Jacob's Holiday Hat

Okay, so this one's about Jake.

I was absolutely jubilant to score the two of us tickets to use The Used in Grand Rapids a month or so ago.  Bear in mind, they are my favorite band and probably Cory's second favorite.  Jake is not quite as big of a fan, but was curious to experience a concert in a smaller venue setting.  The only concert he's ever been to was Panic at the Disco in Detroit at the palace.  It was amazing, but definitely different than what an all ages general admission, standing only, would be.  I was hesitant as to whether or not Jacob would be able to handle the crowd.  His social anxiety is bad enough at Walmart,  sending him in the opposite direction if it's too congested.  "Look", I told him, "you have to know what you're getting into here.  There will be tons of people.  A lot of them will be drunk.  Some of them may be puking.  Lots of pushing and shoving.  Moshing is encouraged...do you still want to go?"

To my happy surprise, he was down.  He was, however, dubious of my promise that we would use our slim physiques and above average looks, to weasel our way to the front row.  "Sure, we will, Mom." he said, and patted my shoulder, condescendingly.

We arrived early to the club to find forty or so folks were also hoping to storm the barricade.  We stood in line, freezing, but hopeful.  Imagine my delight when a staffer with a clipboard walked the line offering Skip the Line upgrades.  We paid the extra fifteen bucks and went to the front to be scanned and patted down ahead of time.  Jake was looking at me with a bit more confidence.  "Do you think we can really get front row?" he asked.  "Hell, yeah!  When the doors open, run like it's Black Friday."

A few minutes later, we were released...us and about twelve other souls that had coughed up the extra cash for a chance to get on the barricade.  We ran as if our lives were in danger.  I looked behind my shoulder to see I'd left my child behind me by about a foot.  I reached for his hand and he grasped it and we closed the distance, finally placing our hands, front and center, on the barricade rail.

Forget the fact that I very badly needed to pee.  Forget the fact that we hadn't gotten any merchandise.  Forget the fact that we were both thirsty.  We had made it and we weren't budging.

I turned to Jake and he grinned back at me.  "I can't believe we made it."

He even put up with me taking a pic of our hands on the rail for my journal.

It was bare moments later that I discovered the victory of winning front row would be tempered with the unpleasant odor of my barricade neighbor directly to my right. This was like the Vatican all over again...why does this always happen to me?  This particular young lady had multiple hygiene issues going on, which was unfortunate, and I fought the urge to mother her into popping a mint or reconsidering her dreads hairstyle.  What made it even worse was that she was super young and terribly obnoxious.  Breathing through my mouth was my only option, but that did not solve the problem that she was throwing elbows and draping herself across the rail in my personal space about every two minutes.  I was annoyed beyond measure, but even this could not dim my excitement to be close enough to make eye contact with Bert McCracken. 

The opening band came out and some of the crowd went wild, while others, including Jake and I stared with polite interest, curious about the bizarre baggy diaper-like cargo shorts the lead singer was wearing and wondering what exactly he was on, as his stare was glassy-eyed and unpredictable.  Whatever, he lacked in fashion sense, he made up for in die hard enthusiasm as he screamed into the mike with wild abandon, vocal cords bulging and diaper-like cargo shorts waving in his wake.  We tried to be supportive audience members throughout the entire set, counting down the moments until intermission, which finally arrived and not a moment to soon.  Our ears were ringing and all communication between Jake and I was down to eye contact.  I asked with my eyes, "What do you think of this band?"  He shrugged his shoulders and raised an eyebrow, indicating, "They kinda suck". I nodded in agreement.  He watched on, sympathetic as the stinky girl beside me threw herself and her smelly dreads all into my personal space. I feared going home with lash marks on my face from her dread-whipping.  I so badly wanted to tell her to please, please, please  wash her pits, brush her teeth, floss, and put on some deodorant.  Instead, I silently endured the constant assault to my nostrils and dodged her flying dreads the best I could.

During the intermission, we watched most of the crowd rush to the bar for drinks, head to the bathroom, or go hunt for merch.  We stolidly maintained our positions.  I crossed my legs and reminded myself to be cautious when jumping...I am over forty, after all.    As the set was changed out and the lights began to dim, the crowd began to fill back up behind us.  It was amazing to watch all the open space pack up with hundreds and hundreds of bodies.  A couple of concert goers in the makeshift row behind us crowed loudly how glad they were not to be on the barricade...one of them caught our glance and said, "It's gonna be bad.  You might get really hurt.  The crowd is gonna start pushing forward and it makes it really hard to breathe.  I went home with bruises all over my body last year and someone broke a rib..."  She waited, expectantly, perhaps for me to offer to trade with her.  As if.
I turned to Jake and whispered, "Haters".   He giggled quietly, and agreed, asking, "Do they think we're stupid?  I'm not moving from this spot unless I hear gunshots."

Finally, many mouth breaths later, the lights went down...

From our vantage point, we could see the band members walking onstage and the crowd went absolutely berserk when the music started.  Jacob and I were screaming like loons, jumping and turning to see each other's faces lit by the stage lights.  In my mind's eye, I could see Cory beside us, jumping higher than us all, her little hands up the air, screaming herself hoarse.  That is the only thing that could've made the moment better:  having her there, preferably in Stinky Girl's spot, at my right side where she belongs, where she has always belonged.  Whatever good moments there are these days have that in common, they would be even better with her here.  Even in the crazy excitement of the moment when I made direct eye contact with Bert, I was remembering the fact that Cory is dead and mourning it in my heart.  It bleeds into every small win.

By the second song, the crushing wave of the crowd had intensified and we were being pushed from behind pretty hard.  I instinctively put an arm around Jake until the worst of it had subsided and scream-asked him if he wanted to move back.  "No way!!!!"  he scream-answered me.  I nodded, feeling pretty proud of my shy guy.  I tapped him on the arm and motioned down to my arms which were locked at the elbow as I'd told him during the intermission that we should do to help give us some breathing room.  He locked his own and we turned our attention back to the stage.  The Used was amazing.  I've seen them three times now and they never disappoint, but I'd never been front row.  Cory would've went absolutely crazy. Just absolutely nuts.  I see it in my mind's eye and I almost can't bear the combination of joy and longing.

The show ended all too soon.  We screamed ourselves hoarse for an encore, which the band obliged.  And then the lights were up and I could finally take my leave of Stinky Girl.  I was elated from the show, desperate to pee, melancholy for my girl, and proud that Jake had enjoyed the show...since I wasn't really sure if he would.  I happily allowed him to lead me to the merchandise booth, having already decided to spoil him rotten.  The law of child loss for me seems to be when you can't buy for your dead child, double up on the live one.

"Jake, I don't need anything, so you can get a shirt and a hoodie, stickers, wristbands, whatever you want..."

"Really?!" he asked, his eyes bright.  "Thanks, Mom!" 

We stood in line, a few feet back picking out which designs he wanted to get.  Cautiously, he begged, "Hey, Mom, could I get a hat, too?"

If Cory were here, I'd buy her the world.  

"Sure, Jake, go for it.  Which one do you want?"  I squinted up at the display where they had hung a basic snap back "Dad-hat" with the band's logo on it and a winter holiday hat that was red, green, and white, with the band's name emblazoned over a background of Christmas trees.  It also had a huge pom-pom on the top. 

I could hardly believe it when Jake said he wanted the holiday hat.  It was so out of character for my understated boy.  "Mom, when the music plays and I bob my head, the pom pom will move, it'll be awesome!"

My heart smiled to see him so free and playful.  "Sold!"  I answered.

Sure enough, he tugged it right over his head and we played The Used the whole way home to Battle Creek, his pom pom moving to the beat.  These times with Jacob are better than anything.  They make life worth living.  He never fails to make me smile.

We were still discussing the concert, song by song, as we let ourselves in the house at just past one in the morning.  Tim was waiting in the dining room to hear about our adventure.  He'd asked a couple of questions about the drive and waiting in line before stopping mid-sentence and giving Jake a deliberate once over.  I was busy putting the ticket stubs somewhere safe and Tim had to call my name twice before getting my attention.  Finally, hearing him, I turned in his direction.

"Did you guys have a good time?"  he asked.

"Oh yeah!"  we both said in unison.

"Hey, Nicole..."

"Yeah?"

"Did you really buy our teenage son a hat with marijuana leaves all over it?"

"What?"  I said, and turned to look at Jake's Holiday Hat, that while certainly festive in its color scheme, did not have Christmas trees on it, but instead proudly boasted marijuana leaves dancing around  the entire thing.  Happy holidays, indeed!

I cracked a smile, "Those aren't Christmas trees, are they?"

Jake grinned broadly.  When Tim pressed him to see if he knew what they were when he asked for it, he answered in his quiet, analytical way, "Yeah, I knew.  But Mom, didn't you say there are lots of pros to legalizing marijuana?"

Why yes, yes I did.

I could only giggle, telling him he couldn't wear it to school or grandma's,  wishing more than ever that Cory was here to witness these shenanigans.

  Cory, get a load of your boy.  Seriously, just get a load of him.

The Sixth Christmas

How is it even possible?

This will be the sixth Christmas since Cory died.  It's an impossible span of time.  Jake and I went Black Friday shopping together this year.  And on Cyber Monday, we huddled together on my bed and ordered most of his gifts.  He is not disappointed in the least to know what he is getting, in fact, he prefers it that way. "Surprises are overrated", he confided with a weary, older-than-his years tone.  The second my eyes met his, he looked away, blinking furiously.  Touche, son, touche.  Jake seldom says much about his loss, but once in awhile he drops a one liner than says far more than its face value would give away.  You have to know him, know how carefully he chooses his words and how seldom he offers his observations on life to fully grasp the meaning of these little conversational bombs.  You have to be well versed in his body language and understand that the more he looks away without meeting your eyes, the more he is opening up.  He does not take vulnerability lightly anymore. 

