Not Guilty

For reference as you read this post:

"Thanks for turning her into a retard, then letting her play in traffic...You protected her?  You **cking killed her, how do you live with yourself...rot in hell!!!"
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It's interesting how things that hurt you can spur so much growth.  Yesterday, someone I used to know named me as my child's murderer, and not for the first time...but for the first time, instead of taking the ugly accusation on and grafting it closely onto my own absurd guilt, I just shook my head.  "Ridiculous."

And it was.  It was absolutely ridiculous.  I may always wish I'd made a different decision about Cory walking to the grocery store that day, but in no way did I intentionally place her in harm's way.  There was no foresight to what took place. I thought to myself of what an extremely cautious parent I'd been to Cory, and even more so after her illness struck- something my accuser would know had he been around to witness my parenting style.

Yeah, it was upsetting, but for once, it didn't break me down.  It seems I no longer succumb to that portion of the guilt, and good for me!

I had to wonder why my accuser would say such a terrible thing to me.  He must be hurting horribly, and he might be housing some blame or regrets of his own about Cory.  So to him, I say this:  Go ahead, blame me.  You can't break my heart.  It's full of my daughter, and she can't be hurt anymore by anything or anyone.

When I look back on Cory's life, I see myself in so many tiny moments, sharing her life and making it better.  I have many beautiful pictures of her, and while I treasure them, they aren't the only way I can conjure her.  I have so much more than a handful of staged snapshots to fall back on.  It makes me feel bad, and kind of sorry for this person who was so quick to lash out at me.

I was angry at first, wanting only to scream from the rooftop that I am no longer your whipping post and I won't carry your regrets for you!  I am not responsible for your choices!  I wanted to shame him- what would Cory think of what you said?  How would she look at you?

Then after mulling it over for a day or so, I realized that although it was not his intention, he has helped me with his nasty words...amazing how many lessons I've learned at this man's hands.    One, I have attempted to understand why he may have been so hurtful instead of simply retaliating, which means I might finally be growing up.

 And two, he has helped me externalize my own misguided guilt and begin to defend myself.  Do you understand what I mean?  I was dogging myself day in and day out for what happened, even though I had no control over it.  I was content to label myself Cory's killer, and hang my head for all of time.  But when someone else was the one accusing me, I had enough distance to look at it for what it was:  complete and total crap.

I also made this realization.  My one regret is letting Cory go to the store that day.  I have no others.  None.  Do you know how amazing that is? There were hard, hard choices to raising that amazing young woman, and I am proud of the ones I made.   I loved her fully; I knew her; she was treasured beyond belief.  I was an incredible mother and friend to her.

 I can be proud of that.  Scratch that, I AM proud of that.  There are, I'm sure, other parents out there who lose a child, and may have to deal with the what if's of allowing a simple walk to the store AND living the rest of their life regretting time not spent with their child or not being a consistent, positive presence in their life.

Call me whatever you want, my friend.  I know that's not me.

Side Effects, Part Deux

The last time Tim and I put up a shelf together, he went to touch my shoulder and I noticed his hand was shaking...a lot.  I looked up and saw he was watching me notice his tremors.  Trying to keep things lighthearted, I quipped, "Dang, honey, am I that hot or is that your meds talking?"

He grinned, "Both."
No more was said that day.

But the next day, we went on a plannering coffee date... two broken hearted parents trying to keep their crap together with good quality fountain pens and lots of empty boxes on paper to fill.  As we sipped our coffee and traded stories of the week, he complained of how much he hates his handwriting now.  He pulled out his wallet and sifted through it.  He came up with a piece of paper and pushed it across the table.  "That's what my handwriting used to look like."  he said.

"Okay.  That looks like guys' handwriting."  I said.

He asked me for a post-it, which I peeled off the mountainous stack beside me (it was a plannering coffee date after all, a girl's gotta be prepared), and handed to him.

He scribbled for a minute or so and passed it back to me.  "That's since I've been taking the Lithium."

I studied them side by side.  Indeed, his handwriting had become an unsteady scrawl that was practically illegible.  It was much as Cory's had become.  I felt a pang in my heart for Tim, just as I had for my girl, and wondered how many people realized the price they paid to be well.  I looked up at his face, so like Jake's in that moment, waiting to be told it wasn't that bad.

"Well, you know, doctors are notorious for having messy handwriting..."

He stopped me.  "It's okay.  I'm getting used to it, but it kinda sucks.  It's like losing a part of yourself.  And if I get really busy at work, or stressed, my hands start shaking like crazy.  Sometimes I'm afraid people think I'm a junkie or something."

I remembered how self-conscious Cory had been when her hands shook, and posed a question to my husband.
"Is it worth it?  The meds, I mean?"

He raised an eyebrow.  "You mean all the side effects?"

I nodded.

"Umm...duh!"  he answered.  "If I wasn't on meds, I'd just be running around crazy."

The thought of Tim, who suffers from type II of Bipolar Disorder, running a muck about town gave me pause.  He suffers mostly from horrible bouts of depression, and can become hypo-manic, but full blown mania was something I'd never seen in him.
  He went on, "I know I wouldn't be working.  My temper would've gotten me fired a bunch by now.  I might be in trouble with the law for making stupid, impulse decisions.  And I wouldn't have a family, that's for sure.  Who'd wanna live with me not on meds?"

I giggled, knowing he was completely right.  Irritable is not the word for what he used to be, unmedicated.

"So overall, you think it's worth it?"  I asked.

"It's absolutely worth it.  Of course.  I have you guys.  And you're worth whatever it takes."

That's one man's take on it.  And for him, I am grateful.

Those Pearls, Though...

It still amazes me that Cory's treasured strand of pearls remained intact.  All the other jewelry she was wearing on the day she died fell apart, and scattered from the impact.  Her shoes, still tied when returned to me, mind you, were forced off her feet- one landed at one end of the scene and one at the other.  But those pearls...

