire, and urges me to come sit close and get warm.

Don't you want to go to my parent's house?

Obediently, I perch on the edge and let my back bake a little.  It feels so good.  After a couple minutes of Jacob reports, I leave my spot, and go to crouch beside my father's armchair, and lean into his shoulder.  He chuckles at me, "Well, now..."  I just lean for awhile.  This is exactly what I came for.

After a bit, I leave his side, and cross the room.  Quite frankly, I want my mommy.  Not feeling strange in the slightest, I drape my forty-one year old body across her, ending with my head in her lap.  I close my eyes, and the patting begins.  She pats my arm and my shoulder.  She strokes my hair.

Comfort unparalleled.

If Onlys

I've been thinking a lot lately about the if onlys.  The if onlys show up right about the time I'm losing my shit.  They creep in, hidden in the shadows of my bedroom floor.  They crawl right into my bed, uninvited, and nestle in close.  One whispers, "If only you'd went to the store yourself."  Another strokes my hair and murmurs, "If only you'd went with her."  A third practically sings, "If only you'd known she wasn't ready..."  They tsk me.  Their insistent cries keep me up, and when I finally succumb to sleep, it is troubled, and filled with bad dreams.

Last night, I dreamed that another loved one had been run down in the road.  That damn road.  Decapitated.  Legs sheared off.  For some mad reason, my mother and I were standing side by side at my kitchen sink, trying to wash his heart, his liver, his kidney, and then pack them back, puzzle-like into his torso that we'd laid out, triage-style, on the dining room table.  There's a dream.

So this grief thing, with its stages that enter and exit the stage at random.  You have to ask, what the hell?  The bargaining stage is surely the definition of insanity.  Am I crazy to keep going over this in my head, knowing (intellectually, at least), that there can be no other outcome than the one that rests at Bedford Cemetery?  What is the blasted purpose of this torture?

Biding time.  Wandering can be a pleasant distraction, wandering - through the countryside of Bargaining- right back over the border to Denial- that safer, saner place where the world once made sense.  Things were linear.  You could check them off, and be done with them.  Reasons hung in plain sight like apples on a tree limb, and when you needed one, you just looked above you, and picked the best looking one.  You could walk away, and not have to look over your shoulder.  You could hear danger approaching because it screamed and threw things, and occasionally banged its head against the nearest wall.  These if onlys from the land of Bargaining are sly in their approach, and wait until you are already at your wit's end to even show their sorted faces.

Sometimes, I think I entertain those dreadful If Onlys purely to get some relief from reality...an alternate reality, if you will.  If my brain sends me signals that say something is possible (I could possibly have a do-over if I ask long enough, hard enough, and suffer enough), is it not a real possibility to me, if ever so briefly?
Perhaps, it is.  My reality is what my brain provides to me, after all.  That lesson I learned at Cory's side.

It is shabby comfort, at best, and at worst extremely harmful.  What is so harmful about your thoughts being based outside of reality?  That I can answer easily and with so much heartache- it's all the experiences and growth you miss out on.

But, oh the glamour.  That single sparkle of the glorious outcome that another decision on my end might have provided.
 It is all too hard to resist.

Newsletter of the Bereaved & Weary

Is it wrong to tell the truth?  Even if people don't want to hear it or you make yourself look less than admirable?

My truth, today, at least, is that I hate my Cory-less world.  If anyone wants to really know what's like after the loss of a child, with no sugar-coating,  then buddy, here it is:   I hate everything.  And I'm pretty sure everyone in my immediate circle is sick and tired of me hating everything.  Well, isn't that just too damn bad.  Walk away and go talk to your kids or something.

You see that?  That rude, horrible burning jealousy just boils out of me day and night.  It's not my friends and family's fault that my child was taken, but apparently my fury is no respecter of persons.  I can hardly stand to be around kids the age Cory would be.  It breaks my heart.  And throw in a mother/daughter duo that bares some minute resemblance to each other, and I'm a goner.  I'm talking, physically sick to my stomach and on the verge of a wail-a-thon.  See why I stay home so much?

