Thursday, January 29, 2015
Mr. Oliver
As my orange tabby cat, Oliver, took his last breaths on our bathroom floor, I covered him in a warm towel and held him for awhile. I tried to meet his eyes, and let him know I was there, but I could tell he was in too much pain to even know what was happening around him. My sweet little old man, sixteen, almost seventeen, had lost weight seemingly overnight, and felt just the way Sassy had felt in my arms that last time at the vet: no more than a bundle of sticks.
Sassy had been silent and aware, so weak she couldn't lift a paw, but trading messages with me with her gaze for all she was worth. I love you, Mom. Don't leave me. She died in my arms, and I was completely devastated, grateful to have been there for her, and upset that I had not been there for Cory in her last moments.
Oliver was not silent. He cried, and struggled to breathe, and it was another of those horrible pictures you wish you could unsee, but once seen, must own for the rest of your life. He couldn't support his own weight or move at all, but his limbs occasionally spasmed on their own. I sat on the tile beside him with my heart in my throat, just crying to see him suffer.
There was no last moment of recognition. There was only his concave side that stopped moving and his mouth flung wide open, in the extremity of his pain and anguish.
If you are a pet person, you already know that I sobbed my heart out, and knew not another wink of sleep that night; that I covered his precious face that no longer looked familiar and crawled my way out of that room, leaving my husband to move his wasted body to a more appropriate placement.
I went back to my bed for the last hour before my alarm went off for work, and went back and forth with thoughts of Oliver and Cory. A song lyric came to mind, "Love is watching someone die."
Yes, it is. But the more I considered this hard truth, the more I realized it may have been better than I didn't run down my street in time, after all. What I saw of Cory on the road haunts me. It was the most horrendous thing I've ever seen.
I remember when my cat, Sassy, died, and I held her as she went gently away, thinking I'd been cheated those moments with my Cory Girl. But what if her death had not been quiet? What if she had been in extreme pain and struggling to breathe? What if she tried to speak, but couldn't say my name? Or worse, what if she wasn't even aware that I was there, and that she was not alone in this unthinkable time?
I don't think I could have seen those sort of things, and continued to live. So at a most unexpected time, I find myself grateful for something I never considered a blessing.
What's that saying? "What is healing, but a shift in perspective?"
Sassy had been silent and aware, so weak she couldn't lift a paw, but trading messages with me with her gaze for all she was worth. I love you, Mom. Don't leave me. She died in my arms, and I was completely devastated, grateful to have been there for her, and upset that I had not been there for Cory in her last moments.
Oliver was not silent. He cried, and struggled to breathe, and it was another of those horrible pictures you wish you could unsee, but once seen, must own for the rest of your life. He couldn't support his own weight or move at all, but his limbs occasionally spasmed on their own. I sat on the tile beside him with my heart in my throat, just crying to see him suffer.
There was no last moment of recognition. There was only his concave side that stopped moving and his mouth flung wide open, in the extremity of his pain and anguish.
If you are a pet person, you already know that I sobbed my heart out, and knew not another wink of sleep that night; that I covered his precious face that no longer looked familiar and crawled my way out of that room, leaving my husband to move his wasted body to a more appropriate placement.
I went back to my bed for the last hour before my alarm went off for work, and went back and forth with thoughts of Oliver and Cory. A song lyric came to mind, "Love is watching someone die."
Yes, it is. But the more I considered this hard truth, the more I realized it may have been better than I didn't run down my street in time, after all. What I saw of Cory on the road haunts me. It was the most horrendous thing I've ever seen.
I remember when my cat, Sassy, died, and I held her as she went gently away, thinking I'd been cheated those moments with my Cory Girl. But what if her death had not been quiet? What if she had been in extreme pain and struggling to breathe? What if she tried to speak, but couldn't say my name? Or worse, what if she wasn't even aware that I was there, and that she was not alone in this unthinkable time?
I don't think I could have seen those sort of things, and continued to live. So at a most unexpected time, I find myself grateful for something I never considered a blessing.
What's that saying? "What is healing, but a shift in perspective?"
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
SOS
Dr. Z said that one day the sweetness of the memories will outweigh the pain of her absence.
I love that man, but I'm not always sure he knows what he's talking about.
However:
the other night, I started having flashbacks. Nights are always the worst for this, and for missing her. It didn't help that earlier that evening, when dark had fallen, some random guy walked in front of my car on West Michigan, wearing DARK clothes, including a hoodie over his head.
FUCKING REALLY?!!
Of course, he made it to the other side of the road safely, all limbs and organs intact, and I just continued driving down the road screaming like a lunatic at the injustice of it all.
Maybe that's where the flashbacks came from. Safe and warm in my bed, covers to my chin, my eyes began to scan the ground for her body, finally seeing something flung to the side, surrounded by people, I shook my head in the dark.
Stop! Stop! Stop!
I tried to tell myself I was not there, roadside, I was in my bed, and it had been two years-- I spied the hump of her back, her splayed legs, the way her hair had fallen forward, thereby judiciously covering any telltale slumps or bulges.
Stop!!!!!!!!!!
I sat up, suddenly wanting more than anything to just hear her voice. I got out my phone, pulled up that video on Facebook- the one where's she's singing along to a song. Watching and listening to videos of her makes me joyously happy and dangerously suicidal, at the same time.
So this time, I snugged down under the covers, anchoring my cold butt to the mattress warmer, grabbed my stuffed animal, pulled the covers back up to my chin, and put in my ear buds. I closed my eyes, and let the video play. Her voice, so sweet and familiar filled my head, and the only thing I got from it was comfort. Why had I never thought of this before?
Stop. Orient. And Soothe.
I think I'll download this video clip to my phone where I can play it on a loop, and let her sing to sleep some nights. She'll be right beside me.
I love that man, but I'm not always sure he knows what he's talking about.
However:
the other night, I started having flashbacks. Nights are always the worst for this, and for missing her. It didn't help that earlier that evening, when dark had fallen, some random guy walked in front of my car on West Michigan, wearing DARK clothes, including a hoodie over his head.
FUCKING REALLY?!!
Of course, he made it to the other side of the road safely, all limbs and organs intact, and I just continued driving down the road screaming like a lunatic at the injustice of it all.
Maybe that's where the flashbacks came from. Safe and warm in my bed, covers to my chin, my eyes began to scan the ground for her body, finally seeing something flung to the side, surrounded by people, I shook my head in the dark.
Stop! Stop! Stop!
I tried to tell myself I was not there, roadside, I was in my bed, and it had been two years-- I spied the hump of her back, her splayed legs, the way her hair had fallen forward, thereby judiciously covering any telltale slumps or bulges.
Stop!!!!!!!!!!
I sat up, suddenly wanting more than anything to just hear her voice. I got out my phone, pulled up that video on Facebook- the one where's she's singing along to a song. Watching and listening to videos of her makes me joyously happy and dangerously suicidal, at the same time.
So this time, I snugged down under the covers, anchoring my cold butt to the mattress warmer, grabbed my stuffed animal, pulled the covers back up to my chin, and put in my ear buds. I closed my eyes, and let the video play. Her voice, so sweet and familiar filled my head, and the only thing I got from it was comfort. Why had I never thought of this before?
Stop. Orient. And Soothe.
I think I'll download this video clip to my phone where I can play it on a loop, and let her sing to sleep some nights. She'll be right beside me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Girl Power
How exactly did Cory end up to be the character that she was?
Let me tell you a story.
