Here I Am

The question right there at the scene of the accident was, "What have I done?"
By the time her body was prepared and she was lying on that satin pillow, it was, "How did we get here?"
After the shock wore off, it was dully, stolidly, "What is the point?"  My heart was put right into that dark hole in the ground with her.  Let me die.
So much anger followed...anger at the driver, at the paramedics, at the people whose children still lived.  Most of all, there was anger at myself.  And so often, searing hot rage at the people who refused to let me give up, who refused to let me get down in a dark hole in the ground right beside her, in the plot now set aside for my body...that someday, she will never have be there alone, in the dark, again.

Grudgingly, over the last year, I've admitted that continuing to live is the right thing to do.  I seldom entertain thoughts of suicide anymore.  My lens has finally widened enough from the trauma to see Jake in my world- my responsibility to him, but also the joy he brings me every single day.  One thing about losing a child...you no longer take for granted the magic of watching your child breathe and move.  I won't squander that magic.  I won't.

"Let me die."  is basically what I said over and over again for the first three years after Cory's death, sometimes lightly, sometimes bitterly, and all too often with a dangerously flat and practical tone.  It seemed so obviously to be the only way out.  It was not that I was weak or a coward or did not love my family and friends; it was that I could not see a future out of the immense pain that enveloped me every day, and I was tired, so tired.

Here are the people who refused to let me hurt myself, who refused to let me give up, who saw value in me when I no longer saw it in myself, who shook sense into me, who sat uncomfortable, but steady, while I sobbed, screamed, and ranted:  Mom, Dad, Angie, Anna, Nicole, Kim, Bud.  Still others:  Tammy, Roz, Jessica, Susan, Tim, even Jake.

It has been a living hell figuring out how to stay alive without her here.  it has been damn near impossible to manage the guilt that I still cannot fully shake.  But if I had died when I wanted to some two days after her death or any time since then, I wouldn't know the person Jake is today.  I wouldn't be here, standing eye to eye with an incredibly kind, compassionate, smart, funny, and decent young man.  I would not know him.  And that would be another tragedy, one that I actually could have avoided.  Just as I at one time couldn't imagine every living without my Cory Girl, I don't want to imagine not knowing my boy.

Jake and I may not share all the same interests and we can't wear matching outfits (the one time I tried, he gave me the look and I went to go change), but make no mistake, he is my boy.  I am shaping him every day, listening to all the things that are important to him both big and small, asking him his opinion all the time, challenging his thinking, teaching him anything worthwhile I can think to pass along, in hopes that he will grow up to be a good man, a kind man...a good husband and an even better father.

As long as you're alive, Jacob Norman Mansfield, here I am.

Cooking With Pinot Noir

Funny how nostalgia hits late at night over something as silly as a meal you haven't prepared in years.  All at once you find yourself sad for reasons you don't fully understand.

Guilty By Survival

So when you travel for work, you have a lot of time in the car to think.  What I figured out today  is why I hate my birthday so much since Cory died.  Obviously, you're a bit less apt to break out the balloons and streamers when your kid is dead and in the ground; that party spirit just isn't there anymore, at least it isn't for me.  But I think it's more than that.

I turned 43 a few days ago.  I didn't want a special dinner or a cake.  I just wanted to sneak it past with as little fanfare as possible.  Why?  Survivor guilt, of course.  What right do I have to live to be 43 when Cory died at 19.  Nineteen.  I was nineteen when I had her for Pete's sake.  How do I deserve to keep going when she didn't get to?

If Cory had been the one to live, she might've met a man who would love her and care for her, create some stability, be her anchor- show her that some men can be trusted and depended on.  She may have made much better choices for herself than I have and ended up with a healthy, kind, patient man who would be content to sit on a porch swing, holding her hand and watching the corn grow.   She may have had a career that challenged her and made her feel like she was contributing something to the world.  She may have had children and actually kept them alive.  She should've had twenty four more years to do all of that or none of it, but something, anything, just to be here breathing, loving and being loved- she deserved that.

And she would've had that if...
I had went to the stupid store myself.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know:   I "couldn't possibly have foreseen what would happen and made the best possible decision at the time with the information available".  That's what I'm supposed to think and say.  But it doesn't really wash- not in my heart. One different decision on my part could've given her an education, a career, a marriage, a family.  One split second decision could've given her those twenty four years.
 "Hey, Cory, keep an eye on your brother, I'm running to the store for chili powder."

These thoughts run through my mind a lot.  My birthday just makes the fact that I put my life before my child's public knowledge.  Cause here I am another year.  And here she isn't.  Hey look everyone, I killed my kid and lived to tell about it.

I can't believe I fucked it all up in the end.  But I did.  Man, did I ever.

Call Me Maybe

This grief is a sneaky thing.  And, I've found, it often plays dirty, kicking you when you are low.  If I'm stressed or physically not feeling well, chances are, a grief attack will happen, just like it did tonight.

I've been fighting one of those awful early fall head colds all work week, downing sinus tabs, lugging a box of the good kleenex with me on my commute, and forcing myself to go in when I'd much rather be in bed in a ball under the covers with a hot cup of tea on the nightstand.  Today I was able to sleep in and then just lounge around, nursing my symptoms.  I made it through the day okay, distracting myself with Jake, Netflix, and the cuddling company of my dog, Winston.  I decided despite all the rest I'd gotten through the day, turning in early was a good idea, because Monday morning will be here all too soon.

Just as I laid my head down on the pillow, Grief barged right into my settling-down-for-the-night thoughts.  Hey, do you remember how Cory used to call you all the time when you were at work?

Yeah, I sure do.  She'd call to let me know she was home from school.  Then later on when she was being home-based, she'd usually call a couple of times on any given day.  She'd call to let me know Jake was home safe.  She'd call sometimes to ask a question or just say she loved me.  Sometimes she called because she was scared, or she wouldn't come right out and say she was scared, but I could tell she must be because she was obviously anxious and needed to know exactly when I'd be home.

I got so caught up recalling all these different variations that I could hear her voice in my mind, and that's when the tears started rolling down my cheeks.  About that time Depression with all its self-loathing and guilt piped up with this:  Remember that one time you had to tell her to make sure not to call too much when you were at work because you might get in trouble.  Now she'll never call you again.  You will never hear her voice ever again.

Panic sets in.  I will never hear her voice again.  And did I hurt her feelings when I told her to call me only if it was really important?  Did I make her feel unwanted?  Did she die thinking I didn't love her as much as she needed to be loved?  What kind of mother was I?

Grief attack.  Nick down.