You remember that saying, you always want what you can't have?  Curly hair wants straight.  Straight wants curly.  How to calm this primal need to be in the company of my child?  Or at least to know she walks and talks, in one instead of many pieces, and that I will see her at Christmas?  I don't know how to dampen this pining.  (Heads up, online shopping helps but doesn't last long enough, and it's very dangerous).

This weekend, I, very responsibly I might add, woke up, made arrangements for Jake's day, and at home, in my bed, swallowed some lovely Ativan.  Ativan...such a tiny pill, but what wondrous powers.  I woke up Sunday afternoon, thinking it was still Saturday, and for the first time in a week, I hadn't dreamt of running up to find Cory twisted with bones sticking out and blood everywhere.  There lies the rub- I can't just stay at home everyday bombed out of my mind on Ativan...if only I could.

Jacob.  I love love love my son.  Do you understand?  There is no shortage of wonder or affection for that precious little man.  He delights me daily.  This, however, does not make him my daughter.  Our relationship is every bit as different from mine and Cory's as it could be.  So when well-meaning people say to me, "Oh, well, at least you have other children.", I quite honestly want to hit them in the back of the head.  Or so that they may better understand my perspective, sneak into their house in the black of night, and steal just one (eenie, meanie, miney, mo...) of their children from their care, never to be seen again.  Hmm...wonder how fast they'd stop singing the "at least you have other children" tune then?

And finally, in this newsletter of the bereaved and weary, let me share my discovery for the day.  It is that someone saying "maybe you should meet some people who have lost a child"  may very well translate to "I've hit my max with your whining, so for the love of God, go talk to someone else."  Not that I can blame them.  I remember what it was like to be around someone who refused to lift their eyes from their feet- it can be infuriating.

So I find myself in that position where I am probably very hard to like, and having a hard time liking myself.  As a nod to the ones out there who declare it'll get better in time, I offer this,
"Maybe tomorrow will be a better day."

Heart Sick

No big surprises here. I had a wretched weekend.  I missed my girl so much, I literally couldn't get out of bed.  I just lay there, trapped under a heavy blanket of pain, feeling weak and wanting nothing- not food, not coffee, not human interaction, not reading, writing, or painting.  Not even shopping could get me vertical.  It was pretty bad.

Which came first- the broken sleep or the flashbacks?  It's hard to say, but before you could say PTSD, my anxiety had worked my stomach into an unpredictable mess, ready to turn traitor at any moment, which it soon did.

It's funny how quickly my thoughts change, starting out fairly benign (I miss Cory), turning into a vivid recollection of finding her splayed out on the road, blood thick and black, legs dirty, hair covering part of her face,  and then steadily twisting into guilt and shame.  Even the guilt and shame have levels, I have discovered.  Hours and hours spent floating between sleeping and laying awake hollow eyed and miserable provided me with a birds eye view of every variation.  I remember thinking I'd give anything for one more Mommy/Cory day, and hating myself for putting my stupid schoolwork ahead of time with her.  I could've had that day...maybe even a handful of them.

"Cory, I will watch a show with you, but then I have to go work on my paper."  No matter how she begged when the show was over, I'd flee to my nest of books and papers in my bedroom.  I was so eager to get that "A", so determined to show her it didn't matter how long it takes to finish something, as long as you keep working towards it.  And what did I really prove to her?  That she wasn't as important as a college class?

From this line of thinking, I forged head long into this:  if I hadn't been taking a class in the first place, I'd have been home that night- home with my kids, home with her.  And just around the bend in my troubled mind and heart, was this whisper, "Maybe he's right.  Maybe you did kill her."

Such a heavy sigh.  What have I done?  How could I be so stupid?  So irresponsible?