I have sometimes felt I was born in the wrong decade, and picture myself as a housewife in the fifties, with a squeaky clean kitchen, content to iron my husband's shirts, while looking fresh and delicious in one of those fabulous dresses, wearing lipstick and heels at home in the daytime...clickety-clack. Of course, I realize if I indeed had that, I would no doubt be miserable, dreaming of working outside the home, showing my husband that my brain was of as much value as my tiny waist that looked so fetching in those belted dresses.
You always want what you can't have, right?
Well, one particular winter as a single parent to my teen-aged daughter and young son, what I desperately wanted was a man to shovel my driveway for free. We got absolutely dumped on; the kids had a snow day, and the rest is history:
It started out as a "family effort". Jake had his tiny plastic shovel, mostly for show, you understand, and Cory had a shovel surely meant for gardening, if such things actually took place on my property. I grabbed the snow shovel, and together we trudged down our long driveway, ready to finish this little task up in five minutes or so.
By the time the snot had begun to run clearly down their faces, the kids put down their shovels and fled. Cory promised me hot cocoa when I came in, and backed away, a look of horror on her face, "Sorry, Mom, I just didn't realize snow was so heavy, and I can't feel my feet anymore."
Yeah, yeah. I branded them both deserters, and hit my angry music playlist on my I-pod. I'd shovel for about three minutes steadily, and then bend over, winded. I have always been skinny, but not necessarily fit. I could not believe the barbaric nature of this chore, and vowed to eat more, as I had a snow blower, but not enough ass to get the stupid thing started.
Eventually, I was sweating so much, I had to strip off my sub-zero puffer coat. Every time I looked up, positive I was nearly done, I would glance up the driveway, and see my progress was actually about a foot and a half. Some emotions were stirred during this shovel-thon: mainly bad ones, and aimed at the men not currently in my life...you wanna talk deserters, let's talk deserters.
I was getting myself quite worked up by this point. How dare these men just leave me holding the shovel? I had borne their seed! We had had legal and and non-legal sacred unions together. You can't shovel my effin driveway?! Didn't they know men are generally physically stronger than women for one reason? To move snow!
I started thinking about Ma and Pa Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie, and was pretty sure this was not the way the crap went down in The Long Hard Winter. Surely, Pa would come in from the blowing snow after milking the cows, and currying the horses or some crap, place a strong hand on Ma's collarbone the way he always did, and say, "Hey girl...I love the way you churned that butter...the snow removal's all me."
I can't get a Pa? For real, guys?
Half-way through, I turned this back breaking Godforsaken task into a test of my personal character. I would clear this driveway for my children, and show them we didn't need a man! I could do whatever needed doing. By the time I'd made it two thirds of the way to the end, fearing a coronary
event at any moment, I'd decided I could do anything, as long as I had my kids. Give me some scrap
lumber and a bucket full of nails, and I'd build a lean-to outside the backdoor, and stock it with homemade apple butter.
I may have stopped once to call my mom and say my final goodbyes, the way I am always tempted to do when I feel the end is near. Mom, who I suspect has never shoveled a driveway in her lifetime with my father (a true Pa sort of man), sounded dubious, but encouraging, and not quite sure what all my dramatics were about.
With the last shovelful flung weakly to the side, I dropped the shovel where I stood, and made my way to the house. I was out of breath, hot, yet freezing, fed up with the opposite sex, yet strangely exhilarated...victorious, really.
I crawled up the two steps of our landing, fell to my knees in the dining room, and with a loud cry, whipped my shirt off to my bra. Jacob looked on, mouth agape, as Cory turned to me from her place at the counter, where she was making hot cocoa while safely cocooned in a snuggie, and said,
"Oh my God, woman, what are we going to do with you?"
Let me tell you a story.
I have sometimes felt I was born in the wrong decade, and picture myself as a housewife in the fifties, with a squeaky clean kitchen, content to iron my husband's shirts, while looking fresh and delicious in one of those fabulous dresses, wearing lipstick and heels at home in the daytime...clickety-clack. Of course, I realize if I indeed had that, I would no doubt be miserable, dreaming of working outside the home, showing my husband that my brain was of as much value as my tiny waist that looked so fetching in those belted dresses.
You always want what you can't have, right?
Well, one particular winter as a single parent to my teen-aged daughter and young son, what I desperately wanted was a man to shovel my driveway for free. We got absolutely dumped on; the kids had a snow day, and the rest is history:
It started out as a "family effort". Jake had his tiny plastic shovel, mostly for show, you understand, and Cory had a shovel surely meant for gardening, if such things actually took place on my property. I grabbed the snow shovel, and together we trudged down our long driveway, ready to finish this little task up in five minutes or so.
By the time the snot had begun to run clearly down their faces, the kids put down their shovels and fled. Cory promised me hot cocoa when I came in, and backed away, a look of horror on her face, "Sorry, Mom, I just didn't realize snow was so heavy, and I can't feel my feet anymore."
Yeah, yeah. I branded them both deserters, and hit my angry music playlist on my I-pod. I'd shovel for about three minutes steadily, and then bend over, winded. I have always been skinny, but not necessarily fit. I could not believe the barbaric nature of this chore, and vowed to eat more, as I had a snow blower, but not enough ass to get the stupid thing started.
Eventually, I was sweating so much, I had to strip off my sub-zero puffer coat. Every time I looked up, positive I was nearly done, I would glance up the driveway, and see my progress was actually about a foot and a half. Some emotions were stirred during this shovel-thon: mainly bad ones, and aimed at the men not currently in my life...you wanna talk deserters, let's talk deserters.
I was getting myself quite worked up by this point. How dare these men just leave me holding the shovel? I had borne their seed! We had had legal and and non-legal sacred unions together. You can't shovel my effin driveway?! Didn't they know men are generally physically stronger than women for one reason? To move snow!
I started thinking about Ma and Pa Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie, and was pretty sure this was not the way the crap went down in The Long Hard Winter. Surely, Pa would come in from the blowing snow after milking the cows, and currying the horses or some crap, place a strong hand on Ma's collarbone the way he always did, and say, "Hey girl...I love the way you churned that butter...the snow removal's all me."
I can't get a Pa? For real, guys?
Half-way through, I turned this back breaking Godforsaken task into a test of my personal character. I would clear this driveway for my children, and show them we didn't need a man! I could do whatever needed doing. By the time I'd made it two thirds of the way to the end, fearing a coronary
event at any moment, I'd decided I could do anything, as long as I had my kids. Give me some scrap
lumber and a bucket full of nails, and I'd build a lean-to outside the backdoor, and stock it with homemade apple butter.
I may have stopped once to call my mom and say my final goodbyes, the way I am always tempted to do when I feel the end is near. Mom, who I suspect has never shoveled a driveway in her lifetime with my father (a true Pa sort of man), sounded dubious, but encouraging, and not quite sure what all my dramatics were about.
With the last shovelful flung weakly to the side, I dropped the shovel where I stood, and made my way to the house. I was out of breath, hot, yet freezing, fed up with the opposite sex, yet strangely exhilarated...victorious, really.
I crawled up the two steps of our landing, fell to my knees in the dining room, and with a loud cry, whipped my shirt off to my bra. Jacob looked on, mouth agape, as Cory turned to me from her place at the counter, where she was making hot cocoa while safely cocooned in a snuggie, and said,
"Oh my God, woman, what are we going to do with you?"
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Proof Like BOOM!
I read passages out of a couple of Cory's journals the other night. I keep them near, but don't take them out very often. I love to see her handwriting, but then, too, I can see the course of her mental illness through the letters that began to straggle weakly across the page. It hurts to recognize.
