All the Cory Girls

I haven't been doing this very long in regular people's time frame.  Nearly five years is not very long to most people.  It seems like both an eternity when I think of the pain and yet mere months ago that Cory died when I pull that event from my memory bank.  My first instinct is to deny.  My heart screams out it couldn't possibly be true, there is a mental throwing up of hands and a horrified warding off gesture.  But then, too, there are the images from the scene, which brook no argument...andthen  there is the monument, its words forever carved onto my brain as well as onto that piece of stone.  There is no denying written documentation.

But as a friend noticed in passing conversation the other day, there has been some real progress in my accepting this awful truth.  I said without flinching, "But that was after Cory died."  My friend stopped and turned to me right away.  "I've never heard you say that before...that she died."

It used to be "the accident".  The funeral was not a funeral; it was "the service".

These were the most subtle manipulations of my strongest coping skill:  words. They were exercises in denial.   But they were, of course, futile against reality.  But I seldom catch myself saying them anymore.  Denial has made way for acceptance as it always does.

However, it's important to share that when your child dies, they don't die once. He or she dies many times.  Denial will be a frequent visitor.  Acceptance will come to you when you are ready- on your timeline and no one else's.  You'll say "dead" and "funeral" when you are ready to, no matter how many people say it first, say it in front of you, or wish you'd just spit it out.  You'll say when you're ready, even if they only wish you'd say something like "passed away" because it makes them less uncomfortable or just keep quiet about the whole thing.

She didn't die once.  What do I mean?
I mean I lost a girl who was chronologically nineteen years old.  I buried a brave, strong, funny, intelligent girl who lost some time and experiences while she learned how to manage her mental illness.  She worked hard at it.  It took all of her time and energy.  Was she the average nineteen year old when she died- graduated from high school, starting college, maybe working part time?  Dating a series of lame ass guys while figuring out what was really important to her in a relationship?  No, not quite.  She was catching up.  She was setting goals to get there.  She wanted all of those seemingly small, but irreplacable things and all of the things that would come after.

So what happens when your child is gone but your love for them remains?  What happens when you have to continue a relationship with them,somehow, someway or die yourself?  What happens when their birthday comes around or their friends and family members are getting jobs, getting degrees, getting engaged, buying homes,  getting married, having babies?

Maybe it's not this way for every mother.  But here's how it is for me:

I conjure her up in my mind.  I recall every conversation we had about her hopes and dreams, her fears and insecurities.  I tally up her strengths. I think about her struggles.   I remember all the observations she made about life around her- people's jobs, people's marriages, people's love affairs, how people parented or chose not to, people's work ethics, what bothered her about the world, what she wanted to change.  I sit with her face in my mind, watching her talk to me, her little hands moving a mile a minute, perhaps laughing, maybe a little pissed off and I start to piece together what she would look like at twenty.  I fashion her together out of sheer love and longing.

I see that Cory in my mind.  I marvel over her.  I tell her how proud I am that she is healthy, that she feels safe, that she is doing things with friends again.  I tear up with her when we whisper (not too loud- don't jinx it!) how incredible it is that the voices have receded!  I let her cry on my chest a little when the asshole guy she's dating changes his mind about his ability to commit.  I crow over her good grades and high school credits and count down the classes she has left before she's ready to start college.  I take her in the car for driving time cause she has a learner's permit now.   I go with her to see Dr. Z for one of her appointments and hear him exclaim over her progress and fortitude.  "You are amazing, Miss!"  He smiles broadly and lifts one eyebrow at her, "You know this, yes?"

Yes.  She is.

 I have this Cory, who is twenty.  I search and adore every feature.

Then I put her in the ground.

I do it when she's twenty one.

When she's twenty two.

When she's twenty three.

When she's twenty four.

I'll do it until the day I die.

And along the way, I also bury the imaginary diploma, jobs, driver's license, boyfriends, college GPA, fiancee, husband, and child.  Maybe she'd have some of them, maybe all of them.  Who is to say?  And I wanted her to have them all.

She deserved a shot at every one of them.  One day maybe it'll roll off my tongue that she didn't graduate or drive or work a job...go to college, get engaged, walk down the aisle, or have a child.  But I'm not there yet.

I'm still laying those Cory-Girls to rest.