I thought today about how looking at holidays now feels like looking through a veil. Everything is darker now, less focused, and seen through a filter of deep sadness. How upset Cory would be to think that is the way I see the world now and that it is has anything to do with her? She was the joy-bringer. She was the magic and the sparkle. The two of us together? We set the world on fire, or at least the room we were in, in my not-so-humble opinion.
So then, the veil cannot be Cory. That is not fair to someone who, despite her suffering, went out of her way to make other people smile and laugh.
So what the fuck is this veil? Will I have to wear it always? Is this what I'm meant to do?
Is the veil depression? That would explain why it's so damn heavy. Or how sometimes my arms themselves feel like they have bricks tied to them and I can't even reach up to push it aside for even a day. When you can't brush your hair, who has the energy for fiddling with veils?
Is the veil trauma? Some synonyms for veil as a verb hit home. Hide. Shield. Surround.
Don't get too close to anything that makes you feel that good again, Nicole. If you do, someone or Someone, might take it away. You'll be in the pit again with no way out, wishing for death. Better to keep your distance from the moments that make your heart that vulnerable.
Maybe the veil is grief. Envelop. Surround. Conceal. Cloak. Blanket. Shroud.
If it is, I will wear it to my grave. We've become frienemies, you see. I hate grief, but I cling to it, as well. It is the measure of the love for my girl. It is my last tie to her. Even as the cords burn my skin, cut off my circulation, and sometimes threaten my well-being...I will not let go. I cannot. There is no moving on. There is moving forward...and backward...and forward again. There are detours and roadblocks...unexpected accidents. I am often, unintentionally, one of those rubber neckers who has to slow down to see the carnage. There is no other way, but through. There is only room for one on the path.
I remember my dear, sweet father telling me that God had known Cory's death date since the day she was born. He reminded me that the Bible says that God knows each hair on our heads. With my crisis of faith, I am not so sure. I know there are a ton of people who believe just that, and a ton of people who find those ideas illogical.
Here's what I know about this veil, whatever it may be. It has been in progress since I was 18 years old, pregnant and scared. It has grown in length every year that precious girl was in my presence. Every belly laugh. Every tear. Every time she threw her hands up in the air in joy. Every time she couldn't lift her head under the weight of her illness.
The question now is what would Cory want me to do with this veil? What did she do with hers?
Monday, December 24, 2018
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Did a Thing
So I did a tiny thing that may actually be a big thing. I haven't quite decided yet how I feel about it.
Returning to work a few weeks after Cory died was beyond difficult. I was, as you can imagine, barely functioning. My brain was a frazzled old school pin ball machine, that sent me veering from one obsessive, negative thought pattern to another.
There were the frightening images of Cory's body
on the road and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I recalled shutting the lid of her
casket. There was the shock and disbelief...had this horrible thing really happened? Unpleasant adrenaline coursed through my body constantly, which I can only describe as the feeling of being chased by someone with a knife.
More than anything my back was bowed over with the weight of massive guilt and
self-loathing that I had, in my mind, sent my daughter, my dearest girl, to her death. I couldn't stand up straight to save my life. All too often,
and certainly unbidden, came the haunting, soul-crushing billow of the sheet floating down over her body. All I saw before me was an endless blackness; non-stop pain. I spent a lot of time checking for the nearest exits.
Those were my minute to minute thoughts. These were overlaid with feelings of fear that something else horrible would happen, feelings of inability to do anything properly, and an overwhelming feeling of being naked and vulnerable to everyone's scrutiny.
It took a transition object to make the eight minute trip from my house to work everyday. I had, in typical Nicole-fashion ordered about fifteen necklaces and bracelets with Cory's picture on them. Figure out how to live without her? That was a hard no. Figure out how to act normal in public? Not so much. Figure out how to match the right piece of Cory jewelry with the right outfit? That my brain could do.
So once I arrived at work, necklace in tow, I found the large bulletin board in my office waiting for me to fill it with pictures of Cory. When asked, it was the one thing I requested. I could not be without my girl. During those first few months, my only wishes were to a) crawl beneath the ground with her b) spend extended time at the cemetery beside her grave or c) spend every waking moment keeping her memory as fresh and alive as I could by poring over her pictures, her belongings, and carefully cataloging anything her hands had come across.
So I brought in a stack of 4 x 6 pictures and got to work on the bulletin board, making it my Safe Place. When did I last feel safe? When my children were both alive, of course. I have moved offices four times in the last six and a half years. Each time the same pictures of Cory, a very young Jacob, and Cory's deceased cat, Church, made the trip along with me.
I have never changed it. This brought me comfort. I can only compare it to the way I keep Cory's room exactly the same as it was when she died. It is my proof that she existed. It is sacred.
So year after year, my brain has gotten a little more healthy. I still have rough times, but I can mostly anticipate them and I've developed better self-care skills. At least most of the time (insert grin here, no one is perfect).
