I Don't Wanna!

Jacob told me last night he was so glad we got the kittens after Cory died, "especially this precious girl"  he said, snuggling Violet close to his chest.

"She's helped you a lot, hasn't she?"  I asked.

He nodded, beaming, in response.

So this whole family reorganization process...it's tough.  They say whomever dies in your family leaves behind certain roles that must be filled by you or someone else in order for the family to carry on.  These could be practical roles or emotional ones, but either way, they must be filled in order to regain any semblance of normal or God help us, "new normal".  (Can you tell I absolutely adore the grief lingo?)

[Sidebar here:  I despise the term "anniversary date"  to describe the annual re-occurrence of your loved one's death date.  Anniversaries are supposed to be celebratory, joyous occasions for those who managed to keep their crap together for any amount of time, aren't they?  Cory's death date thus far brings me nothing but anxiety, dread, flashbacks, nightmares, and pain.  Anniversary, my ass.  I googled this to see if a p.c. term has been invented yet.  Ready for this one?

Lifecycle event.

I don't know if that's better or worse.  But I digress.]

Some of Cory's roles have been filled the best we can, and they are obvious to spot.  The kittens are Jake's pseudo siblings and constant companions.  My mom is my new movie buddy and general ride-or-die.

Some roles remain open.  Cory was my helper, my sous chef, the initiator of family activities, the spurrer-on for spontaneous, crazy fun.  She was the one person who made me feel like I could do anything.  She gave me compliments constantly, and encouragement daily.  I have long since figured out that she was my mirror to see all the best things I was or could be.  Now when I look in the mirror, I don't even know who I am or if I'm even really here.

Then there is the friend spot:  we shared the same interests, we had amazing communication, and immense trust, built the old-fashion way:  brick by heavy brick.  Where do you go to find a new nineteen-years-in-the-works relationship like that?  Hell, if I know.

At the same time you are reorganizing your family unit, you're also supposed to form a new identity, create a new relationship with your dead child, work, raise your other children, eat, sleep, and begin to care about things other than your loss.

See why it doesn't take the standard six months?  Or a year?  Or two?  It takes what it takes, folks.  And to anyone who says differently- I'd like to see you try.  I am figuratively speaking, of course; I wouldn't wish this nightmare on anyone.

Form a new identity.  Yeah, I'll get right on that.
I know who I used to be.  Before Cory died, I was silly, funny, a fashionista, an appreciator of designer handbags.  I was attractive.  I was strong.  I was a great mom, and an advocate for what I believed in.

Where do I begin?  It's hard to be fun when your heart has been shattered, the shards poking you in the chest all day long. Attractive?  Ha!  I feel about a thousand years old.  Fashionista?  I care very little about my appearance these days.  I haven't bought a piece of clothing in over a year.
I am a sub-standard parent these days- not because I want to be, but because I am struggling to function, let alone shape another life.

Strong?
Here's a journal entry from last week:  suicide doesn't seem scary at all.  It seems like the softest, warmest blanket I just want to pull down around myself while the lights go out one by one or all at once...anything to get these pictures out of my head.

Dude, I just want off this ride.

As the "life cycle event"  hurtles closer and closer on the calendar, I can't do a thing about it.  Instead, I am trying to control everything and everyone else around me.  I quipped to my husband yesterday, "When are you just going to give over and let me run your life?  I do it better than you do, anyway, and we both know it."  Umm, yeah, that smacks a little of dictator.

I'm also supposed to plan a "remembrance event" for the fifth of July.  All the people out there who haven't lost a child think it's a lovely idea, and some who have lost children and are obviously way more mentally sound than I currently am actually agree.  I am having the worst time with this.  Let off balloons?  Plant a tree?  Why not slap on a sandwich board that says "Cory is Dead" and parade up and down West Michigan?  That's what it feels like to my heart.

I sit here, at the coffee shop, with the pout that every man who hasn't given me what I wanted knows like the back of his hand.  It is called "spoiled brat".

I don't wanna!  I don't want to plan a remembrance for my child's lifecycle event.  I'm STILL not ready for her to be dead.

I will now quietly slither out of my chair onto the carpeted floor in front of Brownstone's patrons and commence kicking and screaming.

I want Cory!!!

Hell

It's two weeks from the date on the calendar that I hate the most.  The dread just thickens, a fog I move through reluctantly- how much I'd like to just sleep until September or forever, whichever decided to show up first.

I just drove Jake to a sleepover, and felt sick to my stomach just to be on the same stretch of road, even if I took care with my route.  This time of year, it could've happened yesterday.  She dies so many times in my mind.

I push away from the images all throughout the day and night; they wait patiently and come creeping back.  It's a tired game.  Sometimes I think my mind will simply break under the weight of seeing her there over and over again, lying so small and so still.

