Mornings are the worst for Jacob. He said it's because he wakes up and remembers what happened all over again. I can definitely relate. The other day he woke up complaining of a stomach ache and wanting to stay home from school which quickly moved to missing Cory. He clung to me, fighting the tears, determined not to lose control, but unable to help himself. He has had almost complete mastery of his emotions since he came out of the womb. I'm not sure if he feels pressure to "be a man" and keep it all inside or if it's just his temperament to keep things to himself.
I sat down with him on the bed, and rubbed his back, held his hand as he pulled me closer, sort of hooking his arm around mine. "Would you like us to each say something we miss about Cory?" I asked gently. He answered immediately, emphatically, "Everything!" and burst into tears. This broke my heart into even smaller pieces. He is in his own private hell, and I don't know how he's held it together as long as he has.
They were partners in crime: my dynamic duo. They spent all their time together and very rarely fought, too busy helping each other, especially during the years of Cory's illness. As horrible as it was, it brought us all a bond that would be forever unbroken, even by death.
I guess I can stop worrying that he will forget her. Last night, in a much calmer state of mind, he offered up that he missed watching our shows with Cory, mentioning 90210 and the way Cory would get up in front of the tv and do an interpretive dance to the opening credits. He also mentioned Desperate Housewives, Lost, and American Idol. Yeah, if anyone would get why I can barely stand to be in my living room, it would be that boy. It is positively drenched in memories of our little family.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
"Miserable At Best"
You know how a song can come on the radio and within seconds you are transported to another time and place? Today, I was on my way home from the therapist, and a song from Cory's visitation came one. I don't even know how I stayed on the road. I was in that funeral home, watching those pictures of her life flutter across the screen. They never lasted long enough. I was kissing the little scrape on her hand over and over again, wanting so badly to pick it up and put it palm to palm with mine like we always used to do, but unable to...the feel of her flesh was so unfamiliar. I was terrified I would break her. But I could kiss her. And I did. I kissed her hair and her cheek and her lips, over and over again. That Mayday Parade song played on my car radio and my heart just screamed. I drove down the road, wailing like someone who's been attacked.
And even still, while imagining her little hands that were just a tad smaller than mine with insanely small thumbs, I could recall the beauty of sharing her with everyone who came to see her. I remember the foreign mixture of piercing pain and the same solid pride I'd always felt to call her mine. Everything was planned so carefully- her music, her art. It was the most beautiful event I've been to, even though I recognize now I wasn't entirely with it, but mostly in shock. I wanted so badly for every word spoken and every note played to reflect who she was as a person and what she brought to the world. I wanted everyone to know just how much she was treasured.
The grief comes fresh whenever it wants to. It can catch you off guard or build steadily day after day until you're sure you can't take one more moment.
And even still, while imagining her little hands that were just a tad smaller than mine with insanely small thumbs, I could recall the beauty of sharing her with everyone who came to see her. I remember the foreign mixture of piercing pain and the same solid pride I'd always felt to call her mine. Everything was planned so carefully- her music, her art. It was the most beautiful event I've been to, even though I recognize now I wasn't entirely with it, but mostly in shock. I wanted so badly for every word spoken and every note played to reflect who she was as a person and what she brought to the world. I wanted everyone to know just how much she was treasured.
The grief comes fresh whenever it wants to. It can catch you off guard or build steadily day after day until you're sure you can't take one more moment.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Most Days
Every day goes like this: I try to remember to shower, I try to remember to eat. I try to remember to put Jake in the shower. I try to remember to feed him. Then I go to work where I try to do my job and pretend I'm ok when really I feel like screaming the majority of the day. Then I come home and just try to survive until I can go to sleep. When I sleep, I look for Cory.
Most of the time I feel hollow and there's an unbearable ache that never goes away. Other times, when I remember certain things, my panic center goes off and I can't calm down no matter what I do. Sometimes, I feel the rage overcoming me and in it I can see her face so clearly, her eyes, and her her hands, and the way she walked. The anger begins to settle into my bones, into my person, into my walk, and my eyes change. I'm walking around with all these little barbs, and if you get too close, I'll probably say something to hurt your feelings.
It could be anything from the fact that you have live children to prom pictures on facebook. It could be that you told me not to be depressed which is basically like telling someone not to be sick. It could be your expectations that 20 years of my life should be folded and put neatly away so I can be here for my new normal family, such as it is. It could be that you told me you think suicide is selfish which means that you must think you're a better person than me. And maybe you are. I don't think it's selfish. I think it's desperate. I think it's a desperate end to an unfathomable amount of pain.
So my barbs are out. Nothing feels like home. And it's been too long since I've seen her face.
