Little Brother

Jake and I went to see her at the cemetery tonight.  We got out and stood in front of her monument, our conversation quieted to whispers in this special place.  Jacob would no more goof around in a cemetery than he would streak naked down the street.  He is a respectful old soul.  I greeted her the same as always, and Jake followed suit.  "Do you want to tell her something you miss about her?"  I asked him.

"Oh, I miss everything about her."  he said.  The sweetness of his honesty made me bow my head and take a step back, just letting the siblings be together.  Their world was lost when she left, and it's worth mourning all on its own.

We stayed only a couple of minutes; I'm careful not to force these visits to be too long, afraid I'll stop Jacob from wanting to come.  We gave our kisses and ran from the stark reality of her name carved into that beautiful stone.  As we drove away, I asked Jacob if he thought Cory was happy where she was.

"Well...I think she misses us, but you know, she doesn't have to see those terrible things anymore so maybe she is happy.  You said she was smiling when she came to see you, right?"

Yes, she sure was.

A Visitor

"Mom?  Mom?"

I opened my eyes and there she was, sitting cross-legged at the end of my bed.  In my dream-state, hallucination, or visit between worlds, I couldn't move to touch her, so instead contented myself with going over her every feature with my eyes:  her hair beautifully mussed from a nice, long sleep, her eyes, so huge and full of life, her gentle smile, her long limbs whole and bent under her own control, and her little hands resting comfortably in her lap as she awaited my response.

"Cory?  Cory!"  I choked out at last.

She said nothing back, only smiled again and sat there magically, filling for a moment the gaping hole that I tote around daily.  She wanted nothing from me this time.  She needed nothing- not a snack, not my comfort, not my opinion, nor my companionship.  She was far more content than I could even imagine.  She was here for me.

On her face, without the need for words, was the knowledge of my struggle.  She knew all about the horror, the terrible images, the nightmares, the loss of control, the weariness, the despair, the hopelessness...she knew about the depression, the anxiety, the plaguing guilt.  She knew the things I've done when coping well and things I've done when coping poorly.  And she loved me anyway.  She knew that my heart knows no calendar and that every moment without her, I fear I might soon die, and many, many days wish I would so that the pain would end.  She knew that I am not the same happy, attentive Mommy that she and Jacob had known those years ago, but forgave me because she also knew I've been doing the best I can.

It was a sort of telepathy as I "told" her how angry it made me when other people weighed in on my progress- the well-meaning tough-lovers who insist I couldn't control the event, but I could control my reaction.

She sat there silently, calmly and relayed that they meant well and don't understand.  It is another world when a mother loses a child and someone who doesn't live there can't possibly give you directions to help you get around.  They can't know how long trips take if they have never made them.

True, I agreed, and added that a grieving mother can't control her reactions to the unexpected death of her child.   She's been plunged into brain stem to sink or swim for however long it takes her to learn to tread water.  When she bobs to the surface, it's only to catch her breath and react to the emotional part of her brain.  Finding that problem-solving part of her brain and staking a claim there, actually living there day to day could take years.  For the most part, you are in survival, floating to the top to feed your other child a meal or remember to pay a bill.  All you can do is try to fight another day.  And Cory, if I weren't trying, I wouldn't be here anymore.

"I know, Mommy.  Trust me, I know."

Safe Place

I made dinner- not until 9 p.m., but I made it.  I had a bit of a rough day.  At a training I learned about signs and symptoms of several different mental illnesses, which I was happy about- happy the training was available to the community and happy the stigma of getting help was being addressed.

 When the presenter got to schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder, I could feel my heart beating faster.  It was Cory's face I saw as hallucinations and delusions were described.  There were video clips and role play, but I knew even the best of intentions would never be able to describe the terror, the confusion, the fear, and the anxiety that Cory lived with.  My heart still hurts for all she went through and that I wasn't able to take it away.  She was getting better, but she'd lived in hell for a good long time by then, and there was nothing I could do about it.

"Telling them that they are safe, that you'll keep them safe is one of the best things you can do."

I can't tell you how many memories that single statement brought back.  How much I wish I'd been able to keep her safe one last time.

Without You is How I Disappear

I've got a lot of work left to do.

I don't even want to go home today.

