The Rescue Kitties

This isn't just the story of how I deal with losing my daughter.  It's also the story of how Jacob and Tim deal with losing Cory, and how we all relate to each other while grieving.  It's a bit unfair that each person in the family has this enormous pain to shoulder related to their own personal relationship with the person who died, but then must also cope with the additional stress and judgement that we all put on each other when someone doesn't grieve the same way we do.  It's interesting how sometimes you have no idea how someone else's behavior could possibly be connected to their loss (twenty-odd pairs of rubber boots?), and yet, at times, it's the other way around- you know what they're doing is working through their grief, but they are oblivious.

Let me give you an example:

A couple of weeks ago, a stray momma cat and her three kittens showed up in the neighborhood.  They were obviously feral; we couldn't get within three feet of them.  Jake, naturally, begged to take them in, which Tim and I immediately vetoed.  We are a one elderly dog/three cat household.  There are days that we can barely even dress ourselves due to our grief.  We have more than enough living beings to care for.

About a week after we'd spotted the momma and her babies, Tim came home from work very down.
"Something awful happened today."  I immediately thought he'd gotten fired, and began to picture us packing our belongings to a sad parade of cardboard boxes.  Obviously, we would lose our house.  I had us halfway moved into a sad little apartment that smelled like curry when he broke me out of my reverie.  "I found the tan, black, and white kitten on the lot today.  A car got it."

"Was it dead?"  I asked.

He nodded, his face long.

"That's awful!  Did you bury it?"  I asked.

"Of course I buried it!  What kind of man do you think I am?  You think I'd just throw it in the garbage can?"

"Well, no... I can't believe someone would hit it and just leave it out there in the sun."  I said, and then nearly choked on my words, realizing what I'd said.

Tim's face paled, and he looked ill.  "Why can't people just WATCH where the hell they're going?"   His voice was bitter and angry, and in that moment I could easily picture him putting the driver's head into a drill press as he'd casually mentioned he'd like to do before rolling over to go to sleep one night.

"I set some food and water out for the others on top of the swing set fort in the backyard.  I know we can't take them in, but I've just gotta keep them out of the road.  They just can't be in the road."  he said.

So for the next week or so, the "rescue kitties" as we began to call them were the focus of our household.  Spottings were excitedly shared between the three of us, and we all began to imagine that we'd slowly form friendships with them.  They'd let us pet them.  We'd get them fixed, and build some sort of outdoor shelter for them before the snow flew.

I watched as Tim grieved for the calico kitten whose sex was never confirmed.  He kept mentioning the kitten and how awful it was to find it that way.  One night in the shower, I asked him if the kitten's neck had been broken or what, figuring that talking about what he'd seen might help him process it the same way I've had to describe what I saw at the scene a thousand different times and may continue to do off and on until the day I die.  Tim's not a talker.  He just put his head down.  "I don't know.  It was just not something you'd ever want to see.  I can't stop seeing it.  That little kitten was so cute.  It didn't deserve that."

And a day after that, he said this, "You know, except for its mom and siblings, I bet the most love that kitten ever got from someone was when I buried it."

I said nothing, just imagining Tim's reaction had he seen Cory laid out on the side of the road.  I've so often wished someone I knew had been there with me so I didn't have to bear those horrific images alone.  To see Tim so visibly upset at the death of a kitten he barely knew, I knew why he hadn't been that person.  It would have broken him.

As the days went on, and he fed and watered the rescue kitties, I realized this probably had more to do with Cory than I had suspected.  I've never seen any hint that Tim might feel guilty that he was not able to protect Cory from the accident.  I've read over and over about the dads who took the guilt on immediately and irrationally, thinking they had failed in their masculine role as protector of the family unit, but I've seen nothing to indicate Tim felt this way.  And why would he?  I set not a shred of blame on him.  He was at work providing for her when the accident happened.  I was the one who let her walk out the door.  But now I saw it clearly.  He did feel that way, at least a little.  And if he could not save Cory, he would save these cats.

We haven't seen the rescue kitties for several days now.  Tim is devastated, coming home from work each night to search for them with a flashlight in the dark.  He worries for them.  He misses them.  And he's slowly realizing that horrible truth:  despite your best intentions, some things are out of your control.

