I don't have a lot to report back just yet. I've been sick the last few days, and planning for happiness hasn't occurred to me all that often. What I was able to figure out is that planners are meant to get you accomplishing things, and I want mine to do the same for me. But what do I want to accomplish? What should my areas of focus be?
Well, what am I failing at miserably right now?
Okay, there's that negative outlook again.
What could I use help to do better?
I opened up my faithful bedside journal and drew a little mind map, coming up with the following: eating healthy/cooking, household chores, budgeting, supportive relationships, and challenging negative thinking.
Good thing I got that "negative thinking" one in there, huh?
In a few minutes time, I had lovely, wiggly lines and bubbles sticking out every which way, and a ton of ideas. Ahh, paper and pen, you spoil me.
Can you think of any others?
p.s. I left "exercise" out on purpose, for the moment. I've got strep throat for pete's sake; I can barely move.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Face Down
Did I mention that after losing a loved one, you might get sick easily or a lot? It's supposed to be your worn down immune system being more susceptible, but I wonder if it's not your body's way of grabbing you up by the collar and shouting in your face, "Hey, you! Start taking care of yourself, damn it! Eat! Walk! Move!"
Being sick forces your brain to take a grief break, moving reluctantly away from thoughts of your loved one to in-the-moment problems (i.e. can I breathe? Can I cough freely without wetting my pants again?).
Maybe being flat on your back sick is supposed to make you appreciate life just a little bit more. So that when you get better- if you get better- you take that effortless, deep, full breath, you swallow on a throat that isn't enflamed, you walk easily across your house with no danger of falling. Maybe at that point, you're supposed to acknowledge how good it feels. And know it's okay to feel that good. Cory would not begrudge you that. She wouldn't begrudge me, either.
Stop wishing yourself dead, Mom. It's okay to live.
Being sick forces your brain to take a grief break, moving reluctantly away from thoughts of your loved one to in-the-moment problems (i.e. can I breathe? Can I cough freely without wetting my pants again?).
Maybe being flat on your back sick is supposed to make you appreciate life just a little bit more. So that when you get better- if you get better- you take that effortless, deep, full breath, you swallow on a throat that isn't enflamed, you walk easily across your house with no danger of falling. Maybe at that point, you're supposed to acknowledge how good it feels. And know it's okay to feel that good. Cory would not begrudge you that. She wouldn't begrudge me, either.
Stop wishing yourself dead, Mom. It's okay to live.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
A Picture A Day
I grouched yesterday to a well-loved confidante that my happiness planner idea was just stupid, and paper products could never fix the magnitude of this mess. This morning I realized I was behaving pretty much like every preschooler who's just been put on a behavior plan and sees that the game has changed. It usually gets worse before it gets better. Change is hard, no?
Of course, paper products cannot change my life outlook. Only I can do that. They are but a tool. The Happiness Planner, this blog, and my art are all coping strategies. I talked to a friend yesterday who lost a loved one over a decade ago. We passionately agreed that the people who say it gets easier with time are dirty rotten liars.
What I think is this: the quality of the pain may never change; but you may be able to improve your coping skills or add new ones to your arsenal. That's pretty much all there is. It's not like I'll ever miss Cory less. As time goes by, I miss her more because I am not able to share my experiences with her. I grieve the loss of my relationship with her; I grieve Jake's; I grieve my parents'. I also grieve all the milestones she will never have, and as each one comes up, it's a fresh death with all of the feelings from July 5, 2012 brought boiling straight to the surface. Seeing other people the age she would be navigating life is a difficult thing. Where is Cory's happy ending?
I had my temper tantrums. I stomped around. I soothed myself the best I could. Once I had calmed down a little, I had another idea.
The thing about helping children with challenging behaviors is that, developmentally speaking, they often don't know why they are behaving the way they are. They often aren't able to tell you with words what it is that they need or desire. Helping them is dependent on good observation skills. That being said, shouldn't I be a little easier to figure out than a three year old? Dear Lord.
So I thought about what I need. My challenge is being positive. I need to want to live. I need to see there are still good things left to experience. I need to see. I am a visual person, through and through. Don't tell me something; show me. This brings me back to putting things in pictures.
I am keeping a monthly calendar in my Happiness Planner. Instead of crossing off each day when it's finished or leaving it blank- both of which are rather gloomy, if you really stop to think about it- I'm going to try a different approach: a picture a day keeps the suicidal impulses away. Each day, I will snap one picture of something I liked. It could be my beautiful cup of coffee; it could be Oliver, my orange tabby keeping me company; it could be Jacob. I think I'm going to try printing these off in little squares, and gluing each day's pic onto the calendar square when the day is done. Once the month is over, I will have a visual reminder of my bright spots. Thirty or so reasons to keep trying.
I'm going to stop right there, before my inner pessimist tells me those bright spots will be engulfed by the scope of my sorrow.
It's worth a try.
Of course, paper products cannot change my life outlook. Only I can do that. They are but a tool. The Happiness Planner, this blog, and my art are all coping strategies. I talked to a friend yesterday who lost a loved one over a decade ago. We passionately agreed that the people who say it gets easier with time are dirty rotten liars.
What I think is this: the quality of the pain may never change; but you may be able to improve your coping skills or add new ones to your arsenal. That's pretty much all there is. It's not like I'll ever miss Cory less. As time goes by, I miss her more because I am not able to share my experiences with her. I grieve the loss of my relationship with her; I grieve Jake's; I grieve my parents'. I also grieve all the milestones she will never have, and as each one comes up, it's a fresh death with all of the feelings from July 5, 2012 brought boiling straight to the surface. Seeing other people the age she would be navigating life is a difficult thing. Where is Cory's happy ending?
I had my temper tantrums. I stomped around. I soothed myself the best I could. Once I had calmed down a little, I had another idea.
The thing about helping children with challenging behaviors is that, developmentally speaking, they often don't know why they are behaving the way they are. They often aren't able to tell you with words what it is that they need or desire. Helping them is dependent on good observation skills. That being said, shouldn't I be a little easier to figure out than a three year old? Dear Lord.
So I thought about what I need. My challenge is being positive. I need to want to live. I need to see there are still good things left to experience. I need to see. I am a visual person, through and through. Don't tell me something; show me. This brings me back to putting things in pictures.
I am keeping a monthly calendar in my Happiness Planner. Instead of crossing off each day when it's finished or leaving it blank- both of which are rather gloomy, if you really stop to think about it- I'm going to try a different approach: a picture a day keeps the suicidal impulses away. Each day, I will snap one picture of something I liked. It could be my beautiful cup of coffee; it could be Oliver, my orange tabby keeping me company; it could be Jacob. I think I'm going to try printing these off in little squares, and gluing each day's pic onto the calendar square when the day is done. Once the month is over, I will have a visual reminder of my bright spots. Thirty or so reasons to keep trying.