As I read over some of her entries during her hospitalizations and just various days at home, some as recent as three months before the accident, I was reminded of something I'd read once about pain. Someone asserted that the young, through illness or accident, may come to know bad pain, but only the old know true suffering. As I read about how the voices tormented her and scared her, ordered her to do terrible things, and made her doubt her self-worth, I could see only too clearly that author was wrong. Cory suffered plenty.
Reading what she'd written was so much like hearing her voice. Tim finally took them away. I couldn't stop shaking.
So there was the trigger, next came these thoughts:
I made her sick. My anxiety made her worse. Should I never have let her walk to the store? Was she hearing voices that day? Did I get her help soon enough? Did I do everything I could? Did my relationship choices set off her illness? Did the stress when I was pregnant cause it? How could I have prevented her illness? How could I have prevented her death? If I'd made better judgment calls, would she be here, whole, sitting at the end of my bed?
They tumbled on top of each other, these thoughts, until I had examined my role in this disaster in every nook and cranny I could think of, beginning while still I carried her in my belly and ending as I watched her walk out the back door.
Reaching for my journal in my bag, I came across the index cards Lady has encouraged me to try. I scanned one, "I couldn't have loved her more." and instantly thought of a picture of us together. Before long, I had a semi-circle of photos, washi tape, and index cards spread around me, and was carefully choosing an image to match the remaining statements: I saved her many times, If Cory wasn't feeling well she wouldn't have offered to go, Some things are outside of my control, Letting her go to the store was part of a greater decision to allow her to contribute to the family, be independent, grow up, let go of fear, and be what she was meant to be.
Oh, how "let go of fear" sent a shiver up my spine!
These pictures, each illustrating the statement on the card, were evidence. They were visual. You can tell me anything all day long, and I'll think you're full of crap unless you show me. I could look at these images and believe the statements were true. Once I'd finished affixing them all, I turned through them slowly, going back to the beginning the second I'd finished, like a child with a favorite bedtime story.
I felt a lot better about myself, my role in Cory's death, and my role in her life.
Maybe I'll think of some more pages to add to our story. It's a good one.
As I read over some of her entries during her hospitalizations and just various days at home, some as recent as three months before the accident, I was reminded of something I'd read once about pain. Someone asserted that the young, through illness or accident, may come to know bad pain, but only the old know true suffering. As I read about how the voices tormented her and scared her, ordered her to do terrible things, and made her doubt her self-worth, I could see only too clearly that author was wrong. Cory suffered plenty.
Reading what she'd written was so much like hearing her voice. Tim finally took them away. I couldn't stop shaking.
So there was the trigger, next came these thoughts:
I made her sick. My anxiety made her worse. Should I never have let her walk to the store? Was she hearing voices that day? Did I get her help soon enough? Did I do everything I could? Did my relationship choices set off her illness? Did the stress when I was pregnant cause it? How could I have prevented her illness? How could I have prevented her death? If I'd made better judgment calls, would she be here, whole, sitting at the end of my bed?
They tumbled on top of each other, these thoughts, until I had examined my role in this disaster in every nook and cranny I could think of, beginning while still I carried her in my belly and ending as I watched her walk out the back door.
Reaching for my journal in my bag, I came across the index cards Lady has encouraged me to try. I scanned one, "I couldn't have loved her more." and instantly thought of a picture of us together. Before long, I had a semi-circle of photos, washi tape, and index cards spread around me, and was carefully choosing an image to match the remaining statements: I saved her many times, If Cory wasn't feeling well she wouldn't have offered to go, Some things are outside of my control, Letting her go to the store was part of a greater decision to allow her to contribute to the family, be independent, grow up, let go of fear, and be what she was meant to be.
Oh, how "let go of fear" sent a shiver up my spine!
These pictures, each illustrating the statement on the card, were evidence. They were visual. You can tell me anything all day long, and I'll think you're full of crap unless you show me. I could look at these images and believe the statements were true. Once I'd finished affixing them all, I turned through them slowly, going back to the beginning the second I'd finished, like a child with a favorite bedtime story.
I felt a lot better about myself, my role in Cory's death, and my role in her life.
Maybe I'll think of some more pages to add to our story. It's a good one.
Friday, January 16, 2015
She's Still With Us
Yesterday, Jacob turned thirteen. He is officially a teenager, and I dread the day he'll be too embarrassed to kiss me full on the lips. Cory would be turning twenty two next month. That's the way it was supposed to go, and I wonder what she'd think of this sudden growth spurt that puts him practically eye to eye with his grandmother. I wonder what she'd think of his quiet wit, his silliness within his safe circle, and his adult-like observations of life around him. Would they still be friends? Yeah, I think they would; they went through a lot together.
We took Jake to dinner, and I had a moment in which my heart jumped into my throat: Jake slid into the booth next to me to sit, a first. I am such a chump. One look at Tim's face, and I knew he'd asked Jake to sit next to me...so not the same.
I tried to keep upbeat. Jake deserves happy birthdays. But every occasion that brings our family together will be bittersweet, if not outright painful. After his presents had been doled out, I made a quick run into Barnes and Noble. I paid for a sleek, simple looking black leather journal that was big enough to accommodate Jake's messy handwriting. I took the bag over to a table in the cafe, and fished in my purse for some adhesive and a picture of Cory and Jake together. On the inside cover, I carefully affixed it, and wrote these words: "She's still with us..."
A gift from Cory, to include her, and to validate any pain Jake might be in to not have her at his birthday table. Here is a private container to house his memories and his feelings about losing his best friend in the world. I hope he uses it, when he's ready.
We took Jake to dinner, and I had a moment in which my heart jumped into my throat: Jake slid into the booth next to me to sit, a first. I am such a chump. One look at Tim's face, and I knew he'd asked Jake to sit next to me...so not the same.
I tried to keep upbeat. Jake deserves happy birthdays. But every occasion that brings our family together will be bittersweet, if not outright painful. After his presents had been doled out, I made a quick run into Barnes and Noble. I paid for a sleek, simple looking black leather journal that was big enough to accommodate Jake's messy handwriting. I took the bag over to a table in the cafe, and fished in my purse for some adhesive and a picture of Cory and Jake together. On the inside cover, I carefully affixed it, and wrote these words: "She's still with us..."
A gift from Cory, to include her, and to validate any pain Jake might be in to not have her at his birthday table. Here is a private container to house his memories and his feelings about losing his best friend in the world. I hope he uses it, when he's ready.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Nick in Orange?
It's like someone hit pause. Nearly two and a half years to the day, Tim has begun to mourn Cory. I know he had a huge job taking care of me and making arrangements directly following the accident. Beside all those tasks checked off one by one in his shaky penmanship in his little memo book was a scribbled admission, "I think I'm going crazy."
That was a handful of days after the accident, when we were up to our eyeballs in flowers, caskets, and graves. There was a small pocket of safety within that shock, and that's where Tim lived between the day Cory died and the day we buried her. Back and forth, he paced the house, he ran errands, and he told me how sorry he was. Looking into his eyes, on the rare occasion I was able to make eye contact, I remember thinking he looked panicked and afraid. How to do this? Bury a child? Bury the Cory Girl? This can't be happening.
He took such good care of me. I cried, and talked to people- sometimes not making a whole lot of sense, I'm afraid. Tim made sure things got done. He didn't have much to say back then. What could he say?
I was horrible to him. Did you know that? I was horribly, unspeakably ungrateful and just plain mean. But he still took care of me. He let me scream at him, pass out, throw up, refuse to eat or drink, pass our son dark looks, and aggressively cuss out the first cemetery keeper we met.