The sounds come next...the sirens, the blatting of the fire engine, my own desperate screams, the voice of a stranger on the phone with my mother, "Come right away.  No, this isn't a prank.  Just come.  Hurry."

And the way the sheet fell through the still, hot air, covering her from my sight, taking her away for all of time.
This is hell.

Shoulda Got Her a Mausoleum...

Where does one go to get a positive outlook on a headstone?  Well, I tried googling something to the effect of "coping with the placement of your kid's headstone".  Nothing came up but monument companies.  Well...let's think about this for a second.  Who would have anything better to say about headstones than the people who make their living selling them?

So I clicked on a few.  Here was one:  "it will remain for eternity paying tribute to the person buried beneath".  Immediately a horrible image came to my mind.  I shuddered.  Next, please.

"A monument adds beauty to an otherwise bleak grave."  Hmmm.  Otherwise bleak?  Because with the stone there with your firstborn's name engraved on it, it's no longer bleak, but jovial?  Next.

"A last act of kindness done for the deceased."  To me, that one just sounded like they wanted to shame someone into buying their stone.

And this last one:  "To give identity to an individual."  Ok, that was clearly the least horrible of the lot.  Cory would want to be remembered.  Don't we all?

One company trotted out the logic that designing your loved one's marker and/or choosing their epitaph helps you make that most difficult transition from grieving to remembrance.  I sat for the longest time and considered this, one knee under my chin and a hand over one eye.  To go backward in time was to be that woman again, lost in shock, dropping to the ground at each stage of the horrible mess- the road, the funeral home, the prospective cemeteries.

 Had sketching out a symbol of my love for her, the way I saw her as a representational object, moved me from grief to remembrance?  Not even close, friends and neighbors.  This second year in, without the distraction of her art being shown or traveling across the ocean, I am only too aware that I am still grieving deep and wide.

So what did choosing her stone mean to me?  It represented to me all that she had been:  beautiful, unique, strong, unwavering in her determination to stand tall despite the storm raging around her and inside her.  This monument was as tall as I could possibly afford, and actually much more than I could afford, if truth be told.  It had to cover as much space in this world as possible.  You see, she had meant the world to me, and this hunk of stone was symbolic of all she had been and done.  She'd moved mountains; shouldn't she have one to call her own?

Even six feet tall, it could not and does not hold all my love for her within it.  For that, I'd need an entire room, full of patched together stonework-both flawed and lovely- cool when you stepped inside, and intensely quiet so when I whispered, "Baby, I'm here.", I'd hear the echo come back to me.

I should have gotten her a mausoleum.  That's what she deserved.

Cursed Little Boxes

The calendar days march stolidly by.  They remain indifferent to my pain.  They are only doing their job, after all.  Time must go on.  They sniff at my tears with a smug look that says their family is intact, thank you very much.  When I cry out, in protest, one of them, tired of my bellyaching says, "You're just gonna have to learn to live with it, I guess."

I may or may not have just ripped June and July to bits.

Back to July

It starts when the days get truly warm.  School is almost out.  Layoff from work looms ahead.  I catch myself planning what I'll do with my kids while I'm off and amend the thought to "kid".  What will I twist Jake's arm to do with me?

Three days into June, and that feeling of dread is thick upon my soul.  Something horrible is about to happen.  I can feel it in the air.  Can't you?  The faintest sound of sirens makes my skin crawl.

I saw a man walking down West Michigan today with a deformed foot.  He lurched along, appearing to walk directly on his ankle while his foot just flopped reluctantly along.  I looked away, instantly seeing Cory's body so twisted and ruined, in my mind, as I drove closer and closer to the spot where she landed.  I hate this road.  I hate this neighborhood.  I hate this house, and sometimes I wish I could move, but that would mean going through her room, so I guess I'll stay here until I die.  Her  jackets still hang in the entryway-almost two years later; that's where I am with the belongings part.

All those thoughts I've worked my way past are back:  how hard the vehicle hit her, the sound it must have made- one that I never heard but read about in the police report.  I'm back to wondering if she hurt?  Did she know what happened?  Did she want her mom?  Did she try to call for help?

Her lips were so blue.  I'll never forget catching sight of the dark cast of her mouth as they rolled her slowly and gently over onto her back.  I thought she'd broken her leg.  Maybe she'd have a concussion.  Never, ever, in a million years could I have imagined that she would be struck down, thrown to the side like a bag of trash, broken and bleeding by the side of the road...all because she wanted to help her mom make dinner.

She did nothing wrong.  She wasn't being irresponsible.  She wasn't hurting anyone.  It hardly seems fair when so many others get so many chances to do better that they don't even use.

This whole season with its graduates and weddings can just take a flying leap.  Where is my girl's cap and gown?  Where is her proud smile?  Why can't I take her shopping for a wedding gown?  Where is the man that made my girl's heart his home?  When will I get to hold her child in my arms?


Eff this life.