Once and awhile, when feeling as good as one can feel when their child is gone, I'd look up at that bulletin board and realize Jake is six, seven, eight, and nine years old in all of them. He will be seventeen next month. He is almost a legal adult.
Do I feel safe yet?
Maybe that depends on the day you ask me. And the dreams I had the night before.
But a couple of weeks ago, I took the best picture of Jacob with my new phone. I just love it. So last week, I printed it out and stuck it up on my Safe Place board at work...a tiny 2 x 3 addition of the present to my treasured past. I clipped it up there and stood back, waiting to see what I would feel.
I instantly felt two things. First: pride and love. Second: guilt.
Would Cory think I had forgotten her? Would she think I was "moving on"? Had I disturbed the careful time capsule of the happiest time of my life? Would Cory get farther away?
I reached up my hand to take it down, but then left it up.
We shall see.
Returning to work a few weeks after Cory died was beyond difficult. I was, as you can imagine, barely functioning. My brain was a frazzled old school pin ball machine, that sent me veering from one obsessive, negative thought pattern to another.
There were the frightening images of Cory's body
on the road and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I recalled shutting the lid of her
casket. There was the shock and disbelief...had this horrible thing really happened? Unpleasant adrenaline coursed through my body constantly, which I can only describe as the feeling of being chased by someone with a knife.
More than anything my back was bowed over with the weight of massive guilt and
self-loathing that I had, in my mind, sent my daughter, my dearest girl, to her death. I couldn't stand up straight to save my life. All too often,
and certainly unbidden, came the haunting, soul-crushing billow of the sheet floating down over her body. All I saw before me was an endless blackness; non-stop pain. I spent a lot of time checking for the nearest exits.
Those were my minute to minute thoughts. These were overlaid with feelings of fear that something else horrible would happen, feelings of inability to do anything properly, and an overwhelming feeling of being naked and vulnerable to everyone's scrutiny.
It took a transition object to make the eight minute trip from my house to work everyday. I had, in typical Nicole-fashion ordered about fifteen necklaces and bracelets with Cory's picture on them. Figure out how to live without her? That was a hard no. Figure out how to act normal in public? Not so much. Figure out how to match the right piece of Cory jewelry with the right outfit? That my brain could do.
So once I arrived at work, necklace in tow, I found the large bulletin board in my office waiting for me to fill it with pictures of Cory. When asked, it was the one thing I requested. I could not be without my girl. During those first few months, my only wishes were to a) crawl beneath the ground with her b) spend extended time at the cemetery beside her grave or c) spend every waking moment keeping her memory as fresh and alive as I could by poring over her pictures, her belongings, and carefully cataloging anything her hands had come across.
So I brought in a stack of 4 x 6 pictures and got to work on the bulletin board, making it my Safe Place. When did I last feel safe? When my children were both alive, of course. I have moved offices four times in the last six and a half years. Each time the same pictures of Cory, a very young Jacob, and Cory's deceased cat, Church, made the trip along with me.
I have never changed it. This brought me comfort. I can only compare it to the way I keep Cory's room exactly the same as it was when she died. It is my proof that she existed. It is sacred.
So year after year, my brain has gotten a little more healthy. I still have rough times, but I can mostly anticipate them and I've developed better self-care skills. At least most of the time (insert grin here, no one is perfect).
Once and awhile, when feeling as good as one can feel when their child is gone, I'd look up at that bulletin board and realize Jake is six, seven, eight, and nine years old in all of them. He will be seventeen next month. He is almost a legal adult.
Do I feel safe yet?
Maybe that depends on the day you ask me. And the dreams I had the night before.
But a couple of weeks ago, I took the best picture of Jacob with my new phone. I just love it. So last week, I printed it out and stuck it up on my Safe Place board at work...a tiny 2 x 3 addition of the present to my treasured past. I clipped it up there and stood back, waiting to see what I would feel.
I instantly felt two things. First: pride and love. Second: guilt.
Would Cory think I had forgotten her? Would she think I was "moving on"? Had I disturbed the careful time capsule of the happiest time of my life? Would Cory get farther away?
I reached up my hand to take it down, but then left it up.
We shall see.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Oh, Jealousy!
Here's the thing. I'm still jealous. I'm so jealous I sometimes can hardly stand myself. It's no more pretty of a look than it has ever been. These milestones are kicking my ass.
I am so happy to see the young people in my life growing. Each time they step out a little further on a branch, testing the weight...some cautiously, some no holds barred.., I imagine Cory in the same scenario. It's involuntary, I promise you. I see Cory in so many typical life moments that will never happen-things you take for granted that you'll get to experience with your child.
I look around at my sisters' kids, my friends' kids, Cory's friends, and I imagine them all.
Look at Cory taking classes at the local college. You've got this, girl.
Look at her a little married lady with a husband who grins in the face of her open bossiness and banters back at every turn. He adores her, clearly. And he should. She's rather amazing.