I wore them when I spoke at Western Michigan University last week, and I could feel her so close to me I could almost touch her.  I think now of all she went through in her short life, and I realize those pearls are symbolic of something inside her that was too strong to be broken, no matter what came her way.  They stood, intact, beautiful and blameless.  So did she.

If this young woman, this girl, this child who turned into an adult right before my very eyes came from me, and if I helped shape her into who and what she was when she died, then it bears thinking that some of that strength might be in me, as well.

I will wear her pearls while I try to find it.

I love you, Cory, and there's not a moment that goes by that I don't ache for you.  But I'll try to smile while I do it.  It's what you would've done in my place.  Sweet girl.

Carpentry While Grieving

Just my take...

when a couple loses a child, the man wants to put up shelves right away.  It's familiar, it's comforting, it's life affirming, and they need to feel something.
Women have absolutely no interest, whatsoever, in putting up shelves, soon after the loss of a child, and are absolutely disgusted that their spouse could even think of redecorating at such a time.
In fact, I would imagine that most women think they will never want to put up shelves ever again.  Evenutally, however, the urge does return, if for no other reason than you are so miserable you will try literally ANYTHING to get some relief from your pain.
About the time, I decided I was ready to hang a shelf with my husband again, I discovered he was in the depths of a severe depressive episode.  I couldn't get that man to hang a shelf if my life depended on it.  It didn't matter if I flattered, cajoled, flirted, or demanded, he was not in the mood for carpentry.
This was particularly unfortunate because our marriage was already failing miserably.  We had started out side by side, standing over Cory's casket, and we had ended up seemingly continents away.  Not only we were not grieving in tandem- a virtual impossibility- but his Bipolar Disorder had descended upon our household and snatched up my caring and gentle husband without a backward glance.  I couldn't get him to talk to me, let alone touch me.  He was lost to his favorite comfort in the world:  sleep.

This episode of his lasted for the better part of a year.  By the time he even raised his head, I was so exhausted, and starved for friendship, love, and affection, I was only concentrating on how I could afford to divorce him.

I remember a close friend asking me if he ever came out of it, and actually wanted to put up a set of shelves with me, would I even want to, or was I so angry from all the months of rejection, that I would tell him to take a flying leap?

I could only chuckle.  A lonely vagina holds no grudges.

Purging

****Spoiler Alert****  If you have any interest in watching The Purge:  Anarchy, you may not want to read this post.

So you remember how I told you I've become a much more permissive and inconsistent parent since Cory's death?  Yeah, I totally let Jacob go to rated R movie with me last week.  We'd seen The Purge together last year, and the sequel was out.  Wrong or right, that boy has me completely under his spell, and a bid from him for us to spend time together cannot be denied.

So the movie itself was pretty good for a sequel.  There was a moral question of class that ran behind all the violence, woven into the basis of a social experiment:  what would happen if you held everything in, but one day a year, could act out however you wished, with no consequences?  Would this reduce crimes of passion?  Who would purge?  Who would hole up in their home, behind boards and bars, just waiting it out?

The first movie showed the annual event taking place from the perspective of a family waiting in their home for it to pass.  The sequel asked what might happen if you were caught out on the streets after the siren had gone off?  An unlikely hero appeared in the sequel, who tried to help those unfortunate souls who found themselves moving targets.  He seemed to be one of those more realistic blends of hero:  some good and some evil- after all, what exactly what his business on the streets this particular night?  The viewer gradually gathered that he meant to purge and purge mightily at someone who had wronged him.  He was far from unstable, as he showed compassion and selflessness over and over again, picking up a band of frightened people along his way.  He protected them, even when they slowed his errand, even when they put him in danger.  I found this angle very thought provoking, as it has been my experience that people seldom come in moral colors of black or white, but every variance of gray that you can imagine.

Jake and I had heartily enjoyed the movie, jumping at the scary bits and giggling nervously, right up until the last ten minutes or so.

Here's what happened:

There was five minutes left of the purge.  A woman and her daughter crouched in the back of the hero's car as he rolled up to a beautiful suburban home, and gathered his weapons.  His passengers begged him not to do it, murder is wrong no matter what the situation.  Finally one them cried, "Why do you have to purge?"

He covered his face, and spoke from behind his hands.  He told them that one year ago to the day, his son, who'd been walking home from school, had been struck and killed by a car.  The driver did no time, simply went back to his life while he, the father, descended into a hell he had never even imagined.

My intake of breath was matched by Jake's.

We watched, dumbstruck, as the hero of the movie forced his way into that house, pulled the driver, still sleeping from his bed, and held a knife to his throat, tears streaming down his dirty face as he screamed full into the startled man's face, "You stole my son!  You took him from me!  And you're gonna pay!"

Goosebumps broke out all over my body.  Tears streamed down my own face as I launched myself into this situation.  Hazily, I could feel Jake's small hand grasping for mine, as the hero brandished the weapon above the driver, completely overtaken by his grief.  God help me, but I wanted to do this soooo badly.

Another five minutes later, the movie ended.  I won't completely spoil it for you by telling you what happened to the hero and the driver.  Instead, I'll tell you what happened to Jake and I.

We stumbled out of that movie theater, blinking owlishly in the bright lights, completely unnerved by the unexpected personal turn of the plot.  In the car, we kept exclaiming how we couldn't believe the coincidence.  On the way home, I picked Jake's brain.

"Jacob, what do you think about the hero guy wanting revenge?  Is that wrong or right?  What do you think?"  I asked.

Jacob answered immediately.  "Fifty-fifty."

"Tell me more."  I said.

"Well, first of all, it's just wrong because it's against the law, but if you take the law out of it, like on that movie..."  he paused, thinking.

I waited, so curious to what he would say.

"Half of you would want revenge, and that's understandable.  That guy in the movie got off with no consequences."  He turned to me, "So did the driver who killed Cory."

I nodded.