I don't want to go home and walk into a house where she isn't.  I don't want to make dinner in the godforsaken kitchen with my cool Blue Apron meal supplies. I don't want to cook for three people.   I don't want to take a leisurely shower afterwards uninterrupted by her pounding on the door to ask me a question.  I don't want to beg Jacob to watch Switched At Birth with me, get rejected, and then end up watching it alone, feeling sad and empty.  I don't want to kiss one child good night, while the other one rests underground, surely bones by now.

I wish I could just disappear.  It's too hard, and I'm tired of trying to be okay.
I'm not okay.

Cory at Twenty-Two

Today, Tim and Jake went to a Tiger's game.  Left alone, in a house too quiet, I ventured out to get Jake's school clothes- shopping for one child when you used to shop for two is miserable.  It's raining today, and I thought of how Cory and I used to link hands and run through the puddles screaming like loons.  By the time I got to the coffee shop and put on my angry music, I was feeling more than a little downtrodden.  The sky out is so grey and cloudy, it felt perfectly natural to daydream a little about who Cory would be today if she were still here.

I run into her friends and other kids her age all the time and they are so busy!  Friends and jobs and studies- sometimes spouses and children.  I think Cory would be at a little slower pace because she'd went through so much with her mental illness those last three years.

 When I think about her sitting across from me right now, I imagine her with a smile.  I can hear her laughter as we trade stories and people watch.  There would be no strange thoughts or beliefs.  I think the voices would be gone except for times of extreme stress.  She would be taking her meds and seeing a therapist regularly.  Definitely, she'd be taking classes.  Maybe working part-time.  She'd be reconnected with old friends and have made new ones.

My baby girl who was afraid to leave the house would be making plans all the time- getting txts, sending pics, dating the boys I didn't want her to date, getting tattoos.  She'd be sending me funny things on facebook, and reassuring me all was well.  Can you feel that?  SHE would be reassuring ME that all was well.  After all, she'd be a twenty two year old beautiful, intelligent, confident young woman who could do anything she put her mind to.  Even overcoming mental illness.  Especially overcoming mental illness.

That's who she'd be.  Cause that's already who she was.

Fun with Nightmares & Flashbacks

It's a chain reaction:  stress breeds grief attacks, health problems, and sleep issues.  With the sleep issues come the flashbacks.  The flashbacks keep me awake half the night, agitated and just sick to my stomach, feeling every bit like I'm back with the rescue workers staring down at the remains of my daughter.  Once I finally get to sleep, the nightmares plague me.  The next day, I'm anything but well-rested which feeds my anxiety.  Anxiety causes flashbacks, too.  So there's the whole unholy, vicious circle.

Last night, when I finally got to sleep, I had a dream that Cory was back at home, unharmed and the accident in never-never land.  I kept calling her down from her bedroom but she never responded.  I ran up the stairs to give her what-for for staying up half the night with a flashlight and book under the covers, and found her lying on the bed, quite dead.  The terror I felt and the way I screamed up at the sky was every bit as real as what had happened on the side of West Michigan on the fifth of July three years ago.  Immediately, memories of her from babyhood on up flooded my brain and I could only think, much as I had that hot afternoon, well, that's it.  It's over.  I would like to die now, too.

My nightmares always have some horrific, graphic content, and this one was no exception.  In that just-do-it, no arguing logic way of dreams, I bent over and hoisted her body up in my arms.  I left her room, carrying her with tears screaming down my face and what felt like every vein I possessed ready to burst.  I carried her out of the house, and begin carrying her through the streets, my back bowing over with the effort, knowing if I dropped her I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.  It was my duty to carry her corpse as far as humanly possible, so carry her I did.

To my horror and dismay, I looked down and discovered that pieces of her were falling off her torso as I made my laborious way down West Michigan, and there was nothing I could do about it.  There was no way to put her back together again.  She was just broken, and I was somehow responsible.  What kind of mother was I?  I couldn't even carry her corpse intact.  This is all your fault, Nick.  You're bad.  You suck.  

I woke up with my face wet with tears and my whole body in a damp sweat.  Her face in my dream had looked exactly the way I always remembered it, and I couldn't get the image of her head dangling backwards towards the ground as I carried her out of my mind.