Look at her moving into a place of her own...any place...small, big, cheap, fancy. Anywhere the sun shines through the windows and you can hear the rain on the roof. Anyplace she feels safe. Anyplace she can call her own. Around the corner or across the country...just so long as I can still hear her voice.
Look at her with a hand on her belly, a little Momma in the making.
Look at Cory working part time, full time, or staying home with her children the way I'd always wished I'd had the chance to do.
Any of it or all of it would be just fine.
What happens is that I watch the others moving steadily forward, morphing into these incredible young adults, and I wish she was here to see them, to know them, and to move along side them. If her pace were slower, that'd be just fine. I just wish she could see what an amazing father my nephew has become. I wish she could see the nurturing little creature my niece has turned out to be.
Somehow, the stars have aligned that a nephew and a niece of mine are buying their first houses at the same time right now. It's beyond surreal to think either of them are old enough to do such a thing. Yet here we are. It's exciting and crazy, sort of like when three of Cory's best friends were all pregnant at the same time.
My niece told me a few days ago how hard it is to be so excited about her house, but know Cory will never set foot in it and flop down on her couch. It sobered me to think these changes are hard for the others to make as much as for me to watch. Then she said this, "It makes me even sadder that Cory doesn't know who I am now. I'm such a better person than I used to be." Well, damn, Alisha, if that doesn't make a girl cry, I don't know what will.
So my jealousy is alive and well. It is what it is. I envy every scrap of experience Cory will not have.
However...
I'm wrong to think everyone else is moving along while she is stationary in her plot in Bedford Cemetery. That is faulty thinking, my friend. I can feel her moving. She guides me. She guides her brother. Every once and awhile, she changes people's thinking that have never even met her. Since the day she was born, that girl has propelled me forward. And since her death, well, she's pushed me gently with those beautiful little hands of hers into discovering strength I didn't even know I had.
I am so focused on the labels she was cheated out of: graduate, worker, wife, mother, that I am negating all the things that she had already become.
She was an excellent teacher to her little brother and to me. I learned things from her perspective that aren't taught in college classes. Jake said he showed her how to do so many things, he was at a loss to pick one, but the big things? Those were easy, he said. "She taught me how to be nice and to be a good friend."
She was an artist. She inspired me to create and it has remained one of my best coping skills. It has literally kept me alive.
She was a quiet and wry observer of human behavior. I found this line on a page of one of her journals, months after making her biological father's acquaintance: my father knows not how to parent.
That girl. You hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.
She was generous with her love and quick to forgive- just ask the men in her life who failed her. She was persistent, even when things were hard for her to do.
She was brave.
She was so many things that some graduates, employees, wives, mothers, and homeowners may never be.
I remember seeing a meme on social media recently that said no one's gonna talk about your shoes at your funeral. I thought to myself, they damn well better! After I stopped giggling to myself, I reflected on why would be so important to me. Am I so shallow? I guess it's about the fact that the way I dress expresses my individuality and that's really the piece I hope people remember.
So if I want my footwear choices to define me...why can't Cory's sweetness, her humor, and her strength define her? Does it really have to be a degree, a job, the acquisition of property, the representations of independence, or any other milestone?
Maybe what is most important when we're gone is how we made other people feel while we were here and how we affect their decisions in the future.
If that's the case, Cory's impact...
was and remains significant.
I have to stop letting my faulty thinking sell her short.
Cory died doing a normal thing. She died doing an independent thing; as small as it was- it was also a huge sign of her wellness. Is there a better milestone than that?
I am so happy to see the young people in my life growing. Each time they step out a little further on a branch, testing the weight...some cautiously, some no holds barred.., I imagine Cory in the same scenario. It's involuntary, I promise you. I see Cory in so many typical life moments that will never happen-things you take for granted that you'll get to experience with your child.
I look around at my sisters' kids, my friends' kids, Cory's friends, and I imagine them all.
Look at Cory taking classes at the local college. You've got this, girl.
Look at her a little married lady with a husband who grins in the face of her open bossiness and banters back at every turn. He adores her, clearly. And he should. She's rather amazing.
Look at her moving into a place of her own...any place...small, big, cheap, fancy. Anywhere the sun shines through the windows and you can hear the rain on the roof. Anyplace she feels safe. Anyplace she can call her own. Around the corner or across the country...just so long as I can still hear her voice.
Look at her with a hand on her belly, a little Momma in the making.
Look at Cory working part time, full time, or staying home with her children the way I'd always wished I'd had the chance to do.
Any of it or all of it would be just fine.
What happens is that I watch the others moving steadily forward, morphing into these incredible young adults, and I wish she was here to see them, to know them, and to move along side them. If her pace were slower, that'd be just fine. I just wish she could see what an amazing father my nephew has become. I wish she could see the nurturing little creature my niece has turned out to be.
Somehow, the stars have aligned that a nephew and a niece of mine are buying their first houses at the same time right now. It's beyond surreal to think either of them are old enough to do such a thing. Yet here we are. It's exciting and crazy, sort of like when three of Cory's best friends were all pregnant at the same time.