I was so angry at the driver, at the world, at God, but mostly at myself. I could hardly stand to be in my own company. I wanted to kick my own ass. All of it- her babyhood, her childhood, her adolescence, her mental illness, just to come to a messy, dirty end on the side of West Michigan Avenue. Really, Nick? Was that the best you could do?
What Tim didn't do was talk about Cory or what losing her felt like to him. It's only now, years later, that he's told me how it felt to walk into that flower-filled room and see her lying there in the casket, half of her bracelets intact and still on her wrist. It's only now that he'll talk about watching them lower her into the ground in front of us, and how the sound of my screams will haunt him forever. It's only now he'll tell me how much I've scared him because he wasn't sure from the day it happened that I would want to live, and he had no idea how to help me want to.
And he's angry! He wants to hurt people! Or at least one person, anyway. Is it wrong that this makes me so happy? He loved her. He did! I can only nod my agreement, and reluctantly tell him if I can't drive by her house, neither can he.
The other day, I pulled into the parking lot of my doctor's office, and paused to kick some ice and hard-packed snow off of the rocker panels over my tires. I had my big, heavy below thirty degrees Sorels on, and got the most satisfying surge when I felt a chunk go flying under the force of my foot. Before I knew it, I was kicking at all the ice, at all the snow, and kept going, kicking my tires, my car, and a nearby snowbank before I could stop myself. I was so into it, I was making gutteral noises way down in my throat like a damn dog. I stopped, breathing hard in the cold, and looking around. The parking lot was quiet, and I just stood there, the adrenaline racing through my body, feeling big, feeling strong, feeling furious, feeling powerful. I could knock down walls; I could do damage; I could kill someone. Cue the angry music...ARRRRRGHHHHHHH!!!!
Over the weekend, I watched Last House on the Left. I told Tim it was a scary movie, and it is, but I mainly wanted to watch the parents go after their daughter's rapists with sweet, deadly abandon. One guy ended up with a hammer buried in his skull and the other had his head put inside a microwave. A MICROWAVE!! Are you feeling me?
And that girl LIVED! Don't they always survive in the fricking movies? I think so often, couldn't she just have been hit? I remember running down the road to her, thinking she'd surely have a broken leg, but we'd go to the hospital, and she'd be okay. She never even made it inside the stupid ambulance. All they gave my girl was a sheet and a place in the hot sun.
Why did she have to die? And in pieces? Especially when so many others live so much longer than you'd think they have any right to. Like Tim says, "What did she ever do to anyone?"
I told my therapist, Lady, the next day that I'd watched the movie to explore my feelings of rage and need for vengeance in a safe way. What I didn't expect was to be left feeling a little hollow about my own murderous fantasies. The people in the movie who hurt the young girl about Cory's age did so willfully, purposefully. The driver was most certainly careless and negligent, but I'm not altogether convinced that she meant to run Cory down on that wretched day.
Does this make me any less angry with her? No. But I suddenly questioned if my actions of revenge would be as justified as what I've previously imagined them to be. Do you inflict blunt force trauma on someone for not paying attention? Should you? Is that fair?
I ponder this, all the while, reminding myself that however I feel is okay, and while anger is a natural part of grieving, orange is not my best color.
That was a handful of days after the accident, when we were up to our eyeballs in flowers, caskets, and graves. There was a small pocket of safety within that shock, and that's where Tim lived between the day Cory died and the day we buried her. Back and forth, he paced the house, he ran errands, and he told me how sorry he was. Looking into his eyes, on the rare occasion I was able to make eye contact, I remember thinking he looked panicked and afraid. How to do this? Bury a child? Bury the Cory Girl? This can't be happening.
He took such good care of me. I cried, and talked to people- sometimes not making a whole lot of sense, I'm afraid. Tim made sure things got done. He didn't have much to say back then. What could he say?
I was horrible to him. Did you know that? I was horribly, unspeakably ungrateful and just plain mean. But he still took care of me. He let me scream at him, pass out, throw up, refuse to eat or drink, pass our son dark looks, and aggressively cuss out the first cemetery keeper we met.
I was so angry at the driver, at the world, at God, but mostly at myself. I could hardly stand to be in my own company. I wanted to kick my own ass. All of it- her babyhood, her childhood, her adolescence, her mental illness, just to come to a messy, dirty end on the side of West Michigan Avenue. Really, Nick? Was that the best you could do?
What Tim didn't do was talk about Cory or what losing her felt like to him. It's only now, years later, that he's told me how it felt to walk into that flower-filled room and see her lying there in the casket, half of her bracelets intact and still on her wrist. It's only now that he'll talk about watching them lower her into the ground in front of us, and how the sound of my screams will haunt him forever. It's only now he'll tell me how much I've scared him because he wasn't sure from the day it happened that I would want to live, and he had no idea how to help me want to.
And he's angry! He wants to hurt people! Or at least one person, anyway. Is it wrong that this makes me so happy? He loved her. He did! I can only nod my agreement, and reluctantly tell him if I can't drive by her house, neither can he.
The other day, I pulled into the parking lot of my doctor's office, and paused to kick some ice and hard-packed snow off of the rocker panels over my tires. I had my big, heavy below thirty degrees Sorels on, and got the most satisfying surge when I felt a chunk go flying under the force of my foot. Before I knew it, I was kicking at all the ice, at all the snow, and kept going, kicking my tires, my car, and a nearby snowbank before I could stop myself. I was so into it, I was making gutteral noises way down in my throat like a damn dog. I stopped, breathing hard in the cold, and looking around. The parking lot was quiet, and I just stood there, the adrenaline racing through my body, feeling big, feeling strong, feeling furious, feeling powerful. I could knock down walls; I could do damage; I could kill someone. Cue the angry music...ARRRRRGHHHHHHH!!!!
Over the weekend, I watched Last House on the Left. I told Tim it was a scary movie, and it is, but I mainly wanted to watch the parents go after their daughter's rapists with sweet, deadly abandon. One guy ended up with a hammer buried in his skull and the other had his head put inside a microwave. A MICROWAVE!! Are you feeling me?
And that girl LIVED! Don't they always survive in the fricking movies? I think so often, couldn't she just have been hit? I remember running down the road to her, thinking she'd surely have a broken leg, but we'd go to the hospital, and she'd be okay. She never even made it inside the stupid ambulance. All they gave my girl was a sheet and a place in the hot sun.
Why did she have to die? And in pieces? Especially when so many others live so much longer than you'd think they have any right to. Like Tim says, "What did she ever do to anyone?"
I told my therapist, Lady, the next day that I'd watched the movie to explore my feelings of rage and need for vengeance in a safe way. What I didn't expect was to be left feeling a little hollow about my own murderous fantasies. The people in the movie who hurt the young girl about Cory's age did so willfully, purposefully. The driver was most certainly careless and negligent, but I'm not altogether convinced that she meant to run Cory down on that wretched day.
Does this make me any less angry with her? No. But I suddenly questioned if my actions of revenge would be as justified as what I've previously imagined them to be. Do you inflict blunt force trauma on someone for not paying attention? Should you? Is that fair?
I ponder this, all the while, reminding myself that however I feel is okay, and while anger is a natural part of grieving, orange is not my best color.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Will the Real Adult Here Please Stand Up?
Jacob and I had a very grown up conversation last night. We were seated at the end of my bed on an enforced screen-time break. I told him I missed his sister. He said he did too. I asked him what he missed about her, and he said, "She was so much fun to hang out with."
This struck me as very almost-thirteen-year-old statement to make. Two and a half years ago, he would never have articulated his loss this way. "Fun to hang out with" is teenager-speak. This said to me that Cory was moving right along with him through the years. He was thinking about her often, her presence and absence in his life.
