The Last 42

And so it has begun...that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, somewhere between the rush of joy and pride I felt that Jake has turned another year older and the heartbreak upon realizing, as if for the very first time (this happens every single year), that Cory never will.  Her birthday is now just weeks away.  My anxiety shows its face in the scribbled side margins of my papers where I have repeatedly calculated how old she would be on any given day and it also manifests itself in the physical symptoms of the cursed "Wolf Teeth" phenomenon, the one in which I constantly clench and unclench my jaw with the dismaying perception that my teeth are growing too large for my mouth.  (Today she would be 23 years, 11 months, and 6 days, and please excuse me while I go look in the mirror at my teeth for the tenth time today).

In comparison to past years, I am doing pretty good with this impending "difficult date".  I have missed no time at work and have needed no walk in counseling appointments.  Fingers crossed, I will make it through without any crisis type situations.

I spent awhile going through pictures of Cory the other day, though, and found one that upset me greatly.  It was one of the last photos taken of Cory and her little brother before the accident.  It seems like there should be tons, but those last few months were a busy time with Cory feeling better, socializing more, and me taking classes at night.  I can remember so specifically cutting my time short with her to work on research papers or get my required reading done.  I'd give anything today to have those hours back.  Even the night before she died, I left her watching a movie with Jake and Tim in the living room to hole up in my room with my papers and books.  The last chance I had to watch a movie with her and I gave it up.  Unbelievable.

 I can remember, though, too, how proud she was when I crowed over an "A" paper or read her some of my teacher's comments and how she said, "Man, Mom, I wish I could be as good of a student as you."  "You can, Cory.  You are." I'd tell her, all the while hoping she was watching closely as I hunched over my books and fretted over two points here or there.  Because they follow the examples we set, right?

But back to the picture...
I was able to pull the date and discover it was taken six weeks before the accident.  I looked at the smile on her face and the shine in her eyes and quite felt like throwing up.  Forty two days left to live? Out of the little over seven thousand that she got to have? Desperately, I searched my memory banks, trying to remember what those last forty two days had been like.  Did she have more good days than bad?  Did she laugh a lot?  Did she get to eat any of her favorite meals?  Did she get enough hugs from me?

I cried over this picture, over the look on her face, and over what I couldn't remember about those last six weeks for a long time.  Eventually, I turned on some music for awhile, switched over to Netflix at some point, went to talk to Jake, got out my art supplies, and stopped beating myself up.  Or at least took a break from it.

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

Cory, I would've done anything I could to give you more days.  I hope I made you feel loved and cherished for the ones you had.