My niece told me a few days ago how hard it is to be so excited about her house, but know Cory will never set foot in it and flop down on her couch. It sobered me to think these changes are hard for the others to make as much as for me to watch. Then she said this, "It makes me even sadder that Cory doesn't know who I am now. I'm such a better person than I used to be." Well, damn, Alisha, if that doesn't make a girl cry, I don't know what will.
So my jealousy is alive and well. It is what it is. I envy every scrap of experience Cory will not have.
However...
I'm wrong to think everyone else is moving along while she is stationary in her plot in Bedford Cemetery. That is faulty thinking, my friend. I can feel her moving. She guides me. She guides her brother. Every once and awhile, she changes people's thinking that have never even met her. Since the day she was born, that girl has propelled me forward. And since her death, well, she's pushed me gently with those beautiful little hands of hers into discovering strength I didn't even know I had.
I am so focused on the labels she was cheated out of: graduate, worker, wife, mother, that I am negating all the things that she had already become.
She was an excellent teacher to her little brother and to me. I learned things from her perspective that aren't taught in college classes. Jake said he showed her how to do so many things, he was at a loss to pick one, but the big things? Those were easy, he said. "She taught me how to be nice and to be a good friend."
She was an artist. She inspired me to create and it has remained one of my best coping skills. It has literally kept me alive.
She was a quiet and wry observer of human behavior. I found this line on a page of one of her journals, months after making her biological father's acquaintance: my father knows not how to parent.
That girl. You hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.
She was generous with her love and quick to forgive- just ask the men in her life who failed her. She was persistent, even when things were hard for her to do.
She was brave.
She was so many things that some graduates, employees, wives, mothers, and homeowners may never be.
I remember seeing a meme on social media recently that said no one's gonna talk about your shoes at your funeral. I thought to myself, they damn well better! After I stopped giggling to myself, I reflected on why would be so important to me. Am I so shallow? I guess it's about the fact that the way I dress expresses my individuality and that's really the piece I hope people remember.
So if I want my footwear choices to define me...why can't Cory's sweetness, her humor, and her strength define her? Does it really have to be a degree, a job, the acquisition of property, the representations of independence, or any other milestone?
Maybe what is most important when we're gone is how we made other people feel while we were here and how we affect their decisions in the future.
If that's the case, Cory's impact...
was and remains significant.
I have to stop letting my faulty thinking sell her short.
Cory died doing a normal thing. She died doing an independent thing; as small as it was- it was also a huge sign of her wellness. Is there a better milestone than that?
Saturday, October 27, 2018
Trigger, anyone?
I saw a hat lying in the middle of West Michigan the other day.
A baseball cap.
Not bloody. Nothing around it to suggest something untoward had happened. Probably somebody had lost it out the window of their car goofing around.
And yet.
And yet, the images began firing up in my brain as my throat closed in and chest tightened.
My own feet clad in purple sandals clapping the pavement furiously. Getting there at the end of my road and craning around against the bright sunshine, unable to see anything at first and wondering if this kid had his story straight.. Then spotting a throng of quiet, uncomfortable, helpful, sad, curious people trying to drag a kiddie pool over to block the passers by from seeing...
ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh nooo, oh no Cory Girl. It is her. It is.
Trying to get to her but being politely intercepted and held gently but firmly back from approaching her where she laid splayed to the side of the road, facedown, hair covering her face. Looking small. Looking not quite right. Something about the angles did not seem natural. Looking very, very still.
I am her mother. My name is...her name is...she is nineteen. Yes, she is allergic to Bactrim and any sulfa drugs. Yes she is on medication. They are.... Yes, we live ..... Yes, she lives with me....
"Let us work on your daughter. Let us help her."
The fear that dropped into my belly as I watched them turn her over...it was hot, liquid, and oozed into every nook and cranny of my soul. She has to be okay.
They turned her over so slowly, so carefully, seemingly inches at a time, maybe even reverently, maybe they already knew what I did not...her hair covered her face, her eyes were closed, and her lips were blue. A dark blue. My voice took up my heart's chant, "Is she breathing? Is she? Is she breathing? Someone tell me!"
No one answered. Instead they sliced her shirt open with shears and I jumped and rejoiced in my heart, for they were going to give her the paddles and it would be ok. As I waited breathless, the paddles did not appear. Someone brought a box thing, they hooked her up, they went back to the ambulance. I kept waiting for the paddles, wanting to wash her legs which were dirty, wanting to stop looking at her arm twisted all the way around like a pretzel but unable to pull my gaze from it. Shouldn't somebody be tending to that?
And that was it.
Six reluctant words later and it was done.
A baseball cap.
Not bloody. Nothing around it to suggest something untoward had happened. Probably somebody had lost it out the window of their car goofing around.
And yet.
And yet, the images began firing up in my brain as my throat closed in and chest tightened.