Finally I just flat out asked him why he didn't want to go to the cemetery over the holidays. His answer was simple, but logical, "I thought it might hurt too much."
I sat there, feeling like an insensitive idiot, and remembering just how crappy it feels to have someone else tell you how the proper way to grieve when you've lost someone you love more than life itself.
How about you tryNOT to be a hypocrite, Nick?
This struck me as very almost-thirteen-year-old statement to make. Two and a half years ago, he would never have articulated his loss this way. "Fun to hang out with" is teenager-speak. This said to me that Cory was moving right along with him through the years. He was thinking about her often, her presence and absence in his life.
Finally I just flat out asked him why he didn't want to go to the cemetery over the holidays. His answer was simple, but logical, "I thought it might hurt too much."
I sat there, feeling like an insensitive idiot, and remembering just how crappy it feels to have someone else tell you how the proper way to grieve when you've lost someone you love more than life itself.
How about you tryNOT to be a hypocrite, Nick?
Conversations with Lady
We'll call my counselor "Lady", okay?
I went to see Lady following my bout of suicidal thinking. I am usually moderately composed when speaking with her. Tears are expected in this room- which get this, for irony, is the same exact room that Cory, Jake, and I went into each and every time for her counseling sessions. Same chairs. Same bucket of toys Jake used to build with while we talked. Total mindfuck.
Lady likes me, I think. Most of the time I feel like we should be having coffee somewhere talking about life instead of getting bi-weekly advice on how to function in my Cory-less world. She is used to my occasional dropping of the f-bomb, my need to tell detailed linear anecdotes, and my over the top hand gestures when talking.
It was a little sad and uncomfortable then when I left her company after my last appointment, feeling, as my mother would say, mad as a wet hen. She had suggested to me to try setting aside some time in the evening- say 15 minutes- as my "Cory time" when I could fully concentrate on my grief, and the rest of the time try to stay in the moment.
I fully admit that I am irrationally angry at least forty percent of my waking hours. I know this about myself, and I accept it. By the time I'd hit the parking lot of Summit Pointe, I was fuming. Put my girl on a shelf? Take her down for fifteen minutes in the evening? Had she lost her ever loving mind?
This completely offensive idea of "compartmentalizing" was supposed to give me room for other things in my life. I could only think to myself, what other things? Frankly, the idea of setting Cory to the side made me scared and angry. What is the goal there? I also felt horribly guilty about even trying it. To me, it seemed so much like letting her die all over again.
I knew before I even asked her what my friend, Angie, would say. Something close to, "Your Lady is 100% right to suggest compartmentalizing. Eventually, Nicole, everyone has to do it in some form or another to move forward. You have to decide if you like where you are, or if you want to feel something else."
Fricking scary how good I am at reading that woman's mind, because when I asked her if that was what she thought, she could only cover her face and laugh helplessly.
As I am wired to do, I went home and analyzed this whole thing to death. I, at least, had enough presence of mind, to recognize my paranoia as it hit. I began thinking I would stop going to counseling altogether. Fit Cory into a tiny slice of my day? She is my heart. Without her front and center, I will just disappear.
Leaving her behind is not even an option, and what good was going to counseling if that's all they were going to suggest once they had your trust? They. See the paranoia? See the agenda, there? Because the goal of talk therapy isn't to improve the client's life, but to destroy them (insert sarcasm here). C'mon, Nick, that's not even logical. Could this possibly mean something else?
Okay. First, I researched it. What is the goal of this incredibly hurtful suggestion? "To give you some sense of control of your emotions in a situation that is out of your control." And, "to allow you to honor your feelings of loss without allowing it to define every moment of your existence." Hmmm.
Then, I had to ask myself some pointed questions. Do I even want to feel better? Maybe not. But I don't want to feel this way, either. I am trapped.
I had to ask myself what I really expect from a therapist? Sometimes I think I've grown throughout this entire experience, and other times I might as well be at Walmart, kicking and screaming in front of the candy display at the checkout. You want me to be honest? I open myself to those well-trained professionals with one secret agenda hidden underneath the foliage of all that sharing and problem solving: Produce my daughter.
Like one of these times, Lady is just going to hold up her hand, and say, "Okay, okay, Nicole. You've suffered enough..." She'll just scoot back her office chair a bit, and let Cory climb out from under her desk where she's been secreted all along. Cory will give me that look she used to when she was little and knew she'd been naughty, and then apologize for playing such a nasty trick on me.
That's what I want. God help these poor therapists.
So when I went back to see her the other day, I spoke up. I told her I'd been angry and uncomfortable with her last suggestion. I explained my reasoning, and listened as Lady redeemed herself a bit by acknowledging how hard it is to come in and say you think a professional's suggestion is a load of crap. "That's how you deepen a relationship." she tells me. I've gotten so much better at speaking my mind since Cory died. After you lose what meant everything to you, caring what other people think just doesn't happen as often. Being understood becomes the most important thing in the world.
Lady assured me giving myself some breaks from overwhelming emotions was not supposed to make me feel worse, and if it was, I certainly did not have to do it. Ahh, control had been regained.
She added that mindfulness is more about emerging yourself in the moment, so that disturbing memories have less room to barge in on you while you're doing all that healthy thinking. I may still secretly find this to be a load of crap, but I was polite enough not to say so. Nod and smile, Nick, just nod and smile.
As a compromise, I agreed, instead, to make some "encouragement" cards. Lady told me to visualize what was happening to me as two halves of myself walking together: one wants to drag her feet and would honestly rather sit down in pre-July 2012 and live there. This half is tired, dirty, bedraggled, beaten, and bereft of hope. (Maybe I added that part in myself). The other half is strong and confident in her ability to keep walking, carrying Cory in her heart. These two are rubbing up against each other right now, she says.
I broke in, "Uh no. One of them has pushed the other to the ground and is stoning her."
"Yes. Yes." she says. "But if these halves could work together? What if they could join hands and help each other along. Could your strong side say some nice things to the tired side?"
I just looked at her. Huh?
"Could your strong side acknowledge all that you've accomplished? How far down the path you've come? You are working. You run a household. You're raising a child. You're an artist. You create. You write. You paint. You share. You haven't resorted to drugs and alcohol to cope. You're not in jail. You're not in the hospital. You're alive, despite all your wishes not to be."
I puffed out my chest just a little. I couldn't help it.
Okay, Lady, we'll keep seeing each other. I don't like to give up on people.
I went to see Lady following my bout of suicidal thinking. I am usually moderately composed when speaking with her. Tears are expected in this room- which get this, for irony, is the same exact room that Cory, Jake, and I went into each and every time for her counseling sessions. Same chairs. Same bucket of toys Jake used to build with while we talked. Total mindfuck.
Lady likes me, I think. Most of the time I feel like we should be having coffee somewhere talking about life instead of getting bi-weekly advice on how to function in my Cory-less world. She is used to my occasional dropping of the f-bomb, my need to tell detailed linear anecdotes, and my over the top hand gestures when talking.
It was a little sad and uncomfortable then when I left her company after my last appointment, feeling, as my mother would say, mad as a wet hen. She had suggested to me to try setting aside some time in the evening- say 15 minutes- as my "Cory time" when I could fully concentrate on my grief, and the rest of the time try to stay in the moment.
I fully admit that I am irrationally angry at least forty percent of my waking hours. I know this about myself, and I accept it. By the time I'd hit the parking lot of Summit Pointe, I was fuming. Put my girl on a shelf? Take her down for fifteen minutes in the evening? Had she lost her ever loving mind?