"And it's just not fair.  She should've had some consequence.  What if it happened again to someone else?"  he asked reasonably.

"But..." he trailed off.

"But?"  I prodded.

"But I don't think killing someone who wronged you would ever give you what you really wanted.  Like for us, all we want is Cory back."

How old is this child?

I Miss...Jacob?

An incredible thing happened the last time Jacob spent the night at a friend's.

I missed him.

I missed him, not because the house was quiet without him now that Cory is gone, but in his own right for no other reason than he is fabulous company.  Full stop.

I am ashamed to say I haven't been able to miss him all on his own without my grief for his sister bleeding over into it since she died.  Being able to recognize this feeling and name it was so much like coming up from anesthesia after a surgery.  It was murky and fleeting at first, but the consciousness grew stronger and the focus sharper over degrees as time went on.  And isn't that what grief does...completely immobilize you for a time?

I am grateful to have woken up at last, and I can only hope not too much damage has been done to my boy in the meantime.

You see, he is the most amazing little man.

Perspective Taking

The other day, I had the worst migraine.  To add insult to injury, it snuck up on me while I was having one of the best days I've had since I lost my Cory Girl.  The pain was debilitating.  I called my mother which is what I generally do when I feel the end is near.  She suggested, quite calmly, that I eat something and take some pain reliever.

Picture me in a sleep tee and boxers, feeling my way through my house with one hand up to shield my right eye, which had become to feel as if it would soon morph into a jelly-like fluid, and simply leak out of my eye socket.  I made it to the kitchen in this fashion, blindly felt for a yogurt in my fridge, and began the search for a spoon.  I could not see six inches in front of me, as paralyzing bolts of pain were shooting through my brain and eye by turns.  This migraine had gotten so bad, it had made its way into my teeth and jaw, as well.  I could not, by feel, locate a spoon in my silverware drawer, and instead of checking my dish drainer- normally a two second task- I just gave up and fumbled a fork out instead.

I sat eating yogurt with a fork, thinking, which probably did my migraine no good at all.

But here's what I thought about:

This was some of the worst physical pain I had experienced, perhaps rivaled only by childbirth and the time I had to visit the e.r. because I couldn't poop.  And even though, I was hurting so badly, I felt better in my mind that I had for quite some time.  See, my depression had lifted in the last couple of days, and I was, for the first time I could remember in awhile, glad to be alive.

There are all sorts of pain in this world.  I, myself, would rather endure physical pain than emotional pain any day of the week.  As I came to this conclusion, I thought of the three people I have watched suffer intensely with mental health concerns- depression, anxiety, even psychosis.   How in the world did they even function?

Can't we remember this the next time we cross paths with someone who is struggling in this way?  Put ourselves in their shoes for just a moment?  Every task for them can be unbelievably difficult.  Cut them some slack, huh?

  No wonder once and awhile, they eat their yogurt with a fork.

Form Over Fashion

The first time I remember being aware of clothing as a statement piece, I was about four years old.  Since then, dressing myself has always been a well-loved game.  As I got older, I not only realized how much I enjoyed color, fabric, and proportion, but that what you put on your body created a certain personae.

This love affair with fashion continued right up until the day I chose the outfit my daughter would be buried in.

At that point, things changed.  And they have continued to change ever since.

During the first eight days or so after Cory was put in the ground, I saw clothing in a whole new light.  For the first time I could consciously remember, clothing had become nothing but a practical necessity.  I remember thinking to myself, something to cover the top- check.  something to cover the bottom- check.  Done.

When I had to return to work, I used clothing as an armor.  I suited up.  If I could keep up appearances by continuing to present myself the way I always had, could I maintain the past?  If I could keep people at bay from asking me questions and offering me hugs, could I play let's-pretend-she's-still-alive in my head and live in denial indefinitely?

Eventually, the effort of putting on this mask took its toll.  I crumbled under the weight of all this pretense, and decided to just be.  Grooming went out the window.  Clothing was a chore.  My dear co-worker and friend told me just recently that she could tell  I was making progress in my grief because I have begun to show up at work dressed more appropriately.  Upon hearing this, I blanched, panic-stricken, trying to remember just what I'd been putting on my body this last year or so, and could only fear I had shown up at the office with one boob hanging out or something.

I asked my friend what she meant by appropriate- had I been showing up without enough clothing or something?  She chuckled, and told me that no, I had not, but I had showed up many times looking as if I'd gotten dressed in the dark.

I tried to muster up some indignation towards this remark, but I had nothing.  She was right.  When I thought back to the impeccable little show poodle who had pranced through the building with ribbons in her hair prior to the accident, I could only imagine how much concern my appearance as of late has caused my co-workers.

I have, in fact, an enviable collection of designer handbags hanging on hooks on my bedroom wall- the most delicious wall hanging ever.  I didn't carry a single one of them for almost two years after Cory died.  One, they meant nothing anymore in the big scheme of things.  Two, I could no longer feel joy.  Three, I felt guilty to do pretty much anything Cory no longer had the opportunity to do.

Perspective changes everything.  Values shift.  Ever so slowly, your new personality emerges, like a woodwork fresh from the whittler's hand.  People are impatient for you to get back to your old self, at the very moment your new identity is being shaped by your grief journey.  Crazy.

At the moment, I'm poised mid-way between the continuum of getting dressed to gain approval and not caring at all about my appearance.  It's a much more soulful place to live.  As I write this at the coffee shop, I am wearing my "writing jeans", one of Cory's T-shirts, and memorial jewelry.  Anyone who ran into me day after day at the coffee shop might worry that I only own this one pair of jeans.  This could not be farther from the truth.  I have way too many, but when coming here, feel pressed to put on my "lucky" writing pants- an ultra comfortable pair of boyfriend jeans, ripped and holey, that feel like home.

I often choose to wear pieces of Cory's clothing to comfort me.  I may sneak in a scarf of hers with my work outfit, or give up all artifice on a particularly rough day, and just show up at work with the hat she was wearing on the day she died perched on my head...whatever gets me through.