My own feet clad in purple sandals clapping the pavement furiously. Getting there at the end of my road and craning around against the bright sunshine, unable to see anything at first and wondering if this kid had his story straight.. Then spotting a throng of quiet, uncomfortable, helpful, sad, curious people trying to drag a kiddie pool over to block the passers by from seeing...
ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh nooo, oh no Cory Girl. It is her. It is.
Trying to get to her but being politely intercepted and held gently but firmly back from approaching her where she laid splayed to the side of the road, facedown, hair covering her face. Looking small. Looking not quite right. Something about the angles did not seem natural. Looking very, very still.
I am her mother. My name is...her name is...she is nineteen. Yes, she is allergic to Bactrim and any sulfa drugs. Yes she is on medication. They are.... Yes, we live ..... Yes, she lives with me....
"Let us work on your daughter. Let us help her."
The fear that dropped into my belly as I watched them turn her over...it was hot, liquid, and oozed into every nook and cranny of my soul. She has to be okay.
They turned her over so slowly, so carefully, seemingly inches at a time, maybe even reverently, maybe they already knew what I did not...her hair covered her face, her eyes were closed, and her lips were blue. A dark blue. My voice took up my heart's chant, "Is she breathing? Is she? Is she breathing? Someone tell me!"
No one answered. Instead they sliced her shirt open with shears and I jumped and rejoiced in my heart, for they were going to give her the paddles and it would be ok. As I waited breathless, the paddles did not appear. Someone brought a box thing, they hooked her up, they went back to the ambulance. I kept waiting for the paddles, wanting to wash her legs which were dirty, wanting to stop looking at her arm twisted all the way around like a pretzel but unable to pull my gaze from it. Shouldn't somebody be tending to that?
And that was it.
Six reluctant words later and it was done.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Insomnia
We are so fragile. And not just our bodies.
Mental health is a continuum. Even when you're on the healthy side, something can trigger a set back in the blink of an eye.
A couple of weeks ago, I was in a car accident. I guess you'd call it a fender bender, except the man in the other car blew a yield sign, hit me, and then fled the scene. It could have been a lot worse. At least no one was hurt. Well actually, I think my words were, "At least no one died".
But man, did it mess with my head.
It's always scary being in an accident. Even seeing them as a bystander affects me horribly after Cory's accident. This time, it was even worse.
I was just driving sedately along on the way to work after my lunchbreak. All of the sudden I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye and I remember thinking: He's not stopping! He's gonna hit me! Oh shit, am I gonna die?!!
And then the jarring impact...the squeal of metal on metal.
When it stopped, I locked eyes with the other driver. He looked furious with me that he had ran the yield sign and hit me. I could see it on his face that he was going to run. His eyes widened as I thought, You wouldn't dare! His face said: Watch me, bitch!
Sure enough, he put it in reverse, backed up, and floored it. But not before I got his plate number.
I never cried. I wasn't hurt. My body was fine.
I shook all over as I waited for the cops to come. My dealings with the officer that responded were the most positive feelings I've had toward anyone in uniform for over six years. I could see a helpful, kind person doing his job and that was all. Neutrality, can you dig it? Baby steps.
The chemicals pumping through my body for the next few hours reminded me so much of that horrible day. My scalp felt too small. My mind wandered. I couldn't relax.
That night I couldn't sleep, either. I had began to visit the horrid land of What If. All I could think about was how Cory had likely had those same exact thoughts if she'd seen the vehicle coming at her. Oh, shit, am I gonna die?!! And then she had. It was almost more than I could bear.
My chest had tightened so much I couldn't imagine there being any room left in there for anything...heart, lungs...hope. Taking a breath felt like blowing up the world's largest balloon. I was tired before I even began. I didn't even want to try.
From there, I relived the feel of the man's SUV slamming into my SUV...and the sound of the metal of his vehicle pushing and tangling into the metal of mine. The more I considered it, the more I imagined that if the impact was that strong within the protection of my vehicle, what would it have felt like for Cory? Cory was just a woman, a small woman...flesh and bones, unprotected in any way from that impact that struck her and launched her into the air. And what awful sounds did she hear? Did she have time to scream?
My heart would flinch quickly away from this consideration, but my brain? My brain kept me up all night long, tapping my heart on its shoulder and insisting that together they examine the horrific situation...one more time. Maybe another. Maybe quite a few more times, actually.
Mental health is a continuum. Even when you're on the healthy side, something can trigger a set back in the blink of an eye.
A couple of weeks ago, I was in a car accident. I guess you'd call it a fender bender, except the man in the other car blew a yield sign, hit me, and then fled the scene. It could have been a lot worse. At least no one was hurt. Well actually, I think my words were, "At least no one died".
But man, did it mess with my head.
It's always scary being in an accident. Even seeing them as a bystander affects me horribly after Cory's accident. This time, it was even worse.
I was just driving sedately along on the way to work after my lunchbreak. All of the sudden I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye and I remember thinking: He's not stopping! He's gonna hit me! Oh shit, am I gonna die?!!
And then the jarring impact...the squeal of metal on metal.