"The will to save a life is not the power to stop a death."

Clarity

It comes once and awhile- clear thinking.  Here's a page from my journal some months ago to prove it:

All I do is keep buying things; it keeps my attention on something else.  I am scared to live without her.  Angry.  Lost.  But mostly afraid.  Then I remember a line I read in one of her journals:  "I've held myself in all day."

She no longer suffers.
In any way.

She is just full of peace and joy, love and contentment.  How can I begrudge my baby girl that type of existence?  Why would I?  Am I really so selfish?  I hope not.

They Grow Up So Fast

It went like this:

First she was a red-faced, wrinkly little newborn, and I was scared to be responsible for her- for anything so precious-but, as each day passed I developed a fierce pride to be her parent and experienced a deep, bottomless love that rivaled anything I'd ever felt before.  I blinked, and she was eight.  I blinked again, and she was nineteen, and the most beautiful and kind-hearted young woman I'd ever known.  I went to chop an onion, and she was dead.

Treasure your babies.  Every moment.

Today I Fell

Tim found some old pictures of the kids, Gizmo, and Oliver while rummaging through his toolbox, and brought them in the house to show me.   Jacob's pics were babyhood to toddler,all wise eyes and sweater vests, and Cory was nine or ten, pre-braces and demure.  We had pictures of her and her cat, Church, taken on Pet Day, and the others were of Cory holding her first American Girl Doll, Josefina.  I never look at pictures of Cory as a child.  They are just too painful to see.

  As I looked these over, I couldn't help but realize that Cory had been buried with Josefina, and her cat, Church, was buried right beside her after her death.  They're all at the cemetery together right now; yep, that's how that story ended.  Really?  What kind of screwed up plan is that?  Anger...no, fury descended on me, a second skin.  The outrage...the total indignation...the disdain at whomever or Whomever allowed this to happen...it just envelopes my entire being.  It's exhausting.

Scrolling through more recent pics on my facebook page yesterday, I stopped cold at the Easter picture of her and Jake, swallowing past the lump in my throat to see her in the dress she'd been buried in.  Oh.  I touched the screen, and the blackness just rushed in.  The anger was gone, and under it, of course, was the old familiar hurt.  Any mild reprieve from this awful mess that I've felt in the last few days was gone in that instant.  You just...lose your place.

“I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal.”

― Vita Sackville-West

Chances

I heard a song yesterday that chased away some of the burning jealousy.  I first heard this song on an episode of that ABC Family show, The Fosters.  Sometimes I think about how much Cory would've enjoyed that show, and other times I can't remember if she was around for Season 1 or not, and have to confer with Jake.  It's the same thing with movies.  Jake and I are always asking each other if we saw a movie just the two of us or with Cory.  Time after your child dies becomes two categories only:  before your child's death and after.  And if you're like me, kicking and screaming the whole way toward accepting your child's death, your mind plays some tricks on you.  Anything that I've even moderately enjoyed since July 2012 carries the strong feeling that Cory must've been there, too-- after all, how could I ever enjoy anything ever again without her by my side?

So this song was played for the first dance at the daughter's quinceanera.  I remember watching this young hispanic girl be spinned around the floor like a freaking princess, her face full of pride at who and what she was.  She knew she was loved; she had a steady two parent home; she did not appear to suffer from a major mental illness.  Wasn't that celebration enough?  Were the dress and the food and the merriment even needed?  Oh, I was so bitterly, bitterly jealous thinking of the hell my Cory went through and how much other people take for granted.

Tim thinks it is unkind and highly unhealthy for me to harbor such thoughts.  He is always shaming me for hating on the happy people, and I just cock my hip, angry and puzzled:  why isn't he angry and jealous, too?  Wouldn't any parent be?  I don't beat myself up for my anger or jealousy.  I think it's all part of the process, and it'll pass when it's meant to, if it ever does.