While I hope that someday, I actually want to buy myself a new dress or a pair of shoes, I am in no hurry to get there.  There are valuable lessons to be learned in this place I find myself.

 And lately, things on the inside seem way more important that things on the outside.

The Neighborhood

This happened:

The other day, I finally screwed up my courage to go see Cory at the cemetery.  I hadn't gone since before the fifth of July, and I was hesitant because I was finally starting to feel better, and going there devastates me pretty much every time.

But like the birds that know when it's time to head south, I just felt that inner nudge that whispered softly, but firmly, "It's time to go now."

The very best thing happened next.
Tim offered to go with me.

Every time Tim has been at the cemetery since the graveside service, it has been a needs-oriented, task-focused, problem solving trip.  He buried Cory's cat, Church.  He installed little nightlights.  He tidied her spot.  Or he has watched me look at her plot, and waited, in case I fell down, figuratively or literally.

This time was different.

We got there, and just sat in the car near her plot for a couple of minutes, neither of us wanting to get out.  As he does most of the time, he waited for my cue.  I finally took a huge breath, and got out.  He followed me over, and stood quietly as I admired the flowers my mother and sister had recently left.  Our eyes worked in tandem as we took in the little bench that obviously no one has sat on for awhile, and the statue of Church that keeps watch over his beloved master for all of time.  The ground is always last.

I turned to him, "Wanna go for a walk?  We need to get water for the flowers, anyway."

"Sure, honey."  he assented.

I led the way.  I always lead the way.  Sometimes I wish I had someone to lead me.  We made our way to the spigot and filled an old  milk jug with water.  I sat it near the main path, and turned to him.

"Hey, have you ever seen the older section?"

"No, where is it?"  he asked.

"Wanna go see?  It's pretty amazing..."  I offered, almost positive he would say no.  His depression has made nearly all of his decisions for the better part of a year, and does not care for walks.

This day, he said yes.  It was early evening, and there was a wisp of a breeze, the air becoming cooler which is the biggest blessing to me.  I will hate the heat of July for many more days; I am certain.  Again, I led the way, winding around markers that tree roots and weather had slightly rearranged.  Some of the markers had been broken over the years, but some descendant had lovingly pieced them together again.  As we walked along, I felt the rough edges and carvings with my hands, pointing out one or another to him, exclaiming at the dates.

He pointed a little ways ahead, "Hey, those look similar to what Cory's will be."

I nodded excitedly.  Me.  Excited about my daughter's monument.  What in the world was happening here?

"Yes!  That's kind of how I decided on it.  I think they are so beautiful.  You know, I spent a lot of days and nights here just wandering around after Cory died.  It seems so twisted, but I felt like I had to get to know her..."  I hesitated, and finally caved to the words on the tip of my tongue, "her new neighborhood."

"Oh, honey..."

"When I'm not over at her spot going out of my mind, I actually like it here.  It feels peaceful, and there's so many stories here."  I offered.

He agreed, "It is peaceful.  Cory would've wanted a place like this.  Not someone where everyone's markers and flowers looked the same.  That's just not who she was."

I nodded.  Walking back, water jug in hand, I said something that surprised me, "Tim, I never thought I'd say this, but I want Cory's monument to be put in.  It's not right that she doesn't have one set up yet.  I mean, I don't want her to even be here, but if she is, I want strangers to walk by and touch her name someday...like we just did."

"Yeah",  he said.  "She certainly deserves that."

We walked silently the rest of the way.  I watered the hanging flowerpots, and wandered to her nearest neighbors left and right, watering theirs, as well.

Somehow, I scrounged up a grin at Tim, "Have to be neighborly."

He smiled.

Finished with the task, we stood to say our goodbyes.  Sometimes I am eager to get away, other times I just want to bring all my art supplies out and spend the day with her.  Or the night.  She was always afraid of the dark.

I watched Tim's face.  I was pretty sure this had been a different sort of visit for him than what he was used to.

Indeed.  I watched on, at a rare loss for words, as he addressed the grass quietly, "Cory, we miss you.  And we love you so much."  "MWAH!"  he declared, putting his left hand to his mouth, and tossing her a kiss.

I looked at him so intently, that he added, "It's the only way I can give her a kiss, now."

The Perfect Fit

Watching my parents together the other day made me picture the hands of God painstakingly choosing two jigsaw puzzle pieces out of an infinite jumbled landscape of subtly varied options.  As he slid those two particular pieces home so many years ago, he surely must have let loose a sigh of satisfaction:  ahh, a perfect fit.

Today, I am grateful for the model of marriage my parents have offered.  It is truly about helping each other, and being friends.

What If?

Some of my rage has been because of what was denied to my girl, who did not live the long, happy life you automatically expect and wish for your child.  For instance, occasionally, I would reread a well-loved book that Cory never read or discover a new one, published since her death, and that bitter bile would rise in my throat just realizing that Cory did not get to experience it.

It just occurred to me, that if Cory is in a place where she wants for nothing and needs nothing, she is probably being read to right now from whatever book happens to strike her fancy, and perhaps the voice she is hearing in her head right now, instead of being cruel and unkind like the ones she was subjected through throughout her mental illness, is my voice reading to her- one of our dual joys since her babyhood.

This thought brings me peace, and I needed to capture it on paper, and then share with you- because anything good that you discover in life, becomes even more precious when you can share it with a friend.

Guys, I'm on a roll.

More smile than face.

Cory Loved

This was written by a heartbroken mother, perhaps 48 hours or so before her daughter's funeral that she could only refer to as "the service".  It was meant to give people who hadn't known her daughter very well an idea of the kind of person Cory was and the things she valued, small and great.  Here, said this woman, who could not see anything but blackness, take this snapshot of my girl and see the beauty she left behind.  But to read it or hear it read, as it was at the "service" brought pain, misery, and fear.  How to live without these moments ever again?

