30 Days of Cory- #9
Today, I couldn't do anything special to remember Cory- I was too busy missing her.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
The Evening Exchange
30 Days of Cory- #8
I remembered Cory today by keeping our dorky, spontaneous humor alive. Picture this conversation:
Tim stands in the hallway, his standard three feet away, giving me the report on his plumbing adventure of fixing the leaky sink today. I, huddled under my covers, laptop in lap, paused my on-line tutorial on book-binding (that's right, I am officially that quirky old lady with multiple cats), to tell him about my visit to the podiatrist for my bum toe.
Are we in our sixties, or am I just imagining it?
I told him the funniest part is that since he's no longer interested in me, I haven't shaved my legs in quite awhile, and completely forgot this until I got to the foot doctor, and had to pull up my pant leg. Complete and total mortification. Chipped toe nail polish during wintertime and a period of heavy grieving is one thing, but abandoning the razor is quite another. Some things should just not be allowed to happen.
"There I was, sitting there like...like...well, like -" pause here for huge intake of breath, "a wooly mammoth! Like a wooly mammoth! I felt like a wooly mammoth...a wooly mammoth!" This last bit sung in an excruciatingly off-key opera voice.
This was a bit Cory and I had invented after scoring some of the best razors we'd ever come across in our shaving endeavors. We ran around the house singing about wooly mammoths for a good two weeks. Jake joined in. Cory's cat, Church, belted it out in a style reminiscent of Barry White. That's just what our household used to be. I didn't fight it. I leaned in.
Absolutely no one on earth but Cory would think this is funny. And that's okay.
At least Tim had the grace to smile.
I waved at my husband, whose low sex drive has ceased to bother me, smoothed down my leg hairs, and giggled with my girl.
I remembered Cory today by keeping our dorky, spontaneous humor alive. Picture this conversation:
Tim stands in the hallway, his standard three feet away, giving me the report on his plumbing adventure of fixing the leaky sink today. I, huddled under my covers, laptop in lap, paused my on-line tutorial on book-binding (that's right, I am officially that quirky old lady with multiple cats), to tell him about my visit to the podiatrist for my bum toe.
Are we in our sixties, or am I just imagining it?
I told him the funniest part is that since he's no longer interested in me, I haven't shaved my legs in quite awhile, and completely forgot this until I got to the foot doctor, and had to pull up my pant leg. Complete and total mortification. Chipped toe nail polish during wintertime and a period of heavy grieving is one thing, but abandoning the razor is quite another. Some things should just not be allowed to happen.
"There I was, sitting there like...like...well, like -" pause here for huge intake of breath, "a wooly mammoth! Like a wooly mammoth! I felt like a wooly mammoth...a wooly mammoth!" This last bit sung in an excruciatingly off-key opera voice.
This was a bit Cory and I had invented after scoring some of the best razors we'd ever come across in our shaving endeavors. We ran around the house singing about wooly mammoths for a good two weeks. Jake joined in. Cory's cat, Church, belted it out in a style reminiscent of Barry White. That's just what our household used to be. I didn't fight it. I leaned in.
Absolutely no one on earth but Cory would think this is funny. And that's okay.
At least Tim had the grace to smile.
I waved at my husband, whose low sex drive has ceased to bother me, smoothed down my leg hairs, and giggled with my girl.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Dress Up
Going back to work after the accident was incredibly difficult. I wanted to stay frozen in my pain, free to pore over pictures of her, listen to her music, and sleep the heartache away. I did not believe the doctor or any of the people who said getting back into my former routine would help. I could not imagine being around people...happy people, and watching the world go on when my own had stopped. I couldn't imagine being around children and families; my chest hurt every time I saw a parent and child together. My heart began to burn with a seething jealousy that could hurt, maim, kill. How could I do my job? How could I be expected to focus on anything other than my baby girl?
Every journey starts with one small step, they say.
My small step was to bring Cory to work with me everyday. The night before- as I'd done millions of times with Cory lounging across my bed, offering her opinion and commentary- I would pick out my outfit for the next day. I'd hang it on a knob of my dresser, just like always. And over the hanger, I would suspend whichever piece of memorial jewelry I'd chosen for the day. All that frenzied online shopping with the dear, sweet woman, Marla, was worth every obsessed minute and every dollar spent. Those necklaces and bracelets got me out of bed. They made it okay to leave my house without feeling like I was doing something wrong. They gave me a way to see her face any time I wanted if I wasn't near my computer, my phone, or a photo album.
The jewelry also did something even better. It connected me with people. Picture jewelry is a conversation piece. People asked- even people I didn't know. It gave me a chance to say Cory's name. Every day! It gave me an opportunity to tell my story, and telling my story was something integral to healing from the trauma of seeing Cory the way I did. It gave me hundreds of chances to honor my girl. These necklaces and bracelets are cherished beyond belief, just as my Cory was. I never leave my house without one. To see me without a piece of Cory jewlery, you'd have to climb right in the shower with me.
Special thanks to Marla Johnson of Planetjill.com for her kindness, her patience, and her support. Thank you for helping a very broken and desperately lost momma find something to hold onto, and create a ritual that literally got her on her feet again. Love you, Marla.
Every journey starts with one small step, they say.
My small step was to bring Cory to work with me everyday. The night before- as I'd done millions of times with Cory lounging across my bed, offering her opinion and commentary- I would pick out my outfit for the next day. I'd hang it on a knob of my dresser, just like always. And over the hanger, I would suspend whichever piece of memorial jewelry I'd chosen for the day. All that frenzied online shopping with the dear, sweet woman, Marla, was worth every obsessed minute and every dollar spent. Those necklaces and bracelets got me out of bed. They made it okay to leave my house without feeling like I was doing something wrong. They gave me a way to see her face any time I wanted if I wasn't near my computer, my phone, or a photo album.
The jewelry also did something even better. It connected me with people. Picture jewelry is a conversation piece. People asked- even people I didn't know. It gave me a chance to say Cory's name. Every day! It gave me an opportunity to tell my story, and telling my story was something integral to healing from the trauma of seeing Cory the way I did. It gave me hundreds of chances to honor my girl. These necklaces and bracelets are cherished beyond belief, just as my Cory was. I never leave my house without one. To see me without a piece of Cory jewlery, you'd have to climb right in the shower with me.
Special thanks to Marla Johnson of Planetjill.com for her kindness, her patience, and her support. Thank you for helping a very broken and desperately lost momma find something to hold onto, and create a ritual that literally got her on her feet again. Love you, Marla.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Do You Believe?
30 Days of Cory- #6
Last week, I crept into the room where Tim was napping to get Jake's pajamas for the night. I didn't want to turn the light on, so there I stood in semi-darkness, pawing through the top drawer by feel. As I stirred all his clothing into a giant mess (something I most certainly got after Cory about each time she did it in my drawers looking for a sweater to borrow), I came upon a certain pajama top that he'd really outgrown. It should be packed up and donated somewhere by now, but my housekeeping has gotten more than slipshod since Cory's death.
Right there, in the dark, I recognized by touch the red flannel Transformers pajama top with the button up style that Jake always complained about because he said the spaces between the buttons were drafty. It had last fit him well two years ago, and as I held it, I went back in time to the nights when I had two children to get around for bed. I could see them in my mind's eye, fresh from the shower, in their warm jammies, cuddled with me on the couch, waiting for American Idol or the like to come back from commercial break. If it were indeed American Idol, Cory was in charge of calling grandma during the commercial breaks so we could compare notes. It was an interactive and extended family experience.
There, in the gloom, the outgrown pajama top in hand, I slumped over the open drawer, and wept. Head down, I was lost in the time BEFORE. I suspect for all parents who have lost a child there will always be BEFORE their child's death and AFTER- all of their life sliced cleanly into two parts: one full of color, and the other greyscale, at best.
As I stood there crying silently, I felt a hand press firmly against my left shoulder blade. I jumped, and whirled around, seeing nothing but shadows. Tim snored on, and from the living room, I could hear the sounds of Jacob talking to a friend on his headset.
Frantic, I patted all over the place I'd felt the hand. Nothing was there. But someone had been.
Was it Cory, or was I having the type of hallucinations that people grieving occasionally experience, and are considered completely normal? No one can really say for sure. That call is left entirely up to your belief system.
I connected with Cory that night by believing that it was her little hand at work- that seeing her Madre so discouraged was more than she could take, without impulsively reaching out for a second to let me know she's still here, and she knows her Madre is strong. You see, Cory loves to help.