I'm going to stop right there, before my inner pessimist tells me those bright spots will be engulfed by the scope of my sorrow.
It's worth a try.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
The Happiness Planner
When Cory was depressed, she listened to sad music. I asked her therapist once if it wouldn't be better for Cory to listen to something more upbeat...if you were sad and listened to melancholy music, wouldn't it just make you feel worse? Her therapist said it most likely would, and encouraged Cory to add a few happy tunes to her playlist.
Back then, I tried to figure out why Cory would choose such depressing music. I just didn't quite get it. Now, I know that listening to music that reminds me of Cory is sad all the way around- it was usually sad material to begin with, it makes me sad because it reminds me of our times together, and it's a bitter pill to swallow to know those times are over for good.
However,
there is comfort in those sad songs. The words and the notes seem to pour right out of my heart. There is solace in knowing someone somewhere has been as miserable as I feel this moment.
That being said, they're not particularly motivating. I usually try to mold myself to the warmest part of my bed, and hunker down, sheets and blankets held against the light and the images that barge in and out of my mind without knocking. I tried to talk to Tim about the flashbacks the other night, but he held up one hand and grimaced. Her legs were dirty. I remember that, and it bothered me so much. I wanted those people at the scene to let me through so I could touch her, help her up, clean her off, something...anything.
I decided this morning that I have to do something different. Last night, I felt so desolate, so hopeless, that if I'd been alone, I think I really would have done something without caring about the consequences for those around me.
I have my art journal, and this blog- they have both helped me process what has happened, and will continue to do so. This shit apparently never ends. Writing and mark making has helped me express some very socially unacceptable feelings in a safe way. They have also helped me figure out what questions to ask myself, and how to accept the answers. The only problem is every day looks just like the last- it is a black parade of misery, with no apparent end in sight. It is overwhelming enough to begin with, but add just one little stressor to your pile, and suddenly, not only do you doubt your ability to tote that mess, you decide maybe running away from it would be a way smarter move. Taking flight with a handful or two of meds suddenly doesn't seem all that crazy. It begins to hold a pain relieving instant gratification easy money scratch off sort of solution to this whole fucking disaster.
But who would get the built up shampoo off Jacob's head?
So, I am starting yet another project...another "Project Life", if you will. I am going to concentrate on giving myself two of the things that my highest risk children in preschool need daily- consistent routine and pictures.
You might think I already have a routine. And I suppose technically speaking, I do. It is however, much more chaotic than in past years. The Mansfield household is still in that shell-shocked state of survival. There are many "oh, crap, we don't have any clean towels left" and "Oh, crap, we're out of milk" and "Oh, crap, I forgot to pay that bill."
Things could be better in the planning department. One thing I know for certain is that predictability creates a feeling of safety. I need to feel safe. And most of the time, I don't. Post- traumatic stress? Maybe. My already existing anxiety worse after Cory's death? Definitely! Whatever the reasons, I have trouble functioning, and I worry, a lot. About everything. All the time.
This leads to the second part of my project: pictures. Whenever there is chaos in a classroom of three and four year olds, I am a firm advocate of providing visual cues. Children think in pictures. Show children what you want them to do in picture form, consistently, and they will do it. They will surprise you with how well they follow directions, anticipate changes, and handle transitions. Well, I'm not so hot on any of those things right now. And especially, I'm not good at thinking positively. My outlook on life right now is less than encouraging.
So, I'm going to get myself a planner. I'm going to try to break down my daily tasks into smaller steps that are less overwhelming. I'm going to fill the stupid thing (see that negative outlook?) with things that bring me the slightest joy. Last night, I told Tim I hated everything. He told me, "No, you don't. You don't hate Jake. You don't hate the cats. You don't hate Gizmo. You don't hate....well, maybe you do hate me half the time, I really don't know."
Okay, fair enough. I'm going to plaster this planner with pictures of things I love. I'm going to add silly stickers like a fourth grader, maybe some paint, definitely glitter. They may even need to be some ribbon involved. There will definitely be the color yellow.
I'm going to make myself honor a ritual I used to do with my children every night at dinner. I used to ask them each their high and low for the day- what was the best thing that happened today, and what was the worst? They loved this game, and often I was able to show Cory who struggled with depression that at least one good thing happened every day, and that made it worth holding out a little bit longer.
I need to have things to look forward to. I need to acknowledge the good things that happen, however small they may be. (i.e. The new Muppet movie comes out this weekend. I do love me some Muppets).
I will still work out my darker feelings. I will never give up my art journal. What I'm wondering is this...if I make a space for just my grief alone, that I can leave in my studio each morning, will my load be any lighter during the day? If I make more room for happiness, will it come to pass?
This is an experiment in compartmentalizing. Stay tuned.
Back then, I tried to figure out why Cory would choose such depressing music. I just didn't quite get it. Now, I know that listening to music that reminds me of Cory is sad all the way around- it was usually sad material to begin with, it makes me sad because it reminds me of our times together, and it's a bitter pill to swallow to know those times are over for good.
However,
there is comfort in those sad songs. The words and the notes seem to pour right out of my heart. There is solace in knowing someone somewhere has been as miserable as I feel this moment.
That being said, they're not particularly motivating. I usually try to mold myself to the warmest part of my bed, and hunker down, sheets and blankets held against the light and the images that barge in and out of my mind without knocking. I tried to talk to Tim about the flashbacks the other night, but he held up one hand and grimaced. Her legs were dirty. I remember that, and it bothered me so much. I wanted those people at the scene to let me through so I could touch her, help her up, clean her off, something...anything.
I decided this morning that I have to do something different. Last night, I felt so desolate, so hopeless, that if I'd been alone, I think I really would have done something without caring about the consequences for those around me.
I have my art journal, and this blog- they have both helped me process what has happened, and will continue to do so. This shit apparently never ends. Writing and mark making has helped me express some very socially unacceptable feelings in a safe way. They have also helped me figure out what questions to ask myself, and how to accept the answers. The only problem is every day looks just like the last- it is a black parade of misery, with no apparent end in sight. It is overwhelming enough to begin with, but add just one little stressor to your pile, and suddenly, not only do you doubt your ability to tote that mess, you decide maybe running away from it would be a way smarter move. Taking flight with a handful or two of meds suddenly doesn't seem all that crazy. It begins to hold a pain relieving instant gratification easy money scratch off sort of solution to this whole fucking disaster.
But who would get the built up shampoo off Jacob's head?