I reread this just a few minutes ago, and did not cry.  I smiled.  I beamed.  I read the words, and let the images wash over me like a warm bath over aching bones.

 Now each memory is like a bead of the pearl necklace Cory treasured...to me, at least, they each gleam, lustrous one by one, but put them together, and the presentation may cause a lump in your throat, not from pain, but just that feeling you get when you see something so exquisite, it causes a physical reaction.

This was read by our pastor at my daughter's funeral.  As you read it, I can only hope it reminds you to treasure your loved ones- every moment and every quirk.

Cory loved…

Pistachios

Dr. Pepper chapstick

Mommy & Cory days spent browsing the mall and going to the movies

Being the DJ while her mom made dinner

Dancing with her mom, brother, and cat in the kitchen

The band, My Chemical Romance

Watching American Idol with her family

Paying her little brother to paint her toenails

Crushing garlic cloves for her mom when they cooked together

The hot wings at Jack’s

Her mom’s cooking…so much that she said she’d never, ever leave home

Watching scary movies

Sitting at the end of her mom’s bed every chance she got to share stories and laugh

An ice cold Sun Drop

The color pink

Hello Kitty

Going to Barnes and Nobles for a Frappuccino and just to look around

Changing her hair color and hair style like a clever little chameleon

Spoiling her brother with the very last dollar in her purse

Singing…anywhere, everywhere, and all the time

Painting

Hugging her grandma and grandpa goodbye each and every time she saw them

Being read to

Pasta

Making  people laugh

Watching over her brother like a little mother hen

Friday lunches with her dad every week

Going to church

Being a ventriloquist for her cat, Church, who is apparently a very talented singer with a Southern accent

and

Walking to the Urbandale plaza just for something fun to do

Tales of Jacob- Volume 1

(Because if I didn't brag on how funny her little "brah" is, Cory would never forgive me.  Plus, I am quite in love with the little guy myself...)

The other day I called Jacob to come see the new besties of the household:  Violet, our large, super aggressive tiger stripe cat and Oliver, the most docile little orange tabby cat who ever lived.  Violet is barely off of Kitten Chow, while Oliver is a dignified soon to be 16 year old gentleman who is losing weight to the degree that I've taken to feeding him soft cat food in secret while the others are napping.  Violet and Oliver are a most unlikely pair, yet there they were, sunning themselves on the cat napper, all but spooning.  Jacob smiled widely, just shaking his head at this outrageous sight.

"Look at them!  The skinniest and the fattest!"  I observed.

Jacob took immediate offense on behalf of his beloved, crying out, "She's not fat!  She's lumpy!"

"Lumpy?"  I questioned, searching my female heart to decide if one prospect was better than the other.

"Yes."  he declared firmly.  "Lumpy.  Like Grandpa calls me and Cory."

Oh yes.  

Only my dear, sweet father could successfully turn "lumpy" into a complimentary adjective and term of endearment.

I can only hope Jacob will remember to bestow it on his children someday, as well.

Cooler Weather Prevails

I am so relieved that the temperature outdoors has dropped.  Fall has always been my favorite season, anyways, and well, summer is a little more difficult now,for obvious reasons.

However,
I must share that although I am happy to see summer go, I am a little remiss that I didn't get to hear Cory complain dramatically whilst fanning herself, "Whew!  It is hot in here!  I'm gonna have ta take a paper towel to my underboobies!"

A Minimum of 21 Days...

They say to create a new habit, you must do something for a minimum of 21 days.  As with anything, it's not an exact science; we are all individuals.  If you happen to be fighting your nature, I imagine you could triple that estimate...or more.  For the last 21 days, give or take, I've been keeping a gratitude calendar- pretty much forcing myself to be positive for about 60 seconds each day...fill the blasted box, Nick.  There's got to be something. I've read this is supposed to help with depression, so it's worth a try.  Since I bitch so much on this blog, I thought I'd humor those pesky optimists out and share some things I am grateful for:

1.  Schlotzky's carrot cake, when my mom's is not available
2. Kind friends on facebook
3. Jake's laugh
4. Starbuck's coffee
5. Brownstone's coffee and atmosphere
6. My voice
7. My husband did the dishes before he went to work
8. My husband, who begrudges me nothing that I buy through his hard work to bring myself comfort
9. The thoughtfulness and kindness of others
10. Nineteen years with an amazing girl.
11. Words
12. Art
13. Getting my car repaired, and back on the road
14. Time off work to rest, and regroup
15. My mother and father
16. Reese's McFlurries
17. Sleeping in
18. So many beautiful pictures of my daughter
19. The sound of my dog snoring
20. That my mom's eye surgery went flawlessly
21. The trip to Italy with my mother
22. That reading has never failed to be a perfect escape into another world for as long as the good story holds out

xoxo Nicole

The Questions Now

I told Tim today, at coffee, that the loss keeps hitting me in new and different angles.  Something I wish I didn't know is that when you lose your adult child and they were childless, you also lose those minute glimpses of the child you raised- whether it be something in their sideways grin or the way they hold themselves while waiting in a long  line (Cory always capped her left elbow with her right hand when she was nervous or just lost in thought).

So I said my peace on this note and swallowed a lot of Toffee Nut Mocha with my heartache and bitterness.  I feel she has been stolen from me.  I know; I know; she was "on loan" in the first place.  Tell that to my heart.  It just doesn't play.

So the questions now, and I've had much of the last ten days or so to think about it, are these:

Will I stay bitter?

and

Will I risk my heart so wholly again?

I've got a lot of work to do.

High Maintenance

I've written a lot about how hard it has been to go through losing a child when your spouse is not well.  Tim's depressive episode has pretty much isolated himself from the entire household.  Jake and I just look at each other and carry on the best we can- one of us needs to grow chest hairs, and that's pretty much all there is to it.  When I did share about being in a relationship with someone who has bipolar, I think I mainly vented  about things that weren't being done- household chores, repairs around the house, yardwork.  I think I forgot to describe the heartbreaking loneliness I felt having had the only person who held me up through all of the arrangements just quietly disappear into the shadows.