So the sixth Christmas without her, really?  Six?  I remember the first one and the last two, but the in between years are a shadowy no man's land of non-memory:  strictly survival.  The first year, I suppose I remember because at that point it hadn't even been six months yet and I was still shocked and puzzled how the world could go on without her at all.  Every breath I drew was like swallowing glass.

 Now I walk around the set of life a lot better, say my lines a lot more convincingly, and don't miss too many of my cues...at least not enough to sound any alarms.  But sometimes the feeling of watching myself  is uncanny and I remember how Cory used to describe this odd feeling of disassociation.  She would say it was like watching a play.  Or watching herself say or do things without really being in control...or able to care about the outcome until later, when she felt connected again.  I feel disassociated from others a lot, but sometimes, especially around difficult dates, yes, even from myself.  I go through the motions, mostly apathetic, but with enough muscle memory to nod and smile in social situations.  I can banter through the pain without missing a beat.  It looks social.  It looks appropriate.  But it's all about distance.  It's about giving someone what they expect from you so you can be done with that task and go off alone to fall apart without the weight of disappointing someone.  Because what you really feel like doing would not be nearly as pleasant to witness...the ugly crying, screaming, raging, or staring dully into space.

Twelve days till Christmas and I still need to put up my tree.  I need to decorate it with the carefully selected ornaments my best friend gifted me in an effort to help spark within me some small joy in the season.  "I want you to look at the tree and see your children." Have you ever heard anything so kind in all of your life?

Last year, Dr. Z asked me to put up one little ornament of Cory's from when she was little, just one.  I tried to appease this last request from him, only to discover Tim had accidentally thrown out every single one of our Christmas ornaments from the last twenty years.  My friend went straight to work to replace what she could.  That is love right there.   I have to get that tree up.  And I have to make it through my first Christmas since Cory died without talking to Dr Z, and I'm not quite sure how that's gonna go.  So far, it's going like crap.
 Last year, George Michael died.  This year, Dr. Z has retired. Face it, the holidays are just not my jam anymore.  I don't think they ever will be. 

So here I am just floating above, watching myself immobile, knowing I have a tree to put up and dear parents to treasure.  Jake and I have to take Cory a grave blanket and the giant nutcracker that stands guard.  Twelve days left.  Time to get moving.

"I Miss Her"

Sometimes I say nothing at all.  I just disappear for awhile.  I sleep longer.  I don't bother with makeup.  But sometimes I have to say something or explode.  The pain I carry in my heart is just too heavy and I start to feel like I'm suffocating.  So I say the socially acceptable thing which is:   "I miss her."

But friends, it is so much more.
I've harnessed it now so that I don't fall apart at work, so that I don't lose it...as often...while driving in the car.  I still break into tears unexpectedly but much less often than before.  Am I stronger now?  Or am I just used to the suffering?  The way someone who is abused starts to expect nothing more for herself?

How can I explain what it is like to carry the pain of her absence with me every day, every moment?  There are probably no words unless you are in the same miserable hell I am and if that is true, well, I suspect I'll see it in your eyes when we pass each other and we won't need to say a word.

I'll say this:
It is exhausting.  It never stops.  The gnawing pain and the constant heartache...it never sleeps.  Cory- her smile, her hands, her eyes, her laugh.. I see them in my dreams.  And likewise, every frame of the roadside...they come to me in my sleep, too.

The sorrow bleeds into every joy, every small win.  The shadow is perpetually cast.  There is no escape.

So, if I say "I miss her.", just know the depth of that statement is so much more.  In that moment, I am drowning.  If it weren't overwhelming me, I'd just suffer silently the way I so often do.

How Slouchy is Too Slouchy?

I had one of those days last week that I so desperately wanted to tell Cory about, but couldn't.

I told Jake about it, but because Cory and I had both experienced bullying at school, where as Jake has not (to my knowledge), it just wasn't the same.

Since I can't tell her, I'll share with you:

If you're a regular reader, you have already ascertained that I was an underdeveloped, quiet, and meek child in school.  The traumatic sclerosis check of 7th grade that caught one poor classmate and I out bra-less, bare chested, and humiliated is forever burned into my memory and can be read about on this blog.  But as I often say when dishing with a good friend, wait...there's more.

So I recently bought a pair of black faux suede slouchy over the knee boots.  Do you know the kind?  My plan was to pair them with a sweet ruffly flowered dress so there was maybe an inch of bare leg showing in between.  When it gets colder, throw an over-sized, cozy sweater over top (maybe even one of Cory's that I brought downstairs) and I'd be good to go:  my fall uniform complete.  When the snow begins to fly, I'll put on fleece-lined tights and trade out the faux suede for leather and pop a hat on top of my head.  I love dress-tight-boot weather.  It completes me.

So finally this hot weather broke and I was able to give my new boots a go.  They are the sort that pull on and then you tie them securely in the back, just above your knee.

I put them on with one of the previously mentioned dresses from my closet and I was off.  Within an hour of walking around, the boots were steadily sliding down my legs and starting to bag around the knees.  This was not only annoying, as I had to keep reaching down to the pull them up, it was also making me very anxious.  I ducked into the nearest bathroom and surveyed myself in the mirror, honestly wondering if these boots looked stupid, if my body was all wrong to wear them, and if people would laugh and talk about me when I walked away.

Some unpleasant memories had come flooding back:

being in ninth grade, repeatedly and loudly made fun of by a group of girls in my sixth hour.  "Ugh, you're disgusting.  What is wrong with you?  You look EMACIATED.  Why don't you eat something?"

These comments continued for weeks while my face burned with embarrassment and I began to choose my routes in the hallway and my seat in the lunchroom strategically.

"Don't your momma feed you?  Here, you skinny white bitch, eat a fucking sandwich!"  This last bit said, screaming laughter, as she threw a half eaten sandwich and an open bag of chips in my general direction.

Of course, her friends laughed.  My friends tried to ignore her.  Some of the surrounding kids laughed, too, but most just looked uncomfortable.  Me?  I was mortified.  Already shy.  Already anxious in social situations.  If the earth could've opened up and swallowed me, my whispered thanks would've been my only response.  Back then, when I believed in a higher power, Lord, deliver me from Northwestern Middle School was my prayer.

After Christmas that year, I came to school elated to be sporting a brand new pair of Guess jeans tucked into Guess slouchy socks- the ones that had the logo on the side.  I was feeling like a million bucks...in other words, pretty much the way I feel when I wear boots these days.

So I got to sixth hour and sure enough, the laughing and pointing began.

"Damn, girl, you so boney, your fucking socks can't even stay up!"

Now slouchy socks were supposed to slouch, but sure enough, she had gotten into my head.  I was at home that night checking them out in the mirror, wondering if maybe they weren't slouching just a bit too much and wishing I had a bit more body fat, spread out nicely to my not-yet-existent breasts, rear, and legs.  The mirror stared back at me, reporting a decidedly still-boy-like physique and the waiting would continue pretty much until after I bore my first child.

So this harassment continued for several months and through it all, I had been deemed "Bones Davidson".  To this day, I am sensitive to remarks about my weight.

So fast forward about thirty years, and here I am with these damn slouchy boots, knowing my body is the best it has ever been (man, I could've gotten into some really fun trouble if I'd had this confidence level way back then) and having flashbacks that trick me into to doubting my self.

I really wish I could tell Cory how it is normal to be affected by mean things that people say, but that it doesn't make them true.  And I know Cory could've commiserated because of her own experiences being bullied at school.

Cory's experiences being bullied at school happened during the time her illness was first rearing its ugly head.  She didn't share any of it with me (much as I didn't share any of mine with my mom) until afterwards.  I was completely taken off guard by the phone call from her grade principal telling me she had beaten a girl and would be suspended for ten days.  I remember asking first if he had the right student.  I remember hearing some details of the incident from him and wondering what in the world was happening?  My girl had never been in trouble at school...not once.  

The whole story, in Cory's words, can be found on this blog.  From my point of view, I could not believe how out of character her actions were.  Something was really, really wrong.  I had her drug tested.  When they said nothing was present and referred us to Summit Pointe, we were there at the next availability.  It was much later, having heard what happened in Cory's own words and getting more information about her illness that the pieces fell into place.  At that point, she'd been hearing voices for a year, without telling anyone.  This girl had been teasing and laughing at her for months.  And as she described to me, "it was my clothes, Mom.  She made fun of the way I dressed.  I know I don't have great self-esteem, but the one thing I'm proud of is my fashion choices."

Oh, Cory, you were so my girl.  My heart.  My soul.

The outfit that led to the incident?  Cory had seen Blaire on Gossip Girl wear red tights under shorts and loved the look.  So did I, actually.  Cory's tights were either red or pink, I can't remember which and she's not here to confirm.  So the girl started up making fun of her on the bus, and Cory, already carrying the stress of a brewing mood/thought disorder and tired of dealing with her day after day after day blew up.  I could not picture her having to be pulled off of another person.  I couldn't picture her kicking the girl while she was down.  It was hearing her friend that was there describe it and Cory's own account that finally painted the picture for me.  And in it, I could so clearly see her father's face.  Out of control rage.