Hot tears then- because out of all the hard decisions I've ever made, choosing to have Cory at nineteen was the best thing I've ever done, and my one true purpose has always been to do right by her.  Keeping her safe and happy has been the biggest part of my life.  And underneath all my "growth"  and my "progress" in this stupid Godforsaken grief journey, I still feel like a complete and utter failure.  I let her walk to the store.  What a dumb ass.  All those years of care, of love, of laughter and tears- all the difficult decisions, the doctor visits, the hospitalizations, the meds...it all came down to a two second decision...and just like that, I screwed it all up in the end.  I chose wrong, and I lost her.  She suffered...I try to keep the "she died instantly" verdict at the forefront of my mind, but it doesn't match the pictures in my head.  Those pictures say she suffered plenty.  You can't end up looking like that without it hurting.  A lot.  I broke her.  Do you understand?  I broke my baby!

Back and forth to the toilet I ran- Saturday, Sunday, and a good part of Monday.  Each time I laid down on my bed again, feeling clammy, sweaty, and sick, I recognized the emotion overriding it all:  terror.  You'd think that scared feeling I remember so well from the first few days after the accident would be old news by now, but it's back.

  The idea of living without her terrifies me.  I know I've been doing it for awhile now, but I hate it.   To realize this is all I have to look forward to brings me right back to day one, but with some hard-earned perspective.  And I can't lie.  It's every bit as awful as I knew it would be.

Hoarding

Tonight I won't be cooking.  I gave my husband a heads up and asked what he wanted from Schlotzky's,  When he responded, "Oh, just get me an Albuquerque Turkey like Cory used to get.", my face broke into an unexpected smile.  He said her name in casual conversation.  He referred to her like a member of the household.  How long have I waited for this?

It made me think of a moment last week when I mentioned Cory when a meeting at work ended, and people were starting to disperse.  Casual chatter breaks out often as notes are gathered, and purses are put on arms.  Without a thought, I pulled up a pic of Cory's monument on my phone and passed it around the semi-circle.

Was this appropriate?  Oh dear, I hope so.  Were my colleagues taken aback to gaze down at a headstone versus a fluffy cat or slobbering baby?  I don't know.

I just know that I still need Cory to be part of my everyday life.  The casual way I pushed her pic on people says that somehow in the midst of all this muddled grief, I have formed a new relationship with my dead child.  And guess what?  I'm just as proud of her as ever.  Isn't that why parents brag and pass photos around in the first place?  They are proud.  And I am so incredibly proud of the life Cory lived.

 Her monument is a poor substitute for a daughter, of course- a beautiful girl who talks and laughs and runs into my arms- but it is a fabulous representation of her life and the way she lived it.  It is strong and graceful.  And before the peanut gallery in the back guffaws, claiming Cory's dancing was certainly interesting, but perhaps not the exact definition of graceful, let me say this:  Cory carried herself with grace.  She fought a horrible illness with grace, dignity, and determination.  And for that, I will always admire her.

So then, there is this new relationship with her.  It's not everything I want and need, but it's what I have.  I will embrace it; but what I'm still having a hard time doing is letting go of the pain.  I am so afraid if I don't keep her death at the absolute center of my world every moment, I will lose her.  I'm afraid the razor sharp techno-color movies in my head will fade and become fuzzy.  I am barely retaining my sanity as it is, my friends.  If I had to face the rest of my days without her memory clear and strong...I would not be able to function.  So as my friend, Angie, pointed out in a recent conversation, I hoard them.  I hoard my memories of her and play them every free moment.  My anxiety has placed me in charge of preserving her memory, of keeping her alive.  Do you understand?  Jake was only ten.  What if he forgets her voice?  What if he forgets the stories?

Am I really a hoarder?  Step in my bedroom, my friend.  It is hard for me to let go of objects.  That shirt might come back in style in 5-7 years.  And yes, actually, I DO need every color offered of anything I truly love.  A Nook?  Are you kidding me?  You will pry my old, dusty, paper books from my cold, dead hands.  And yes, come to think of it, I did put a copy of one of Cory's favorite books in her casket with her.  Why?  Because you are never alone if you have a book.