This completely offensive idea of "compartmentalizing" was supposed to give me room for other things in my life. I could only think to myself, what other things? Frankly, the idea of setting Cory to the side made me scared and angry. What is the goal there? I also felt horribly guilty about even trying it. To me, it seemed so much like letting her die all over again.
I knew before I even asked her what my friend, Angie, would say. Something close to, "Your Lady is 100% right to suggest compartmentalizing. Eventually, Nicole, everyone has to do it in some form or another to move forward. You have to decide if you like where you are, or if you want to feel something else."
Fricking scary how good I am at reading that woman's mind, because when I asked her if that was what she thought, she could only cover her face and laugh helplessly.
As I am wired to do, I went home and analyzed this whole thing to death. I, at least, had enough presence of mind, to recognize my paranoia as it hit. I began thinking I would stop going to counseling altogether. Fit Cory into a tiny slice of my day? She is my heart. Without her front and center, I will just disappear.
Leaving her behind is not even an option, and what good was going to counseling if that's all they were going to suggest once they had your trust? They. See the paranoia? See the agenda, there? Because the goal of talk therapy isn't to improve the client's life, but to destroy them (insert sarcasm here). C'mon, Nick, that's not even logical. Could this possibly mean something else?
Okay. First, I researched it. What is the goal of this incredibly hurtful suggestion? "To give you some sense of control of your emotions in a situation that is out of your control." And, "to allow you to honor your feelings of loss without allowing it to define every moment of your existence." Hmmm.
Then, I had to ask myself some pointed questions. Do I even want to feel better? Maybe not. But I don't want to feel this way, either. I am trapped.
I had to ask myself what I really expect from a therapist? Sometimes I think I've grown throughout this entire experience, and other times I might as well be at Walmart, kicking and screaming in front of the candy display at the checkout. You want me to be honest? I open myself to those well-trained professionals with one secret agenda hidden underneath the foliage of all that sharing and problem solving: Produce my daughter.
Like one of these times, Lady is just going to hold up her hand, and say, "Okay, okay, Nicole. You've suffered enough..." She'll just scoot back her office chair a bit, and let Cory climb out from under her desk where she's been secreted all along. Cory will give me that look she used to when she was little and knew she'd been naughty, and then apologize for playing such a nasty trick on me.
That's what I want. God help these poor therapists.
So when I went back to see her the other day, I spoke up. I told her I'd been angry and uncomfortable with her last suggestion. I explained my reasoning, and listened as Lady redeemed herself a bit by acknowledging how hard it is to come in and say you think a professional's suggestion is a load of crap. "That's how you deepen a relationship." she tells me. I've gotten so much better at speaking my mind since Cory died. After you lose what meant everything to you, caring what other people think just doesn't happen as often. Being understood becomes the most important thing in the world.
Lady assured me giving myself some breaks from overwhelming emotions was not supposed to make me feel worse, and if it was, I certainly did not have to do it. Ahh, control had been regained.
She added that mindfulness is more about emerging yourself in the moment, so that disturbing memories have less room to barge in on you while you're doing all that healthy thinking. I may still secretly find this to be a load of crap, but I was polite enough not to say so. Nod and smile, Nick, just nod and smile.
As a compromise, I agreed, instead, to make some "encouragement" cards. Lady told me to visualize what was happening to me as two halves of myself walking together: one wants to drag her feet and would honestly rather sit down in pre-July 2012 and live there. This half is tired, dirty, bedraggled, beaten, and bereft of hope. (Maybe I added that part in myself). The other half is strong and confident in her ability to keep walking, carrying Cory in her heart. These two are rubbing up against each other right now, she says.
I broke in, "Uh no. One of them has pushed the other to the ground and is stoning her."
"Yes. Yes." she says. "But if these halves could work together? What if they could join hands and help each other along. Could your strong side say some nice things to the tired side?"
I just looked at her. Huh?
"Could your strong side acknowledge all that you've accomplished? How far down the path you've come? You are working. You run a household. You're raising a child. You're an artist. You create. You write. You paint. You share. You haven't resorted to drugs and alcohol to cope. You're not in jail. You're not in the hospital. You're alive, despite all your wishes not to be."
I puffed out my chest just a little. I couldn't help it.
Okay, Lady, we'll keep seeing each other. I don't like to give up on people.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
I Just Wanted a Ponytail Holder
New hairdo doesn't mean a damn thing. I'm not ok. Last night, I got ready to take a hot shower to try to relax. I got into the medicine cabinet looking for a ponytail holder to put my hair up. I ended up with my whole head in Cory's little basket of hair things, trying to fish one out. Suddenly, I caught the scent of her hair, of her scalp, and fell completely to pieces right on the spot.
She was so close I could almost touch her...but I couldn't. I breathed her in again, and connections began firing wildly all over my brain: Cory dancing with me in the kitchen, her hair bouncing; Cory screaming she was hideous in front of the hallway mirror and throwing her hairbrush aside in disgust, Cory in her "workout" gear beside me in front of the mirror in my bedroom dancing to club music, working up a sweat laughing herself silly. Cory perched on the roof of the garage, head in her hands, wailing.
She was so close I could almost touch her, but I couldn't. And I won't ever again.
I just stood there, naked on the bathmat, eyes wide, and fully considered this. It was more than I could bear. Sobbing with my hands over my face, I trotted fully nude into the living room, startling my unsuspecting husband, who was quietly and methodically folding laundry into neat little piles.
"Honey! What---?" was all he could get out before his voice was drowned out by my cries. All I could think was, I wanna die. I can't do this. I wanna die. I can't do this.
Remember when I told you Tim's not the guy who's gonna just gather you up in his arms and let you cry all over him? Turns out, he is. I hysterically cried and snotted all over his shirt until I finally began to shiver. Wordless, I turned away and retreated back to the shower that'd been running ever since the ill-fated hunt for a hair tie had begun.
Tim followed me, continuing to comfort, which was the nicest, and yet oddest feeling. I'd gotten quite used to him giving me three standard back pats and running fast in the opposite direction. I tried to explain what the trigger had been this time, but I couldn't talk clearly, and besides, I'm not sure I had the words at that particular time. There weren't words, but instead a myriad of images that were now ricocheting against the walls of my heart, their edges sharp, but their centers so much soft focus:
Cory standing in the bathroom doorway,watching me put on makeup; Cory straightening her hair in front of the bathroom mirror, complaining about the curse of wavy hair, Cory sitting as still as the tremors would let her while I applied her eyeliner. When she first started the Lithium, I had to shave her legs for her.
I could see every angle and curve of her face, the tilt of her head as she laughed, the stance she took when relaxed and listening to a good story.
Never again? Never?
When I could finally string a sentence together, I explained it to Tim. By this time, I'd ducked under the running shower, and just stood there, face to the spray, crying silently, helplessly.
Tim settled himself on the toilet seat, as Cory had done hundreds of times during her illness, and kept me company. "Honey, do you remember how mad you were when you went to the police station for Cory's hat and it didn't smell like her?"
Dully, I nodded.
"Now, you can smell her. Don't cry. That's a good thing." he pointed out.
Logic prevailed for a split second, and I saw his point. Then despair just oozed into every crevice of my soul, not an inch left uncovered.
"But I WAAAAANT her! Oh my God, I want her!" I cried.
"I know." he said quietly. "We all do."
This time Tim held me until I broke away, stumbling through the hallway and into bed, wet towel and all, where I proceeded to curl myself into the smallest ball I could make.