Many years later, Cory would share in the dark while we sat up late talking.  "That day, Mom.  I couldn't take the laughing.  It got louder and louder in my head.  Her face got bigger and meaner.  And then this voice in my head just said, 'Get her.'  So I did.  I couldn't stop myself.  I tried to act like she deserved it and I was proud, but I wasn't.  People were giving me high fives in the halls and calling me champ and I tried to act cool about it.  But not on the inside.  I knew it was wrong and I was in trouble, not just at school, but big trouble, like life trouble...and I was afraid.  What what happen to me if I couldn't control myself?"  

Well, what happened for Cory is that she learned she could tell me anything and she learned coping skills.  She was never in a fight again.

What happened for me?  I looked in the mirror again and saw those boots are supposed to be slouchy.  And maybe my legs are a little less thick than other people.  But that's okay.  Skinny thighs can be sexy, too.  

I found out, too, when I googled it, that LOTS of people are having issues with these boots sliding down- it's a fabric and design issue, not a "your legs are too skinny" issue.  Amazon even sells something called a Boot Bra to hold your faux suede over the knee boots up where they're supposed to be.  And, well my birthday is coming up...

Something Borrowed

This might not make a lot of sense to anyone who hasn't lost a child, but I thought I'd share it anyway.

Over the last couple of summers, I've worn a pair of Cory's shoes down to almost nothing.  Her favorite hoodie is my wrapping of choice in the sub-artic climate of my local Starbucks- whether I'm working on homework,writing on this blog, or making art, I am nearly always covered in her My Chemical Romance concert hoodie, no matter the season.  But that is pretty much all I have worn except for a couple pairs of shoes she'd left downstairs and her precious pearls that they took off her neck at the funeral to hand me.

I've thought about going upstairs a dozen times for a sweater or a dress, but just couldn't do it.  Why not, you ask?  Why keep all that stuff if you're not going to use it?

It's kinda like this:  when I think about Cory's room being maintained intact exactly the way it was the day she died, it provides me one small space in this world where she still is, other than that pretty, but wretched, plot in Bedford Cemetery, where her beautiful monument stands that I never in a million years wanted to design, sketching it out with shaking hands and a heaving chest, the tears falling all over my paper. 

 Do you see the difference?  One place gives me pictures in my head of her walking and talking, putting laundry away with music blaring and her cat at her feet.  The other quickly takes me back to howling at the sky on the eleventh of July as her casket waited to be lowered into the ground.

It makes a certain amount of logical sense that I want her room kept intact until you add in the fact that I can't bear to go in her room.  I spend almost no time in there at all.  It kills me to have so many memory triggers all rounded up in one place.  And it still, ever so faintly, smells like her.  

I remember the day after she died, I drove myself to Summit Pointe like a mad woman, desperate to see Dr. Z, desperate for him to tell me this wan't true or that something could be done.  After he had sat with me for longer than he really had to- the dear, sweet man that he was- he handed me off to a therapist until my sister and mom could get there to pick me up.  It was determined I was not safe to be driving.  

While waiting, this lady suggested that I get into Cory's bed and sleep that night.  I looked at her like she had quite lost her mind.  She explained that the smell of her and being surrounded by her things might bring me comfort.  I was openly horrified.  Disturb her bed, that she had left carefully made?  Be around all of her things, but not have her?  Expect to see her around every corner only to have the image of her lying on the road pop up instead.  No, thank you, lady.  Go peddle that shady advice somewhere else.

So it's pretty much like this:  It brings me immeasurable  comfort knowing her room is there, maintained as it was, even if I can't bear to go in.

Now comes the part about her clothes.  Lately, I've been in this awful dilemma where I sort of want some of her things to wear, but I am scared to death of disturbing the careful time capsule of her bedroom.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's stupid.  I know I'm being a big ass baby.  But that's the way I feel.

So then I started thinking, some minor changes have already occurred.  I brought her dolls down from the trunk at the bottom of her bed and put them on the shelves that line my studio.  All of her paintings that we've had framed rest against the walls of her room waiting patiently for the next time I go to speak at a college class about grief or mental illness.  They weren't there before.  And wouldn't she be delighted?

Why does it seem so different to paw through her drawers or rifle through her closet?  I don't know, but it just does.  I've been terrified that if I start moving stuff around, her space will be less hers, she will be less here.  I sometimes still question that she's dead.   And then on the other hand, the less people talk about her, the more that people move on with their own lives, I feel like I need tangible proof that she was here and that I haven't made up this wondrous creature in my head.  She was here.  See, look at all the things she touched!  This was her space.

I talked to a few trusted friends who all said, go up there, get her stuff, and feel close to your girl.  She'd want you to.  These responses were perfectly logical.  But grief isn't logical.  Only another Momma who'd lost their child would recognize my madness.  So I got ahold of another parent I knew who has lost a child and asked her.  She said she wasn't able to fit into her daughter's clothes, but if she could, she'd wear everything.  Okay, then.  Here I go.

I called out to Jake seconds after reading my friend's response.  I explained the mission to him.  Yes, he was willing to help me, but it kills him to go in Cory's room, too, he said.  We approached the doorway with this thought on repeat in my mind I'm a big brave dog...I'm a big brave dog...I'm a big brave dog.  I reached for Jake's hand and he clasped mine tightly.  For a fifteen year old boy who burns with embarrassment if I touch him in anyway in public or even talk to loud, he is unspeakably mature in other situations.  Hand in hand, we started up the stairs, the smell of her already all around us.  Closet first.

Jake stood there, talking about school, talking about a movie we'd recently seen, talking about the pets, anything to keep me from breaking down on the spot.  Could he be more sweet?  No, he could not.  Pushing each item past on the rack, I could see her in it and my heart just recoiled as if struck.  I finally chose a dress, laid it reverently  on the rail over her staircase and we moved together, hand in hand further into her room.  There it was...her bed, carefully made, her dresser with trinkets laid out, books on her nightstand...

How has this happened?  She can't be dead.

I stopped looking around because I was feeling the urge to bail and instead approached her dresser.  She had made labels for everything and with a smile, I opened the one that said "Good sweaters".  I pulled one out and brought it to my nose.  Jake kept up a steady banter beside me and his voice got farther away as her faded scent filled my nose.  Before I lost it completely,  I grabbed up another and decided to retreat.

What did I take?

One sweater is a pinkish purple soft cable knit she'd gotten on a trip with church friends to the outlet malls.  She had money to spend and all decisions were her own.  If I remember correctly, she'd been so anxious about her purchases, she had bought this, returned it, and re-bought it before the day was over.  At any rate, she had dubbed it her absolute favorite.  When she wore it with her Christmas pearls, her whole face glowed pink and lovely.  I have a picture of her wearing it.

The other sweater is a soft taupe V-neck that is super long.  She wore it with some raspberry colored corduroy leggings when leggings had first arrived on the scene and she looked so cute I couldn't stand it.  I have a picture of her wearing this too on Christmas Day (her last Christmas Day) with her fox purse held up under her chin and her eyes joyful.

The dress is a navy blue flowered maxi dress from the first summer maxi dresses had come back in style.  I had asked her to borrow once and she had gently said no, invoking our previously agreed upon rule.  If one has a clothing item that makes them feel especially beautiful, one is able to deny loaning rights to the Mommy or the Cory, so as not to lose that any faction of that feeling by seeing it look beautiful on someone else.  Sadly, I do not have a picture of her wearing this one, but I can remember it pretty well.  Her posture was straighter.  Her gait a bit more grown up.  Yes, this dress had made her feel beautiful.

I took them downstairs, smelled them forcefully one last time like snorting something illegal, and reluctantly put them in the washer on gentle cycle.  I went back to my bedroom and sat there, the hot tears running down my cheeks.  I hope I did the right thing.  I hope I didn't screw it up.  Again.

I'm not sure how it will feel to wear these.  I hope I feel her wrapped snugly around me.  One thing I know from the shoes, is that if anyone says they like them, I will have a chance to say her name and that is worth more than I could ever explain.

Siren Call

Sometimes I give myself a lot of grief for not doing better "by now".  Other times, it's painfully obvious why this has been the slow, dark, super twisty path that grief is for everyone- made even slower, darker, and infinitely more bendy by trauma.

Today was one of the days I could see it so clearly:  side A, if Cory had died on the road and the police had knocked on my door and side B, running onto the scene before they got there and seeing her the way that I saw her.

Maybe everyone who knows me and has been reading this blog already knows about these sides and how they affect my behavior and others who have been through these situations.  But I'm not sure I always do.  I'm in the middle of it all the time and that makes it hard to see the distinction or sometimes to even lift my head out of the storm to look around at all. But today, during the course of an outing, it became so clear.

This morning, I was up early on a Saturday, wearing some new leggings and cute booties from last fall.  I was headed to Starbucks to work on my Stats for the Behavioral Sciences and I was feeling GOOD...good, in only the way that walking in a pair of boots with heels can make me feel.  You guys know what I mean...suddenly, you feel another half a foot taller, at least, and there is a swing to your hips that wasn't there before.  I love fall.

So I got all my work done while enjoying a Salted Caramel Mocha and without having my arm half chewed off by my puppy.  I even finished sooner than I expected.  I decided to head over to Kohl's and Target, on the hunt for Jake a couple more hoodies for school.  He is, after all, a fifteen year old boy who hates clothes shopping.  When we shopped for school over the course of the last month, he claimed to need very little in order to be able to leave the tortuous errand of shopping.  Well, the weather has turned cool in the mornings this past week, so guess who suddenly can't live without more hoodies?