When it stopped, I locked eyes with the other driver. He looked furious with me that he had ran the yield sign and hit me. I could see it on his face that he was going to run. His eyes widened as I thought, You wouldn't dare! His face said: Watch me, bitch!
Sure enough, he put it in reverse, backed up, and floored it. But not before I got his plate number.
I never cried. I wasn't hurt. My body was fine.
I shook all over as I waited for the cops to come. My dealings with the officer that responded were the most positive feelings I've had toward anyone in uniform for over six years. I could see a helpful, kind person doing his job and that was all. Neutrality, can you dig it? Baby steps.
The chemicals pumping through my body for the next few hours reminded me so much of that horrible day. My scalp felt too small. My mind wandered. I couldn't relax.
That night I couldn't sleep, either. I had began to visit the horrid land of What If. All I could think about was how Cory had likely had those same exact thoughts if she'd seen the vehicle coming at her. Oh, shit, am I gonna die?!! And then she had. It was almost more than I could bear.
My chest had tightened so much I couldn't imagine there being any room left in there for anything...heart, lungs...hope. Taking a breath felt like blowing up the world's largest balloon. I was tired before I even began. I didn't even want to try.
From there, I relived the feel of the man's SUV slamming into my SUV...and the sound of the metal of his vehicle pushing and tangling into the metal of mine. The more I considered it, the more I imagined that if the impact was that strong within the protection of my vehicle, what would it have felt like for Cory? Cory was just a woman, a small woman...flesh and bones, unprotected in any way from that impact that struck her and launched her into the air. And what awful sounds did she hear? Did she have time to scream?
My heart would flinch quickly away from this consideration, but my brain? My brain kept me up all night long, tapping my heart on its shoulder and insisting that together they examine the horrific situation...one more time. Maybe another. Maybe quite a few more times, actually.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Looking Glass
Lately I've had trouble when I put on my eyeliner in the mirror. I swipe it on with confidence, the same old way I always have, but lately it takes on a life of its own and heads in the other direction. I've stubbornly denied this unfortunate phenomenon the best I could for several days. But it kept happening and anger soon ensued. Still I balked. Maybe if I just tried another brand (bargaining). When that didn't work, I became depressed, wearing my hair in cleaning lady buns and not bothering with makeup at all. Finally, I accepted the fact that it was not the eyeliner at all. I am getting old. The skin around my eyes is not the firm writing surface it used to be. And once I took a good- albeit horrifying- look, I realized those lines that pop up across my forehead when I curl my eyelashes are now present even when I'm not curling my eyelashes. Gasp. Can everyone see these? ALL the time? Oh my God!
Once I'd made it through the five stages of grieving in relation to my aging face, I started thinking about all the implications of aging. I wondered how me and Cory's relationship would have evolved over the years. See, it took me decades to realize just how brilliant my mother is- how amazing, how strong, and how absolutely precious. Would Cory have felt that way about me, too, as the years have gone and continue to go by? As Cory stabilized and didn't need my constant care, would she still have called me to tell me the highs and lows of her day? Would I still be her person? What would she think of my new puffy eye liner-resistant eyelids and permanent forehead wrinkles? Would I still be one of the most beautiful women in the world to her, the way my mom is to me? Would she still see her madre as strong and capable of anything?
I wonder sometimes how Jacob sees me. My depression and anxiety have been so prevalent since Cory's death. He gets it, I know, but sometimes as I describe something I'm worrying about, he just shakes his head with a quiet smile, puzzled in spite of himself, and says, "Mom, you're ridiculous. Why would you think that?"
I miss the mostly happy, silly woman I used to be before the accident. I fear sometimes that my grief has swallowed up my personality. I don't want to be seen as a sad, troubled woman and have that be all that I am. I remember my best friend saying once to not let my loss define me and I had thought, how could I not? Maybe I understand what she was saying a little better now. My loss absolutely defines me, but I hope it doesn't completely define me. I hope when I am gone and Jake describes me to his kids or grandkids, he says more than "she was never the same after my sister died" or "she was sad all the time". Granted, I have never been the same and I am sad all of the time. But I hope he also tells them of my silliness and humor. I hope he tells them that we talked about politics and movies and books. I hope he tells them that yes, I wasn't the same, and yes, I was sad a lot, but it was because I loved so deeply. I hope he tells them that I made him feel safe and he could always count on me. Maybe he'll tell them I had swagger until the eyeliner went bad. That would be okay, too.
It is the oddest thing to watch Jake growing older as Cory stays frozen in time, nineteen forever. Sometimes, as I've mentioned before, I manufacture false memories to include her in his growth. I have to imagine how she would react in certain situations. Other times, those pseudo memories pop up in my mind without even trying. The other day, I was trying to get some intel from Jake about a girl he's been texting with and he wasn't giving up squat. Suddenly, it was like Cory and Jake were together in the next room, just like the old days. I could hear Cory teasing him one second, but trying to give him hair and fashion tips for the first day of school the next. I could hear her saying, "Jake, heard from your lady friend, today? Yeah? What'd she say? Well, what'd you say? No, don't say that! Say _______. Here, just give me your phone. I'll do it!"