While Tim steeled himself in the other room for whatever might be waiting for him, I shot one bare arm out of the covers, and grabbed up my meds. I shook them out and started counting...counting and crying...counting and considering...measuring want against will.
Weary was the word that came to mind in that moment. I am so weary of this nightmare. It just never ends. You get through the holidays, and your other child's birthday is coming, while Cory remains nineteen forever. You get past Jake's birthday, and before you know it, it's Cory's birthday, and you are left to only imagine what she'd be like at that age. After her birthday, the countdown is on to her death day. Each time, you find yourself thinking, what fresh hell is this?
I could hear Tim turning out all the lights, and hurriedly crammed all the pills but one back into the bottle. I took it with a swig of water from the nightstand and waited to see what would happen. Tim came in, asking if I needed something to drink. I declined, and just laid there, shaking and thinking, I want out of this. I can't do it anymore. I want out of this.
Tim crawled in, and wrapped himself around me. My sobs were down to those little hitches so reminiscent of early childhood. "I think I'm losing my mind." I whispered in the dark.
"Honey, I know this has to be harder for you than anyone. I just don't know how you hold it together. I really don't."
"I'm not together." I said. "Maybe some people can cope with something like this and just go on living...working, but I'm just one of those people who end up completely fucked up."
"Honey...what can I do to help you? Is there anything you want?"
"I know what I want." I answered immediately.
Of course, he knew just what I meant. "Jake and I need you."
My thought? I am no good for anyone.
I spend half the time sick with jealousy that Tim still has his mini me, and the other half illogically angry with Jacob because he refuses to talk about his sister, and won't go to the cemetery.
When I asked Jake how his Christmas was, he said, "Fantastic!"
That's when I knew she must be fading in his mind already, and I resented him deeply for it.
I'm such a monster.
She was so close I could almost touch her...but I couldn't. I breathed her in again, and connections began firing wildly all over my brain: Cory dancing with me in the kitchen, her hair bouncing; Cory screaming she was hideous in front of the hallway mirror and throwing her hairbrush aside in disgust, Cory in her "workout" gear beside me in front of the mirror in my bedroom dancing to club music, working up a sweat laughing herself silly. Cory perched on the roof of the garage, head in her hands, wailing.
She was so close I could almost touch her, but I couldn't. And I won't ever again.
I just stood there, naked on the bathmat, eyes wide, and fully considered this. It was more than I could bear. Sobbing with my hands over my face, I trotted fully nude into the living room, startling my unsuspecting husband, who was quietly and methodically folding laundry into neat little piles.
"Honey! What---?" was all he could get out before his voice was drowned out by my cries. All I could think was, I wanna die. I can't do this. I wanna die. I can't do this.
Remember when I told you Tim's not the guy who's gonna just gather you up in his arms and let you cry all over him? Turns out, he is. I hysterically cried and snotted all over his shirt until I finally began to shiver. Wordless, I turned away and retreated back to the shower that'd been running ever since the ill-fated hunt for a hair tie had begun.
Tim followed me, continuing to comfort, which was the nicest, and yet oddest feeling. I'd gotten quite used to him giving me three standard back pats and running fast in the opposite direction. I tried to explain what the trigger had been this time, but I couldn't talk clearly, and besides, I'm not sure I had the words at that particular time. There weren't words, but instead a myriad of images that were now ricocheting against the walls of my heart, their edges sharp, but their centers so much soft focus:
Cory standing in the bathroom doorway,watching me put on makeup; Cory straightening her hair in front of the bathroom mirror, complaining about the curse of wavy hair, Cory sitting as still as the tremors would let her while I applied her eyeliner. When she first started the Lithium, I had to shave her legs for her.
I could see every angle and curve of her face, the tilt of her head as she laughed, the stance she took when relaxed and listening to a good story.
Never again? Never?
When I could finally string a sentence together, I explained it to Tim. By this time, I'd ducked under the running shower, and just stood there, face to the spray, crying silently, helplessly.
Tim settled himself on the toilet seat, as Cory had done hundreds of times during her illness, and kept me company. "Honey, do you remember how mad you were when you went to the police station for Cory's hat and it didn't smell like her?"
Dully, I nodded.
"Now, you can smell her. Don't cry. That's a good thing." he pointed out.
Logic prevailed for a split second, and I saw his point. Then despair just oozed into every crevice of my soul, not an inch left uncovered.
"But I WAAAAANT her! Oh my God, I want her!" I cried.
"I know." he said quietly. "We all do."
This time Tim held me until I broke away, stumbling through the hallway and into bed, wet towel and all, where I proceeded to curl myself into the smallest ball I could make.
While Tim steeled himself in the other room for whatever might be waiting for him, I shot one bare arm out of the covers, and grabbed up my meds. I shook them out and started counting...counting and crying...counting and considering...measuring want against will.
Weary was the word that came to mind in that moment. I am so weary of this nightmare. It just never ends. You get through the holidays, and your other child's birthday is coming, while Cory remains nineteen forever. You get past Jake's birthday, and before you know it, it's Cory's birthday, and you are left to only imagine what she'd be like at that age. After her birthday, the countdown is on to her death day. Each time, you find yourself thinking, what fresh hell is this?
I could hear Tim turning out all the lights, and hurriedly crammed all the pills but one back into the bottle. I took it with a swig of water from the nightstand and waited to see what would happen. Tim came in, asking if I needed something to drink. I declined, and just laid there, shaking and thinking, I want out of this. I can't do it anymore. I want out of this.
Tim crawled in, and wrapped himself around me. My sobs were down to those little hitches so reminiscent of early childhood. "I think I'm losing my mind." I whispered in the dark.
"Honey, I know this has to be harder for you than anyone. I just don't know how you hold it together. I really don't."
"I'm not together." I said. "Maybe some people can cope with something like this and just go on living...working, but I'm just one of those people who end up completely fucked up."
"Honey...what can I do to help you? Is there anything you want?"
"I know what I want." I answered immediately.
Of course, he knew just what I meant. "Jake and I need you."
My thought? I am no good for anyone.
I spend half the time sick with jealousy that Tim still has his mini me, and the other half illogically angry with Jacob because he refuses to talk about his sister, and won't go to the cemetery.
When I asked Jake how his Christmas was, he said, "Fantastic!"
That's when I knew she must be fading in his mind already, and I resented him deeply for it.
I'm such a monster.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Got Muh Hair Did!
I finally broke down over Winter Break, and got my hair done: cut, highlights, the works. I had begun to fear that I would be taken aside by HR at my workplace, and asked to polish it up a bit. Sitting in the chair, my head weighted down by folded squares of foil and heat blasting directly into my eye sockets, I wondered how long it had been since I'd last had my hair styled. Even trimmed? I could not come up with the answer. Your guess is as good as mine.
When my hairdresser asked how short I wanted it, I told her "the usual", holding steadfast to my belief that if my hair is long enough to cover my brastrap in back, I will continue retain just a tad of my former youth: sixteen years old, long blonde hair bouncing, cute skirt twirling as I skipped down my parent's driveway in the bright sunshine, without a care in the world.
While she washed out excess chemicals and began to cut, my hairdresser of the last ten years or so shattered my fantasy once and for all. "I'm guessing you've noticed the change in your hair texture since your daughter died."
Gulp. "Yes, I did. My doctor said it was the sudden stress- a lot of it fell out, but not all of it came back."
"And it probably won't," she cautioned me, "so try to stay away from heat styling, if you can."
Well, damn. I'm just a bald chick with one kid waiting to die. I suddenly felt as far from youth and attractiveness as one woman could possibly feel.