Once I'd been awake for a little bit, another intrusive memory barged its way in.  She'd been knocked out of her Hello Kitty tennis shoes.  How hard do you have to hit someone to knock them out of the shoes, one shoe landing at each far side of the scene?  How could she be knocked out of her shoes when they were still tied when I got them back from the police?  How could that NOT hurt?  She had to have felt the initial impact.  My heart can hardly bear this thought.

And from there,
how could the driver not have seen her?  How was she so completely unaware of her immediate surroundings?  Since when are drivers not supposed to watch out for pedestrians?  How could she have not only hit her, but never even braked?  How is that not careless?  How is that not negligent?  How did she kill someone and walk away with no consequences whatsoever?

I hope I can get some sleep tonight.

Grief Attack Number Who-The-Hell-Knows

A few words about grief attacks-

They go like this:

Hey, I'm doing pretty good.  I actually showered every day, even on the weekends, and I left the house!  

Look at me, kicking butt at work!  Go, me!  

Wow, maybe I really can enjoy cooking again!  I guess I just needed recipes I'd never cooked with or for my girl.  The kitchen doesn't feel as horrible as I remember.

You know, I don't really feel too bad.  I haven't thought about suicide in a minute.  That's gotta be good, right?  I must be stronger than I thought.

Gee, maybe I really should go through my closet and dresser drawers.  It looks like Maurice's exploded in here.  Yeah, I could do that.  I'm totally gonna do that this weekend.

Maybe I'll schedule that hair cut I've been putting off forever.  Get some highlights?  I could be pretty again.  Yeah, I think I could.  Maybe I'll just wear dresses every single day.  I love dresses.  

Just bopping along trying to keep my head above water when suddenly I listen to the wrong song or I look at the wrong picture.  The triggers can be anything really.  They don't even always make sense.

And BOOM!  In giant letters ten feet tall, grief is back.

Live without her?  LIVE WITHOUT MY GIRL?  HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?  I CAN'T FUCKING DO THIS ANOTHER DAY!!!
FUCK MY LIFE.

Break Me Down

The fire truck came so slowly.  When you're on the road and you hear the sirens, you move to get over quick and they seem to pass by so fast.  But when they're coming for your kid, everything slows down.  The tape slows down.  I can't really explain some of these half-images, these ghost memories that come at night when I try to get to sleep.
It was like the sound of the sirens and the blat of the fire engine got turned up to an impossible volume, loud enough to just crack the planet in half.  Crazy, huh?  And at the same time, all movement slowed to a crawl...the rescue vehicles, the people...I swear they barely moved.  It was like watching the scene take place while underwater.  Nothing made sense.
And I was more than willing to do whatever they said, answer any and all of their questions, and keep my panic, my terror at bay until they turned her over.  Her blue lips.  That's when I lost my mind.  That's when it started to be real, the very second the sound and the movement came together perfectly and I took a breath just long enough to start screaming.

Better Now

Since the first foggy precription-med induced days following the fifth of July, I've been making a concentrated effort to "get better".  And I mean CONCENTRATED!  It's no easy task to focus on the tasks at hand and sort of coax the horrors to a deserted corner of your mind.  I've been cooking like mad and can report indulging in takeout only once in the last month.  I've been staying in the zone at work and getting things done.  Which, by the way, I have not called in or left early (pat self on back there).

So a friend asked me today what "getting better" or "doing better" or even "feeling better" means to the bereaved mother.  I don't think it means to me what it means to the people who wish it for me.  Family and friends want me to be happy and have a normal life.  I firmly, vehemently, not without some reluctance, tell you...that will never happen.  Happiness will never be for me what it was when Cory was alive.  I'll never reach those heights again.  A normal life?  No.  The nightmares, the flashbacks, the sorrow- they are going nowhere, friends.  I'm a lifer.

So what does "getting better" mean to me?  I need to have a clean house again.  Or even care if my house is dirty.  I need to be able to organize and groom.  I need to be able to say no to Jacob without feeling like he may drop dead at any moment and I'll regret having denied him his heart's desire on that particular day.  I need to regain control of my finances.