So, then imagine trying to give up my daughter?  I realize there was never a choice in the matter, as far as her body and life went.  But her memory?  All the things she said?  I am the keeper, and even if it kills me, I am determined to keep them close and fresh.  I don't want that candle to blow out.  It can't.  I fear with every ounce of my being, that if I turn my attention fully to the living, to the present, to apple orchards and Christmases with a family of three, I will lose my memories of her.  They will diminish.  And if they get any smaller, I won't want to be here, anymore.  Just wind me in my shroud (the memorial blanket with her face on it, as a matter of fact), and let this horrid nightmare be at an end.

I know, I know.  I have another child.  Why aren't I making sure to take him to the pumpkin patch?  What about his childhood memories?  There is an unspoken but definitive push from others to make sure I don't forget to "make new memories" with my son.

To that, I say this:  what makes you think we aren't making new memories already?  And who says they have to take place at a pumpkin patch or at a holiday dinner?  So much that is meaningful about our lives takes place in the routine of an ordinary day.  Jake will look back on his childhood, and there will be a clean cut division:  before Cory died, and after.  I can't change that for him.  All the family gatherings or dinners out in the world won't make that any less pronounced or any less painful.  It is what it is.  Our family has had to do some very difficult adjustments since Cory died.  Some of the rituals we've kept, and others have fallen by the wayside.  That doesn't mean Jake has lost his childhood or is loved any less.  I think it means things are different now.  And that's okay.

When Jake looks back, he may remember how silly he and I are together, running around the house and cracking jokes.  He may remember that I let him take an ice cold cup of apple cider to drink into the hot shower with him the other night or how we snuck hot dogs into the movie theater.   He may remember the way we trudged through our weekends without Cory, eating meals together, just the two of us, stolidly putting one foot in front of the other.

  He will remember the good and the bad, just like any one else.  Most of all, I hope he remembers that we treated each other with love and kindness.  Really, what more can you ask for?

Better in Time?

I tolerated my birthday better this year.  Before the legion of people who have, in fact, not lost a child yet say it gets better with time leans back, nodding with satisfaction, let me say it again:  I tolerated my birthday better this year.  It was...okay.

It wasn't particularly joyous, and although it was nice to eat some yummy seafood I didn't have to cook across from my two handsome boys, I was still overwhelmingly sad and lonely.  I watched Jake laugh up into Tim's face, and Tim laugh down into his.  Those two are mirror images.  I love watching them, and it kills me at the same time.

 Tim works nights, and time with him is precious to Jake.  I get that.  I watched them so in tune with each other, as they joked and bantered.  At one point, Jake reached up casually and swiped his hand across Tim's whiskers, just to feel them.   Tim looked surprised and bewildered, but Jake kept up the chatter, never missing a beat.  I reached out and rested my palm on the empty space in the booth next to me.   It's hard not to seethe with jealousy, even towards my own husband and son.  This pain can turn a person into someone he or she doesn't want to be, someone that's hard to like.

We all got a slice of cheesecake to go- even Tim can tell when the party of three has become too much for me to handle.  Once home, I retreated to my bed with my new journal and pen in hand.  After some bitter journaling (not bullet journaling, mind you,  bitter journaling), I pulled out my planner to wrap up my day, and smiled the tiniest bit to see the note I'd placed there.  I'd run across it a dozen times in the course of my day.  It said, "Happy Birthday, Mommy!"  Heart, Cory.

Such a small thing, really.  But somehow she'd been included in the day.  I had given her a voice, imagined what she'd tell me if I was ready to hear it, and put it somewhere I'd see it often.  It helped more than I'd ever thought.  I must have smiled five or six times that day.
 Last year, I smiled none.
Progress.

Letting Go?

"Sometimes you find yourself letting go of things simply because they are too heavy."

That line was in my story about Cory and I trying to carry a gigantic out-dated TV down the steps to the basement alone. Cory made it about halfway before letting go and walking away, leaving me holding something much too heavy for the two of us to be hefting in the first place.  Do you remember that story?