Last week, I crept into the room where Tim was napping to get Jake's pajamas for the night. I didn't want to turn the light on, so there I stood in semi-darkness, pawing through the top drawer by feel. As I stirred all his clothing into a giant mess (something I most certainly got after Cory about each time she did it in my drawers looking for a sweater to borrow), I came upon a certain pajama top that he'd really outgrown. It should be packed up and donated somewhere by now, but my housekeeping has gotten more than slipshod since Cory's death.
Right there, in the dark, I recognized by touch the red flannel Transformers pajama top with the button up style that Jake always complained about because he said the spaces between the buttons were drafty. It had last fit him well two years ago, and as I held it, I went back in time to the nights when I had two children to get around for bed. I could see them in my mind's eye, fresh from the shower, in their warm jammies, cuddled with me on the couch, waiting for American Idol or the like to come back from commercial break. If it were indeed American Idol, Cory was in charge of calling grandma during the commercial breaks so we could compare notes. It was an interactive and extended family experience.
There, in the gloom, the outgrown pajama top in hand, I slumped over the open drawer, and wept. Head down, I was lost in the time BEFORE. I suspect for all parents who have lost a child there will always be BEFORE their child's death and AFTER- all of their life sliced cleanly into two parts: one full of color, and the other greyscale, at best.
As I stood there crying silently, I felt a hand press firmly against my left shoulder blade. I jumped, and whirled around, seeing nothing but shadows. Tim snored on, and from the living room, I could hear the sounds of Jacob talking to a friend on his headset.
Frantic, I patted all over the place I'd felt the hand. Nothing was there. But someone had been.
Was it Cory, or was I having the type of hallucinations that people grieving occasionally experience, and are considered completely normal? No one can really say for sure. That call is left entirely up to your belief system.
I connected with Cory that night by believing that it was her little hand at work- that seeing her Madre so discouraged was more than she could take, without impulsively reaching out for a second to let me know she's still here, and she knows her Madre is strong. You see, Cory loves to help.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Lessons in Contradiction
I remembered Cory today by choosing to do something that was really hard for me. I missed her the whole time. I missed her terribly, but she was right there with me, all the same.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Treasures
30 Days of Cory- #4
Cory's special hat is kept under my pillow every night. If I miss her too much in the night, I pull it out and sleep with it clutched to my chest. On particularly bad days, I wear it. Most often, I wear it when I'm home alone- those weekend days and nights when Jake might be at a friend's and Tim is working. The house is silent, and unbearably empty. Craving Cory, I seek it out from its safe place, and fumble it onto my head.
Cory's hat is special for two reasons. First, it was her comfort object given to her from a comforting person, her papa. And secondly, it was the last intact belonging of hers that was returned to me. My hope, and my desire was that once back in my hands, I could breathe deep of that knit hat, and smell my Cory Girl. I remember being absolutely furious and heartbroken to discover it only smelled like the road...asphalt and tires...and when I shook the police packaging, a little drift of grit fell out. Put those few grains of dirt together with "she was knocked out of her shoes" and you may never sleep well again. That is truth.
No matter, I took my treasure and crawled away. What I've found over the time since that day is that it stopped mattering if the hat smelled like Cory. When I put it on, I could remember seeing her wearing it. When I held it to my chest or turned it over in my hands, it was tangible proof that I had had an absolutely amazing child and friend. The hat had been worn on her head-her precious, brave head. She had walked around with it on, when she was alive...when she talked and smiled and cried and ate. When I could touch her and hear her voice and laugh every single day. It blows my mind that I was ever so lucky to house such a beautiful bird in my arms.
Cory's special hat is kept under my pillow every night. If I miss her too much in the night, I pull it out and sleep with it clutched to my chest. On particularly bad days, I wear it. Most often, I wear it when I'm home alone- those weekend days and nights when Jake might be at a friend's and Tim is working. The house is silent, and unbearably empty. Craving Cory, I seek it out from its safe place, and fumble it onto my head.
Cory's hat is special for two reasons. First, it was her comfort object given to her from a comforting person, her papa. And secondly, it was the last intact belonging of hers that was returned to me. My hope, and my desire was that once back in my hands, I could breathe deep of that knit hat, and smell my Cory Girl. I remember being absolutely furious and heartbroken to discover it only smelled like the road...asphalt and tires...and when I shook the police packaging, a little drift of grit fell out. Put those few grains of dirt together with "she was knocked out of her shoes" and you may never sleep well again. That is truth.
No matter, I took my treasure and crawled away. What I've found over the time since that day is that it stopped mattering if the hat smelled like Cory. When I put it on, I could remember seeing her wearing it. When I held it to my chest or turned it over in my hands, it was tangible proof that I had had an absolutely amazing child and friend. The hat had been worn on her head-her precious, brave head. She had walked around with it on, when she was alive...when she talked and smiled and cried and ate. When I could touch her and hear her voice and laugh every single day. It blows my mind that I was ever so lucky to house such a beautiful bird in my arms.
Stencil Work
Cutting your own stencils is tedious work. It goes like this: you print out a favorite photo in black and white, the contrast as high as your photo program will go, and begin to cut away all the black areas. Cutting away the positive space is a foreign feeling, something you're not used to, and causes much anxiety and misgivings. With every cut you feel like an utter failure, certain you are destroying something you cherished, and was whole only moments before you started this ludicrous exercise. If you're like me, you get frustrated and discouraged, maybe yelling a little along the way, because the more you cut, the less it looks like you're going to have anything of value left when you're done. If this is a portrait, the features of your loved one look kooky and unreliable, and you decide this just isn't going to work at all, and it's really not worth the effort.
But the thing is, you have to trust the process. It's not only your cutting that makes the final image, it's also all that white space that was already there at the beginning. Every cut works with what was already there, and changes the relationship between those lines and space to make something new. It's totally normal to not be able to see your progress when you're in the middle of cutting.
You trudge along, maybe cursing a little along the way. When you finally spray the paint through, muttering under your breath, "this is gonna look like total crap", and lift up your stencil, you are amazed at the image that is left underneath. When you thought you were failing miserably, you were actually creating something bold and clear. Something you can build on.
This is how this whole grief business feels to me. You do all the "right" things, the only things that anyone knows to do, and the end of the day, you often don't feel any better than you did when you woke up. But you trudge forward, hoping for a better outcome even when you don't realize you have hope to carry you forward. That hope is the white space- all that strength you used when your child was here to get her through rough times. It's still there, you just don't always see what's right in front of you cause you're so focused on all the black parts.
When Dr. Z told me to "trust the grief process", I really didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Like really? That's the best you can do? My insurance company pays you how much for 30 minutes? (Sorry, Sven darling, you know I love you. I didn't mean a word of it.)
Then I cut some stencils. I kinda get it now.
But the thing is, you have to trust the process. It's not only your cutting that makes the final image, it's also all that white space that was already there at the beginning. Every cut works with what was already there, and changes the relationship between those lines and space to make something new. It's totally normal to not be able to see your progress when you're in the middle of cutting.
You trudge along, maybe cursing a little along the way. When you finally spray the paint through, muttering under your breath, "this is gonna look like total crap", and lift up your stencil, you are amazed at the image that is left underneath. When you thought you were failing miserably, you were actually creating something bold and clear. Something you can build on.
This is how this whole grief business feels to me. You do all the "right" things, the only things that anyone knows to do, and the end of the day, you often don't feel any better than you did when you woke up. But you trudge forward, hoping for a better outcome even when you don't realize you have hope to carry you forward. That hope is the white space- all that strength you used when your child was here to get her through rough times. It's still there, you just don't always see what's right in front of you cause you're so focused on all the black parts.
When Dr. Z told me to "trust the grief process", I really didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Like really? That's the best you can do? My insurance company pays you how much for 30 minutes? (Sorry, Sven darling, you know I love you. I didn't mean a word of it.)
Then I cut some stencils. I kinda get it now.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Cocoa With Cory
Years back, when Tim and I separated, I went through a two weekends long, sun up to sun down, manic sort of house cleaning and reorganization. I think in the back of my mind I was trying to create whatever order I could for the kids out of the emotional chaos they were in with the major changes to their family situation. And if I'm being honest, I was trying some sort of exorcism to get all those bad and hurt feelings from my failing marriage out of my immediate environment. And I took great pleasure in rearranging things the way I wanted them without having to confer with anyone.
