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.