So check out the lyrics to this song, "Shooting Star" by Kari Kemmel and then we'll talk some more:

I'm feeling higher than the sunrise,
Feeling lovelier than midnight,
And I wouldn't change a thing
I'm standing taller now than ever,
Everything from here looks better,
No I wouldn't change a thing

You can try to bring me down,
To shake my soul and take my crown
I'll shine brighter,
I'll shine brighter, brighter, oh

I've learned I'm a shooting star
And no one can change who we are,
And no one can take that away
I know that I'm good enough
And I know that I'm beautiful,
And no one can take that away from me

I'm feeling prettier than velvet,
Soaring higher than the heavens,
And I wouldn't change a thing
Look up to the sky you'll see me,
Almost feels like I am dreaming,
Oh, I wouldn't change a thing

There's no shadow hanging over me,
I'm gonna live what I believe.
There's no taking away
What I'm feeling at this moment.
For the first time I know I'm free,
I'm feeling beautiful and I can dream
No one's stopping me

 

See?  She knows she's good enough.  She knows she's beautiful.  There's no shadow (or voices) hanging over her.

I thought about this for a long time.   Does the fanciest quinceanera guarantee the fifteen year old will live a long and healthy life?  Does a graduation open house secure career satisfaction or healthy self-esteem?  Does a beautiful, story-book wedding assure the marriage will last or that the bride will be loved and treated appropriately by her groom?

Cory did not have the chance to have an open house or a wedding, and I've mourned those stolen chances like you wouldn't believe.  It occurred to me while listening to this song that they were only that- chances.  Cory, without the milestone celebrations- or the milestones- has certainty.  She knows she is good enough.  She knows she is beautiful.  She knows she's not "crazy".  She suffers no more.

 

 Really, how could the best of parties even compare?

(Now please remind me of this the next time I'm in bed for four days after attending a wedding.)

Starving to Death

The other day I heard a knock on my door and laughter on my backstep.  I opened the door to two of Cory's best friends since kindergarten.  Try as I might, they will be perpetually five years old to me.  They brought me gifts:  a dream catcher and an invitation to one of their weddings.  They came inside and we sat down to talk and laugh about Cory for the next five hours.

We caught up on all of Cory's other friends and acquaintances, gossiped about all manner of thing, but kept coming back to the topic of Cory.  She was, after all, the reason we all knew each other.  Five hours of sharing memories of my daughter with willing participants- what was that like?  It was like being at the point of starvation, and having someone hand you a freshly baked roll slathered with real butter.

Every time I laughed, they got a hit of "Cory"  and every time they told me some detail I'd forgotten, I got a hit of "Cory", too.  It was bliss.  At one point, Sissy shared a story about an elementary school Cory Girl that I'd never heard.  I knew about her crush on Sissy's older brother...who didn't?  I did not know that she came into school one day and demanded that Sissy bring her one of the boy's shirts because she needed to smell him!  She was like...eight?  By lunchtime, she got paranoid that the shirt could be considered stolen property.  She decided the only thing that should be done- the only thing that could be done- was to bury it on the playground, which they promptly did. Can you see it?

I laughed until I cried.

The Glory of It All

Yesterday I had lunch with two of my sisters and the newlywed of the hour, Mrs. Blake Minor.  Afterwards, my sister, Tammy, and I ran some errands.  I was really rather proud of myself at first because I held it together walking the interior strip of the mall which is something I never do.  It was one of our haunts, and it is just that for me...haunted.  I get myself so lost in time that I honestly except to casually turn to my right, as I expected to do for the rest of her life and mine, and just tell her something.  Share.  It was her birthright to have that from me, wasn't it?

Speaking of which, you will be happy to know I did not neglect my little man during this trip, but strode with purpose into Barnes and Noble on the prowl for that most wonderful inventions of the comic book world:  the graphic novel.  I held it in my hands, hardover and all, and just admired the beauty of the artwork.  Cory would've fairly salivated on the spot.  And not that I am wishing to turn Jacob into Cory, but I will admit my heart was brimming to the tippy top with hope that attention to his likes and interests would rope him back into sharing the love affair of reading with me.  Can I not at least have that if Tim gets all the rest?  I marched firmly up to the counter, commenting to Tammy if he did not get excited about this book, I was going to refuse to claim him as my DNA...which sounds rough, but guys if you had seen this book...