Cory and I stormed the stores together for storage tubs, comfy throw pillows, candles, and the like. One of the little treasures we picked up was a snowflake serving tray with matching coffee mugs. We set up a little hot cocoa station on a corner of the kitchen counter.
When Tim begin taking Jake for overnight or weekend visits, Cory was devastated to learn she was not included. I was naturally furious with Tim, and tried to talk to him about it, but he was having none of it. Instead, Cory and I spent every weekend Jake was gone as if we were having a 48 hour slumber party. We'd run errands by day, have a dinner for two full of laughter, and then collapse in front of a movie. Cuddled up at each end with our new fuzzy afghan, Cory would more often than not, sit up suddenly, "Hot chocolate?"
This was always a fantastic idea, not only because we were hooked on cocoa, but also because I'd had to turn the furnace down to save on the heat bill with money being not what it once was. I would jump up, and we'd run to the kitchen together to fill the teapot, and chatter while we filled the cups. Everything arranged prettily on our special tray-often with a smattering of cookies right in the middle- we'd return to our movie or show. Life was good.
Sitting there, sipping cocoa with my teenage daughter, I gazed at the tray, and realized after all these years, we were still playing together. Our tea parties had become cocoa parties, and it was a beautiful thing.
After the accident, immediately following and still to this day, I've harbored a lot of bad feelings toward Tim for hurting Cory, for not wanting her, for making her feel she wasn't worthy of his time and attention. There may always be these feelings. You can forgive, but you can't forget. One thing I have thought about is this:
Lucky, lucky me to be granted all those happy hours and days with my girl! Maybe it was meant to be that it happened that way so I could enjoy every possible moment with her before the accident. If Tim had taken on the weekend, I'd have missed getting the chance to read her an entire novel one long Saturday day and night. I'd have missed running out in the middle of the night for lobster so we could make seafood pasta just because it sounded good.
I haven't used our special cocoa tray since she's been gone.
But I think I might. I will set out two cups, close my eyes as I sip, and go back in time.
That sounds like a great ritual.
Cory and I stormed the stores together for storage tubs, comfy throw pillows, candles, and the like. One of the little treasures we picked up was a snowflake serving tray with matching coffee mugs. We set up a little hot cocoa station on a corner of the kitchen counter.
When Tim begin taking Jake for overnight or weekend visits, Cory was devastated to learn she was not included. I was naturally furious with Tim, and tried to talk to him about it, but he was having none of it. Instead, Cory and I spent every weekend Jake was gone as if we were having a 48 hour slumber party. We'd run errands by day, have a dinner for two full of laughter, and then collapse in front of a movie. Cuddled up at each end with our new fuzzy afghan, Cory would more often than not, sit up suddenly, "Hot chocolate?"
This was always a fantastic idea, not only because we were hooked on cocoa, but also because I'd had to turn the furnace down to save on the heat bill with money being not what it once was. I would jump up, and we'd run to the kitchen together to fill the teapot, and chatter while we filled the cups. Everything arranged prettily on our special tray-often with a smattering of cookies right in the middle- we'd return to our movie or show. Life was good.
Sitting there, sipping cocoa with my teenage daughter, I gazed at the tray, and realized after all these years, we were still playing together. Our tea parties had become cocoa parties, and it was a beautiful thing.
After the accident, immediately following and still to this day, I've harbored a lot of bad feelings toward Tim for hurting Cory, for not wanting her, for making her feel she wasn't worthy of his time and attention. There may always be these feelings. You can forgive, but you can't forget. One thing I have thought about is this:
Lucky, lucky me to be granted all those happy hours and days with my girl! Maybe it was meant to be that it happened that way so I could enjoy every possible moment with her before the accident. If Tim had taken on the weekend, I'd have missed getting the chance to read her an entire novel one long Saturday day and night. I'd have missed running out in the middle of the night for lobster so we could make seafood pasta just because it sounded good.
I haven't used our special cocoa tray since she's been gone.
But I think I might. I will set out two cups, close my eyes as I sip, and go back in time.
That sounds like a great ritual.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Right Beside Me
Super late post today:
The way I remembered Cory today is by laying in bed, and listening to the wind chimes hung right outside my bedroom window. They were a gift from one of her teachers. I was touched when I was received them, and thought they were incredibly beautiful, engraved with words of comfort and Cory's name. Little did I know what a huge source of daily comfort they would be, and an encouragement for me to listen harder, look carefully, be open and ready for the subtle signs that would be given to me to confirm that Cory is still here and always near me. Like the song she loved so much, she is "right beside me".
I often fall asleep to the tinkling sounds, or hear them in the middle of the night. It is soothing. I asked Jacob once if he thought the sound of the wind chimes was simply the wind or his sister speaking to us. Without hesitation, and with the firmest of convictions, he replied, "Both."
I will take him at his word. We all know how smart that boy is. Just months before the accident, Cory marveled at something that came out of her little brother's mouth, and quipped, "Mom, I knew this was going to happen. I just didn't think it would be so soon. He's beginning to surpass us all in intelligence. Soon, he'll be ruling the household, and we will be nothing but helpless pawns forced to do his bidding."
God, how I miss those two together. They were magic.
The best days of my life.
The way I remembered Cory today is by laying in bed, and listening to the wind chimes hung right outside my bedroom window. They were a gift from one of her teachers. I was touched when I was received them, and thought they were incredibly beautiful, engraved with words of comfort and Cory's name. Little did I know what a huge source of daily comfort they would be, and an encouragement for me to listen harder, look carefully, be open and ready for the subtle signs that would be given to me to confirm that Cory is still here and always near me. Like the song she loved so much, she is "right beside me".
I often fall asleep to the tinkling sounds, or hear them in the middle of the night. It is soothing. I asked Jacob once if he thought the sound of the wind chimes was simply the wind or his sister speaking to us. Without hesitation, and with the firmest of convictions, he replied, "Both."
I will take him at his word. We all know how smart that boy is. Just months before the accident, Cory marveled at something that came out of her little brother's mouth, and quipped, "Mom, I knew this was going to happen. I just didn't think it would be so soon. He's beginning to surpass us all in intelligence. Soon, he'll be ruling the household, and we will be nothing but helpless pawns forced to do his bidding."
God, how I miss those two together. They were magic.
The best days of my life.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Going Solo
Day 1 of 30 Days of Cory begins now.
Yesterday, I wore the Tinga-Lay-Oh blankie sweater to work, and- because props make any story more interesting- carried in a horsehead on a stick that made wonderful galloping noises and snuffled mightily when you squeezed his ear. Yes, yes I did. Like a complete lunatic, I made the rounds of my co-workers' offices, often just peeking the horse's head into the gap of their doorway. I began the soundtrack, then with a dramatic sleep of sweater fabric, sang a "Tinga-Lay-Oh, Run Little Donkey Run" accapella.
Was this a ritual?
Hell yeah! To slip into my alter ego as Cory's long time companion/partner in crime, fully embracing her particular brand of silly improv and zany humor was much the same as slipping my hand into hers without even having to look down.
Even today, a much different sort of day, I could feel remnants of her presence out there in the hallway, and just talking about our antics brought a smile to my face.
Remembering your loved one is different from missing them, you know. For me, at least, there's a certain lingo to this grief business. Missing Cory is the overwhelming wave of sadness, loneliness, and emptiness that descends on me at any time. It is the black cloud that follows above and behind me. It is pain that must be endured, as long as I draw breath.
Sometimes, I don't just miss her, though, I want her! When I say I want her, I am feeling that raw animal pain that means even though I'm hurting, I might not accept or even want help. It means I am keening for her, longing, desperate, and out of control. When I want Cory, I am most likely to act impulsively or cope in a way that might be harmful.
But remembering Cory...remembering Cory is something I initiate, not something I endure. It is positive; it honors her; and it brings comfort. But it's something I can do only when my brain is calm enough to plan meaningful actions, and follow through with them.
I think the goal here is to take good care of myself, so that someday I find myself actively remembering Cory more than simply carrying the pain, and feeling like I would give anything to be out of this.
Yesterday, I wore the Tinga-Lay-Oh blankie sweater to work, and- because props make any story more interesting- carried in a horsehead on a stick that made wonderful galloping noises and snuffled mightily when you squeezed his ear. Yes, yes I did. Like a complete lunatic, I made the rounds of my co-workers' offices, often just peeking the horse's head into the gap of their doorway. I began the soundtrack, then with a dramatic sleep of sweater fabric, sang a "Tinga-Lay-Oh, Run Little Donkey Run" accapella.
