Progress Check Up

Here's some things I couldn't do even a year ago:

I couldn't work a full day on her birthday.
I couldn't keep a conversation going for more than ten minutes with anyone without talking about her.
I couldn't describe her injuries to anyone who asked without choking up.
I couldn't see my son as an individual, someone other than an extension of his sister and therefore a goldmine of memories to pillage on demand.


But here are some things I still can't do:

Move her hairbrush out of its accustomed place in the bathroom vanity drawer.
Throw away her makeup.
Move her purse off the bench in the dining room.
Take her coat off its hook in the entry way.
Walk the mall.


I've had a Victoria's Secret gift card since Christmas.  It just sits in my wallet.  One of these days, I'll send someone to stock up on shower gel for me.  The only parts of the mall I frequent are Barnes and Nobles (direct entry from the outside) and the movie theater.  The last time I bought Cory something in Victoria's Secret was for her funeral. Doesn't every mother buy their child new underwear and perfume to be buried in?

Choosing Cory's outfit to be buried in was surreal.  It was so reminiscent of getting her ready for a dance, except that I didn't do her hair and makeup and we didn't take pictures when she was all ready.  Choose something long-sleeved; we like to give the appearance of warmth.

Not entirely sure they got her hair right, but I was in too much shock to complain.  Suggesting that she skip the shoes since no one would see them anyways?  Now, that was another matter entirely.

There are many things after the death of my daughter that I can do...things that have taken years, but I've gotten there.   Still there are things that may never happen again.  There are certain books and movies I will never lay eyes again, no matter how much I enjoy them.  It is too painful to experience them without her.

Feel safe?  Doubtful. PTSD and all that jazz.
 Happy?  No.  Sorry, guys, I'm not happy.  I am enduring.