I love my hairdresser, but she likes to talk and she takes her time. Nearly three hours later, I drove home, feeling a little thin on top, but definitely more put together. I walked in, expecting Jake to bow me over with compliments, which realistically isn't even in his temperament, but I've been training him for nearly thirteen years now, so I expected something.
I took four steps inside my kitchen and heard this,
"Mom, what did you do to your hair?! Change it back! Change it back!"
My mouth gaped.
"You don't like it?" I asked nakedly.
"It makes you look kinda old. And I liked it better darker, the way it was."
Alrighty then. You can imagine then, my trepidation approaching Angie's office this morning. You think children know all there is to know about blunt honesty, then you meet this little woman.
"Miss Nicole!! You got your hair done!" she said with a smile that gave nothing away. She has smiled at me the same way while escorting me to the E.R. to pass a stone. You just never can tell with that woman.
Later in the day, I told her what Jake had said and tried to chuckle like I didn't believe a word of it. Bravado it was: every bit I could muster. She responded with this,
"Oh, no! Miss Nicole, with your hair actually done...you know cut and colored and well...brushed...you wouldn't believe how much less haggard you look."
I'm sorry, did she just say 'haggard'? Had this woman knowingly been letting me walk around looking unkempt, unwell, and emaciated, as the definition of "haggard" would indicate?
Haggard, folks. Let that descriptor wash over your soul a bit.
I'm not sure what was worse - finding out I've been looking haggard or that Jake had grown so used to it that he could barely recognize me when I looked groomed?
You have to laugh; if you don't, you'll cry.
I'm going to go deep condition my hair, now. Gotta baby the strands I have left.
When my hairdresser asked how short I wanted it, I told her "the usual", holding steadfast to my belief that if my hair is long enough to cover my brastrap in back, I will continue retain just a tad of my former youth: sixteen years old, long blonde hair bouncing, cute skirt twirling as I skipped down my parent's driveway in the bright sunshine, without a care in the world.
While she washed out excess chemicals and began to cut, my hairdresser of the last ten years or so shattered my fantasy once and for all. "I'm guessing you've noticed the change in your hair texture since your daughter died."
Gulp. "Yes, I did. My doctor said it was the sudden stress- a lot of it fell out, but not all of it came back."
"And it probably won't," she cautioned me, "so try to stay away from heat styling, if you can."
Well, damn. I'm just a bald chick with one kid waiting to die. I suddenly felt as far from youth and attractiveness as one woman could possibly feel.
I love my hairdresser, but she likes to talk and she takes her time. Nearly three hours later, I drove home, feeling a little thin on top, but definitely more put together. I walked in, expecting Jake to bow me over with compliments, which realistically isn't even in his temperament, but I've been training him for nearly thirteen years now, so I expected something.
I took four steps inside my kitchen and heard this,
"Mom, what did you do to your hair?! Change it back! Change it back!"
My mouth gaped.
"You don't like it?" I asked nakedly.
"It makes you look kinda old. And I liked it better darker, the way it was."
Alrighty then. You can imagine then, my trepidation approaching Angie's office this morning. You think children know all there is to know about blunt honesty, then you meet this little woman.
"Miss Nicole!! You got your hair done!" she said with a smile that gave nothing away. She has smiled at me the same way while escorting me to the E.R. to pass a stone. You just never can tell with that woman.
Later in the day, I told her what Jake had said and tried to chuckle like I didn't believe a word of it. Bravado it was: every bit I could muster. She responded with this,
"Oh, no! Miss Nicole, with your hair actually done...you know cut and colored and well...brushed...you wouldn't believe how much less haggard you look."
I'm sorry, did she just say 'haggard'? Had this woman knowingly been letting me walk around looking unkempt, unwell, and emaciated, as the definition of "haggard" would indicate?
Haggard, folks. Let that descriptor wash over your soul a bit.
I'm not sure what was worse - finding out I've been looking haggard or that Jake had grown so used to it that he could barely recognize me when I looked groomed?
You have to laugh; if you don't, you'll cry.
I'm going to go deep condition my hair, now. Gotta baby the strands I have left.
Friday, January 2, 2015
Treasures
For Christmas, my parents got me a Pandora bead for my "Italy" bracelet. I had so far collected a tiny silver passport and a jazzy red Vespa like the ones we'd seen all over Naples. My parents got me the gondola bead, which was so special since I'd gotten Mom one last Christmas, and now we could be twinkies.
When I'm depressed, I don't take the time or care to put on much jewelry. Since I'd just went through a pretty bad bout, my bracelet needed a good cleaning. I hunted all through my jewelry chest and couldn't find a single polishing cloth. Oh...I suddenly remembered where they were. I'd made one drawer, nearest my bed, for her things. Reluctantly, I opened it, and, shaking, pawed past some of the funeral memorabilia. Unable to help myself, my hand went to her Hello Kitty shoe. Still tied. Still tied! I picked it up and hugged it, that shoe, tears streaming down my face. Tim walked in just as I began to sniff it.
He took in the scene- sobbing wife smelling a shoe- and spoke gently, "What's it smell like?"
"A foot." I answered, still crying.
"Yeah, Cory's foot." He smiled just a little.
I put the shoe back in its place in the drawer, and carefully lifted out the frames of her glasses, carressed them a bit, and handed them to Tim.
"Oh boy..." he said, bowing his head.
When I'm depressed, I don't take the time or care to put on much jewelry. Since I'd just went through a pretty bad bout, my bracelet needed a good cleaning. I hunted all through my jewelry chest and couldn't find a single polishing cloth. Oh...I suddenly remembered where they were. I'd made one drawer, nearest my bed, for her things. Reluctantly, I opened it, and, shaking, pawed past some of the funeral memorabilia. Unable to help myself, my hand went to her Hello Kitty shoe. Still tied. Still tied! I picked it up and hugged it, that shoe, tears streaming down my face. Tim walked in just as I began to sniff it.
He took in the scene- sobbing wife smelling a shoe- and spoke gently, "What's it smell like?"
"A foot." I answered, still crying.
"Yeah, Cory's foot." He smiled just a little.
I put the shoe back in its place in the drawer, and carefully lifted out the frames of her glasses, carressed them a bit, and handed them to Tim.
"Oh boy..." he said, bowing his head.
Christmas 2014
Christmas was a wash. I boasted to everyone that since I made it to the Thanksgiving family gathering, I would go to Christmas, as well. Who wants to go backwards?
Turns out, Christmas is a lot harder for me than I may have thought. Tim had Christmas Eve and Day off, so he was able to shuttle Jake around to the family events. My dog, Gizmo, and I split my bottle of Ativan and just slept the days away. (Okay, he just sniffed the bottle, and watched as I medicated reality away).
I waited to feel bad that I'd let my family down, and what if it were their last Christmas, and all of that. It never really happened. Isolating myself was purely a brain stem decision. I knew people were probably disappointed with me, but I could live with that.
This was my horror to get through any way I can, after all, not theirs.
If there is a time for everything, this was my time to sleep, and chase my girl in my dreams.
Turns out, Christmas is a lot harder for me than I may have thought. Tim had Christmas Eve and Day off, so he was able to shuttle Jake around to the family events. My dog, Gizmo, and I split my bottle of Ativan and just slept the days away. (Okay, he just sniffed the bottle, and watched as I medicated reality away).
I waited to feel bad that I'd let my family down, and what if it were their last Christmas, and all of that. It never really happened. Isolating myself was purely a brain stem decision. I knew people were probably disappointed with me, but I could live with that.
This was my horror to get through any way I can, after all, not theirs.
If there is a time for everything, this was my time to sleep, and chase my girl in my dreams.
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