Was this a ritual?
Hell yeah! To slip into my alter ego as Cory's long time companion/partner in crime, fully embracing her particular brand of silly improv and zany humor was much the same as slipping my hand into hers without even having to look down.
Even today, a much different sort of day, I could feel remnants of her presence out there in the hallway, and just talking about our antics brought a smile to my face.
Remembering your loved one is different from missing them, you know. For me, at least, there's a certain lingo to this grief business. Missing Cory is the overwhelming wave of sadness, loneliness, and emptiness that descends on me at any time. It is the black cloud that follows above and behind me. It is pain that must be endured, as long as I draw breath.
Sometimes, I don't just miss her, though, I want her! When I say I want her, I am feeling that raw animal pain that means even though I'm hurting, I might not accept or even want help. It means I am keening for her, longing, desperate, and out of control. When I want Cory, I am most likely to act impulsively or cope in a way that might be harmful.
But remembering Cory...remembering Cory is something I initiate, not something I endure. It is positive; it honors her; and it brings comfort. But it's something I can do only when my brain is calm enough to plan meaningful actions, and follow through with them.
I think the goal here is to take good care of myself, so that someday I find myself actively remembering Cory more than simply carrying the pain, and feeling like I would give anything to be out of this.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
No Title
30 days of Cory will have to resume tomorrow.
This evening my thoughts and heart are consumed with the news of a young, brave, amazing mother I know who lost her child today- her heart, and her world.
There is no place more difficult to be than where she is right now. It is hell on earth.
This evening my thoughts and heart are consumed with the news of a young, brave, amazing mother I know who lost her child today- her heart, and her world.
There is no place more difficult to be than where she is right now. It is hell on earth.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
30 Days of Cory
Lately, I have been wrestling with the concept of moving Cory from right beside me, under my wing, to safely ensconced in my heart. A lovely idea...but how in the world do you do it? I have asked many people, and scoured the internet. There seems to be no specific formula. This pisses me off (what doesn't these days?). I have heard and read a lot of touchy, feely, vague, and fluffy answers- the answer is within you, only you can answer that, it will come to you when you are open to it...blah, blah, blah.
I am a visual person, people. Don't tell me anything! Show me!
Well, folks, I'm here to tell you, said info is not out there. What is out there, veiled in cautious, positive language is this: figure it out.
Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine!
The only thing that came immediately to mind were rituals. Rituals are a way to connect, and staying connected to Cory is what I need more than anything. More than food, more than water, more than air. Rituals take the every day actions, and render them holy by the intention behind the act. "Sacred" is the word a friend of mine used, which means set apart for a specific purpose.
I began by researching what different cultures do while mourning their loved ones. First up, I had to check out the Native American ritual of cutting their hair when someone dies. It is symbolic in two ways: one as an outward sign to others that you and your loved one's life together has been severed and two, it is an offering of strength to the deceased on their next path. It is said that as the hair grows back, the mourner begins anew, letting their loved one move on to their next journey as they begin the rest of their journey here, without them.
I discovered many different grieving rituals around the world and through different time periods. It was overwhelming. How do I find something that will keep my girl with me always?
It occurred to me as I thought this over, that taking Cory's shoes and placing them on the steps in Italy was a ritual of sorts. Have I done other rituals that didn't require international travel without even thinking about it? Maybe. I'm not sure. Sometimes when you're in the thick of a stressful situation, you act intuitively, and progress is hard to recognize or measure.
An example? When I taught in the classroom, it was sometimes difficult to see progress when working with a child with challenging behaviors. When you are on the front lines everyday, sweat dripping down your forehead and being kicked in the stomach, incidents begin to blur together. Some people call it battle fatigue; others call it the preschool experience. It often took an outside observer to come in and point out that out of 5 requests, Johnny complied with 2...an enormous amount of progress when prior to interventions, he would have refused all 5, and gave you the finger while he was at it. And possibly called you a bitch.
So, I decided, I need to become as much of an outside observer as I can in this situation. I need to get some data, and access the situation. If rituals are about connection, purposeful and reverent to the person doing them...have I been doing some rituals all along? I think of Cory every day, all day long...how often do those thoughts lead me to an action that connects us, and keeps her in my heart? I need to be counting them, and counting on them.
So, for the next 30-ish days (which consequently will lead up to her 21st birthday), I'm going to make a conscious effort to record any rituals I find myself doing or may invent along the way.
Cory would think this was so cool.
I am a visual person, people. Don't tell me anything! Show me!
Well, folks, I'm here to tell you, said info is not out there. What is out there, veiled in cautious, positive language is this: figure it out.
Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine!
The only thing that came immediately to mind were rituals. Rituals are a way to connect, and staying connected to Cory is what I need more than anything. More than food, more than water, more than air. Rituals take the every day actions, and render them holy by the intention behind the act. "Sacred" is the word a friend of mine used, which means set apart for a specific purpose.
I began by researching what different cultures do while mourning their loved ones. First up, I had to check out the Native American ritual of cutting their hair when someone dies. It is symbolic in two ways: one as an outward sign to others that you and your loved one's life together has been severed and two, it is an offering of strength to the deceased on their next path. It is said that as the hair grows back, the mourner begins anew, letting their loved one move on to their next journey as they begin the rest of their journey here, without them.
I discovered many different grieving rituals around the world and through different time periods. It was overwhelming. How do I find something that will keep my girl with me always?
It occurred to me as I thought this over, that taking Cory's shoes and placing them on the steps in Italy was a ritual of sorts. Have I done other rituals that didn't require international travel without even thinking about it? Maybe. I'm not sure. Sometimes when you're in the thick of a stressful situation, you act intuitively, and progress is hard to recognize or measure.
An example? When I taught in the classroom, it was sometimes difficult to see progress when working with a child with challenging behaviors. When you are on the front lines everyday, sweat dripping down your forehead and being kicked in the stomach, incidents begin to blur together. Some people call it battle fatigue; others call it the preschool experience. It often took an outside observer to come in and point out that out of 5 requests, Johnny complied with 2...an enormous amount of progress when prior to interventions, he would have refused all 5, and gave you the finger while he was at it. And possibly called you a bitch.
So, I decided, I need to become as much of an outside observer as I can in this situation. I need to get some data, and access the situation. If rituals are about connection, purposeful and reverent to the person doing them...have I been doing some rituals all along? I think of Cory every day, all day long...how often do those thoughts lead me to an action that connects us, and keeps her in my heart? I need to be counting them, and counting on them.
So, for the next 30-ish days (which consequently will lead up to her 21st birthday), I'm going to make a conscious effort to record any rituals I find myself doing or may invent along the way.
Cory would think this was so cool.
Tinga Lay Oh
I've been obsessed the last two days with a memory of my and Cory's love affair with Young Guns II. If you've never seen the flick, I can only suggest that you run, not walk, to your nearest Netflix enabled device. You will be treated to horses, friends who die for each other, and a charismatic gun-wielding Billy the Kid who surely had a mood disorder. Naturally, Cory and I were both completely attracted to him.
Although, I really believe Cory's favorite character was Billy the Kid's friend, Chavez Chavez, who was Native American and Hispanic. He was passionate, spiritual, a story teller, and seemed fairly together (as outlaws go).
A few years later, Cory and I were at one of our weekly Target excursions, when one of us squealed loudly and held up a striped blanket-type sweater.
"Serape!" was cried in triumph, the garment being lifted high in the air, an unbelievably cool find.
"Oh my God, Mom! We have to get some...you get one color and I'll get the other. We can be Young Guns twinkies." she declared, her eyes bright and mischievous.
Right there in the middle of the floor, she dumped her purse and coat, and struggled into the grey sweater with black stripes. Dramatically, she bowed her head, as if in mourning, pulled one voluminous side of fabric to her, as if closing a cape, and took up a mournful pitch, "Tinga Lay Oh...run little donkey run..."
Helpless with giggles, I plunked it in the cart, along with a cream sweater with taupe stripes for me. The next time we watched the, movie at home, we put them on, and reenacted the scene in which Chavez Chavez cuts off a lock of his coal black hair in mourning for a lost friend, and then sings a few lines in Navajo. Not knowing Navajo, Cory substituted the children's song about a donkey. Somehow, it worked.