Afterwards, Tammy and I ended up at Ulta, the makeup store of all creation, and that is where I had the mother of all panic attacks.  Tammy and I agreed that that store is a clever, clever invention, but somewhat of a complete sensory overload:  all the choices!  The shininess, the packaging, the newness, the-pamper-yourself-sheer-delight of the place is really unparalleled.  I'm sure I don't have to tell you for you to know that it breaks my heart every time I set foot in that place because Cory never even had the chance to marvel at its existence.

Every other occasion I've been in Ulta has been with my niece, Alisha, who is a tiny, strong-spirited little spitfire of a young lady who can be fiercely protective of her loved ones and would shepherd me around that place like I was one of her young.

Today, after my success at the mall, stopping into Hot Topic, even to buy a My Chemical Romance sticker for my journal because going inside places Cory frequented and having imaginary transactions with her is all I have left, I was feeling brave.  The minute Tammy and I entered Ulta, we split off, velociraptor-like to hunt.  There was Michael Jackson or something on the radio, and I was bopping around like I owned the place.  All was well, until it wasn't.

Every where I looked I saw my girl.  It's like when you're madly in love with someone and every minor observation of your environment short circuits back, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon style to that one person that lights your way.  My heart pines for her.  Pines, people.  So the display of shiny flat irons?  I had to stop and caress the one I'd choose for her.  The jeweled head bands?  I'd almost picked out three for her before I could stop myself.  The makeup?  I am biologically programmed to buy for two.  It was all a little overwhelming for me, and as I touched base with Tammy every five minutes or so, I fully admit to whining "I miss Cory" no less than twenty three times.

Finally, this song came on.  It was a song Cory used to love and we'd dance to it in the car and sing along, and I have a particularly vivid memory of her the Halloween she wore the O'bama mask with an impish grin behind it.  That song, "I Won't Teach Your Boyfriend to Dance With You" was on the radio as we sped down West Michigan toward my parents house for candy, and she was sort of hung a third of the way out the open passenger window with that ridiculous mask on, just bopping her head along and singing.  It really was a glorious moment.

So yeah, that song came on which never plays on the radio anymore, and I started to just freak the eff out.  My chest tightened till I thought I couldn't breathe, my heart was pounding out of my chest, and I started to feel overheated, and like I might just fall down somewhere.

I can't run a simple errand without losing my mind because she was my right hand.  We had it like that.  And now, I guess, I have it like this.  I LOVED being the person she loved best in the world, and now, well, I have to pay the price for that rare and sacred privilege of being her mother and her best friend all at the same time- I have to pay for the glory of it all.

Confessions of the Nonsensical

Today I ended up buying mascara, which is really rather optimistic of me since I seldom wear any makeup at all anymore.  (If you'd told me previously that I would ever set foot out of my house without makeup on purpose, I would guffawed and went to sort my eyeshadows).

There was a sale, buy one, get one sort of a thing.  So...

I bought Cory a mascara.

Is that crazy?  I guess I am losing my mind, but if you knew how much Cory loved the makeup commercials on tv, and how excited she was for any new product...

and last week, I saw L'oreal Manga Eyes had come out with L'oreal Manga Eyes Rock Style, which was sort of spiky and clumpy on purpose sort of a thing...

and well, there were two right next to each other, like purposely set out one for her, and one for me.

I tried to pretend I was just stocking up and that the Rock Style mascara would be worn by me, but we all know I was the girly one, and Cory had the edge.  I'm not sure I could play off spiky mascara at work even if I tried.  It's not that creative of a work environment.

But, nonetheless, I took them up to the register and I bought them.  It was my secret, and now that I've told it, I'll tell you, also, that I went home and placed my mascara in my make-up drawer and Cory's (still in the package) in her make-up drawer in the bathroom vanity.  It's still stuffed with her hairbrushes, ponytail holders, and various items of makeup.

I have since thought about this action and tried to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.  And then I decided I don't care.  Obviously, I am a hoarder of sorts, if I can't even part with one of her cottonballs.  Whatever.  There are worse things to be.