To me, these have everything to do with regaining skills I had before the accident and nothing to do with feelings.  It's a hard thing to say I wish I felt better because I'm not sure that's what I want.  Do I want to miss her less?  Do I want to be less disturbed by her absence?  I want my love for her and my longing to be a live thing, a light never extinguished, a torch burning to the top of the highest skyscraper.  It is scary to think of letting go of the pain.  If we are but a vapor in our time here on earth, what are we to the living once we're gone?  I must hold TIGHT.

These last few weeks, I've kept my mind busy with recipes and meals, trainings and numbers.  When thoughts of the accident crept in, I pushed them back.  If the sadness came calling, I put it on hold.  I put dinner on the table some 29 nights, but I've felt distant from my girl.

I wonder if we tell people we want them to feel better because we know that's what they want or if we tell them that because it's so hard to watch someone suffer.  It could be that we are extremely uncomfortable being close up, front and center, with someone who is living our worst nightmare.  It could be that if they appear to be happier and living a normal life, we will fear going through that ourselves less and continue to pretend that we are safe- our kids are safe, our family is safe, this sort of thing only happens to other people.  I know that's what I used to think and it was a damn sight easier to live there.

Ancho

Did you know I came very close to using ancho chili powder for those chicken tacos that day?  I actually took out my smart phone and googled it to see if it would be too spicy for Jake.  I decided it might be, and then Cory was offering to walk over to Family Fare.  If only I had just used the stupid stuff, she'd have stayed home while that particular woman was driving down West Michigan.  Cory would be alive.

Tonight I heard a couple of phrases on tv:  "It went the way it had to...the way it was always going to."  These words struck me, and I felt my brain begin to let up a little on that mallet it's always holding over my heart.

"It went the way it had to...the way it was always going to."

Unconditional

Okay, here's the thing you need to know about Cory.  She knew how to love.  And she gave her love generously and without condition.

Take Bob.  He couldn't?  Wouldn't?  Does it matter?  He didn't.  And she loved him anyway.  She didn't have to forgive him for ten years of silence.  She didn't have to put herself out there for a father who'd never been around or made sure she'd had what she needed.  But she did.

Cory could always see the good in others even when they couldn't see it themselves.  And even though there were times she didn't want him in her life, she always wanted him to be healthy.  She always wished things could be different.  He disappointed her, but she loved the parts of him that she loved.  She learned to look in other places to get what she needed from a dad.  Even with the hurt, even with the anger and resentment, there was a still a love buried under it all for the man who walked away.  She was part of him.  She didn't let her hurt turn into hate.  I think maybe there's a lesson there.

What a beautiful spirit she had.

Love you, Baby Girl.

Screw The Store: This Time I Mean It

We cannot continue eating take out all the time.  Forget the budget, there's our health to consider.  Jacob needs to be on more than a nodding acquaintance with vegetables; we all do.  I want to be the mom that puts gourmet meals on the table every night.  I do.  I used to be that girl, and I really liked her.  She put a little of her heart on every plate.  She got her kids excited about good food.  She was healthy.

That being said, grocery shopping is an issue.  Cooking can be, too.  What to do?

Enter Blue Apron.  A friend of mine on fb has a busy job that keeps her traveling all the time.  When she gets home, she wants to cook a delicious healthy meal, but dreads schlepping out to the store for the ingredients.  She decided to try one of the meal kit delivery services, and has been very satisfied with it.  I decided to give it a whirl.

It's all the food needed to make three dinners:  super fresh produce, high quality meat, fish, and seafood, herbs, spices, the whole kit and caboodle.  The only things you need to have on hand are salt, pepper, and olive oil.  Everything is premeasured to the recipe it comes with.  There's no waste.  You just chop it all up and swirl it around in a pan.  Voila!

Three dinners.  This leaves me to pick up stuff for two dinners and coldcuts on my own, and I'm good for the week.  Milk.  Juice.  In and out.

So far there have been lamb burgers (so good Jacob ate Tim's before I could stop him), a scrumptious pasta dish, and chicken Milanese with a summer salad that stole the show.  I actually witnessed Jacob eating something of the green leafy variety.  On purpose.

We may be on to something here.

Really, BCPD? Really?

My thought today:

What is it called when someone takes something without paying for it?  Stealing.

The driver stole Cory's life.  She stole my child, and no one even said she was wrong for it.

No consequences.  No blame.  Nothing.  Just walked away.

The injustice is hard to stomach.