We had the best times together, and shared the weird sort of humor no one else did. There was only her for me and me for her, tingalayo-ing our little hearts out.
It was a feeling that will never be forgotten. Once and awhile, I wear my "serape" to work on meeting day, and sing a little snatch of the song under my breath, with a dramatic sweep of fabric. My co-workers are no stranger to my Cory-stories, and for a brief minute in time, she and her shannigans live.
She lives.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Stinker Status
I have dismissed my sleep meds due to the crazy dreams that accompany them. Either I am meeting Stephen King at a book signing and taking pics with him like we're long lost friends or I am in the middle of an apocalypse type event, separated from everyone I know and love, and being raped by two men in an elevator.
So now that I have stopped taking the sleep meds, I am up. All the time. My comments? Insomnia rots your mind. I doubt I could add two numbers together at gunpoint. I am moody and difficult to be around. I would not fare well in an apocalypse type event. Someone would shoot me out of simple annoyance.
Getting through work last week was a nightmare. Smiles in the hallway, but tears welling up at the slightest provocation behind my closed door. It is only looking back at the last ten days or so, that I can see there were two things going on: my bitter disappointment that the pain didn't leave with Santa and the conflicted emotions that my other child's birthday brought with it.
You see, I soldiered along through the holidays, hunkered down, concentrating on getting through...certain relief would begin somewhere around the 3rd of January. When I still felt like crap days past that, I was discouraged and angry. What good is keeping on, keeping on, if every time you throw the curtain back, there's a hefty brick wall smiling back at you. Effin grief.
Jacob's birthday that I was actually looking forward to, at first, ended up being one of those weird contradictions where part of me was happy for my son and the other part miserable and resentful that Cory would never get any older, ever.
I also figured why Cory's symptoms showed most at home. She often seemed fine or nearly fine around others- what was the deal?
Well, let me share this. On Jacob's birthday, I ran into one of Cory's friend's fathers who'd we'd known since the girls started kindergarten. I could not bear to worry or trouble this kind man, so I turned it up full volume. I answered that I was doing well; I smiled big and pretty; I met his eyes and held them. Basically, I gave it all I had to feign the appearance of life, vitality, and good cheer. Three minutes out of his sight, that mask melted right off my face, and good riddance to that dirty rotten lie. How in the world can anyone be expected to do that crap all day long? Exhausting.
Fast forward a few hours, and observe the authentic Nick at Jake's birthday dinner. In front of these people who will love her even if she is a stinker, she is just that: a stinker. She smiles seldom. She is disengaged a great deal of the time. She expresses love awkwardly, and retreats often. She doesn't worry about covering up her pain for appearance sake, she instead is comfortable enough to- what is the expression- just "let it all hang out".
I don't know if you see the similarities, but I do. We let out our biggest feelings in our safest places and with our safest people.
So now that I have stopped taking the sleep meds, I am up. All the time. My comments? Insomnia rots your mind. I doubt I could add two numbers together at gunpoint. I am moody and difficult to be around. I would not fare well in an apocalypse type event. Someone would shoot me out of simple annoyance.
Getting through work last week was a nightmare. Smiles in the hallway, but tears welling up at the slightest provocation behind my closed door. It is only looking back at the last ten days or so, that I can see there were two things going on: my bitter disappointment that the pain didn't leave with Santa and the conflicted emotions that my other child's birthday brought with it.
You see, I soldiered along through the holidays, hunkered down, concentrating on getting through...certain relief would begin somewhere around the 3rd of January. When I still felt like crap days past that, I was discouraged and angry. What good is keeping on, keeping on, if every time you throw the curtain back, there's a hefty brick wall smiling back at you. Effin grief.
Jacob's birthday that I was actually looking forward to, at first, ended up being one of those weird contradictions where part of me was happy for my son and the other part miserable and resentful that Cory would never get any older, ever.
I also figured why Cory's symptoms showed most at home. She often seemed fine or nearly fine around others- what was the deal?
Well, let me share this. On Jacob's birthday, I ran into one of Cory's friend's fathers who'd we'd known since the girls started kindergarten. I could not bear to worry or trouble this kind man, so I turned it up full volume. I answered that I was doing well; I smiled big and pretty; I met his eyes and held them. Basically, I gave it all I had to feign the appearance of life, vitality, and good cheer. Three minutes out of his sight, that mask melted right off my face, and good riddance to that dirty rotten lie. How in the world can anyone be expected to do that crap all day long? Exhausting.
Fast forward a few hours, and observe the authentic Nick at Jake's birthday dinner. In front of these people who will love her even if she is a stinker, she is just that: a stinker. She smiles seldom. She is disengaged a great deal of the time. She expresses love awkwardly, and retreats often. She doesn't worry about covering up her pain for appearance sake, she instead is comfortable enough to- what is the expression- just "let it all hang out".
I don't know if you see the similarities, but I do. We let out our biggest feelings in our safest places and with our safest people.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
20 years, 10 months, 21 days
It is the eve of Jacob's 12th birthday. There is a single cupcake squirreled away in the kitchen. In the morning, I'll light it and stand over Jake singing "happy birthday" to wake him up. His dad took the day off work tomorrow so we can take him to a special dinner. He will get gifts, and hopefully have a happy day. I love this little man more than words can say. So why do I feel so miserable to see him turn 12? Why does it make my heart ache more than the natural amount a mother feels to see her baby growing up?
There will be a face missing at his birthday dinner.
And, as soon as his special day is over, I won't be off and running to plan my other child's birthday, which is next month.
I did the math on a scrap of paper today. She would be 20 years, 10 months, and 21 days old today.
I remember when she was born, how I had to remind myself to know her exact age at all times. It wasn't something I was good at...I wasn't counting the passage of time, I was enraptured by her eyes, her smile, the smell of her skin.
Now, there is nothing left to do but to mark time, and imagine who she would be and what she would be like if she were still here. I had read that your child, once gone, continues to grow older in your mind, and dismissed the idea as ludicrous...until the day I talked to a college class of young people studying to be social workers. I looked at their bright eyes, the stylish messy buns, the well-working brains bent over cellphones in all colors of the rainbow, and I could easily see my girl there amongst them.. a little older, a lot healthier. She was just a seat over, bent over with laughter, ready to learn...stashing her phone when the teacher began class, maybe doodling in the margins of her notebook. She was studious and serious because she knew something not everyone her age did. She knew that to have a brain that worked and could learn with ease, to have a brain that worked for her, not against her, and wouldn't fold under daily living, let alone challenges was something not everyone had. It was a privilege, and not to be squandered. She was well now, with a thirst for learning, the same natural born learner she'd been since she cuddled in my lap, goggling over board books. She would not waste a single moment.
To know this will never happen- is that acceptance? Have I entered that stage of the grief process? You don't have to be ok with your loss, from what I've read- you need only know the loss really did happen; it is your new reality; it is irreversible. Acceptance means knowing for certain that your loved one is never coming back.
It has been 18 months since I saw her broken and bleeding, slumped and flattened on the road- thrown to the side like some discarded heap of broken bones and weeping flesh. I think, if nothing else, I am no longer in denial. I am far from where I was when I regarded her final resting place, filled in, an hour or so after the funeral luncheon.
Here's what that was like:
You don't realize you're in shock when you are, which is pretty much the definition, I suppose. I remember watching them lower her into the ground. When I came back, they'd filled in the hole the best they could. I got out of the car, expecting I don't know what, only to buckle at the knees at that rectangle of freshly turned earth. The flowers, in baskets and pots, held vigil in a ghastly row. That's all there was. My mind couldn't comprehend this most basic information: casket, hole, dirt on top.
"That's it? That's all?" I remember thinking, in a wild panic. From baby to young woman, I'd watched her grow and now I had nothing to feast my eyes upon but a fresh pile of dirt.
I wanted to scream up at the sky, but there weren't any screams left- they'd all been released at the graveside service. I stood there, in the baking heat, feeling my mind falter as I overheard my family members holding a relatively normal conversation.
I glared at them, unnoticed. Didn't they know this was a sacred place? You weren't supposed to talk about food and flowers here. You were supposed to talk to Cory. Whisper. You were supposed to wait silently, desperately hoping to catch a small sound or stirring from the ground that validated that this had all been a huge mistake. She wasn't dead. She was alive, and waiting to be pulled from her prematurely made grave.