Most of the time I feel hollow and there's an unbearable ache that never goes away. Other times, when I remember certain things, my panic center goes off and I can't calm down no matter what I do. Sometimes, I feel the rage overcoming me and in it I can see her face so clearly, her eyes, and her her hands, and the way she walked. The anger begins to settle into my bones, into my person, into my walk, and my eyes change. I'm walking around with all these little barbs, and if you get too close, I'll probably say something to hurt your feelings.
It could be anything from the fact that you have live children to prom pictures on facebook. It could be that you told me not to be depressed which is basically like telling someone not to be sick. It could be your expectations that 20 years of my life should be folded and put neatly away so I can be here for my new normal family, such as it is. It could be that you told me you think suicide is selfish which means that you must think you're a better person than me. And maybe you are. I don't think it's selfish. I think it's desperate. I think it's a desperate end to an unfathomable amount of pain.
So my barbs are out. Nothing feels like home. And it's been too long since I've seen her face.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Eighteen month to three years- there's your window. People stop asking how you're doing and you have to prompt your child's name into conversations or you might never hear it at all. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, that really isn't so sound these days, you begin to wonder if this marvelous creature existed in the first pace. You retreat to pills and to sleep to make that connection, meanwhile pissing off your husband who wants the pre-cory-death Nicole back for him and his boy; "Exercise. Stay busy." he says. I just want to scream my lungs out. Nothing can fix this. It's all ruined. I'm broken. Can't you see?
Trying to play normal at work or at home is exhausting me.
The pictues don't go away. The guilt lingers. And to be fair, he knows nothing of what I see when I lay my head down at night. Easy for you to say when she wasn't your heart.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Grief Attack
I've spent the last couple weeks fighting with my husband, and worrying about our marriage. I've spent the last few days worried about a project at work that I wasn't sure how to do. For the most part, Tim's mood passed and he is mostly back to normal. The meeting at work that I dreaded for days is over, and didn't go as badly as my anxiety had led me to believe.
Pretty much the second I walked out of that meeting room, I felt a crushing wave of sadness come over me. All this stress...all this worry...where was my Cory Girl? It was as if she'd been pushed to the back while I dealt with these other things, and I began to fear that this meant she was fading away. It's been nearly three years and there are days when I am the only one who says her name. For most people who knew her, life has returned to normal. It will never be normal to me. And whatever it is, normal or not, I hate it. I hate being here without her.
Pretty much the second I walked out of that meeting room, I felt a crushing wave of sadness come over me. All this stress...all this worry...where was my Cory Girl? It was as if she'd been pushed to the back while I dealt with these other things, and I began to fear that this meant she was fading away. It's been nearly three years and there are days when I am the only one who says her name. For most people who knew her, life has returned to normal. It will never be normal to me. And whatever it is, normal or not, I hate it. I hate being here without her.
Halfway
Many marriages after the death of a child do not survive. And most marriages in which one partner has bipolar fail. Dr. Z said the two main factors to divorce in marriages involving bipolar are aggression and hypersexuality. This would wholeheartedly explain my relationships with the fathers of my children and their admittedly rocky roads.
So then I wonder what the odds are for the marriage where one partner has bipolar AND there's been the loss of a child...talk about a challenge.
Somehow my depression and PTSD don't seem to qualify as real illnesses to anyone but my doctor. And yet I'm supposed to bow down to the almighty Bi-Polar Disorder, and excuse any and all behaviors that accompany it. It's hard work, and frankly I'm over it. My anxiety, bad enough before Cory's death, has mushroomed into a monster I have difficulty wrangling. I have my own issues now. Meet me half way or don't meet me at all.
So then I wonder what the odds are for the marriage where one partner has bipolar AND there's been the loss of a child...talk about a challenge.
Somehow my depression and PTSD don't seem to qualify as real illnesses to anyone but my doctor. And yet I'm supposed to bow down to the almighty Bi-Polar Disorder, and excuse any and all behaviors that accompany it. It's hard work, and frankly I'm over it. My anxiety, bad enough before Cory's death, has mushroomed into a monster I have difficulty wrangling. I have my own issues now. Meet me half way or don't meet me at all.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Three Years Come July
Sometimes the terrible knowledge that Cory is dead feels like an actual person that follows me around all day hurling smalls stones at my body. No wonder I am so tired and achey all the time. I just need to kiss her face.
Monday, May 4, 2015
The Moments Are These
The other day I caught myself wondering if they really painted her toenails when they prepared her. I took in a brand new color of nailpolish for them to use, but I had to wonder since they nearly refused to take the shoes I brought in for her to wear, insisting that they wouldn't show anyway. I can't tell you how much that comment bothered me at the time, somehow making her into a non-person for whom footwear was no longer a consideration.