So, I am starting yet another project...another "Project Life", if you will. I am going to concentrate on giving myself two of the things that my highest risk children in preschool need daily- consistent routine and pictures.
You might think I already have a routine. And I suppose technically speaking, I do. It is however, much more chaotic than in past years. The Mansfield household is still in that shell-shocked state of survival. There are many "oh, crap, we don't have any clean towels left" and "Oh, crap, we're out of milk" and "Oh, crap, I forgot to pay that bill."
Things could be better in the planning department. One thing I know for certain is that predictability creates a feeling of safety. I need to feel safe. And most of the time, I don't. Post- traumatic stress? Maybe. My already existing anxiety worse after Cory's death? Definitely! Whatever the reasons, I have trouble functioning, and I worry, a lot. About everything. All the time.
This leads to the second part of my project: pictures. Whenever there is chaos in a classroom of three and four year olds, I am a firm advocate of providing visual cues. Children think in pictures. Show children what you want them to do in picture form, consistently, and they will do it. They will surprise you with how well they follow directions, anticipate changes, and handle transitions. Well, I'm not so hot on any of those things right now. And especially, I'm not good at thinking positively. My outlook on life right now is less than encouraging.
So, I'm going to get myself a planner. I'm going to try to break down my daily tasks into smaller steps that are less overwhelming. I'm going to fill the stupid thing (see that negative outlook?) with things that bring me the slightest joy. Last night, I told Tim I hated everything. He told me, "No, you don't. You don't hate Jake. You don't hate the cats. You don't hate Gizmo. You don't hate....well, maybe you do hate me half the time, I really don't know."
Okay, fair enough. I'm going to plaster this planner with pictures of things I love. I'm going to add silly stickers like a fourth grader, maybe some paint, definitely glitter. They may even need to be some ribbon involved. There will definitely be the color yellow.
I'm going to make myself honor a ritual I used to do with my children every night at dinner. I used to ask them each their high and low for the day- what was the best thing that happened today, and what was the worst? They loved this game, and often I was able to show Cory who struggled with depression that at least one good thing happened every day, and that made it worth holding out a little bit longer.
I need to have things to look forward to. I need to acknowledge the good things that happen, however small they may be. (i.e. The new Muppet movie comes out this weekend. I do love me some Muppets).
I will still work out my darker feelings. I will never give up my art journal. What I'm wondering is this...if I make a space for just my grief alone, that I can leave in my studio each morning, will my load be any lighter during the day? If I make more room for happiness, will it come to pass?
This is an experiment in compartmentalizing. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Square One, We Meet Again
It builds up over the days. You sleepwalk through your life, just trying not to be on the verge of tears at every moment. You push away the images that invade your sleep and your idle moments. You steer deliberately around the scene, taking the time for that alternate route because driving over that patch of road breaks you in half every single time. If you forget because you're running late, you will put one hand up to your line of vision to block it out, and talk to yourself out loud until the danger has passed.
There is danger now everywhere. If you weren't anxious enough to begin with, you see death, or the possibility of death everywhere you look. If your glass was half empty before your child's death, it is now bone dry. At least, mine is.
Everything is a struggle. Everything- breathing without feeling guilty, bathing regularly, caring about your appearance, paying attention, finishing things, eating healthy, sleeping, working, being around people, taking care of your remaining child. It must all be done while slogging through the worst emotional pain you've ever known. It is debilitating.
Tonight, I searched the bathroom vanity for Q-tips for Jacob's ears, and some baby oil to loosen all the shampoo that has built up on his scalp. I took a good look at his scalp after his last haircut to realize I obviously haven't looked at his head in about twenty months. Who knows how long that poor child has been going around without rinsing all the suds off his hair in the shower? I had a similar realization a few months after Cory's death when I looked at his ear from the side, and realized it was a wonder the boy could even hear out of it, as badly as it needed to be cleaned.
Along the quest for Q-tips, my hands found Cory's hairbrush. I looked at the strands of her hair, still there, and lifted it to smell her scent. When I uncapped the baby oil and caught a whiff, I was back to being the mother of a nine year old Cory and her baby brother- laughing as she settled him on a blanket for tummy time, stripped him to the waist, and pretended to give him a deluxe massage.
I swallowed past the memories, cleaned out Jake's ears, got him in the shower, and ran to my bed. Once I heard the water start, I could let it go, and let it go, I did. I flung my glasses off, covered my face with my hands as I sat cross-legged, and fell forward on my face. There commenced much sobbing, wailing, and begging to be dead and just be out of this. Tim ran down the hall, pajama pants in hand to find me laying on my face, sobbing so hard I could not breathe and unable to answer questions. When I finally lifted my head, exhausted from this crying business that I seldom indulge in anymore, I looked at him from swollen, puffy eyes and said, "I'd rather be dead. It's just too hard."
Saying it is one thing. Acting on it is another.
Cory, give me strength.
There is danger now everywhere. If you weren't anxious enough to begin with, you see death, or the possibility of death everywhere you look. If your glass was half empty before your child's death, it is now bone dry. At least, mine is.
Everything is a struggle. Everything- breathing without feeling guilty, bathing regularly, caring about your appearance, paying attention, finishing things, eating healthy, sleeping, working, being around people, taking care of your remaining child. It must all be done while slogging through the worst emotional pain you've ever known. It is debilitating.
Tonight, I searched the bathroom vanity for Q-tips for Jacob's ears, and some baby oil to loosen all the shampoo that has built up on his scalp. I took a good look at his scalp after his last haircut to realize I obviously haven't looked at his head in about twenty months. Who knows how long that poor child has been going around without rinsing all the suds off his hair in the shower? I had a similar realization a few months after Cory's death when I looked at his ear from the side, and realized it was a wonder the boy could even hear out of it, as badly as it needed to be cleaned.
Along the quest for Q-tips, my hands found Cory's hairbrush. I looked at the strands of her hair, still there, and lifted it to smell her scent. When I uncapped the baby oil and caught a whiff, I was back to being the mother of a nine year old Cory and her baby brother- laughing as she settled him on a blanket for tummy time, stripped him to the waist, and pretended to give him a deluxe massage.
I swallowed past the memories, cleaned out Jake's ears, got him in the shower, and ran to my bed. Once I heard the water start, I could let it go, and let it go, I did. I flung my glasses off, covered my face with my hands as I sat cross-legged, and fell forward on my face. There commenced much sobbing, wailing, and begging to be dead and just be out of this. Tim ran down the hall, pajama pants in hand to find me laying on my face, sobbing so hard I could not breathe and unable to answer questions. When I finally lifted my head, exhausted from this crying business that I seldom indulge in anymore, I looked at him from swollen, puffy eyes and said, "I'd rather be dead. It's just too hard."