I reread it off the blog a couple of days ago, and I thought about this:

There are things I wanted from Cory's biological father for her, and for me, that he could not or would not provide.  End of story.  I can let that all go now.  I have met that primal need to not just scribble something down in my private journal in the middle of the night or to draft a letter meant to be burnt into ash at sunrise as my pets watch on dubiously, but to publicly name the one who hurt and disappointed me and the child we made together.  My heart has been so sick with it, and now that all chances are gone for him to make things right with her, it is time to lay those hurts and disappointments to rest, as well.  They are too heavy to carry.  And they really never belonged to me in the first place, did they?  Why in the world did I ever reach down and pick them up?

 I don't have to talk to him to know he regrets much.  He does.  And I'm sure he always will.  I need room in my heart and my mind for the image of that cockamamie tv moving endeavor gone wrong.  I need to see her cackling on the living room floor beside me, "Sorry, Mom, it was every man for themselves!"

And last night, I read an old blog post with this line:  " I would share my pain with no one; it was all I had left of her."

That is just how it has felt for a very, very long time.  The thing is that I don't think it's accurate.  I think that perspective was skewed deeply by the trauma of the accident scene- the way I saw her was so horrifying, it filled the world.  It filled my world.  And what happens when you see something so significant, so emotionally charged?  Your brain replays it over and over again, and a certain weight is assigned to that singular experience. 

 It was, hands down,  the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.  I was with no one I knew.  There is no one who can truly understand just how awful it was to see her that way.  There is no one to talk it over with that doesn't wince and try to change the subject.

That was the last way I saw her, outside of the funeral home.  But it was not the most frequent way I saw her.  It was not the ONLY way I saw her.  It may have been the LAST interaction we had, outside of the funeral home, but it was an unfortunate end to a LIFETIME of wonderful, laughter-filled, loving experiences.  

My pain is NOT all I have left of her.  I have love and kindness, patience and humor.  And those are meant to be shared with as many people as I possibly can before I join her in the plot next to hers someday.  

Tonight Is One

There are the nights when I can't sleep- my chest too tight and my throat threatening to close up shop.  The smallest memory brings it on- just her smile or the thought of the two of us doubled over in laughter, as we so often were.  I see her often in my mind, waiting with Jake at the window, watching for my car to pull into the driveway after work.

 Usually smiling before I could see them, I'd coax the car over the bricks- bounce, bounce, bounce- and then turn my head to the right, searching the windows for the sight of their well-loved faces pressed to the glass.  One or both would begin waving wildly, and more often than not they would both jump up and down.

 No matter what sort of day I'd had out in the world, coming home to my babies was the best part of it.  Sometimes it wasn't easy- being a parent isn't all fun and games- but I knew I was where I belonged, and that as long as those two beautiful souls were smiling to see me approach, I was doing a lot of things right.

It is hard to live in this house.  I see her everywhere.  I hate pulling in the driveway after work.  I hate the road.  I fantasize about blowing it up one day- that stretch on which I ran to get to her and the part where she landed after the driver struck her.  Prison time might just be worth seeing the whole stupid thing just going up in a huge fireball, pieces of concrete and asphalt falling like rain.  Maybe the yellow line could end up embedded on someone else, like the paint from the driver's car ended up embedded on...things.

But most of all, it is hard to believe that this has actually happened- that she is dead and in the ground.  How can this possibly be?  Two years later, and I still don't have the faintest idea, nor does my heart believe it's true.  Not Cory.  Not my girl.  Not my cherished one.

There are those nights where I can almost sense she's about to creak open my bedroom door and come in, complaining that she can't sleep, that the voices won't be quiet.  Tonight is one.

I watch the door with my breath held and listen so carefully.  It never opens.

Acceptance, I abhor you.  You are a heartless bastard.

From Why to What and Back Again

Trying my butt off here, my friends.  I've been making a conscious effort to stop asking "why?"  and start asking "what?".

The why is never answered, anyway.  Why Cory?  Why when she was getting so much better?  Why did I lose my child when so many others get to keep theirs?  Why to a million pieces of this horrid puzzle that add up to nothing but the same old misery and rage.