I was on a mission.  And, as always, I found about twenty different things that looked exactly like Cory.  Partway through Kohl's, I put in my earbuds and started listening to music to block out how badly those clothing items prompted me to miss my girl.  This worked great for a good half hour until purely by chance, one of the songs that was played at her visitation came on:   "Miserable at Best" by Mayday Parade.  My mood started to slip as if I'd stepped onto a faulty part of the ground in my super cute block heeled black ankle boots.   The first line or so of that song squeezed my heart dry, but never did I feel like a bad mom.  I only yearned for her so powerfully it made me feel a little dizzy.  But I switched the music up and kept on trucking.  Jacob needed hoodies.

I made it through Kohl's and headed onto Target.  There I spotted the absolute coolest Princess Leia slouchy sweatshirt and before I could help it, tears had sprung up in my eyes.  Fuck.  This is hard.  Cory, I miss you SO much.

I ended my little Mommy Without Cory errand running day by venturing over to the mall and into Hot Topic to see if there were any Panic at the Disco hoodies Jake would like.  While there, I came across a Gerard Way shirt she would've literally jumped up and down for and several My Chemical Romance shirts she would've had draped innocently over her arm before I could turn around, batting her gorgeous eyes at me all the while.  What I wouldn't give to have her here so I buy them all for her just to hear her squeal.

But I was still doing good.  I missed her horribly, but I was doing okay.  I was snapping pics of stuff Jake might like and texting back and forth with him.  I was still, in other words, in the present tense.  I walked out of there, still digging my boots and swinging my hips, my shoulders straight, feeling impossibly tall.  I am safe.  I can handle this.

I listened to music the whole way home, looking forward to catching up with Jake, showing him his loot, and going over the movie It that we saw with my mom yesterday.  The sun was shining, it was a perfect 70 degrees out, and it was my day off.  I got my homework done and had decided to grab Subway instead of cooking...I'd had enough grief triggers for the day, thank you very much.

I left Subway with our dinner swinging in a bag around my wrist and some ice cold beverages in my hands.  Life was as good as it could be without Cory...which, by the way, always kind of sucks, but today...today was a good day.

Driving towards home on West Michigan, with The Used blaring, my only thoughts were how much I looked forward to seeing The Used in November with Jacob in Grand Rapids...his first standing room on the floor only concert at an all ages smaller venue and how to squeeze the three new dresses I saw at Target into the budget.  They must be mine.  They must!

When I spotted the flashing lights in my rear view mirror, I was in the middle of mentally matching each dress with the correct color of over the knee boots and dreaming up accessories.

To say, it caught me off guard...not even remotely accurate.   It was like being hit in face with a brick when you, eyes closed and smiling slightly, were expecting a feathery, tentative kiss.

Some responses are automatic.  I pulled over the right, ever the compliant citizen.  But I couldn't stop myself from watching it streak past.

And the sound?

There is not one single trigger I have experienced in the last five years and two months that instantly takes me back to that scene faster and harder than that damn blatting sound a fire engine makes when its en route to an emergency.  Do you know the sound?

I hear it in my dreams all the time.

Today, it seemed to fill the world.  Maybe it's because I was so far away from the scene in my enjoyment of the day.  It was jarring.  It interrupted -no scratch that- it threatened my sense of safety...and the careful management of my grief.  "You think you're okay, huh?  How bout now?", it sneered.

If you were sitting beside me in the car on the side of the road, you could've snapped your fingers right in front of my face and I'm not sure what response you'd have gotten.  Nothing?  A blank stare?  A scream?  A flinch?

What I do know is that the image of that fire engine streaking past combined with the blatting of the horn immediately placed my feet on the pavemenet and my eyes on Cory's body...a kaleidoscope of horrific images, or maybe an old-fashioned projector...legs dirty....click....hair hanging in her face...click...arm twisted...click...her mouth as they turned her over...the rescue workers cutting her shirt open...click...screaming, someone screaming, oh, right, that was me...

I could literally feel the heat coming up off the pavement.  I could feel it under my bare knees.  Sitting in the driver's seat of my car, where it was easily 70 degrees, maybe even 68 with the ac going, and my knees encased in the aforementioned motocross leggings, it suddenly felt like a hundred degrees and as if my face was baking.

I had to put my head down and my flashers on and just wait for it to pass...my hands shaking...breathing too fast...not at all like a S.T.A.R....crying without knowing it yet...

The sirens are bad enough. They always bother me.  The flashing lights suck.  They pick at scabs that will never fully heal. At least I know to look out for them.

The hidden triggers though...they are like sharp rocks launched at me while I'm walking by, completely unaware.  If I drive by an animal who has been hit and died on the road...it brings ups all sorts of awful connotations.  If someone in everyday conversation says, "roadkill" or "break your neck"  or "run them over with my car" or "splat on the road", it feels like someone has put my heart in a noose and pushed it off a short ladder.  I can hear and feel the snap, and the rest of my day, however good it has been, is ruined.

But the blatting of a fire engine horn is easily the worst.  It brings it ALL back and in seconds.   I am never prepared for it, even if I've spotted the vehicle first, as I did today.  Somehow, I am never expecting to hear that wretched sound.  Surely, it was bad enough the first time.  What sick universe would replay that shit?

So I pulled myself together and eased my car back onto the road to drive myself the rest of the way home on the road Cory died on. I hate West Michigan. I fucking hate it.

This is where the difference between trauma and not trauma surfaces.

How did I feel in the car, with dinner beside me on the seat, getting ready to greet my boy?

I felt afraid.  I felt worried.  I felt like I was on guard.  About what? Against what?   I don't even know.  My heart was beating too fast and my muscles felt too tight.  My scalp didn't seem to fit my head anymore.  But more than anything?  I felt that heavy sense of self-loathing and the weight of the guilt had instantly put a slump in my shoulders.  I did that to her.  I let her get hurt.  I broke her.  I broke my baby.  I shouldn't have let her walk to the store.  Maybe she wasn't ready.  Stupid, Nick, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!!

Here I am now, a couple of hours later, trying to process it all and gain some control over the free fall I feel in my body and in my mind.  Maybe in a little bit, I'll get my paints out or try on some boots.  It won't fix it, but it might help.  It can't hurt to try.  Just please, no more sirens tonight.

Back To School

Hey Cory...
I've been missing you every day.  Every day, every day, every day, every day...

(deep breath)

It's so hard this time of year, getting all your brother's stuff for school.  I wanna buy you everything...just ALL THE THINGS!  Everywhere I look, there you are.  Dresses and scarves and boots.  I wanna get you a new book bag and two new purses so you don't have to choose. I wanna buy all sorts of  makeup and facial cleansers and just all kinds of stupid crap for you that you don't even need.  I wanna argue with you about the new guy you're dating who is obviously a total dick that you can't stop pursuing because he reminds you of your father.  I want you to tell me that even if that's true, it's your life and your mistakes to make because you are "twenty four years old, for crying out loud, Mom!"  
 I want to feel my heart break in half when you say you're moving out with a friend because it's time.  I want to lose sleep worrying that you'll forget to take your meds or that I'll get a call in the middle of the night from your roommate that you are acting a little strange.  I want you to show up and ask me for some money to last until payday because you haven't quite figured out the budget thing yet.  I want you to text me all the small things and the big things that make up your day. I want to hear you bitch about Econ and wax poetic about art.   I wanna hear your voice.  I just wanna hear your voice.

I'm so sorry, Cory.  I'm so fucking sorry.

All this, said out loud, bent over her grave.  Then I grab her monument around its supposed waist and try to hug it, but it has no give and feels all too reminiscent of the way she felt the last time I touched her.

The Nearest Fight Club

It is still alarming to me how I can go from perfectly calm to absolutely enraged so quickly now.  It's like the anger is always there, right below the surface, bubbling like a stew.  I never used to be like this.  With any small stresser, I seem to boil over.   Two places in general are good triggers.  Any guesses?

The cemetery and the grocery store.

My feelings about the cemetery waffle back and forth between sad, depressed, and empty to furious, guilt-ridden, and out of control.

There are days when I miss her so badly, I go to the cemetery despite myself, unsure which feelings will follow, but needing in the worst way to be near her.  Sometimes the feelings set in the moment I've made the turn and I realize it's going to go badly, but at that point, I can't turn the car around.  I would never leave without seeing my girl.  I made it my mission in her life to never show her my back the way so many others did.  I can't do it now, even if she's under a slab of concrete and my back has become taillights.  I will never not show up for her.  That isn't me, Bob.

I abhor going to the grocery store, any grocery store. Family Fare may be worse, but the others aren't much better.  Trust me, I've tried them all.   It is complete and utter self-loathing every time I set foot on a grocery shopping errand.  Oh sure, NOW you go!  Too fucking lazy to go the day Cory died, but by all means, let's go grab a gallon of milk now that she's dead in the ground.  Good thinking, Nick!
These thoughts are so intrusive, I have resorted to earbuds while grocery shopping to try to distract myself.  If you see me bopping along in the produce section, looking more than a little pissed off...well, yeah, I guess I am a little unwell, but at least I'm coping.  I discontinued my Blue Apron subscription a few months ago as the meat quality had gone down, in my opinion, and the boys weren't feeling the exotic side dishes.  There is no choice now but to grocery shop, so I do.  I hate it.  I absolutely detest it.  By the time I've hit the parking lot, I am feeling like an absolute murderer.  If I've stopped by Family Fare (which I do all too often to because it's nearby), I have to drive right over the stretch of road where she died to get home and it completes the torture in the way only techno-color flashbacks of your child's broken body can.

Pissed off all the time.  Pissed off even when I don't have a particular reason to be or have the slightest  idea why I am.    I read somewhere that guilt is anger turned inward.  I guess I've got it inward, outward, and sideways.