Saying it is one thing. Acting on it is another.
Cory, give me strength.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Catching Up With Sven
Going to see Dr. Z doesn't so much feel like a doctor's appointment now; it's more like having coffee with a family friend, except we don't drink coffee, and I leave with a script for my anti-depressant in my pocket. He treated Cory for three years, and has been treating me for nearly two. I am always eager to see his smile, and sit in the quiet, calming manner that he naturally exudes. He speaks quietly and slowly, which automatically makes you slow down yourself and your thoughts just to hear what he has to say.
Yesterday, he said this, "I have her painting hanging in my living room, where I see it first thing when I get home at night. It makes me think of her. She was such a beautiful girl..." He trails off here, with a slight bowing of his head, and continues, "...but, how are we doing?" His question is punctuated with a gentle, expectant smile, and I hesitate to say anything to disappoint him.
I hedge around the question, and talk about Cory's birthday instead. He nods gravely when I tell him it would have been her twenty first. I could not consent to the special birthday dinner on her day, but instead compromised with a lunch the day before. Tim and Jake sat together on one side of the booth, as always, with me and the space for my girl on the other. It was difficult.
He asks after my parents and Jake. I fill him in. We trade paperwork hand for hand- my updated health forms and authorization to share for his completion of my FMLA request. He asks how work is going. I tell him I seldom miss anymore, although I did call in the day after Cory's birthday. I still have trouble focusing sometimes, but I tell him that putting on my headphones for a few minutes usually helps get me back on track.
He tells me how happy he is that I am working with families of young children. He says that he thinks I can show true compassion for children with challenging behaviors, rather than thinking they are being willful. I nod eagerly. He says he thinks that the future must contain more complete care for the family unit- as children's growth and development can be greatly compromised when a parent is depressed or ill. I could not agree more. I am not the same parent to Jake that I was to Jake and Cory together. It is a huge effort to remember my responsibility to him on the days I question if life is worth this endless pain. I say to Dr Z, "I can't imagine how difficult it would be if I were a parent with an illness like what Cory had."
He nods vigorously. "Amen."
We go on to update meds. He is pleased to hear I haven't taken sleep meds for about a month. Instead, I've been taking "grief naps" each evening when I get home- an hour, maybe two before dinner. Jake and I tend to eat a little late. Then I still end up in bed by eleven most nights. Sometimes there are nightmares, but the insomnia has gone away for the most part.
"Is it bad to be sleeping this much?" I asked.
"I think it sounds lovely." he grins. "And on the weekends?"
"I just want to sleep all the time. It's hard to get out of bed. And sometimes, I get to dream about her."
He nods, and scratches down a note. "A lot of people through the ages find comfort in looking for their loved ones in other states of mind. The Native Americans used hallucinogens to produce visions and summon their ancestors for advice. Some people now try looking at pictures of their loved one right before bed...the idea being that the brain continues to work on whatever you were last thinking of right before sleep."
I will try that.
"Is it normal-" I began.
"There is no normal." he kindly interjected.
"I just don't understand why I don't feel any better when I'm trying so hard to do the right things. I hate everything." I stated flatly. And I do. I really do.
"Well, I know you may not feel better yet, but you look better, and you are functioning better. In fact, I am quite surprised and pleased that you are doing as well as you are. You had quite a few risk factors- anxiety in your family history, you were very stressed for years before the accident with Cory's illness and caring for her, the way her death occurred, and the closeness of your relationship."
"We were very close." I confirmed.
"Close?" he echoed. "You think of the men who go to war together and make life-long attachments to each other within the experiences they share. You and she were in a war, were you not?"
My throat closed a little and my eyes welled up. I will always feel like I failed her in the end.
"You are working and taking care of Jacob the best you can. You have not been hospitalized. You are actually doing remarkably better than I might have suspected."
Someone has taken this dear man aside and told him the secret to gaining cooperation from someone. You don't told them everything they are doing wrong (i.e. not going to family gatherings, not celebrating the holidays, not socializing, going to work with blatantly dirty hair); you tell them what they are doing right. At this point, he asked me if I was still doing anything "artsy".
I smiled, wishing with every bone in my body that Cory was sitting beside me and this was her appointment and her question from him, not mine.
"Yes, I brought my journal if-"
"Yes, please." he said, and gestured. I handed it to him, and sat with burning cheeks as he slowly went through each and every page. There was a slight feeling of being naked in front of him, but at this point he knew all my secrets, and pretty much everything about me barring my bra size. He had supported me as a single parent going through an unthinkable nightmare, and he had supported me while I discovered first hand the major blows a marriage took after losing a child- differences in grieving styles, financial stress, problems with sex.
This was the man I had once slipped a note about medication side effects to during a session that read simply, "I can no longer feel my vagina." If you aren't confidants after that, I don't know what you are.
He turned the pages silently, stopping to read little bits, and pushing past others. "Beautiful. This is beautiful. There is something uplifting about these faces. There is sadness, yes. But I think sorrow can be a beautiful thing; it is born of a deep, abiding love."
I smiled. Yes, that is just how it is. People may look at my art, and think I am just a sullen, depressed girl who won't help herself feel better, who refuses to accept what has happened, and move on. Well, I am sullen. I am depressed. I make no apologies. Cory meant everything to me, and I will honor those feelings full tilt. Sometimes people say she wouldn't want you to mourn for you. I grin inwardly at this. You didn't know my girl. She would want to know what I meant to her. She'd be a little pouty with me if I WASN'T wrecked in a big way. (Smile).
He thanked me for sharing my journal, and passed it back to me. I told him I had a couple of questions.
"How long will I continue to have the flashbacks?" I asked.
"It is different for every person, but if you think of the war veteran who has seen someone die right before his eyes- he may be fine for years, go through a rough period twenty years down the road, and then they are back. We do not forget. We only develop coping mechanisms. When we become overly stressed, we sometimes forget to use them, or they aren't enough...and things break through. They will likely never go away completely."
This reminded me so much of Cory's analogy of her monsters behind a locked door. It was a constant battle to keep the voices and delusions at bay. The meds helped, but sometimes they broke through anyway. What a way to have to live each day. I don't know how she did it.
I then took a deep breath and confessed, "I haven't been to the cemetery since July. Should I be trying to force myself to go?"
He shook his head back and forth. "No. It is not geography that allows you to honor her. You visit her everyday-" he pointed to my journal, "- in those pages."
Yes, I do.
Yesterday, he said this, "I have her painting hanging in my living room, where I see it first thing when I get home at night. It makes me think of her. She was such a beautiful girl..." He trails off here, with a slight bowing of his head, and continues, "...but, how are we doing?" His question is punctuated with a gentle, expectant smile, and I hesitate to say anything to disappoint him.