I wondered further if they thought she had pretty feet because she certainly did, even if they looked exactly like her father's and nothing like mine at all. I sat there for a good ten minutes just trying to remember the last time I saw her little piggies.
I wondered further if they thought she had pretty feet because she certainly did, even if they looked exactly like her father's and nothing like mine at all. I sat there for a good ten minutes just trying to remember the last time I saw her little piggies.
All I've Got
Every day is a struggle, and I don't think other people realize how hard it is to walk around with these pictures in your head and the terrible knowledge lodged down deep in your gut. It's exhausting, and every step burns. It's hard to feel joyful about anything when she's no longer here. It's like missing a part of myself...never whole, never whole!
I was relieved today at Jake's counseling appointment to hear him say he doesn't think I talk about Cory too much. He thinks how much I talk about her is just right. He doesn't feel forgotten or neglected. He feels loved and celebrated. When those days come that I can't get out of bed, God love him, he understands. He worries, but he knows I will come back to care for him and that these times of debilitating anguish are just part of the package...the same way he's withdrawn from most everyone around him. It is what it is. But we love each other. We are doing the best we can, feeling our way through a daily nightmare.
Jake worries about what will happen to his relationship with Cory when he can talk to her anytime he wants, but she never answers back. Bless his sweet heart. He misses her so much- his daily companion. I have days that literally nothing else in the world even matters- not work, not bills, nothing. Just show me her face. Please, I just need to kiss her face.
I asked Jacob if he thought I was still a good Mommy, and held my breath a little. His answer came quickly, a vigorous nodding of the head and beautiful reassurance in his eyes. I'm not the same mom I was before the accident, but at least he thinks I'm still doing more right than wrong.
So here we are, embarking on another spring without her. This is supposed to be the time when everything is new again. I try to dredge up a little enthusiasm when the sun shows its face. Still, it's a countdown to July. The first real heat wave is always the worst, as it transplants me back in time. Everyone is elated, and I'm simply horrified.
It still bothers me to see any type of rescue workers in uniform out in the community. At coffee the other day, a police officer walked in, and my words trailed off forgotten. I was silenced, and immediately back at the road. Sirens do the same thing to me.
There are many triggers. As much as I might like to, I can't just snap out of it. Her death will haunt me all the days of my life. The trauma makes living those days frightening and uncertain.
I'm doing the best I can. This is all I've got.
I was relieved today at Jake's counseling appointment to hear him say he doesn't think I talk about Cory too much. He thinks how much I talk about her is just right. He doesn't feel forgotten or neglected. He feels loved and celebrated. When those days come that I can't get out of bed, God love him, he understands. He worries, but he knows I will come back to care for him and that these times of debilitating anguish are just part of the package...the same way he's withdrawn from most everyone around him. It is what it is. But we love each other. We are doing the best we can, feeling our way through a daily nightmare.
Jake worries about what will happen to his relationship with Cory when he can talk to her anytime he wants, but she never answers back. Bless his sweet heart. He misses her so much- his daily companion. I have days that literally nothing else in the world even matters- not work, not bills, nothing. Just show me her face. Please, I just need to kiss her face.
I asked Jacob if he thought I was still a good Mommy, and held my breath a little. His answer came quickly, a vigorous nodding of the head and beautiful reassurance in his eyes. I'm not the same mom I was before the accident, but at least he thinks I'm still doing more right than wrong.
So here we are, embarking on another spring without her. This is supposed to be the time when everything is new again. I try to dredge up a little enthusiasm when the sun shows its face. Still, it's a countdown to July. The first real heat wave is always the worst, as it transplants me back in time. Everyone is elated, and I'm simply horrified.
It still bothers me to see any type of rescue workers in uniform out in the community. At coffee the other day, a police officer walked in, and my words trailed off forgotten. I was silenced, and immediately back at the road. Sirens do the same thing to me.
There are many triggers. As much as I might like to, I can't just snap out of it. Her death will haunt me all the days of my life. The trauma makes living those days frightening and uncertain.
I'm doing the best I can. This is all I've got.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Coffee Shop
Tim has hauled me out of the house. We've been at coffee, alternately trading headphones to share a song and arguing about the past for well over an hour. I wasn't sure I wanted to come to coffee today- the last thing I want right now is to be around people. I don't want to see them and I don't want them to see me. Tim insisted, recognizing my hiding behavior of this weekend as the engulfing depression it is.
Yesterday, I slept all day and night, afraid to be awake for more than a few minutes at a time. When I was awake, the pain, despair, hopelessness, and guilt would come rushing over me, squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Constant panic attacks. It was better to hide.