How on earth was I supposed to hear her over all that senseless chatter? Everyone, for God's sake, shut up so I can hear my girl!
There will be a face missing at his birthday dinner.
And, as soon as his special day is over, I won't be off and running to plan my other child's birthday, which is next month.
I did the math on a scrap of paper today. She would be 20 years, 10 months, and 21 days old today.
I remember when she was born, how I had to remind myself to know her exact age at all times. It wasn't something I was good at...I wasn't counting the passage of time, I was enraptured by her eyes, her smile, the smell of her skin.
Now, there is nothing left to do but to mark time, and imagine who she would be and what she would be like if she were still here. I had read that your child, once gone, continues to grow older in your mind, and dismissed the idea as ludicrous...until the day I talked to a college class of young people studying to be social workers. I looked at their bright eyes, the stylish messy buns, the well-working brains bent over cellphones in all colors of the rainbow, and I could easily see my girl there amongst them.. a little older, a lot healthier. She was just a seat over, bent over with laughter, ready to learn...stashing her phone when the teacher began class, maybe doodling in the margins of her notebook. She was studious and serious because she knew something not everyone her age did. She knew that to have a brain that worked and could learn with ease, to have a brain that worked for her, not against her, and wouldn't fold under daily living, let alone challenges was something not everyone had. It was a privilege, and not to be squandered. She was well now, with a thirst for learning, the same natural born learner she'd been since she cuddled in my lap, goggling over board books. She would not waste a single moment.
To know this will never happen- is that acceptance? Have I entered that stage of the grief process? You don't have to be ok with your loss, from what I've read- you need only know the loss really did happen; it is your new reality; it is irreversible. Acceptance means knowing for certain that your loved one is never coming back.
It has been 18 months since I saw her broken and bleeding, slumped and flattened on the road- thrown to the side like some discarded heap of broken bones and weeping flesh. I think, if nothing else, I am no longer in denial. I am far from where I was when I regarded her final resting place, filled in, an hour or so after the funeral luncheon.
Here's what that was like:
You don't realize you're in shock when you are, which is pretty much the definition, I suppose. I remember watching them lower her into the ground. When I came back, they'd filled in the hole the best they could. I got out of the car, expecting I don't know what, only to buckle at the knees at that rectangle of freshly turned earth. The flowers, in baskets and pots, held vigil in a ghastly row. That's all there was. My mind couldn't comprehend this most basic information: casket, hole, dirt on top.
"That's it? That's all?" I remember thinking, in a wild panic. From baby to young woman, I'd watched her grow and now I had nothing to feast my eyes upon but a fresh pile of dirt.
I wanted to scream up at the sky, but there weren't any screams left- they'd all been released at the graveside service. I stood there, in the baking heat, feeling my mind falter as I overheard my family members holding a relatively normal conversation.
I glared at them, unnoticed. Didn't they know this was a sacred place? You weren't supposed to talk about food and flowers here. You were supposed to talk to Cory. Whisper. You were supposed to wait silently, desperately hoping to catch a small sound or stirring from the ground that validated that this had all been a huge mistake. She wasn't dead. She was alive, and waiting to be pulled from her prematurely made grave.
How on earth was I supposed to hear her over all that senseless chatter? Everyone, for God's sake, shut up so I can hear my girl!
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Hold Up!
I have found positives about this past holiday season. Me, positives! I know, it's shocking. Here's how I did it:
I spent a lot of my awake time during the holiday season painting and art journaling. In fact, I filled up almost an entire ginormous watercolor Moleskine in just a couple of weeks. I've found that when I just can't subject the blog to yet another account of my whining and suicidal ideation, my journal is always available for whatever I have going on- whining, burning jealousy, homicidal impulses. I am accepted, just as I am.
Art journaling has been an incredibly therapeutic experience. I've been a lover of words since I learned how to read, and would never have believed there are some things that words can't say. Losing my daughter violently and unexpectedly taught me differently. In doodling and pushing paint around paper, I have slowly developed my own visual language. Colors are reflective of mood. Symbols slowly emerged- like my three messy enmeshed circles to represent Cory, Jacob, and I, and the way I hand carved stamps of hearts Cory had drawn, and can to this day bring her hand to my artwork in such a simple, but meaningful way. I've learned to do photo transfers, which means I can incorporate beautiful, ethereal images of her image and paintings within my pages and collages. Next up, I'm learning to make hand cut stencils from photographs, which means I'll have yet another way to replace the grisly images of Cory on the road with happier, healthier days when she was smiling and whole- something my brain desperately needs.
But back to winter break, which seemed nothing more than an exercise in misery and torture. I searched back through my journal pages, sifting through all the hurt and misgivings, sweeping away the emotional debris, shaking vigorously through my experiences, and found not one, but two good things- perhaps even growth.
During an appointment with Dr. Z, a few days before Christmas, I gifted him with one of Cory's original paintings. It may sound small, since her body of work is easily over 50 pieces, but keep in mind, I have not been able to part with a single one. The week before the appointment, I changed my mind a dozen times. One second, I was certain it was what Cory would want. The next, I was loathe to give this moment- since I remembered the exact day she'd painting it, the discussion we'd had to inspire the painting and our conversation when it was finished- away, to anyone. I wanted to hoard my memories of her, because I already knew there were never enough. Never. Back and forth, I ping-ponged, until tears burning, I pulled it off the wall of my studio. That was the hard part.
Once in Dr. Z's office, looking into his kind eyes and gentle, smiling demeanor, I knew Cory had subconsciously painted this particular piece for her doctor, her friend, her confidante during her personal tour of hell. This painting had belonged to him the entire time. This man had given her consistent kindness, consistent care, even driving meds by the house one Friday night when Cory's symptoms were overtaking her, unable to know she might be suffering through the weekend until Monday. Who does that these days?
As I handed it to him, I told him I knew Cory would've wanted him to have it, that she loved him very much. He looked down at it, beaming, and noted quietly, "The feeling was entirely mutual. She was a fighter, our girl, so brave in the face of terrible things other people could scarcely imagine. I will treasure it."
And I knew he would, which made it okay to share something so precious. It made it more than okay. I left the appointment feeling Cory was alive in someone else's home or workplace. That she would be talked about when someone asked about her painting. Her name would be said out loud. Her story would be told. Isn't that what we all want? To matter, and be heard?
A couple of days later, the day before Christmas Eve, I drove to my parents' with gifts for them. In perhaps the last couple of visits, I had been able to visit with them in their living room, on the couch Cory and I had plopped on beside my mom so many times to laugh and catch up, as Jake played on the floor near my dad, who sat in his favorite armchair. It was a scene so fresh in my mind, I'd been unable to enter this room and sit in my usual spot for over a year. All visits to my parents' home were taken at the snack bar in the kitchen, the best I could manage at the time.
Last Christmas, I sent gifts with Tim and Jake. But this year, I found I wanted to see the looks on my parents' faces when they opened the gifts I'd chosen. I got my mom a Pandora bead of a gondola to symbolize our trip to Italy together, riding in a gondola around magical Venice. For my dad, I picked up books I though he'd like, because we are alike in that a book we haven't read, or one we'd like to read again, can be one of the best gifts we can receive.
It was a small holiday gathering- just three souls, four if you count Cory looking on, which I'm certain she was- but it was just that: a holiday gathering, and one I came to willingly, no prodding or guilting required.
As I realized this had been a step in my grief process, I also realized I'd had no idea it was at the time. It was just something I wanted to do. A few people had urged me to come to the big family gift exchange and holiday dinner, saying it would be the next step for me in healing and moving forward. What I've also realized is that no one can choose your steps for you, or their size. Most of the time you are unaware of them, yourself, just simply taking them instinctively. It is only through careful reflection that you are able to identify them at all, and this is where journaling is such a valuable tool. As I've said before, it is sometimes hard to accept other people's observations of your progress. But if it's there for you in the page in plain black and white, or lovely swirls of paint made by your own hand- who are you to argue?
Your steps forward or backward are all your own. No one who has not had your loss can determine what they should be or when they should happen. People can have the best intentions of how they would behave in such a traumatic experience, but they are only ponderings, and mostly over rated on the person's idea of their capacity for pain. Trust me, you have no idea what you would do or how you would act until it actually happens to you. You just do the best you can. We are only human.