I hedge around the question, and talk about Cory's birthday instead. He nods gravely when I tell him it would have been her twenty first. I could not consent to the special birthday dinner on her day, but instead compromised with a lunch the day before. Tim and Jake sat together on one side of the booth, as always, with me and the space for my girl on the other. It was difficult.
He asks after my parents and Jake. I fill him in. We trade paperwork hand for hand- my updated health forms and authorization to share for his completion of my FMLA request. He asks how work is going. I tell him I seldom miss anymore, although I did call in the day after Cory's birthday. I still have trouble focusing sometimes, but I tell him that putting on my headphones for a few minutes usually helps get me back on track.
He tells me how happy he is that I am working with families of young children. He says that he thinks I can show true compassion for children with challenging behaviors, rather than thinking they are being willful. I nod eagerly. He says he thinks that the future must contain more complete care for the family unit- as children's growth and development can be greatly compromised when a parent is depressed or ill. I could not agree more. I am not the same parent to Jake that I was to Jake and Cory together. It is a huge effort to remember my responsibility to him on the days I question if life is worth this endless pain. I say to Dr Z, "I can't imagine how difficult it would be if I were a parent with an illness like what Cory had."
He nods vigorously. "Amen."
We go on to update meds. He is pleased to hear I haven't taken sleep meds for about a month. Instead, I've been taking "grief naps" each evening when I get home- an hour, maybe two before dinner. Jake and I tend to eat a little late. Then I still end up in bed by eleven most nights. Sometimes there are nightmares, but the insomnia has gone away for the most part.
"Is it bad to be sleeping this much?" I asked.
"I think it sounds lovely." he grins. "And on the weekends?"
"I just want to sleep all the time. It's hard to get out of bed. And sometimes, I get to dream about her."
He nods, and scratches down a note. "A lot of people through the ages find comfort in looking for their loved ones in other states of mind. The Native Americans used hallucinogens to produce visions and summon their ancestors for advice. Some people now try looking at pictures of their loved one right before bed...the idea being that the brain continues to work on whatever you were last thinking of right before sleep."
I will try that.
"Is it normal-" I began.
"There is no normal." he kindly interjected.
"I just don't understand why I don't feel any better when I'm trying so hard to do the right things. I hate everything." I stated flatly. And I do. I really do.
"Well, I know you may not feel better yet, but you look better, and you are functioning better. In fact, I am quite surprised and pleased that you are doing as well as you are. You had quite a few risk factors- anxiety in your family history, you were very stressed for years before the accident with Cory's illness and caring for her, the way her death occurred, and the closeness of your relationship."
"We were very close." I confirmed.
"Close?" he echoed. "You think of the men who go to war together and make life-long attachments to each other within the experiences they share. You and she were in a war, were you not?"
My throat closed a little and my eyes welled up. I will always feel like I failed her in the end.
"You are working and taking care of Jacob the best you can. You have not been hospitalized. You are actually doing remarkably better than I might have suspected."
Someone has taken this dear man aside and told him the secret to gaining cooperation from someone. You don't told them everything they are doing wrong (i.e. not going to family gatherings, not celebrating the holidays, not socializing, going to work with blatantly dirty hair); you tell them what they are doing right. At this point, he asked me if I was still doing anything "artsy".
I smiled, wishing with every bone in my body that Cory was sitting beside me and this was her appointment and her question from him, not mine.
"Yes, I brought my journal if-"
"Yes, please." he said, and gestured. I handed it to him, and sat with burning cheeks as he slowly went through each and every page. There was a slight feeling of being naked in front of him, but at this point he knew all my secrets, and pretty much everything about me barring my bra size. He had supported me as a single parent going through an unthinkable nightmare, and he had supported me while I discovered first hand the major blows a marriage took after losing a child- differences in grieving styles, financial stress, problems with sex.
This was the man I had once slipped a note about medication side effects to during a session that read simply, "I can no longer feel my vagina." If you aren't confidants after that, I don't know what you are.
He turned the pages silently, stopping to read little bits, and pushing past others. "Beautiful. This is beautiful. There is something uplifting about these faces. There is sadness, yes. But I think sorrow can be a beautiful thing; it is born of a deep, abiding love."
I smiled. Yes, that is just how it is. People may look at my art, and think I am just a sullen, depressed girl who won't help herself feel better, who refuses to accept what has happened, and move on. Well, I am sullen. I am depressed. I make no apologies. Cory meant everything to me, and I will honor those feelings full tilt. Sometimes people say she wouldn't want you to mourn for you. I grin inwardly at this. You didn't know my girl. She would want to know what I meant to her. She'd be a little pouty with me if I WASN'T wrecked in a big way. (Smile).
He thanked me for sharing my journal, and passed it back to me. I told him I had a couple of questions.
"How long will I continue to have the flashbacks?" I asked.
"It is different for every person, but if you think of the war veteran who has seen someone die right before his eyes- he may be fine for years, go through a rough period twenty years down the road, and then they are back. We do not forget. We only develop coping mechanisms. When we become overly stressed, we sometimes forget to use them, or they aren't enough...and things break through. They will likely never go away completely."
This reminded me so much of Cory's analogy of her monsters behind a locked door. It was a constant battle to keep the voices and delusions at bay. The meds helped, but sometimes they broke through anyway. What a way to have to live each day. I don't know how she did it.
I then took a deep breath and confessed, "I haven't been to the cemetery since July. Should I be trying to force myself to go?"
He shook his head back and forth. "No. It is not geography that allows you to honor her. You visit her everyday-" he pointed to my journal, "- in those pages."
Yes, I do.
Monday, March 10, 2014
I Made Dinner
Cory, Jake, and I had meant to design our own t-shirts with sayings on them. Each of us had thought of an inside joke from within our family.
Jake would have been five or maybe six at that time. He was very interested in Groundhog's Day, and talked a blue streak in the car after school one day. Once he'd run out of steam, there was a long silence. Maybe we were all tired. At any rate, Jake piped up about ten minutes later out of the blue, "Let's talk some more about groundhogs!" which struck us all as deliciously funny due to the delayed reaction, and the sheer enthusiasm of his voice. From that moment on, Jake's catchphrase was used widely in the household whenever there was a lull in conversation.