  Twisted or whatever, I care not, Cory was my partner.  It was her and I against the world and to parent Jacob the majority of the time.  Without her, I could barely stand.  Now to also lose my spouse, the man who is meant to care for and protect me-it was a huge blow.  Talking to him, even earnestedly, the threat of divorce clear in my words, his face was a mask.  He would listen; he would walk away.  When I say I've been alone in that house, that is exactly what I mean.  At times, it feels like a jail sentence, but then I realize there is no pointing in marking off the days...where is there to go from here?

So in an effort to tell the whole story (tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth), let me shed a little light on what it's like to live with a grieving mother who is also suffering from PTSD:


Tim might be leisurely enjoying one of his History Channel programs, when a piercing scream comes from my bedroom.  He runs in, sure I have hacked off a finger with one of my scrapping tools only to find me sitting up in bed in the same clothes I've been wearing for a week, dirty hair pulled back in a careless bun, and tears streaming down my face.
"Honey, what's wrong"
"I want Cory.  I want her.  I want her.  I want her."  The wailing begins and may very well go on until my throat hurts.  Usually, Tim will slip me a pill and get me to lie down on my side, one of Cory's stuffed animals in the crook of my arm, and the covers up to my chin.  "Try to rest, honey.  Just try to rest."

Sometimes, I refuse to eat.  Three grapes in the morning.  A cup of coffee if I leave the house that day.  During these times, Tim tries to ply me with milkshakes, that old trick of Dr. Z's.  I tell him I can taste nothing.  While this is true, sometimes I can't taste anything, other times I have reverted back to "I don't deserve to eat if she can't.  I let her die".

Do we want to discuss my driving?  Tim tends to drive like an old man, so whenever we travel together, I am always behind the wheel.  The road rage has gotten somewhere better, but it still pops up when I see someone crossing the street WITHOUT EVEN LIFTING THEIR HEAD, LET ALONE LOOKING BOTH WAYS, and somehow the cars magically part for the person like the fricking Red Sea.  What the hell?  What the HELL, people?  Driving right along, I scream and swear at the top of my lungs, hitting the steering wheel or my thigh to the beat of my words.  WHY MY GIRL?  WHY?

My mood day to day is every bit as unpredictable as Cory's used to be.  The other day I got the mail in.  Bills, bills, more bills, and oh....what was this?  Discover card has sent an offer to my dead child.  It has her name right there front and center:  Corinne Nicole Mansfield.  Shaking, I set it on the counter.  Silently, it regards me.

 What do I do with the damn thing?  I can't throw it away- it has her name on it.  I put it to the bottom of the pile and leave the room.  Later, when I sit down to do my bill pay, I put in a bill holder where three or four such other envelopes rest in a gloomy pile.  This is surely the saddest hoarding I have ever done.

The other night, I went onto Vera Bradley online to look at their cute little sticky notes- perfect for my planners.  Scrolling past, I discovered they have made a credit card shaped magnifier for reading, edged in their pretty designs.  Instantly enraged, I opened my mouth and just SCREAMED!  "Are you @@@@ing kidding me?"  Sure, sure, now you make something that would've helped my girl when it's TOO LATE!!  Absolutely infuriated, I slammed the lid down on my laptop as hard as I could, and fell into a fitful sleep, harboring hate for God and everyone in my heart.  What a shit deal.  What a shit, shit deal.

What do ya say?  Wanna come live with me?

Listen Here...

Sometimes the knowledge that Cory is really dead feels like an actual person who follows me around all day long, hurling stones at me.  Any distraction deep enough to lull me into forgetting, and bing!, there goes a tiny one, all sharp edges.  Others are bigger, and stop me in my tracks.  If there are too many, I end up crawling on my knees until I make it to my bed- a stone-free zone... for certain hours of the day, at least.

Acceptance is not a hurdle that you gain, make your way past, and go on about your business.  Your heart and brain are connected, you see; your heart is forever trying to talk your brain out of that most horrible truth.  It cannot be.  It just cannot be.  Listen here...

Regrets

My list of regrets when it comes to my girl who died unexpectedly is blessedly short.  I wish I'd rubbed her neck for more when it hurt from the meds she was on.  I wish I'd let her get the two designer handbags she had a canary over at Macy's one afternoon, instead of making her choose one, which ending up with her sobbing in the public bathroom.  And then there was the last time she spent the night at a friend's.  All was well the entire evening; the frantic call came at about 12:30 a.m..  She was hearing voices, badly, and she just wanted her mommy.

Let me break in here to say I never once imagined how I would survive if Cory died before me.  But I often worried about what would happen to Cory if I died before her- before she was stabilized, and had built up a strong support group around herself.  I often worried- would she be able to work, live alone, sustain a relationship?  Would she get married?  Would she have children?

Some of these things ran through the back of my mind, as I tiptoed into her little brother's darkened bedroom and gazed down at him sleeping soundly in his bed.  Was it fair to get him up and out?  And since when had fair become a factor in any of those mess...fair had taken a powder long ago.

I called her back and soothed her over the phone the best I could.  When asked, she told me the voices were saying such bad things she couldn't even repeat them and it was scaring her.  I asked her if she had talked to her friend or her aunt (she was at my sister's) at all, but she said, "No, I only want to talk to you."  I told her I was so glad she wanted to talk to me, but what if there was a time I wasn't around- mightn't it be a good idea to add a person or two to that list, so she always had someone available?

Cory paused.  "But Mom, she'll think I'm crazy"
"Cory, you listen to me, baby girl.  You are not crazy.  Your brain just happens to work a little different than other people's and so what!!!  Look at all the wonderful things it comes up with!  You are not your illness, and you never will be."

"Ok, ok, Mom.  I'll try.  I hope you're right."