I spent a lot of my awake time during the holiday season painting and art journaling. In fact, I filled up almost an entire ginormous watercolor Moleskine in just a couple of weeks. I've found that when I just can't subject the blog to yet another account of my whining and suicidal ideation, my journal is always available for whatever I have going on- whining, burning jealousy, homicidal impulses. I am accepted, just as I am.
Art journaling has been an incredibly therapeutic experience. I've been a lover of words since I learned how to read, and would never have believed there are some things that words can't say. Losing my daughter violently and unexpectedly taught me differently. In doodling and pushing paint around paper, I have slowly developed my own visual language. Colors are reflective of mood. Symbols slowly emerged- like my three messy enmeshed circles to represent Cory, Jacob, and I, and the way I hand carved stamps of hearts Cory had drawn, and can to this day bring her hand to my artwork in such a simple, but meaningful way. I've learned to do photo transfers, which means I can incorporate beautiful, ethereal images of her image and paintings within my pages and collages. Next up, I'm learning to make hand cut stencils from photographs, which means I'll have yet another way to replace the grisly images of Cory on the road with happier, healthier days when she was smiling and whole- something my brain desperately needs.
But back to winter break, which seemed nothing more than an exercise in misery and torture. I searched back through my journal pages, sifting through all the hurt and misgivings, sweeping away the emotional debris, shaking vigorously through my experiences, and found not one, but two good things- perhaps even growth.
During an appointment with Dr. Z, a few days before Christmas, I gifted him with one of Cory's original paintings. It may sound small, since her body of work is easily over 50 pieces, but keep in mind, I have not been able to part with a single one. The week before the appointment, I changed my mind a dozen times. One second, I was certain it was what Cory would want. The next, I was loathe to give this moment- since I remembered the exact day she'd painting it, the discussion we'd had to inspire the painting and our conversation when it was finished- away, to anyone. I wanted to hoard my memories of her, because I already knew there were never enough. Never. Back and forth, I ping-ponged, until tears burning, I pulled it off the wall of my studio. That was the hard part.
Once in Dr. Z's office, looking into his kind eyes and gentle, smiling demeanor, I knew Cory had subconsciously painted this particular piece for her doctor, her friend, her confidante during her personal tour of hell. This painting had belonged to him the entire time. This man had given her consistent kindness, consistent care, even driving meds by the house one Friday night when Cory's symptoms were overtaking her, unable to know she might be suffering through the weekend until Monday. Who does that these days?
As I handed it to him, I told him I knew Cory would've wanted him to have it, that she loved him very much. He looked down at it, beaming, and noted quietly, "The feeling was entirely mutual. She was a fighter, our girl, so brave in the face of terrible things other people could scarcely imagine. I will treasure it."
And I knew he would, which made it okay to share something so precious. It made it more than okay. I left the appointment feeling Cory was alive in someone else's home or workplace. That she would be talked about when someone asked about her painting. Her name would be said out loud. Her story would be told. Isn't that what we all want? To matter, and be heard?
A couple of days later, the day before Christmas Eve, I drove to my parents' with gifts for them. In perhaps the last couple of visits, I had been able to visit with them in their living room, on the couch Cory and I had plopped on beside my mom so many times to laugh and catch up, as Jake played on the floor near my dad, who sat in his favorite armchair. It was a scene so fresh in my mind, I'd been unable to enter this room and sit in my usual spot for over a year. All visits to my parents' home were taken at the snack bar in the kitchen, the best I could manage at the time.
Last Christmas, I sent gifts with Tim and Jake. But this year, I found I wanted to see the looks on my parents' faces when they opened the gifts I'd chosen. I got my mom a Pandora bead of a gondola to symbolize our trip to Italy together, riding in a gondola around magical Venice. For my dad, I picked up books I though he'd like, because we are alike in that a book we haven't read, or one we'd like to read again, can be one of the best gifts we can receive.
It was a small holiday gathering- just three souls, four if you count Cory looking on, which I'm certain she was- but it was just that: a holiday gathering, and one I came to willingly, no prodding or guilting required.
As I realized this had been a step in my grief process, I also realized I'd had no idea it was at the time. It was just something I wanted to do. A few people had urged me to come to the big family gift exchange and holiday dinner, saying it would be the next step for me in healing and moving forward. What I've also realized is that no one can choose your steps for you, or their size. Most of the time you are unaware of them, yourself, just simply taking them instinctively. It is only through careful reflection that you are able to identify them at all, and this is where journaling is such a valuable tool. As I've said before, it is sometimes hard to accept other people's observations of your progress. But if it's there for you in the page in plain black and white, or lovely swirls of paint made by your own hand- who are you to argue?
Your steps forward or backward are all your own. No one who has not had your loss can determine what they should be or when they should happen. People can have the best intentions of how they would behave in such a traumatic experience, but they are only ponderings, and mostly over rated on the person's idea of their capacity for pain. Trust me, you have no idea what you would do or how you would act until it actually happens to you. You just do the best you can. We are only human.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Winter Break
My best friend since grade school once said, "The most dangerous place you can be is alone with your thoughts."
She is a wise woman. Winter break has provided me a chance to rest and baby myself through some very difficult days. I stocked up on art supplies and made the lofty goal of leaving the house every day. While I did make a lot of art, I spent the majority of my time holed up in my bed, chasing down dreams of Cory every chance I got. My brain, relieved of its responsibilities to others, began working overtime from its emotional center, and soon I couldn't sleep, no matter how much meds I took. Four a.m. would find me up in the studio of a silent house, eating pineapple chunks and pecans as I painted or watched old episodes of Law and Order, or simply cried. I want my girl.
The next day, I'd be sawing logs like a rock star, all day long. Before long, I'd completely reversed my days and nights, and was ready for the Warped Tour.
I left the house maybe three times in the last two weeks. Bathing has been optional. Eating, the same. I slept; I painted; I wrote- although, not on the blog very much, admittedly. In unbelievable amounts of pain, I tend to back away rather than reach out to people.
Here's what I thought about:
Don't believe the old adage...it doesn't get easier with time. At least, it hasn't for me. The more time goes by, the more real it becomes. I am never going to miss her less, but every day I miss her more. It's a shit deal.
I can now understand why some people turn to drugs and alcohol to relieve their pain. I promise I'm not out trying to score a hit, the most I'll do in drown myself in carrot cake, but still...I never understood why anyone would do something they knew to be so harmful. Well, now I know. Pain this bad...you'd do just about anything to have some relief, even if it's only temporary.
I can be a very ugly person. I watched Tim helping Jake put together his new bb gun the other day, and felt such a desperate sick wave of jealousy come over me, that I had to leave the room. One minute, I was admiring the tilt of Jake's head, the way his jaw was starting to become more defined as he grows older; the next my heart was in my throat as I realized he wasn't having the happy childhood Cory had enjoyed; the next I was stumbling out of the room as fast I could, so jealous that Tim still has his boy, I could hardly see straight. What kind of mother thinks that about her own child? Hence, the ugly label. When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong- just like Baby's father in Dirty Dancing.
I didn't go to the cemetery at all, not even on the holidays. I disgust myself. I should be there for her, but I cannot bear it. It ruins me every time I see that piece of ground. I cowered here in my bed, warm and sick in my denial.
One night I woke up out of dead sleep, my eyes springing open, certain I had caused Cory to want to die because I'd told her to keep her hair out of her soup at the last meal we shared together.
Sleeping has been my main job this winter break. It has been either fighting me or drowning me, no in between. It provides a reprieve from the pain, and sometimes, boasts the most amazing illusions and/or chance meetings for Cory and I between her world and mine. I never know when I'll get to see her, but it's like the lottery- you can't win if you don't play. I've been playing every dollar I have.
And finally, this wretched business of acceptance. I don't know how to do it, folks. I just don't. And frankly, I'm not ready or willing to learn. Is that something, I wonder, that people decide, deliberately, or does time just sort of steamroll that shit over you when you're too tired to crawl away?
She is a wise woman. Winter break has provided me a chance to rest and baby myself through some very difficult days. I stocked up on art supplies and made the lofty goal of leaving the house every day. While I did make a lot of art, I spent the majority of my time holed up in my bed, chasing down dreams of Cory every chance I got. My brain, relieved of its responsibilities to others, began working overtime from its emotional center, and soon I couldn't sleep, no matter how much meds I took. Four a.m. would find me up in the studio of a silent house, eating pineapple chunks and pecans as I painted or watched old episodes of Law and Order, or simply cried. I want my girl.