I have always been the queen of my household. Once I discovered how to cook meals more delicious than what we could buy on the outside, I began to lord my talents over my subjects. After working all day, I'd come home and whip up something sinfully delicious, and then refuse to lift a finger for the rest of the evening. It was a status,,,a rebuttal...an invoked right. If I needed a bottled water, I would point down at my chest, referring to the imaginary saying emblazoned across whatever shirt I happened to be wearing. "Cory, love, can you get Mommy a bottled water?" If she said no, I'd shake my head, "Uh, uh, uh, read it and weep. I made dinner." The same went for answering the telephone, letting the dog in from outside, and handing me a blanket or pillow. The only things I really had to do for myself after serving the evening meal were urinate and brush my teeth. Everything else was covered.
And Cory, my delightfully funny tongue-in-cheek girl came up with this gem: "Blame it on the ECT". We had been worried sick about the possibility of memory loss with her electroshock treatments only to find she didn't lose any long-term memories at all. That child could still tell me the most hilarious stories from second grade that even I couldn't remember. "If I DO ever forget anything, t's the best excuse EVER, Mom! No matter what, I can just shrug and point to the shirt. Who can argue with that?"
My goofy girl, I miss you so. We never did get those t-shirts made. But I'm still thinking about them.
Jake would have been five or maybe six at that time. He was very interested in Groundhog's Day, and talked a blue streak in the car after school one day. Once he'd run out of steam, there was a long silence. Maybe we were all tired. At any rate, Jake piped up about ten minutes later out of the blue, "Let's talk some more about groundhogs!" which struck us all as deliciously funny due to the delayed reaction, and the sheer enthusiasm of his voice. From that moment on, Jake's catchphrase was used widely in the household whenever there was a lull in conversation.
I have always been the queen of my household. Once I discovered how to cook meals more delicious than what we could buy on the outside, I began to lord my talents over my subjects. After working all day, I'd come home and whip up something sinfully delicious, and then refuse to lift a finger for the rest of the evening. It was a status,,,a rebuttal...an invoked right. If I needed a bottled water, I would point down at my chest, referring to the imaginary saying emblazoned across whatever shirt I happened to be wearing. "Cory, love, can you get Mommy a bottled water?" If she said no, I'd shake my head, "Uh, uh, uh, read it and weep. I made dinner." The same went for answering the telephone, letting the dog in from outside, and handing me a blanket or pillow. The only things I really had to do for myself after serving the evening meal were urinate and brush my teeth. Everything else was covered.
And Cory, my delightfully funny tongue-in-cheek girl came up with this gem: "Blame it on the ECT". We had been worried sick about the possibility of memory loss with her electroshock treatments only to find she didn't lose any long-term memories at all. That child could still tell me the most hilarious stories from second grade that even I couldn't remember. "If I DO ever forget anything, t's the best excuse EVER, Mom! No matter what, I can just shrug and point to the shirt. Who can argue with that?"
My goofy girl, I miss you so. We never did get those t-shirts made. But I'm still thinking about them.
I Don't Like Being Pushed & What All That Hat-Wearing Is About
One thing I have learned on this Godforsaken journey is that no one can take your steps in grief for you. Nor can you be pushed into them.
I have a vague idea that I may one day need to explore the perspective of the driver. I am not ready to do so. Every time I try to put myself in the shoes of a stricken sixty-something year old woman who has struck and killed another human being with her vehicle, and just allow myself to feel...something...my daughter's broken body on the road appears in my mind, and I am stopped short, my senses overloaded with a real time reliving of the horror. All well intentioned ideas of forgiveness and healing are hurled out the window in an instant as she lies there, so still and so unnaturally.
It must be my brain is still working on accepting the death itself. I have a feeling that any facets of grief yet unexplored don't mind waiting. They'll be there when I get to them. Surely.
It makes me wonder what my feelings towards the driver might be by this point in my journey if I had not arrived on the scene before the emergency responders, and seen her the way that I did. If I had been one of those poor souls who had instead gotten a phone call or a knock on the door from someone in a uniform, would it be different? I suspect it might.
And although I run down the damn road in my red t-shirt and khaki shorts endlessly in my nightmares, I can't imagine not wanting that chance. I didn't get there in time. But I tried. Cory knows that I ran like I have never ran before- not as a child in a footrace with my sister's boyfriend, not as an adult trying to get in shape. I ran like I would run for my life. That's what she was, you know- my life.
People wonder how I could still be having such a hard time with this. I mean after all, we're edging up to two years. When is she going to get back to her old routine? When will she start acting normal again? Get back to her old self?
Let me save you the ponderings: never.
I will never be back to my old routine. I will never act the same as a mother who has never lost a child. My old self is gone.
There is the pain and misery that the finality of death brings. Additionally, there is horrible fear and confusion. Was I a little skittish before? Yes. I am never comfortable in large groups, and worry a lot about things I can't control. But now it's different. In some horrible, twisted fashion, the accident reinforced all my anxiety and pessimism. I was right to worry all along. The world is quite a dangerous and unfair place, after all, isn't it?
The confusion is simply something I wrote in my journal just the other day: I feel so displaced in a world without Cory.
A parent must mourn the loss of their child. If they have other children, they must continue to care for another human being when they often aren't taking very good care of themselves. Further still, they must do the incredibly difficult job of forging themselves a new identity.
You have to ask yourself who you are. Why are you here? For what purpose were you left behind, when your child was taken? If you were previously a caregiver due to illness as I was to Cory, what in the world are you to do with all of this free time? What relationships in your life are worth salvaging after the storm of loss has blown across them, creating distance, indifference, and withdrawal?
It's a huge lot of unpleasant tasks. It can be overwhelming. I can't speak for everyone, but once awhile I just have to put my head down and catch my breath.
And if I have to work that day, and enter the public, I wear a hat in memory of my girl. She never stopped trying to have a good day. I was her comfort, and now she is mine.
---to be continued
I have a vague idea that I may one day need to explore the perspective of the driver. I am not ready to do so. Every time I try to put myself in the shoes of a stricken sixty-something year old woman who has struck and killed another human being with her vehicle, and just allow myself to feel...something...my daughter's broken body on the road appears in my mind, and I am stopped short, my senses overloaded with a real time reliving of the horror. All well intentioned ideas of forgiveness and healing are hurled out the window in an instant as she lies there, so still and so unnaturally.
It must be my brain is still working on accepting the death itself. I have a feeling that any facets of grief yet unexplored don't mind waiting. They'll be there when I get to them. Surely.
It makes me wonder what my feelings towards the driver might be by this point in my journey if I had not arrived on the scene before the emergency responders, and seen her the way that I did. If I had been one of those poor souls who had instead gotten a phone call or a knock on the door from someone in a uniform, would it be different? I suspect it might.