Today I stopped by the store for just a couple of things.  I put my earbuds in and rushed in and out of there like the place was on fire.  But even with those precautionary measures, by the time I got to the car, not even five minutes later, my jaw was clenched, my hands were balled into fists, and I was ready to scream.  I drove past her spot, holding one hand up to block my sight and turned onto my road with my stomach in a knot.  The last steps she ever took...down this road and to what end?  Sent my beautiful girl to her death is what I did.  I don't even deserve to be here, grocery shopping or listening to music or just sitting here being mad.

 Four hours later, and I'm still just seething with anger.  Instead of wandering out into the night to join a Fight Club, I thought I'd write it out instead.  Not sure writing is as satisfying, but at least no one gets hurt.

Here's where I fall back on Lady's mantra:  however you feel is okay.  And hear Dr. Z's voice saying wisely, "Trust the Process."  I found a charm bracelet this past week with this saying on it and could not believe my luck.  Now I can wear it alongside Cory's Pandora bracelet, which contains a charm with the letter "Z" for her beloved doctor.  This man saved her life and mine.  I love him dearly.  If he thought being angry, being furious, actually, was okay as long as I didn't hunt anyone down to kill them, then I'm just going to keep plugging along.  Dr. Z is a very wise man.  Someone who could lead my girl out of the darkness is someone I will take advice from.

So for now, no fight club.  I'm gonna Trust the Process

Take You For a Ride

Have I told you that Jake was taking driver's ed this summer?

He finished this past weekend.  He was so excited and proud of himself that I had to take him directly to Secretary of State when I got out of work Monday afternoon.  Neither of us, to be quite honest, could wait another moment.  Our number when we pulled it off the dispenser in the lobby was 58, they were on, oh...25. (Insert wry smile here).   Typical Secretary of State on a Monday.  We waited in the crowded room for what seemed like forever.   At last, they handed him a rather plain, but official looking, paper with no photo:  his level one license.  He was elated.  Jacob is the most mellow individual ever, so to see him excited...well, there's nothing like it.
In the parking lot of the Secretary of State, we passed the paper back and forth, marveling over it properly and I managed to snap a couple of pics for posterity, which speaks volumes to Jake's excitement because he rarely allows photo ops without some type of bribe.  Suddenly, we realized a small problem.  The last wallet we'd bought him was years old and boasted Buzz Lightyear.  This simply would not do.

 Luckily, Kohl's was just down the road.  We ran in on a mission and walked out about three minutes later with a more appropriate wallet in hand.  Once back in the car, he pulled the tags off and grimaced when he realized he'd have to fold the permit in half in order to get it inside.  He caught himself frowning and chuckled, "You know folding this is killing me, right?"  I laughed.  Jacob has always wanted everything just so.  Back in preschool, he wanted no part of messy play or lunchtime spills.  When he came home, his outfit was just as pristine as it had been when he left.  That hasn't changed a bit.

Jake was excited, but still a little anxious, he said, about driving with me on the actual road.  He asked me to drive the first little bit while he worked up his nerve.  When we got close to our house, I pulled into a parking lot and we switched sides.   I watched him methodically arrange his mirrors, check the fuel level, and look all around him before backing out, smiling to myself all the while.  He is so controlled.  I sometimes wonder if he has a wild bone in his body.  And if he turns out that he does, well, someday, as long as it doesn't land him in jail, I will be delighted to see it.  Cut loose a little, son.  You only live once.

Cautiously, he eased onto the roadway and turned our car in Cory's direction.  A few minutes later, he pulled us into the cemetery.  He stopped carefully beside her on the lane and we got out.
How do I explain the duality of emotions I was feeling?
There was so much pride and excitement for my boy.  There was so much wonder at this new phase in his development.  There was unfamiliar, cautious joy at this juncture of parenting I had never made it to with Cory.  But then, too, there was overwhelming sadness that Cory had been cheated this small pleasure and that I been cheated the chance to experience it with her.
I was thrilled for Jake, but as I have mentioned before, the joy was smaller.  It would have been so much larger had we been driving to Cory's place of work or her apartment...or even just home, bursting in the door so Jake could call her down from her room to "Come see what I got, Cory!"

No, we were here instead.  I watched, reverent and my heart breaking, as Jacob walked up to her monument, centered himself before her, and tugged his brand new wallet out of his back pocket. He never faltered.   He fished the plain paper out, unfolded it carefully, and held it out to the marker in front of him that has come to represent the previously flesh and blood big sister who used to play popguns and eat popsicles with him in the backyard.
His voice was quiet, but genuinely excited, as he said,
"Hi."  He paused here, looking down, waiting, as if for an answer to his greeting.   I looked over at him, noticing again that he is now taller than I am, taller than Cory had been.  I  saw the way he bent his head in her presence, speaking to the ground; shy, but earnest.  His shadow fell across her monument, and in that moment, it struck me that it was a man's shadow now, not a little boy's.
 I nearly burst out crying then.  How could you not?

He said to her monument, with the smallest of smiles, but the pain of missing her painted across his features, "Look what I got, Cory.  I got my license.  And a new wallet to put it in.  I just....I just wish you were here. So I could take you for a ride."

That Voice

I know the voice that pops up in my thoughts is nothing like the ones that plagued Cory, day after day, night after night.  It doesn't curse at me.  I don't consider it independent of myself.  It doesn't tell me to hurt myself.  But if I'm to tell the truth as I say I would, it's important to share what this voice is like...what it does say...how it changes the course of my thoughts.

I think that right now, after five years, I am finally acting normal enough in most situations that people think I'm okay.
I'm not.
I try really hard, but I'm not.  And if there's anything I learned from Cory, it's that holding it inside saps your strength and puts you at risk.
I'm not okay.  Sometimes it comes out as irrational anger that just spews from my mouth, my pen, my keyboard.  I wish the people I love most could just remember I am never angry at them.  I am angry at the driver, the cops...the possibly exists/probably doesn't God...but mostly, I am angry at myself.

My sister and I were pregnant at the same time when I was carrying Cory.  It was crazy.  She was happily married, steady, in a good place.  I was nineteen, unmarried, and in an abusive relationship.  Regardless of the circumstances, we brought two of the sweetest babies who ever lived into the family.  They were showstoppers at Sunday dinners, toddling around with their smiles.  They went to school together everyday, kindergarten through high school.  They were buds.  He always looked out for her.  And she adored him.

So today when I see where my nephew is...married, working, and a brand new Daddy, it is automatic to go see where Cory is...at the cemetery, under ground, a mother to no one.  My brain, relentlessly begins asking, "Where did you go wrong here, Nick?  What did you DO?"

I take deep breaths like I'm supposed to, like I always told Cory to, but that voice doesn't really go away.  It's always there.  It may quiet down sometimes, but out of nowhere, it can pipe up again, sometimes accusatory, but other times, just honestly curious, "How could you let this happen to her?"

So what happens next is that I replay every thing that happened the day she died and mentally circle the ten different things I could have done differently to change the course of events.  There are so many possibilities, variations... combinations.  Intellectually, I understand that hindsight is everything.  I understand that what I'm doing is madness.  It is warped thinking.  It is pervasive.  It is useless.

But my heart.  My heart understands nothing. Nothing, do you hear me? My stupid heart just sits in my chest, rocking back and forth, helplessly crying out, "I killed my baby!  I killed her!  I killed my baby!"

The guilt swallows me.  It makes it hard to breathe.  It parades her past me in a white lacy dress or hospital johnny with a newborn in the crook of her arm.

Her arm was twisted all the way around.  They didn't even put her in the ambulance.  They cut her shirt open with scissors.  Her lips were blue.  No paddles for her.  There was so much blood.

Cue that voice:  "How could you let that happen to her?  What kind of mother are you, anyway?"

Calling Me

The pull to the cemetery right now is overpowering.  It's weird because there for awhile I couldn't go at all.  It was just too hard, too painful.  Lately, my car seems to turn in that direction of its own accord.  Even if I had no plans of going there, even if I am empty handed, and most often when my insides are a shaking, jumbled up mess, my hands turn the steering wheel onto the narrow lane.  I always see her, standing tall above the others in her row and in her section.
A friend asked me lately what do I do there...do I talk to her?
Well, sometimes.  But it's awfully depressing to pour your heart out and get no answer.  So sometimes I just sit in the car and cry.  Write.  Draw.  Other times, I bring her flowers, pull the weeds, arrange her little trinkets...a heart breaking substitute for folding her laundry or hectoring her for the thousandth time to straighten up her room.  Sometimes I walk.  I come here with Jake sometimes, but alone most of the time.  Tim visits what?  Once a year?  And only then, when I set it up, like a play date.
Why the many visits just lately?
I guess because I can feel and see everyone passing her by.  Their stories are getting longer and bigger.  Hers was cut short and it's over.  Her story is over and I wasn't ready for it to be.  She wasn't ready for it to be.  Someone told me the other day, that with her mental health issues, perhaps Cory had prayed to be taken out of the situation.  I could feel rage boil up my throat like a tactical missile.  But my affect has become rather flat lately, so I just said, "I think she wanted to be here."
Yeah, she wanted to be here.  Even if it was hard.  Even if she'd gotten a shit deal.  She wanted to be here.  Can't you tell from how hard she tried?  Every day?
Which brings this circle to the same painful closing.  (Get ready, Dr. Z, the four therapists I've seen, and countless friends and family, to cluck your tongue and shake your head.)
I should've gone to the store.  If I'd gone, the lady never would've hit her.  She'd have been safe at home.  And to the people who think God has your days numbered, I say maybe, maybe not...I'm not so sure.  Not so sure there's a God so even less sure there is a giant ledger somewhere with Cory's departing death date on it, stamped in waterproof red ink.
  What I do know for certain is that I could have gone to the store myself instead of letting her walk to the store for the chili powder.  And if I had, she may very well be here. She would be 24 years old.  She would be adding to her story.  Maybe she would be getting ready to be a Little Momma, too.  Who knows?  I will never know because I fucked up.  This knowledge sits in my chest like a rock..a rock with sharp edges that cuts me just a little every time I move.  Any criticism from others, any small mistake I make, changes route with lightening speed to "well, that Nicole Mansfield?  She couldn't even manage to keep her kid alive, so what do you expect?"
That's the voice I hear.  How about that?  I guess I hear voices, too.  I wish I could tell Cory.  She'd be flabbergasted.
I'm not sure what going to the cemetery every day accomplishes.  I don't know if it's helping or hurting.  I just know I feel her getting smaller, fuzzier.  I see it when I pass  her spot on the road and the weeds have taken over.  I see it when I kneel to pull them from around the base of her monument.  Jacob sticks to a few trusted stories and when I trot out others, he often says he can't really remember them.  This kills me.  She must be remembered.  She must be remembered.  She must be remembered.
So whether all these visits lately are a good thing or not, I don't know.  I just know that when I hear her calling, I go to see her.  I couldn't make it to her in time that day on the road.  This is the least I can do.