I could see this conversation taking place as Cory sprawled on the couch, a cat beside her and Jake standing above her, smiling sheepishly as he forked over his phone with complete trust. They have always helped each other.
These scenes warm my heart and break it at the same time. I grieve for all that has not been and will never be.
Sometimes I see a meme pop up on social media with some platitude about letting go of the past or how the best is yet to come and I snort.
Cory will never be in my past. We're talking about my child. My child. My Cory Girl. I will bring her forward into every day. Always.
Once I'd made it through the five stages of grieving in relation to my aging face, I started thinking about all the implications of aging. I wondered how me and Cory's relationship would have evolved over the years. See, it took me decades to realize just how brilliant my mother is- how amazing, how strong, and how absolutely precious. Would Cory have felt that way about me, too, as the years have gone and continue to go by? As Cory stabilized and didn't need my constant care, would she still have called me to tell me the highs and lows of her day? Would I still be her person? What would she think of my new puffy eye liner-resistant eyelids and permanent forehead wrinkles? Would I still be one of the most beautiful women in the world to her, the way my mom is to me? Would she still see her madre as strong and capable of anything?
I wonder sometimes how Jacob sees me. My depression and anxiety have been so prevalent since Cory's death. He gets it, I know, but sometimes as I describe something I'm worrying about, he just shakes his head with a quiet smile, puzzled in spite of himself, and says, "Mom, you're ridiculous. Why would you think that?"
I miss the mostly happy, silly woman I used to be before the accident. I fear sometimes that my grief has swallowed up my personality. I don't want to be seen as a sad, troubled woman and have that be all that I am. I remember my best friend saying once to not let my loss define me and I had thought, how could I not? Maybe I understand what she was saying a little better now. My loss absolutely defines me, but I hope it doesn't completely define me. I hope when I am gone and Jake describes me to his kids or grandkids, he says more than "she was never the same after my sister died" or "she was sad all the time". Granted, I have never been the same and I am sad all of the time. But I hope he also tells them of my silliness and humor. I hope he tells them that we talked about politics and movies and books. I hope he tells them that yes, I wasn't the same, and yes, I was sad a lot, but it was because I loved so deeply. I hope he tells them that I made him feel safe and he could always count on me. Maybe he'll tell them I had swagger until the eyeliner went bad. That would be okay, too.
It is the oddest thing to watch Jake growing older as Cory stays frozen in time, nineteen forever. Sometimes, as I've mentioned before, I manufacture false memories to include her in his growth. I have to imagine how she would react in certain situations. Other times, those pseudo memories pop up in my mind without even trying. The other day, I was trying to get some intel from Jake about a girl he's been texting with and he wasn't giving up squat. Suddenly, it was like Cory and Jake were together in the next room, just like the old days. I could hear Cory teasing him one second, but trying to give him hair and fashion tips for the first day of school the next. I could hear her saying, "Jake, heard from your lady friend, today? Yeah? What'd she say? Well, what'd you say? No, don't say that! Say _______. Here, just give me your phone. I'll do it!"
I could see this conversation taking place as Cory sprawled on the couch, a cat beside her and Jake standing above her, smiling sheepishly as he forked over his phone with complete trust. They have always helped each other.
These scenes warm my heart and break it at the same time. I grieve for all that has not been and will never be.
Sometimes I see a meme pop up on social media with some platitude about letting go of the past or how the best is yet to come and I snort.
Cory will never be in my past. We're talking about my child. My child. My Cory Girl. I will bring her forward into every day. Always.
Saturday, August 18, 2018
Single Parenting
A few days ago, Jake and I faced the task of putting Winston's flea and heart worm meds on him. Once Winston figured out what we were up to, the chase was on. We tried everything, plying him with his favorite toys and treats, but to no avail. Every time we managed to get our hands on him, he'd growl and bare his teeth. Not remembering his Thunder shirt at first, Jake suggested suiting up with oven mitts.
"Great idea!" I told him. "Spot me." I instructed before climbing on my kitchen counter to access the tallest, seldom used, of my kitchen cupboards. Jake stood beside me as I vaulted up on the counter just like I used to do as a child (not bad for a forty four year old). I rooted around looking for the hand style oven mitts, but could only find one. "Hold on, I think one of these square ones has a pocket. That could work."
I handed my finds down to Jake. He reached inside the square pot holder to try out the coverage and exclaimed, "Hey, why is there a coin in here? Wait, no, it's a key. What in the world does this go to?"
I stood on the counter looking down at him, puzzled. "A key?"
It hit us both at the same time and Jake spoke first. "Ohhhh...I know what this is from."
So did I.
Cory's medbox.
All of the sudden I needed to get down. I reached for Jake's hand and hopped down, my head spinning with memories.