"Cory-Girl, you are so brave.  If you don't feel better, at least a little, call me back and I WILL come get you."

"Mom, I'm so lucky to have you."

"No, baby girl, I'm the lucky one."

We hung up and I waited.  And waited.  And eventually, I dozed off with phone in my hand, and woke up with morning light streaming through my bedroom windows.

Some hours later, Cory called me and said her friend had been great.  They had talked, made a "happy place" collage, and then done their nails.  The voices subsided for awhile.

I smiled, outside and inside, because Cory had just added someone to her safe circle.   She had learned how to self-soothe without drugs or alcohol.  With or without me, she was going to be okay.

Now that she's gone, I sometimes wish, I'd have just put on my Momma cape and flew to her rescue.  But who would that have really been for- me or her?

Growing Pains

Since the accident, Jacob has spent a lot of time at his best friend's house.  In the summer time, his sleepovers stretch effortlessly from one night to three or more.  I am intensely grateful to the family for welcoming my boy into their home, which is a typically functioning family, and a generally happy place to be.  While I will grouch to Tim that Jake leaves the "death house" every chance he gets, I completely understand his compulsion; I sometimes wish I could pack a quick bag and run away to my best friend's, too.

I remind myself that while Jake is at his friends, he doesn't have to stumble on triggers of his tragically lost sister every five minutes.  And let's face it, even once her coats are finally moved from the coat rack at the back door (whenever that may happen; don't ask me, because I frankly have no idea), they will still hang there, ghost-like apparitions in the empty spaces they leave behind.

While Jake is gone, I will get a phone call if he wants money.  Check in calls or texts are always initiated by me, and usually go something like this, "Jake, sweetie, are you EVER coming home?"  or "Twelve is too young to leave home."  or "Your kittens need their father."

This is so polar opposite from everything I ever experienced with Cory.

Cory did check in.  Multiple times.  And sometimes would call to ask to come home early.  She would always call or text me the small, funny details of her adventures away from home. When she returned home, there was a complete blow by blow of her stay.

The difference is stark, to say the least.  At first, I had hurt feelings that Jake was so obviously fine to be away from me.  He doesn't love me as much as Cory did.  He doesn't really need me.  These immature and cruel feelings came whether I wanted them to or not; isn't that how feelings go?

Finally, it bothered me so much I decided to try to figure out what the difference was.  I mean, come on, I know my son loves me, very much.  There was a diad between Cory and I, sure, but it was housed within a very solid triad made up of my children and I- the permanent components of my immediate family.

So I researched healthy attachments and the typical emotional development of children, preadolescents, and teenagers, boys and girls.  Guess what?
 Jake is behaving like a typically developing twelve year boy.

I think I sometimes forget that just as I have to raise a child while I grief, Jacob also has to grow up as he grieves.  The show must go on.  He has developmental tasks that must be accomplished, to the best of his abilities.  And he is actually doing quite well, considering.

So why all the hurt and misgivings on my part?  Well, I thought something must be wrong.  I have never raised a typically developing pre-teen before.  Cory suffered from severe separation anxiety since she was a young child- a common precursor for early onset bipolar or a predisposition to developing it later in life.  I have never parented this age with a child who didn't have some difficulties with being away from me.  It feels weird because it's not my normal.

 The thing is, it's such a good, good sign.  Jake's dad suffers from bipolar disorder, just as Cory's biological father does.  There has always been the possibility that he, too, would end up with bipolar.  The fact that he is trooping right along, nary a symptom in sight, is a blessing I should get right down on my knees for, instead of bemoaning the fact that he doesn't miss me enough!

I have a healthy son.  Cory has a healthy brother.  Do you know how happy this would make her?  She worried for him, just as I did.  Somewhere, she is heaving a huge sigh of relief.

Fragile Fettuccine Memories

I have to tell you about what happened with Jake a couple weeks ago.

A little background:  my softspoken twelve year son is tenderhearted and holds everything tightly to him.  I watch him work his way through his grief instinctively, and it is rather amazing.  He doesn't seem to doubt himself.  He doesn't let others' ideas of what he should be doing influence him.  He just makes his way through each day the best he can.  He clings to things that comfort him and distracts himself with happy activities far more often than I am able to do.  I think children usually do.

And despite my fears that it will hurt him more in the long run, he seldom talks about Cory.  He usually says simply, "I miss her."  and moves quickly onto another topic.  Or if gently pressed, he will offer, "I miss making brownies with her."  That is all.

So a couple of weeks ago, Jake and I sat down at the too big for just two dining room table.  I had made Fragile Fettuccine.  Trying to engage him in conversation, any conversation, as he is now eerily more quiet than he was before the accident, I quipped, "So tell me, son, are you going to cook this for your kids someday when you're a grownup and remember me?"

He finished his bite, and answered, "Yeah...probably."  And then, "Whenever I eat this, it makes me think of when you used to make it for me and Cory, and we'd sit down to watch American Idol together."

My eyebrows shot up.  What was this?  Did he just say his sister's name on his own?  I thought hard for moment, what was different this time?

I proceeded with this, "Oh, so the taste reminds you of Cory.  Are there any smells that make you think of her?"

He broke into a grin, "Her slobber."

I chuckled at this typical sibling response.    He'd spent enough movies cuddled up on the couch beside her to have been slimed a time or two when she'd nodded off.   Cory would be mortified to hear this, and would probably try to lick his arm just for good measure, as he squealed and tried to wiggle lose from  from her grasp.

"Jacob!"  I exclaimed, laughing, and met his eyes,which were smiling as he warmed to the game.  "Okay, her slobber...How about something you hear?"

Immediately, he shot back, "Home.  That song Home that the guy who won American Idol sung on the finale that time."

I nodded excitedly, "Oh, yes!  I remember that."

He went on, "And remember when Aerosmith came out on the stage and we stood up on the couch and started screaming like crazy!  That was so fun!"