The Nature of Triggers

It starts like this:  I miss Cory.  I think I'll look through all the pics that were on her phone.  I notice so many selfies!  Silly girl!  I smile.    Suddenly I sit halfway up, heart galloping in my chest, as I spy one that clearly shows her hands and her arms laddered with bracelets from wrist to elbow.  Her hands...I have no way of explaining how much I love looking at her hands.  I am joyous at this unexpected treasure.

So I pulled it up this pic and enlarged it, looking the bracelets over closely, naming as many as I could to myself, and before I could blink, the flashback had begun.  I was no longer safe in bed, covered with a light sheet; I was standing on West Michigan Avenue  in the baking sun, being held back firmly by strangers as I craned to see that it was indeed my girl, it was my baby lying there, face down, motionless.  From there, I was being led, by the hand, into a viewing room, by a quiet man named Mark.  He spoke to me gently, cautiously, as if he wasn't sure just what I would do next.

My mind would only accept a few key images at first.  Many followed in the next few years.  But one that has never escaped my mind was seeing her at the funeral home for the first time since the road.  They had left her bracelets on...the ones that had not been ripped off or broken in the multiple impacts...of the broadside of the car, the windshield, and finally the pavement.  The tears just flowed, hot and scathing, down my cheeks as I remembered the eyewitness reports of how her body had flown up into the air.   Sobbing- by then I was sobbing- to think of my sweet and beautiful girl, whose hair had ended up caught in the lady's windshield.  You think that's a little unpleasant to read about?  Try holding it inside.

So, there she was at the funeral home, my firstborn, lying on a table.  A sweet man I really didn't know, who somehow reminded me of my father, escorted me to see her body for the first time.  And there she was, my Cory Girl.  My brain just couldn't take it what was happening or the level of pain I was experiencing.  I want to die now.  I want to die.   There is no other way to tell you of the horror of seeing her lying there, looking very different from the way I'd seen her on the road, but still vulnerable, still motionless, many of her bracelets that she'd loved so much still on her arms.  I wanted to take up the chant I'd tried on the road, even though it hasn't been successful there:  "She's only nineteen!  She's only nineteen years old!"

In a broken, jagged, 8 mm film gone awry sort of way, this is how the triggers come.  One image, which in itself brings joy, can take you on a unwelcome warp-speed tour of disturbing images that infiltrate your thoughts, take up camp, get nice and comfy, and leave when they're damn good and ready.

It's hard to avoid what you don't realize may be a trigger.  Sirens?  Officers in uniform?  I am aware of those.  A picture of my daughter's hands and arms...I never would've thought.

The despair slipped in stealthily, and and I could feel it gently pulsing, filling every space from my fingertips to my toes.  That is how I found myself at the cemetery for several hours last night, apologizing to her for letting her walk to the store for the hundredth time?  Thousandth?  I walked around trying to ground myself in the present with the sights, feelings, and smells around me.  Sometimes it works; sometimes it does't.  Finally, I sat in the car and drew for awhile, my heart aching and my throat tight.  I stayed until the fireflies came out.  Then I kissed her monument and drove away, the guilt, the horror, the sorrow lining my throat like a bad taste I couldn't swallow past.

I went to sleep and dreamed of the road.

Holding On

Okay, this has been bothering me so badly, I have to share.

When I heard about Chester Bennington's suicide, I was terribly sad, just as I am whenever I hear of anyone taking their own life.  I was devastated by Robin Williams.  Since I haven't been a huge fan of Linkin Park in the past, I found it odd how much Chester's death has affected me.  I really never listened to their music, but one song of their songs, right after the accident, had gotten right inside my skin, all the way to the bone.  "In The End" embodied every feeling I have had about seeing Cory through her mental health struggles only to lose her in a stupid, freak accident. It spoke my darkest frustrations and guilt about not being able to protect her at the very moment it mattered the most.  Like seriously, what the hell?  Not a single thing I had done up to that point seemed to even matter anymore. Don't placate me by telling me it's not true; let me be angry.  You would be angry, too.   I never really explored any of their other music, and man, did I miss out.

So as I started looking up songs and listening, reading the lyrics, the chills came up my spine, one right after another.  It was a complete tragedy that someone who has obviously given a voice to those who struggle with their mental health is now gone.  I began to wonder if he was in treatment.  Had he quit?  Was he on meds?  Did he stop taking them?

I watched an interview where he described some of mental health struggles.  He said this:  "Music is what has kept me alive."  Panic erupted all over my body in icy waves, each larger than the last.  His coping skill stopped working?  All I could think about is how I KNOW, KNOW, KNOW that writing and art are what have kept me alive since Cory died.  What if someday writing and art aren't enough anymore?   My scalp began shrinking on my head and I could feel all the hairs on my arms suddenly stand to attention.

I went from my normal response of sadness, empathy, and  anger towards the  idiots who say suicide is selfish to being scared out of my fucking mind.

I have never lost someone I love to suicide. But I have watched people I love cope with losing someone they love to suicide and that's a special walk of hell I hope to never see.  I have deeply loved people who have battled depression and suicidal thinking:  Cory's father, Jake's father, and Cory.  I have battled it myself.

Unless you have been that close, in that dark, dark place, where the flames are burning your flesh everyday, all day long, while other people walk around oblivious, maybe you don't realize that how much you love other people aren't enough to keep you here.  You think I didn't love my son?  My dear, sweet parents?  My sisters?  My friends?  I loved them more than I could ever explain, but they were not reason enough to stay.  In my mind, I had already worked out all the ways they'd be better off without me or how I might even make things worse for them by staying.  All I knew is that I couldn't bear the pain anymore.  I wanted it to end, regardless of the price.  Let me out.  Please let me out of here.

It was developing coping skills that helped me manage the pain that gave me the strength to go on.  Yes, my mom provided me unparalleled understanding. Yes, Jacob has provided me purpose.  But in the end, at night, when my head is on that pillow, and the image of Cory torn up on that road rises it up yet again...her arm twisted in on itself...her legs dirty...her hair in her face...the blood...her lips so blue...well, Jacob and my Mom can't help me with that.  Those images and the suffocating guilt that plague my mind day in and day out are mine alone to battle.  It was writing and art that have helped me process that trauma and combat all the triggers.  The thought that one day they won't work anymore?  Absolutely terrifying.

So as I read this over, I can see that Chester's suicide has triggered my own past dealings with suicidal thinking.  I hope it doesn't have a ripple effect on others out there who may currently be struggling or have struggled in the past.  All I can say if it does, I beg you to please talk about it.  Please tell someone.  Let someone hold you up.  Keep trying.  And if you feel like one day it's not enough, please seek professional help and don't stop until you are past the crisis and able to think more clearly.  It's a tragedy what has happened to Chester...for him and all of his loved ones and all of us who have benefited from the sheer genius of his coping skill.  In short, keep holding on.  You are have so much to give.

Hush Now

So here's the thing.

I kilt it this year on the death-aversary.  Is "kilt" a verb?  It should be.

I was all over the place, up early, going places, sitting in the sunshine, posting all over social media like I am okay...it's gonna be okay...this will be okay.  I've got this covered.  I was a walking, talking social story.

Hilarious, that bravado, considering the pics I didn't post (or take) happened after 11 pm when the strain of holding it together and trying to be strong just deflated.  I fell.  And I fell hard.

I had to listen to her funeral songs because they were hers and because I only listen to them about once a year.  It's a ritual.  You know I have to have my rituals.  So you guys missed the part where I dissolved into a ball on my bed, sobbing my heart out, the pain as fresh as the day she died.  When your child dies, you are never really any farther from the day...maybe on the calendar, but not in your heart...not where it counts.  And all the stuff you do in between...things you buy, hobbies you pick up, movies you watch, books you read...it's all really  just noise to drown out that one voice that tells you she's dead- that solemn, chilling voice that says this is no dream and now you have to live this way, without her, until you die, whenever that is, and you answer back, well, please, then, could you hurry up with that?

I will give myself a little credit.  No meds this year.  I left my bed.  Hell, I left the house.  I went outside, on purpose.  But then, a day or two later, it hit me how shitty this business truly is.  If you do better, what is your reward?  That you get to do it all over again and she still gets to be dead?  It is sort of like working a job and doing really well, but instead of giving you a raise, they give you other people's jobs to do, too.