And, well...she's still my daughter.  I can buy her makeup she'll never wear if I want to.
 It's the thought that counts.

Jacob's Way

Tonight, after I forced his little butt into the shower, I reminded Jacob (as I always do) to pick up after himself in the bathroom.  I followed him in while we were talking and we ended up side by side in front of the steamy mirror above the bathroom sink.  He reached up with one finger and drew a cat face.  I reached up a drew a speech bubble.  He wrote in "Meow".  I smiled at this simple game, and wrote on the bottom of the mirror, "We love_____"  He filled in "Cory".  I drew a smiley face beside her name.  We smiled at each other, and then turned out the light, and left the room.

This is how Jacob mourns.  Isn't it absolutely beautiful?

Progress Check

I keep waiting for the mystical change my mental health care providers keep promising in on the horizon.  "Nothing is constant.  Not even pain."

Sure.

Still waiting for that magic to happen.  I got nothing.

Actually, I came here to the coffeeshop to write on the blog, and have spent the last three hours looking at pictures of my daughter on Facebook and crying openly in in public.  Not a lot of progress, folks.

I just got a refill on my hot beverage, and felt compelled to tell the new counter girl with the amazing bright blue hair that my daughter would've loved her hair.  I had to go on to tell her that Cory used to change her hair color all the time, that she was an artist, and that she died, and then proceed to show her pictures of Cory (with two different hair colors), as if she cared.

So far, in my child loss experience, the crushing pain has not changed one whit in the last three years and three days.

Not one whit.

Call me negative, if you want.  I'm just keeping it real.

Can You?

So.  Blakie got married!   Blake is my nephew, who was also only three months younger than Cory.  They went to school together and the whole bit.  A couple of weeks ago, his tiny self got married (seriously the boy must still have a 28 inch waistline) to the girl of his dreams.  The wedding was beautiful, and I know Cory would've been out of her mind excited for them both.

Having said that, let me tell you another thing that sucks about losing a child.  The milestones.  Their friends will and should begin having them:  going away to college, getting married, having babies.  Cory never will.  Can you even imagine that for your kids? 

 She never will.

And she deserved to.  She deserved the chance to go to college.

She deserved to find a good man who would treat her well.  She deserved to wear the fancy dress and have a day that was hers.  I close my eyes, and I see sideswept bangs and a veil down over.  I hear her giggling that she'll just wear flats because walking in heels in public gives her nightmares. She might very well of gone bare foot. I see her with a bouquet of flowers in hand and stars in her eyes...

can you see her, too?

Eff the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, and why not the seventh, too?

And sometimes a word or a line of a conversations sets your teeth on edge... just right... and although you are forty-one years old and have never been in an actual fight, but have been hit, pushed, and choked many times, you suddenly have this urge boiling up from a place you didn't even know existed.  You want to grab some random person and ball your small hands into fists and beat the person before you until they can no longer stand.  And then you want to climb on top of their tears and blood and pleas, and keep hitting them as hard as you can.  Close one eye.  Close both.  When they talk back, you want to fill their mouth with your knuckles and tell them to Shut up!  Just shut up!

When they've quieted at last, you will sit on top of their pain, sick with victory.  It doesn't make it right.  It doesn't take it back.  But my, just this once, doesn't it feel good?

Just Perfect

This morning I had a dream that I was taking a toddler-aged Cory trick or treating.  I had her by the hand, but she tripped over the hem of her long princess gown, and went reeling as we descended someone's stone steps.  I grabbed for her, my heart in my throat, and checked her over from one end to another.  She was fine, just scared, and I grabbed her up to carry her to the next house on my hip.  She settled in comfortably, her pumpkin bucket bobbing in one hand, while her other hand rested around a lock of my hair.  I could feel everything...her weight against my hip, the remnant of a tear transferred from her chubby cheek to mine, her complete and utter trust of me.

And the way dreams do, it spilled over to cuddling up to an age-unknown Cory watching The Aristocats.  We delighted over our favorite parts, giggling even if we had seen them a few hundred times already, and ended the movie as we always did...with the sudden, fevered desire to go buy some kittens and teach them to paint and play the piano.