And although I run down the damn road in my red t-shirt and khaki shorts endlessly in my nightmares, I can't imagine not wanting that chance. I didn't get there in time. But I tried. Cory knows that I ran like I have never ran before- not as a child in a footrace with my sister's boyfriend, not as an adult trying to get in shape. I ran like I would run for my life. That's what she was, you know- my life.
People wonder how I could still be having such a hard time with this. I mean after all, we're edging up to two years. When is she going to get back to her old routine? When will she start acting normal again? Get back to her old self?
Let me save you the ponderings: never.
I will never be back to my old routine. I will never act the same as a mother who has never lost a child. My old self is gone.
There is the pain and misery that the finality of death brings. Additionally, there is horrible fear and confusion. Was I a little skittish before? Yes. I am never comfortable in large groups, and worry a lot about things I can't control. But now it's different. In some horrible, twisted fashion, the accident reinforced all my anxiety and pessimism. I was right to worry all along. The world is quite a dangerous and unfair place, after all, isn't it?
The confusion is simply something I wrote in my journal just the other day: I feel so displaced in a world without Cory.
A parent must mourn the loss of their child. If they have other children, they must continue to care for another human being when they often aren't taking very good care of themselves. Further still, they must do the incredibly difficult job of forging themselves a new identity.
You have to ask yourself who you are. Why are you here? For what purpose were you left behind, when your child was taken? If you were previously a caregiver due to illness as I was to Cory, what in the world are you to do with all of this free time? What relationships in your life are worth salvaging after the storm of loss has blown across them, creating distance, indifference, and withdrawal?
It's a huge lot of unpleasant tasks. It can be overwhelming. I can't speak for everyone, but once awhile I just have to put my head down and catch my breath.
And if I have to work that day, and enter the public, I wear a hat in memory of my girl. She never stopped trying to have a good day. I was her comfort, and now she is mine.
---to be continued
Friday, March 7, 2014
1:05 a.m.
The house is silent. I just watched a movie that I know Cory would appreciate, but will never see. I can't talk about it with her, get her opinion, compare favorite characters, and favorite scenes. After I turned off the tv, I laid my head on the pillow, and tried to drift. All I could see was her face. When you think you have no tears left to cry, there are always more.
Every day there is something I want to tell her, to teach her, to share.
Jake drew a picture of his family last night in a long staggering line of sad, solemn faces, but for the animals. Then he drew a picture of Cory inside his heart with a slash acoss it. "That's because my heart is broken."
Mine too, buddy.
Every day there is something I want to tell her, to teach her, to share.
Jake drew a picture of his family last night in a long staggering line of sad, solemn faces, but for the animals. Then he drew a picture of Cory inside his heart with a slash acoss it. "That's because my heart is broken."
Mine too, buddy.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Her Life's Work
Cory Days #21:
The other night I remembered Cory by sharing her life's work with others. I had the opportunity to speak at a college class about mental illness and art therapy. I brought a half dozen or so of Cory's paintings to show the group. Cory was an artist, and I suppose her body of work could be considered her life's work. But, Cory was more than just an artist, she was a survivor.
Sometimes, during the time she was being stabilized, I got discouraged about all the time that was being stolen by her illness. When I talked to Dr. Z about my concerns for her future and her education, he put it to me very simply, "We want to encourage Cory to keep learning, but we must realize that her mental health is a full time job right now. It has to be her main priority, ahead of everything else, even being a student."
He was right. You cannot learn when you don't feel safe. Cory's life work those last few years was getting well, and staying well. She also loved. She loved her family. She loved her friends. And she loved life when she could, which is a huge testament to her sheer strength and determination.
Giving others a look inside the life of a person struggling with their mental health is what Cory would want me to do. Tell them how to read the signs, Mom. Tell them how to help. Tell them we are people just like everyone else that have to fight so hard just to live. Tell them it's not our fault that we struggle and we want to be like everyone else.
I am her voice now, and that is how I honored her.
The other night I remembered Cory by sharing her life's work with others. I had the opportunity to speak at a college class about mental illness and art therapy. I brought a half dozen or so of Cory's paintings to show the group. Cory was an artist, and I suppose her body of work could be considered her life's work. But, Cory was more than just an artist, she was a survivor.
Sometimes, during the time she was being stabilized, I got discouraged about all the time that was being stolen by her illness. When I talked to Dr. Z about my concerns for her future and her education, he put it to me very simply, "We want to encourage Cory to keep learning, but we must realize that her mental health is a full time job right now. It has to be her main priority, ahead of everything else, even being a student."
He was right. You cannot learn when you don't feel safe. Cory's life work those last few years was getting well, and staying well. She also loved. She loved her family. She loved her friends. And she loved life when she could, which is a huge testament to her sheer strength and determination.
Giving others a look inside the life of a person struggling with their mental health is what Cory would want me to do. Tell them how to read the signs, Mom. Tell them how to help. Tell them we are people just like everyone else that have to fight so hard just to live. Tell them it's not our fault that we struggle and we want to be like everyone else.
I am her voice now, and that is how I honored her.
Monday, March 3, 2014
The Best Part of My Weekend
Sunday afternoon, I had this dream:
Cory was back. She had been...gone on a trip...perhaps kidnapped? The villain (God) had seen fit to return her, and she was home, living and breathing, warm and full of color. She moved, and smiled...walked and talked. I simply could not believe it, and leapt onto her lap right there at the kitchen table. She laughed and complained good-naturedly about my bony butt. Everything was as it had been, except that I knew she had been taken from me, and for seemingly an eternity. To see her and touch her again was my wildest dreams come true.
In my dream, I felt shy. We hadn't hung out in so long! Would she still love me the same? Would I still be her favorite person in the world? I couldn't wait to find out! I had so much to tell her.
Drinking in her features, I simply accepted this miracle of her return, and began planning our evening meal and movie to watch together.
My heart was so full, I could barely breathe.
Then I woke up.
Cory was back. She had been...gone on a trip...perhaps kidnapped? The villain (God) had seen fit to return her, and she was home, living and breathing, warm and full of color. She moved, and smiled...walked and talked. I simply could not believe it, and leapt onto her lap right there at the kitchen table. She laughed and complained good-naturedly about my bony butt. Everything was as it had been, except that I knew she had been taken from me, and for seemingly an eternity. To see her and touch her again was my wildest dreams come true.
In my dream, I felt shy. We hadn't hung out in so long! Would she still love me the same? Would I still be her favorite person in the world? I couldn't wait to find out! I had so much to tell her.
Drinking in her features, I simply accepted this miracle of her return, and began planning our evening meal and movie to watch together.
My heart was so full, I could barely breathe.
Then I woke up.