That's my anger, front and center.  It's funny how poignant and beautiful it sounds to say that when you think you have no more tears left to cry, there are always more.  Well, buddy, I'm here to tell you, when grieving the loss of your child, there is always more rage, too. And it ain't pretty.   It spills out sometimes unexpectedly.  It gets away from me; it dominates.

So then, I put this post away and came back a day later, after a conversation with a friend about comfort objects that dissolved my anger enough that I could step back from it and look a little closer.

It's true- getting better at coping does not bring Cory back.  Nothing will.  God or supposed God, included.  But the hobbies, the movies, the books, the tools...they bring comfort and they help me express my pain and live in healthier ways.  I didn't take a handful of Ativan and dive under the covers this year...a first.   I grabbed my Daniel Smith water colors and a cup of coffee and sat in the sun.  I chose to live.  I chose to feel it all, pain included, rather than feel nothing by muting it or hiding from it or running away (even if my bed was the only place I could really afford to go).

That's something to be proud of.  It is.  Maybe my art supplies and my interests are just noise to drown out that voice, but guess what?  That's a pretty damn good trick.  That voice isn't going away, so if I've found a way to live with it...with art and words and good quality paper...a caddy full of art supplies...well, then, shush you, I've got art to make.  I've got things to say, too.

What did Cory do when the voices got too loud?  She turned up the music.  She danced.  She turned her attention to something else. She painted.  When she could, she laughed.  When she couldn't, she cried. That's all we can really do.  She set a great example.  And it's good enough for me.

Questions Answered, Questions Remaining

Tomorrow it will be five years since my brave and amazing nineteen year old daughter was killed while walking to the store by a driver who wasn’t watching where she was going.  She suffered front and back multiple skull fractures, a broken neck, a broken arm, and two broken hips.  She was knocked out of her shoes.  When I got them back, they were still tied.  They sit now in a drawer near my bed, along with her belt, and the frames of her eyeglasses.  As I have shared many times, I arrived on the scene before the rescue workers.  No one would let me near her, and although I didn’t go to church actively at that time, I cried out for God to save her.  Of course I did.  I prayed because that is what my parents had taught me to do since I was a small child.  But I felt nothing on that road.  There was no presence that I sensed.  There was no divine intervention. There was a firefighter who reluctantly spoke six words to me that I will hear in my head until the day I die.  The hot pavement underneath my knees when I fell to the ground, by contrast, was very real.  In my flashbacks, I can still feel it.  I can smell it.  When told this life-altering news, I automatically turned my head upwards to the sky as I screamed as if someone up there should be able to negate the entire event.  But that never happened.  

Months later, maybe even a year or more, I went to each of my parents individually to ask them how they were able to reconcile this loss with their faith.  I was beginning to discover that my anger as part of the grieving process was deepening into a fundamental questioning of the existence of God. 

My father, although he cried as he spoke, told me he was a mere man and God was all knowing.  He told me that God had known the date of my daughter’s death and the way she would die since the day she was born.  He said he did not like it, and it hurt him horribly, but it was not his place to question the will of God.  He said he liked to think that God was protecting her from some deeper hurt in the future, but it was not for him to know.  It was for him to trust in God’s plan.  I love my father far too deeply to argue with him.  Instead I cried across from him in his living room, humbled at the sight of him weeping openly and the slump in his posture that I couldn't recall before he'd buried a grandchild.  I think I first remember seeing it on the road that day.  He had reached over to pick up Cory's shoe and an officer had yelled sharply at him to drop it, that it was evidence.  He had obeyed, dropping it back where it had lain far from her sheet covered body, and then straightened up, walking away, but his shoulders had remained rounded in a way I had never noticed before.  My father is a private person, and whatever overwhelming thoughts he'd had in response to  the horror we encountered that day, I have never fully known, but they'd shown in his walk.  That day at my parent's house, as we discussed how it could be that God had allowed such a thing to happen, I was struck by fierce love for him and a lump formed in my throat upon hearing the shrill tone his voice took when defending his belief system.  I left his house, respecting him as I always have for his deep commitment to his faith and that he could continue believing despite his incredible suffering.

My mother, also, has never strayed from her faith.  It was a few days after my daughter was buried before she felt strong enough to enter the house of God again, but she returned and praised him as she always had, with love, devotion, and reverence.   When I caught her alone to ask her how she could do this (because if there was anyone who loved my daughter nearly as much as I did, it was my mother), she said she could not understand why this had happened, but that it was the first question she plans to ask.  She told me, also with tears streaming down her face, that she will continue to serve God because that is her faith, and it is the only way she can bear this horrible thing- the most horrible thing that has ever happened to her, and at that point she had already buried most of her immediate family- but that when she stands before His throne, she plans to ask Him just why Cory could not be spared.  She wanted and needed to know.

I respect each of them immensely for the unfaltering devotion to their beliefs.  Sometimes, I wish I could share it.  I suppose if I did, I would at least have the comfort of believing I will see my child again someday. 

Not too long after, a young man in town got into a horrible car accident.  He had to be cut out of the car and was in a coma for months.   He awoke and  struggled to resume his daily activities, but he lived. He has since married and has a child.  He is a husband and a father.   He eats and talks and laughs and cries.  He breathes.  To this day when I think about how I have come to be agnostic after years of careful training from babyhood to be a Christian… I sometimes see that young man’s face in my mind.  I think of how his parents witnessed joyfully ( as anyone would) to everyone about how blessed they were to have received such a miracle and then  I wonder how God could choose to spare their child, but not mine. Was she not deserving of a miracle?  Was she not worthy?  Was she not worth the effort to make the break happen somewhere other than the C4 vertebrae?  My daughter was a believer.  She went to church.  She did everything she was asked.   How am I to think there is a God who looked down at Cory...Cory...the dear, sweet, long suffering, brave warrior that she was...and decided not to spare her, but to instead allow her to lie broken and bleeding on the street for the passersby to see as they drove by?  To die alone?

It is a much more personal confrontation of the problem of evil, but so similar to the way I felt about 9/11, about the Holocaust, and about the horrible things that happen to innocent children every day during peace time as well as during wars.  People think I am angry with God and tell me with an indulgent smile that it's okay, God doesn't mind, his shoulders are big. He can handle it.   What they don't realize is that I've gotten to the point that I'm not really angry with God, I am no longer certain there is such a being, and that is a much different thing that being angry.  I think that when something so horrific happens to you, you are faced with a choice to either rebuild your faith system brick by heavy brick, bearing the pain all the while or walk away from everything you have ever believed or at least entertained.  I don't think either choice is an easy one.  It all boils down to what you can believe in.

Here I Go Again

And here we are again...you and I.  If you have a few spare minutes, maybe we can talk about the significance of the calendar and the bird in my chest that is beating itself to a bloody death.

Grief is hard enough, a rigged game, if there ever was one.  There is never an end no matter how hard you try to forge one for yourself.  Traumas you thought you'd laid gently to rest are all too happy to appear suddenly like the jump scare in a horror movie.  They never sleep.

We give so much significance to the special dates in our lives:  marriages, birthdays, anniversaries...even the less well known to others are sometimes special to us... the first kiss,the  first day he told me loved me, the first day we became exclusive.  What comes from these dates?  Pride.  Joy.  Even when the relationship is no longer intact, it brings a bittersweet smile at dreams that were never realized.

So then what about the other end?  What about the day she died?  What about the day she was buried?  Especially, if the one you lost was your child.  What is conjured up for you with these dates?  Pride and joy?  No.  And hardly necessary,  I feel joy and pride for her every single day.

A long time ago, someone told me we had birthdays all wrong...that the person who was born gets all the recognition, what about the mother who worked so hard to bring him or her into the world?  Shouldn't they get a co-starring role, at the least?

So my child died.  How responsible do I feel about that?  More than I could ever express.  It's an unfortunate coincidence that her death-versary occurs in the season of graduations  and weddings..  People are posting pics of themselves next to their shiny faced, hopeful children about to embark on careers and create families.  What shall I post?  Another dozen pictures from my desperate little time capsule where I try to live?  Certainly there is nothing about July 5, 2012 that is prideful, shiny, or hopeful.

I hate when July makes its dreaded appearance.  It's like walking along trying to stay chill and having someone come around the corner and hit you in the face with a brick.  There, that's for you.  See what you can do with it.

My mind, craving balance as it does, says if the mom gets a nod for the birthday, what is my responsibility for her death?  It doesn't take long before that bird of panic is loose in my chest, ramming into walls and unable to find a way out.  I was her mother.  I was her legal guardian. And she died.  What's the nod of acknowledgement for that?  Not good, let me tell you.  As I scroll through those graduation and wedding pics some nights, I get the crazed urge to call up one of the parents and ask them how they did it.   How did they keep them alive?  Cause I thought I was doing all the right things.  I thought I was really giving it my all.  I even thought I did some extra-credit.  So what did they do that I didn't?  Please someone solve this puzzle for me cause it's driving me batshit crazy.

And the parties?  They are triggers, as well.  Not only did Cory never get an open house, or a bridal shower, a wedding or a baby shower, I have to accept that the only large scale party I ever got to throw Cory that recognized her for more than the passing of a single year was her funeral.  That's what I got to throw.  How fucked up is that?  I still have the hard cover journal I used to plan it on a shelf of my nightstand, full of scribbles begging for this not to be true, splattered with tear stains, and heartbreaking notes written to her at four a.m. that she would never read.  That is my connection with parties.  No wonder I avoid them like the plague.

So here comes July again, brick in hand.  I am down.  But while I'm down here, I'll write and draw and paint.  I'll cry and sleep too much and feel, as I always do, that I should have and could have done something to prevent Cory's death.  Most of all, I will be brought back to the sheer panic I felt in and around my heart nearly five years ago when I realized it was not a nightmare and that I would never see her again.  She's never coming home.