Here I was, with a new car and the ability to leave the house on a whim after weeks of Cabin Fever, and I couldn't even get out of bed. I can't really explain it other than to say that sometimes being awake and knowing she's dead and gone forever is just too much to bear. I opt out. If you'd seen what I did, you'd understand.
Jake's finger-slicing accident at school mid-week had brought up some bad feelings and thoughts, and they linger, the sharpest little burrs clinging to all my hurt parts. I'm so relieved Jacob was able to be stitched up and will only suffer a scar he can show off to all the girls. I am. But...
But he was hurt and able to be fixed, in a clean hospital under bright lights by people who were compassionate and kind. Cory was...they say...killed instantly. No one would- or could- do anything. I had to watch the confusing, frightening inactivity as they stalled, reluctant to tell me she was dead. No one even tried. I can't tell you what that does to a mother to see her child lying there helpless and no one doing anything about it. Over the last few days, I keep seeing them cutting her shirt open on the road, and I can feel the triumph and relief rise up in my breast to know at last they are doing something, they're going to save her, she's going to be okay. I crane my head forward, lost in the memory, trying to see them pull out the paddles, and feeling my blood run cold and my scalp tighten as I realize they're not bringing the paddles out. I see this over and over again. Then I usually go on a rant about how some people get the paddles and some people don't, and what did my good girl ever do to anyone to deserve no chance at all?
Maybe everyone else knew with one glance that she was most certainly dead, but I did not. I couldn't see it. To see it would drive me insane, and I would not even consider the possibility until someone forced it on me, and then bullied me into leaving her lying there on the road like roadkill. I hate myself for that. I really do.
The guilt that I didn't prevent her accident still plagues me most days. The fact that I didn't fight the shock, push past the hands that held me back to get to her, to touch her will never leave me. The fact that I didn't fight the police and refuse to leave her side as they did all their stupid accident reconstruction makes me feel small and ashamed. She wouldn't have left my side. They would've have to physically haul her away. That I know. I'm sorry, Cory. I'm so sorry.
I try to make sense of it all and I get so tired. I think of the future and I get so scared. Sometimes it's easier to just sleep my time away. If I had it my way, I'd never leave my house again. And way too often, I wish I could just stay asleep forever.
Yesterday, I slept all day and night, afraid to be awake for more than a few minutes at a time. When I was awake, the pain, despair, hopelessness, and guilt would come rushing over me, squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Constant panic attacks. It was better to hide.
Here I was, with a new car and the ability to leave the house on a whim after weeks of Cabin Fever, and I couldn't even get out of bed. I can't really explain it other than to say that sometimes being awake and knowing she's dead and gone forever is just too much to bear. I opt out. If you'd seen what I did, you'd understand.
Jake's finger-slicing accident at school mid-week had brought up some bad feelings and thoughts, and they linger, the sharpest little burrs clinging to all my hurt parts. I'm so relieved Jacob was able to be stitched up and will only suffer a scar he can show off to all the girls. I am. But...
But he was hurt and able to be fixed, in a clean hospital under bright lights by people who were compassionate and kind. Cory was...they say...killed instantly. No one would- or could- do anything. I had to watch the confusing, frightening inactivity as they stalled, reluctant to tell me she was dead. No one even tried. I can't tell you what that does to a mother to see her child lying there helpless and no one doing anything about it. Over the last few days, I keep seeing them cutting her shirt open on the road, and I can feel the triumph and relief rise up in my breast to know at last they are doing something, they're going to save her, she's going to be okay. I crane my head forward, lost in the memory, trying to see them pull out the paddles, and feeling my blood run cold and my scalp tighten as I realize they're not bringing the paddles out. I see this over and over again. Then I usually go on a rant about how some people get the paddles and some people don't, and what did my good girl ever do to anyone to deserve no chance at all?
Maybe everyone else knew with one glance that she was most certainly dead, but I did not. I couldn't see it. To see it would drive me insane, and I would not even consider the possibility until someone forced it on me, and then bullied me into leaving her lying there on the road like roadkill. I hate myself for that. I really do.
The guilt that I didn't prevent her accident still plagues me most days. The fact that I didn't fight the shock, push past the hands that held me back to get to her, to touch her will never leave me. The fact that I didn't fight the police and refuse to leave her side as they did all their stupid accident reconstruction makes me feel small and ashamed. She wouldn't have left my side. They would've have to physically haul her away. That I know. I'm sorry, Cory. I'm so sorry.
I try to make sense of it all and I get so tired. I think of the future and I get so scared. Sometimes it's easier to just sleep my time away. If I had it my way, I'd never leave my house again. And way too often, I wish I could just stay asleep forever.
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