I looked at his little face, which was all at once joyous and full of longing, and knew in that moment, he was completely and fully with his sister.  It was bittersweet.

There hasn't been a stand-on-the-couch-screaming moment since she died.  There will never be another one quite the same.  Things are different now.

What I learned during this dinnertime exchange was that my math and science techie boy is not comfortable sharing his feelings, unless you access a different part of his brain to do it.  Don't ask him how he feels- which is a huge and scary question for many adults, let alone children.

 Instead, maybe ask him something not quite so open-ended- which sounds completely opposite of anything I've ever been taught.  The thing is, it worked.  I think asking him questions related to the five senses that had definitive answers gave him enough emotional distance to be able to answer without the fear of him losing control.

What I know, for sure, is that we were both missing our Cory Girl like crazy as we finished slurping up our pasta, and it had felt good to remember her together.

Just a Journal Entry

It does feel better to just have the date past, which makes no sense at all- she is still gone today.  Yet there it is- the slight relaxing of the shoulders, the subconscious unclenching of the jaw.  I showered today, washing away a layer of despair along with everything else.  I left the house without prodding, and I am here, at the coffeeshop, at my regular table, creating something.  I am leaving something behind in the place where so much is missing.
 It feels good.

Pause

I think I drove my friend, Angie, absolutely to the edge of reason the last couple weeks or so.  I kept arguing with her that it made no sense to me why people celebrate or even observe their loved ones death dates.  To me, that date is full of horror and pain- it was for my girl and it was for me.  July 5th is something to get through, but not something I want to make a big production of, I told her.  She looked at me, honestly perplexed, "Nicole, not everyone thinks that way.  In fact, I think most people see it as a way to honor their loved one's life, and remember the good times."

My name should be Negative Nellie; this I admit freely.

 But look, I honestly wasn't being pessimistic this time.  I just couldn't make any sense of the concept.  Why honor the day someone was taken from you?  Wouldn't you honor their memory on the day they came into the world, like you do live people?  On their birthday?  Doesn't that make more sense?  The only good reason I could think of to even acknowledge someone's death date on their tombstone would be so those passing by could do the math, and figure out how long the person had lived.  Is it not life we are honoring when we remember our loved ones?

Angie gave up after about the twelveth round of this discussion.  She has the patient of a saint, but even she has limits.  Me?  I am nothing, if not stubborn and frequently argumentative.

Like all of life's mysteries to me, I researched it on the internet.  I finally found something that made some shred of sense to me.  The moment your loved one died, your world stopped, along with theirs.  The same was true for extended family and friends.  Things stopped, and a focus was put on how that person's presence affected your life, and how their absence would, as well.

Additionally each year, when people honor a loved one's death date, there is a pause.  I imagine to many it would not be as brutal as that original date, but there is, in fact,  a pause.  It is a time to reflect  again on what that person brought to your life, and may continue to bring, even after their death.

I could get with this.

I may not be ready to set off balloons or hold a candlelight vigil just yet, but at least I can see a good reason to honor this horrible day.  It's out of respect.  Recognition.  Appreciation.

I get it now.  It's what I do everyday that I am without my girl.  There is no need for me to circle it on the calendar.  But it does have the power to stop me in my tracks.  Or put me on bed rest, as it were.

You Are Here

I have a little arrow sticker in my planner that says "You are Here".  I move around my month so I can tell at a glance just where I am.  Yesterday, naturally, it was on the fifth of July.  I took a good look at it when I opened up my pages, and thought, well, isn't that the truth?

It had come upon me, whether I wanted it or not.

I took a slight head in the sand approach to the day, writing only two things on my to do list:  post a picture of Cory and breathe, all day long.

To pass the time, I slept.  Dr. Z is quite right, you know- if you look at pictures of someone right before sleep, he or she will often show up in your dreams.

My last thought before burrowing back into my pillow as soon as I realized it was morning was remembering the first time I heard Cory laugh.  We were at the little house on Broadway.  I had pair of those tiny nail clippers, and set about trimming her nails.  I'm not sure quite why it struck her fancy so, but each time the clippers made the little "click" sound, she let loose the most satisfying baby belly laugh in all existence.  I was awed.  Nothing so magical had ever happened to me in all of my nineteen years.  I was awestruck, indeed, and  I was also alone in the house, unable to share my joy with someone.

  As with many of my life experiences, I felt the immediate, pressing need to share it with my mother.  I dialed her up with hands shaking in excitement, hoping Cory would do it again so Mom could hear it over the phone.  She did, of course, and Mom was nearly as delighted as I had been, despite having had four daughters who performed this little miracle for her enjoyment far before Cory came to be.

I fell asleep to this memory and then had the dream.  I had the dream I wish always came when I will it, but doesn't...the dream I wish I could just put on a loop and take into a deep, long coma with me.  I don't know if every parent who's lost a child has this dream, but I'd be curious to know.  It goes like this:

It was all a mistake!  

Cory survived the accident, and turned out just fine!  She was back home, seemingly puzzled at all the fuss and fanfare.  I was so filled with joy to see her, I probably could have flown if I had simply put forth the effort.  

She was wearing a pink sundress, all her limbs whole and straight.  Her face was simply aglow with her smile, radiant, and unmarred by cuts or bruises.  I looked her over, inventorying every last bit of her, unable to believe my eyes.  How could this be true?  Somehow, it was, and I kept touching her to confirm it to myself. 

 She soon tired of all the poking and prodding, and asked me outright, "Woman, what do I have to do to prove to you I'm okay?  Carry you across the room?!"  I laughed the couple of inches down into her face, and squealed in protest as she did just that, hefting me up onto her hip as if I was the world's largest and laziest toddler.  We nearly fell over, laughing.  

All was as it had been.  Amen.

That's where I want to be, long to be.  But as Acceptance often points out to me, that is not where I am.  I am here, without her, but with the magical sound of her first laugh in my ears.  It doesn't seem like enough, but it is more than some people get.

I'll take it.