I know it's no fun to be around someone who is so depressed.  And that's okay.  All I ask is that you don't try to tell me how I should feel or that it will be ok or how most of my days are good now.  My pain is my love for Cory- they are intertwined, like it or not.  It will not be ok.  It will never be ok.  If you find yourself thinking that by now, I should be doing better...just take "by now" out of your vocabulary.  There is no by now.    And most of my days aren't good.  There is good in some of my days, but in EVERY day is an overwhelming and unrelenting pain and longing.  I know you love me.  And I love you.  But you don't have to fix me.  You can't fix me.  The old me is never coming back.  If my smile looks a little fake and my laugh is a little hollow, at least I made an effort.  Just be there.  Be there even when I'm hard to be around.  And I know I am.  I know that seeing me in so much pain makes it possible to imagine yourself in my situation which is not something anyone likes to think about.  But bear it out.  Be there when my ptsd makes me irritable, agitated, and unpredictable.  Because it is harder than you think to do this.  And it's even harder if you feel alone.

If My Child Died...

Before Cory died, there were a few times I pictured what it would be like if something happened to her or her brother.  You have to remember that not only am I the definition of a worrywart, but Cory suffered from a mental illness that carried some pretty scary statistics of suicide.  Her death wasn't something I ever wanted to picture, but her illness forced me to seriously imagine that outcome.  I did it the way any other mother who has never lost a child has:  I took a minute or two to imagine what that would be like, horrified myself,  and mentally ran away from that scenario.  I  went into the next room, grabbed her up, and covered her with kisses and hugs, not thinking twice about her dubious glances in response to the sudden ferocity of my affection.

I remember telling Cory once that if anything ever happened to her or her brother, they'd have to put me away....and there I'd live out the remaining misery of my days in institutionalized care.  I wasn't kidding, either.  I was positive that if one of my children died, I would be unable to function on my own.  Ever.

Then the accident happened.  All those careful lock ups of the med box, hiding of the sharps, appointments with the therapist to address the depression and suicidal thinking...and then her death had nothing to do with her illness.  One lady, in a hurry to get home, didn't see her crossing the road.  I'd made no mental preparations (feeble attempts, though, they may be) of any kind for such an outcome.  It was random.  It was a "fluke accident" as some people called.  It was a "horrific tragedy".  Yes, it was all of those.

Almost immediately after being told the news, there on the road, my brain quickly and neatly solved the problem of this horrifying new reality.  What did it say to me?  "Okay...okay...well, that's it, then.  We are all done here."  We.  We are all done.  If she's out, I'm out.  You jump, I jump.

It wasn't two days later that I was up at dawn standing in front of cars on West Michigan trying to make my feet leave the curb.

See, my earlier prediction of how I would handle losing one of my children was way, way off.  Forget institutionalized care, buddy, screw your psych ward, just get me the hell out of here, permanently.

So, now almost five years later, imagine my surprise that I am still here.  I have continued, albeit not always gracefully, but I have continued, trudging one heavy foot in front of the other down this Godforsaken path.  I have fallen on my face more than once, but people have helped me stand to my feet, I've righted myself, and continued on.  I've even gone back down the path a few times just to be sure I knew what that scary section of woods was all about.  Foolish?  Maybe, but there will be no more surprises for me, if I can help it.

People get frustrated with my journey.  They miss me.  They want me to catch up to where they are.  Yeah, I miss them, too.  Hell, I miss me- that pretty-much-put-together-woman I used to be.  I wish I could give everyone what they want.  It's not that I don't wish I could walk faster.  It's not that I don't wish I could be happier in my walk.  I don't enjoy this trek through hell anymore than you would.  But I've been doing it long enough to know to watch out for the dips in the road, the fallen branches, and the cliffs just ahead.  Sometimes I have to sit down and rest.  The ones who love me will wait for me to catch up. They may even have to be satisfied with the fact that I'll always be a few steps behind.

Anyone who has thought to themselves, "well if my child died, I would...." should just stop right there.  I am here to tell you you don't know WHAT you would do.  You don't have the faintest idea.  You can't.
 And I hope you never do.

The Good, The Bad, and The Awful

It is closing in on June.  As the days march steadily towards July 5th, my anxiety has been popping unexpectedly and much more frequently, until I am now standing in its shadow all the time.

What is good right now?
Jacob.  Jacob is always a reason to stay in the game, to feel pride, to smile and laugh.  Last weekend, I took him to an empty parking lot and taught him the basics so he'll feel more comfortable when Driver's Ed starts this summer.  He was exactly as I had thought he would be:  quiet, calm, and in control.  I doubt I will ever fear driving with this boy.  To see him sitting in the driver's seat, not pretending this time, but actually moving a vehicle of his own will, even if only simple turns from one end to the other, was bittersweet.  He is growing up.  He will be a man soon.  I was happy, proud, and sad all at the same time (totally normal response). And immediately followed the feelings of despair that I never had those moments with his sister (a little extra emotion for the bereaved parent, hey don't forget your other child died before you could do this with her!")    I hung my head for a second in the seat and would you know that Jacob knew immediately what I was thinking about?  "I wish she was here, too, Mom."  He touched my hand ever so lightly and for a millisecond.  " I wish we were taking Driver's Ed together."  That boy is mature beyond his years and incredibly empathetic.

What else is good?
My grief group.  No, I'm not going to a community sponsored gathering.  I am getting together once a month with two of Cory's best friends since kindergarten.  It is a couple of hours every month where the focus is Cory.  Her name is said (the best type of therapy I've experienced yet).  We tell stories.  Sometimes we laugh until we are spitting out our beverages and afraid we may pee our pants, as we were the other night when one of them shared what Cory said about one of her crushes at school, "Mmmmhmmm, girl, break me off a piece of that!  One of these days, I'mma have his babies,   watch!"  Other times, one or more of us will begin sobbing out of nowhere.  Guess what?  It's totally okay either way.  There is no judgment in this safe circle.

We are able to talk about all the amazing things Cory said and did.  We are able to rage against the people who hurt her in any way.  Stupid boys.  Adults who failed her.  The driver.  Debate the existence of God.  We sit and ponder the fairness of it all.  We wonder if her biological father thinks of her still and has regrets or if he is too busy marveling over his second child, discovered after Cory's death, who will graduate this year, his whole life in front of him...Bob's self proclaimed "second chance" and the door God supposedly opened after shutting the door on his firstborn (his words and tasteless facebook post).

We have, through these frank discussions,bridged the gap between being "Cory's Mom" and "Cory's friends" to becoming friends ourselves.  It is an amazing thing.  I only wish we'd thought to start it years ago.  But honestly, I may have been too scary back then.

What is bad?  I have had dreams of her being alive the last couple of weeks.  The dreams where the whole accident was a mistake or a bad dream and she is just chilling in my living room or wandering around the house looking beautiful and whole and magically, unbelievably alive.  Why is this bad?  Because my joy is so great, my relief so immense, my soul  so completely restored, that waking up and realizing it was a dream is devastating.  You could chop off a limb and it would hurt no more.

If I could lucid dream, I would sleep the clock right around.  I would quit my job and no one would ever see me again.
That is how great the pain of losing your child really is.
I've often thought of people who become delusional due to their mental health problems and go about life having hallucinations of their loved one, ala Norman from Bates Motel.  Would I give up my standing in reality and every day life if I could comfortable secure myself in a make-believe world where Cory still lived,,,one in which I could see and talk to her every day? Umm, hell yes.  That may be the best way to describe the immense pain of losing my child.  I would give up reality, full participation in my current relationships, and even my freedom if it  meant Cory would not be dead anymore.  Please lock me up.  Give me substandard food and the same four walls, if I could just see her again.  And I would be cheeking my meds every step of the way, lest she start to disappear.  There's some perspective for the people who think that by now I should be trucking right along doing all the things I was doing before.  That's how bad this hurts, people who think that by now I should be doing more or better or what they would do in my shoes.

What is ugly?  It's ugly that when I woke up this morning and laid there in my bed with the warmth of my little dog snuggled up beside me, the image of Cory in her casket came to my mind and the way I asked so many people, "Doesn't she look beautiful?"  I was so desperate to have it be something else...that she looked beautiful or that she looked like herself...not that she looked like she was dead.
I wrenched away from image, making my puppy wake up and inch closer to me in his sleep, but that horrible image followed me.  The sensations invaded my mind...the way she felt, ice cold and hard as marble under my hands.  Please don't let this be true.  Please don't let this be true.  Notice, of course, the absence of God's name in those pleadings since he didn't do jack shit on the road side.

The flashbacks are back.  The images hit any time of day.  It makes me want to go to sleep until July 5th has past or longer.  If the shaking of my body from standing next to a uniformed police officer in line at Starbucks is any indication, PTSD does not have a specific cut off, any more than grief does.  I am doing the best I can, but it may be time to dust off my anxiety meds.

And the last part to share sort of fits all three categories:  Jake and I took flowers out to Cory's grave day before yesterday.  We threw away the old, cleaned the cut grass off Church's statue, and arranged the new offering.  We stood there, as we always do, beside each other, knowing it is never enough.  "Is there anything you want to tell your sister?"  I asked him.  He gathers himself and says, "Cory, Mom took me to drive in the old Toys R Us parking lot and I did really good....Umm, I had my fitness test in gym the other day, I'm 5' 6 1/2" and 110 pounds now.  I miss you so much, Cory.  I wish you were here."

Good.  Bad.  Awful.