Tales of Jacob Volume III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keepin It Real

And because I tell it all...

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

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

Criterion E: alterations in arousal and reactivity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the Prowl

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

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

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

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

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

Deep breath.  Tears.  Carry on.

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

So, then, this year:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Giving Thanks

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

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

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

I got you, girl.

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

Sweetest man alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday Shopping

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

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

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

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

I really miss making her happy.

Medicate Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More Smile Than Face Returns

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

We call it "more smile than face".

At Last He Speaks Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conversations With Jacob

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

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

He and his wife giggled politely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BTW

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

Dreamscape

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

A Three Part Act Called Panic, Terror, and Horror

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's Working?

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

This is my nod to him.

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

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

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

Good Housekeeping

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

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

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

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

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

 Laundry?  Are you freaking kidding me?

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

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

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

"The squatter that lives in the basement."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bedtime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Could you breathe?"  I asked her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would she say?

I wonder.

Rituals

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

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

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

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

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

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