The next day, I'd be sawing logs like a rock star, all day long. Before long, I'd completely reversed my days and nights, and was ready for the Warped Tour.
I left the house maybe three times in the last two weeks. Bathing has been optional. Eating, the same. I slept; I painted; I wrote- although, not on the blog very much, admittedly. In unbelievable amounts of pain, I tend to back away rather than reach out to people.
Here's what I thought about:
Don't believe the old adage...it doesn't get easier with time. At least, it hasn't for me. The more time goes by, the more real it becomes. I am never going to miss her less, but every day I miss her more. It's a shit deal.
I can now understand why some people turn to drugs and alcohol to relieve their pain. I promise I'm not out trying to score a hit, the most I'll do in drown myself in carrot cake, but still...I never understood why anyone would do something they knew to be so harmful. Well, now I know. Pain this bad...you'd do just about anything to have some relief, even if it's only temporary.
I can be a very ugly person. I watched Tim helping Jake put together his new bb gun the other day, and felt such a desperate sick wave of jealousy come over me, that I had to leave the room. One minute, I was admiring the tilt of Jake's head, the way his jaw was starting to become more defined as he grows older; the next my heart was in my throat as I realized he wasn't having the happy childhood Cory had enjoyed; the next I was stumbling out of the room as fast I could, so jealous that Tim still has his boy, I could hardly see straight. What kind of mother thinks that about her own child? Hence, the ugly label. When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong- just like Baby's father in Dirty Dancing.
I didn't go to the cemetery at all, not even on the holidays. I disgust myself. I should be there for her, but I cannot bear it. It ruins me every time I see that piece of ground. I cowered here in my bed, warm and sick in my denial.
One night I woke up out of dead sleep, my eyes springing open, certain I had caused Cory to want to die because I'd told her to keep her hair out of her soup at the last meal we shared together.
Sleeping has been my main job this winter break. It has been either fighting me or drowning me, no in between. It provides a reprieve from the pain, and sometimes, boasts the most amazing illusions and/or chance meetings for Cory and I between her world and mine. I never know when I'll get to see her, but it's like the lottery- you can't win if you don't play. I've been playing every dollar I have.
And finally, this wretched business of acceptance. I don't know how to do it, folks. I just don't. And frankly, I'm not ready or willing to learn. Is that something, I wonder, that people decide, deliberately, or does time just sort of steamroll that shit over you when you're too tired to crawl away?
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
A Flurry of Fury
You know that moment as a kid when you are overly tired, grouchy, and nothing will satisfy you? Perhaps the overemotional scratchy beginnings of puberty when you cannot stand to be around another human being any more than they can stand to be around you? That feeling that floods you at a moment's notice that you need wide open space to run your legs off, someone to scream at for some real or imagined indignity, and possibly, just possibly something that feels hefty, blunt, and deliciously right in your hands to throw?
I have returned to my childhood, adolescence, pregnancy...pick a surge of hormones, and take me off the chain. It's not a pretty sight.
For starters, I could not sleep the last couple of nights if my life depended on it. Last night, I retired from my studio with a sore neck, sore back, and sore booty at six a.m, This was after my husband came home from work, ate a sandwich, and bid me good night and happy new year from across the room at a prudent eleven-thirty p.m.. Jacob was at a friend's; I had been alone all night. Tim came home, med-ed up, and headed to his twin sized bed. Sexy.
When I woke up this morning, I found Gizmo in a near comatose state at the foot of my bed, unresponsive, limbs curled in the fetal position. I ran to Tim's bedside, screaming him awake (always a gamble that he may or may not throw a phone at you), and ran back to Gizmo's side. After a couple of minutes of shaking him gently, my heart already going cold inside, Gizmo finally came to, blinking at us as if surprised he was still in the land of the living. I know we were.
I experienced a near heart attack on top of insomnia. Watch out world! I tried to spend the evening in my studio, but everything I touched today turned to crap. I just learned how to make acrylic gel skins with fabric paint and tar gel, and they are the coolest things ever. After they dry, you can cut them out and just slap them on a painting, a collage, or whatever you'd like. My favorite design is three bold, black, messy circles that interlock in a frenzied fashion, as if staying together is the only thing that matters in the world. They represent Cory, Jacob, and myself- the permanent foundation of my family. The men in my life have made guest appearances, some with longer air time than others, but they have never been part of the inner circle, and never will. Membership in that exclusive club costs one thing they haven't been able to give me or my children: their time- through the good and the bad.
Having made this little motif that I'd someday like to have made into a necklace, I decided to try my hand at some other designs. I drew the outline of a faceless nudie girl that turned out better than I had thought I could do. Again, the nudie girl represented the way grief strips away all your defenses. There you are, flaws and all...come as you are. I let it dry overnight, and spent two days trying to decide what sort of background to lay her over. About an hour ago, I peeled her off the page protector to place her on my painted background, and managed to ruin the entire thing. If the skin is too thin in any one spot, you run the risk of having parts of your design stick together, likely to never come apart again. This is exactly what happened to my girl. I made a noise in my throat that sounded like a bull, and just stormed out of the room. As I passed my mild-mannered son at his computer desk, he stared at me like he didn't even know who I was.
Here I lay, in my bed, ready to turn the lights out on this horrible, awful, no good (but no different than most) day. I am literally sick to my stomach with anger- at myself for my carelessness in the studio, at Tim for his lack of interest in our relationship, and at the entire world at large.
How dare my girl be taken from me? Think it's getting old to hear this complaint? Dude, you have no idea. I am literally running myself into the ground with my anger, but it seems to be bottomless. The only thing that drives me to do anything is pure, unadulterated fury.
I have returned to my childhood, adolescence, pregnancy...pick a surge of hormones, and take me off the chain. It's not a pretty sight.
For starters, I could not sleep the last couple of nights if my life depended on it. Last night, I retired from my studio with a sore neck, sore back, and sore booty at six a.m, This was after my husband came home from work, ate a sandwich, and bid me good night and happy new year from across the room at a prudent eleven-thirty p.m.. Jacob was at a friend's; I had been alone all night. Tim came home, med-ed up, and headed to his twin sized bed. Sexy.
When I woke up this morning, I found Gizmo in a near comatose state at the foot of my bed, unresponsive, limbs curled in the fetal position. I ran to Tim's bedside, screaming him awake (always a gamble that he may or may not throw a phone at you), and ran back to Gizmo's side. After a couple of minutes of shaking him gently, my heart already going cold inside, Gizmo finally came to, blinking at us as if surprised he was still in the land of the living. I know we were.
I experienced a near heart attack on top of insomnia. Watch out world! I tried to spend the evening in my studio, but everything I touched today turned to crap. I just learned how to make acrylic gel skins with fabric paint and tar gel, and they are the coolest things ever. After they dry, you can cut them out and just slap them on a painting, a collage, or whatever you'd like. My favorite design is three bold, black, messy circles that interlock in a frenzied fashion, as if staying together is the only thing that matters in the world. They represent Cory, Jacob, and myself- the permanent foundation of my family. The men in my life have made guest appearances, some with longer air time than others, but they have never been part of the inner circle, and never will. Membership in that exclusive club costs one thing they haven't been able to give me or my children: their time- through the good and the bad.
Having made this little motif that I'd someday like to have made into a necklace, I decided to try my hand at some other designs. I drew the outline of a faceless nudie girl that turned out better than I had thought I could do. Again, the nudie girl represented the way grief strips away all your defenses. There you are, flaws and all...come as you are. I let it dry overnight, and spent two days trying to decide what sort of background to lay her over. About an hour ago, I peeled her off the page protector to place her on my painted background, and managed to ruin the entire thing. If the skin is too thin in any one spot, you run the risk of having parts of your design stick together, likely to never come apart again. This is exactly what happened to my girl. I made a noise in my throat that sounded like a bull, and just stormed out of the room. As I passed my mild-mannered son at his computer desk, he stared at me like he didn't even know who I was.
Here I lay, in my bed, ready to turn the lights out on this horrible, awful, no good (but no different than most) day. I am literally sick to my stomach with anger- at myself for my carelessness in the studio, at Tim for his lack of interest in our relationship, and at the entire world at large.
How dare my girl be taken from me? Think it's getting old to hear this complaint? Dude, you have no idea. I am literally running myself into the ground with my anger, but it seems to be bottomless. The only thing that drives me to do anything is pure, unadulterated fury.
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