So then, let's try what.  What can I do to get through this day?  What can I do to get through this moment?  What comes next?  What example do I want to show Jake about grieving, about honesty, about accepting help from others when you need it?  What can I do to keep Cory's name on people's lips?  What can I do with all this love for her that I need to give?

See, I try.  Sad faced Nicole who has bad days and worse days, seldom good days, does try.  I've filled my trusty planner with optimistic quotes, so completely out of character, that I think Cory just shakes her head at me, and says, "Bless her heart, has it really come to this?"

 A few days ago I bought a new dress and a new purse, which sounds like no big deal, but really is.  Right after Cory's death, I bought the stores out trying to distract myself and keep up appearances, but once the dust settled, I couldn't care less if I wore a burlap sack day in and day out.

I saw no one I knew when I looked in the mirror, just a broken old woman who never smiled...and didn't care what she wore or how she looked, or even remembered why she should care about her appearance at all.

 And somewhere, deep down, for a long, long time, I've felt I didn't deserve to buy something pretty or feel good about how I looked- not the woman who'd let her firstborn get run down in the street like a dog.  I didn't deserve to look good or feel good, or even be here drawing breath, if you got right down to it.

So there's your honesty for the day.

  Now here's my progess:

I bought a pretty lace pale pink vintage-look dress the color of ballet slippers.  I have a pair of  greige boots postively covered in buckles and hardware,  that paired with tights will toughen it right up.  I will wear my long Cory locket with it- the one with the picture of her, all dark hair, creamy skin, and luminous eyes, and a big silver "C" on the back.  When I wear this dress, I'll frame my eyes with gray eyeliner, and take the time to put a couple of curls in my hair.  I strongly suspect I'll look in the mirror, and see the girl who carried herself so proudly as Cory's mom not too long ago.  I hope that will be a good day.  I hope.

This past week, I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned for the first time since Cory's death.  I had put it off for far too long, first not giving a crap if all my teeth fell out or not since I wished I was dead beside my girl in the ground, and then terrified and certain they would tell me my teeth must be pulled right away...all of them.  Gum disease.  Bone loss.  The whole nine yards.

Well, I buckled down and made the appointment.  I nearly cancelled it.  Then I hiked up my big girl panties, and went anyway.  I called ahead to ask if I could take anxiety meds before my appointment, and they were very understanding.  They let me listen to music on my Beats, and although I kept my butt muscles clenched tightly throughout the entire appointment, and sat nearly a quarter inch off the seat, resting solely on my fear and anxiety, I got through it.  The dentist laughed indulgently at my predictions of tooth loss, and declared I had no cavities, and my gums are perfectly healthy.

Back in the parking lot, I turned a page in my planner, and crossed dental visit off my self care list I've been ignoring forever.  Only about a dozen things left now.

And finally, I went to a family event of my own free will.   My dad turned 80 this past week, and although I dreaded seeing that imaginary empty chair where Cory should be, I could not give up the chance to spend this special day with my father.  He is everything kind, gentle, and trustworthy that can and should exist in a man.  He has laid his hands on me, along with my mother, as the wracking sobs of losing Cory have had their way with my body- two days after she died, two months, two years, and an untold amount of days in between.   Every time I pass the threshold of his home, I know I am in a place of comfort and no judgment, just love and kindness, patience and understanding.  If he can give that me consistently, surely I could bear this one dinner for him?

So I did the thing I despise in others the most: I put on the mask, and I performed.  I smiled; I laughed; I even table-hopped.  I made jokes and told stories, hamming it up as the old Nick would've done, prior to 2012.  I wonder if anyone could tell I was dying inside to see my niece and nephews healthy and whole, sitting with their folks, just existing the magical way that they seem to do.  All my whats fell short in the sight of parents with their children within arms reach, able to touch and kiss and talk at will.  The whys came back to haunt me, winding their way slyly around the tables of  happy people eating lobster and pasta, so bold and obvious, I could nearly reach up and pluck them out of the air.  What to do with these pesky whys?

I shall paint them out, captured by my own hand, and then despite their desperate cries to stay a little longer, I will firmly turn the page.

What and I have business to do.