Ancho Chile Powder & Other Split Second Decisions
I decided to get back in the kitchen on a more regular basis before they start making a fast food documentary about my household. It has seriously gotten pretty bad. I think the only items I've kept in the house since Thanksgiving are milk, cereal, Chips Ahoy's best, and yogurt. Everything else has been takeout.
I went on a stock up spree a week or so ago and outfitted my kitchen to feed an army. I was bound and determined to cook every night for 21 nights in a row, hopefully breaking my reliance on fast food. Bad habit out. Good habit in. Easy, peasy, right?
Tell that to my panic attack, woman-gone-crazy hysterics in front of my cutting board. Two minutes into chopping an onion, and I was bawling my eyes out (real tears, not onion-induced) and flapping my arms around wildly. About the time I had marched in and out of the kitchen for the tenth time trying to get myself together, the sirens started up. For Pete's sake, people. Is there no end to this? Jacob, twelve years old, is simply not equipped to deal with this. He looked up at me after the sirens stopped, and asked, "Are you ok if I go in the other room now?"
I know I sound like a drama queen. And I can be. But this crap in the kitchen is no exaggeration. I have never experienced anything like it. It is total body recall. Put me in front of my counter with a knife in my hand, and I am right back to that day, with a knock on my back door moments away.
But, I digress. Here's the story I meant to tell:
When I ran out of peppercorns the other day, I put on my big girl panties and drove over to the godforsaken Urbandale Family Fare. I spaced in front of the spice display for a couple of minutes, coming to with my gaze locked on the Ancho Chile Powder. If only I had just used the stupid stuff, instead of letting Cory walk to the the store to fetch regular Chili Powder, she would still be alive. Doesn't that just fricking blow your mind? She could be here, right now, in the other room trying on a new pair of tights or straightening her hair or waiting up for Tim to get home.
Just so you know, this guilt shit is like a boomerang. You think it's gone, and bam, there that damn thing is again. Every...fricking...time. It's tiresome.
When I am having a Garden Gnome sort of day, angry and irrational, nursing fantasies of doing bodily harm to the careless driver that ran my baby down, I blame said driver.
All the other days, I blame the driver, and quickly circle back to note Cory wouldn't have been on the stupid road in the first place if I hadn't let her walk to the store.
Or if I'd remembered Chili Powder that morning when I'd hit the store for dinner supplies.
Or if I'd drove myself to the store to buy the Chili Powder.
Or if I'd just caved and used the Ancho Chile Powder that I wasn't sure would taste the same.
Did my perfectionist side kill Cory? Did my laziness? Poor judgment in letting her walk in the heat?
There in the store, I looked up at the shiny glass bottle of crushed chiles, and thought...a split second decision. I just screwed up. I searched myself to see if I felt compassion or empathy for the driver who had obviously made a split second decision and screwed up herself. Did I feel bad for her?
My jaw tightened and I felt something twist hard and low in my chest.
That Thursday afternoon around four o'clock when I opened my cupboard, I wasn't knowingly taking my life or anyone else's in hand.
She did. That woman got behind the wheel, knowing- as we all do, each day- that she was doing just that. And then, she hit my girl anyway. She never braked. She somehow didn't see a human figure in broad daylight crossing the street near a shopping area well used by pedestrians daily: gas station, bus stop, bank, grocery, and all the folks who frequent them. Every day I see people crossing, some looking, some not bothering, trusting that traffic will stop for them. And they do.
Do I feel bad for her?
Nope.
I can't believe she still gets to drive.
I'm having a hell of a time cooking here, and I didn't kill anyone.
Technically.
I went on a stock up spree a week or so ago and outfitted my kitchen to feed an army. I was bound and determined to cook every night for 21 nights in a row, hopefully breaking my reliance on fast food. Bad habit out. Good habit in. Easy, peasy, right?
Tell that to my panic attack, woman-gone-crazy hysterics in front of my cutting board. Two minutes into chopping an onion, and I was bawling my eyes out (real tears, not onion-induced) and flapping my arms around wildly. About the time I had marched in and out of the kitchen for the tenth time trying to get myself together, the sirens started up. For Pete's sake, people. Is there no end to this? Jacob, twelve years old, is simply not equipped to deal with this. He looked up at me after the sirens stopped, and asked, "Are you ok if I go in the other room now?"
I know I sound like a drama queen. And I can be. But this crap in the kitchen is no exaggeration. I have never experienced anything like it. It is total body recall. Put me in front of my counter with a knife in my hand, and I am right back to that day, with a knock on my back door moments away.
But, I digress. Here's the story I meant to tell:
When I ran out of peppercorns the other day, I put on my big girl panties and drove over to the godforsaken Urbandale Family Fare. I spaced in front of the spice display for a couple of minutes, coming to with my gaze locked on the Ancho Chile Powder. If only I had just used the stupid stuff, instead of letting Cory walk to the the store to fetch regular Chili Powder, she would still be alive. Doesn't that just fricking blow your mind? She could be here, right now, in the other room trying on a new pair of tights or straightening her hair or waiting up for Tim to get home.
Just so you know, this guilt shit is like a boomerang. You think it's gone, and bam, there that damn thing is again. Every...fricking...time. It's tiresome.
When I am having a Garden Gnome sort of day, angry and irrational, nursing fantasies of doing bodily harm to the careless driver that ran my baby down, I blame said driver.
All the other days, I blame the driver, and quickly circle back to note Cory wouldn't have been on the stupid road in the first place if I hadn't let her walk to the store.
Or if I'd remembered Chili Powder that morning when I'd hit the store for dinner supplies.
Or if I'd drove myself to the store to buy the Chili Powder.
Or if I'd just caved and used the Ancho Chile Powder that I wasn't sure would taste the same.
Did my perfectionist side kill Cory? Did my laziness? Poor judgment in letting her walk in the heat?
There in the store, I looked up at the shiny glass bottle of crushed chiles, and thought...a split second decision. I just screwed up. I searched myself to see if I felt compassion or empathy for the driver who had obviously made a split second decision and screwed up herself. Did I feel bad for her?
My jaw tightened and I felt something twist hard and low in my chest.
That Thursday afternoon around four o'clock when I opened my cupboard, I wasn't knowingly taking my life or anyone else's in hand.
She did. That woman got behind the wheel, knowing- as we all do, each day- that she was doing just that. And then, she hit my girl anyway. She never braked. She somehow didn't see a human figure in broad daylight crossing the street near a shopping area well used by pedestrians daily: gas station, bus stop, bank, grocery, and all the folks who frequent them. Every day I see people crossing, some looking, some not bothering, trusting that traffic will stop for them. And they do.
Do I feel bad for her?
Nope.
I can't believe she still gets to drive.
I'm having a hell of a time cooking here, and I didn't kill anyone.
Technically.
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