It's hard to explain just what it was like to raise a child with a major and chronic mental illness. But that key brought it all flooding back in a millisecond.
The feelings hit first. I remembered as I stood there, key in hand, eyes tearing up and Jake watching, just how scary and confusing the first year and a half were. I knew very little about mental illness and didn't understand what was happening to my child. I didn't know how to help her. I didn't know why it was happening, but was convinced I must have done something to cause her to have these problems. I took it all the way back to my pregnancy- when I should've left Bob sooner than I did and maybe that put too much stress on her growing brain in utero.
I must've driven the CMH nurses crazy with all my phone messages describing Cory's unfolding symptoms in detail and asking why the meds weren't working. It took a couple of years before I realized the symptoms were par for the course for her illness and the best we could hope for was to minimize them.
Safety was the biggest concern as the voices Cory heard were constantly pressuring her to hurt herself, telling her to cut herself, jump off the roof, break open the med box and take all her pills. Early on, I discovered Cory had hid a knife under her mattress and that's when I knew I had to secure all the sharps and all the meds.
It became part of the daily routine to get the med box down from the cupboard at dinner time, take out the knives needed to prepare dinner, get Cory her meds, and then lock it up again. I always had to guard the med box, locking it even it I had to go to the bathroom- that's how insistent the voices were to Cory. I would keep my body blocking the med box as I chopped vegetables at the counter and right away wash the knife, dry it, put it back in the box, and secure it.
On one memorable occasion, Cory had gotten the idea that the cats were actually tiny humans wearing fur suits- that they took them off when she wasn't in the room and walked around in their human forms. She tried desperately to catch them unaware and became frustrated when it never worked. One evening as I chopped veggies, she reached around me into the silverware drawer and grabbed the corkscrew. "Excuse me, Mommy. I'm gonna go open the cats now."
"Oh honey, I don't think that's a good idea." I said calmly and took the corkscrew out of her hand. She pouted a bit and said, "Okay, I just wish they'd let me see them."
"I know you do." Into the box went the corkscrew.
On another occasion, the voices insisted that she boil our dog. This was so distressing to Cory, that she asked to go spend the night at her grandma's. Between her sobs, she explained she loved Gizmo so much and she would never hurt him, but the voices were so insistent and they kept threatening to hurt her or me if she didn't do as they asked.
I don't know if I mentioned I was going this alone in the household with the two kids at the time. I was quite pleased with me and Tim's separation which had been a long time coming, but could not understand how he could cut himself off from her so completely and at a time that she so desperately needed consistency, love, and support. I had instantly become a single parent. While Tim still financially supported Jacob and took him every chance he got, Cory was left with only my support and attention.
I will never forget how her face looked when Tim would come to get Jake for the weekend. Jake would run to the door, his backpack ready, stuffies under his arm. Cory would watch, her heartbreaking, as Tim didn't so much as look in her direction, let alone greet her.
During this time, me and Cory's interactions with Bob were off and on. He couldn't possibly be a support for her mental health when he was as unstable as she was and mistrustful of mental health care and medication.
So I worked full time. My parents cared for Cory during the day when she couldn't be home alone. The nights were the hardest. I'll never forget the nights Cory couldn't sleep because the voices wouldn't stop. Sometimes, she'd get the idea that people were trying to break into the house. When her delusions about the agents were at their worst, she broke down one night, asking me if I'd still love if she told me something really bad that she'd done.
I told her I would always love her. She then shared that she'd stabbed an agent to death in the backyard and dragged his body into the house and hid it under the bed. Between her sobs, she tried to explain it was self-defense for her and for the family, and that now the cops were after her. She looked at me, her eyes wide, "Can't you smell his body, Mom? It's so bad."
My mind just reeled as I held her, her body shaking with fear and guilt of something that had never happened.
So the key? Well, with nights like those and the couple of times she'd wandered out of the house-once looking for her pretend fox and the second time because the voices told her to get out or they'd hurt her- sleep was hard to come by.
Cory was always beside me, whether I was making dinner, taking a shower, or on the toilet. The voices and visual hallucinations were worse when she was alone so she sought my protection during every waking moment. When I locked up the med box, I hid the key in a different spot each time. I had to because Cory watched carefully. The problem with this was that once and awhile I'd forget where I'd put the key myself. There I'd be, dinner needing to prepared, Cory's meds needing to be administered, and no idea where I'd put the damn thing. I'd tear the kitchen apart to no avail. On two occasions, I had to physically break the med box open and then go out and buy a new one to secure everything.
One of the times I found the hidden key later one. But one time, I never found it.
Seven years later, I stood there with that little silver key in my hand and relived it all.
The thing that kept going through my mind was how strong my Cory Girl was. She was amazing.
"Great idea!" I told him. "Spot me." I instructed before climbing on my kitchen counter to access the tallest, seldom used, of my kitchen cupboards. Jake stood beside me as I vaulted up on the counter just like I used to do as a child (not bad for a forty four year old). I rooted around looking for the hand style oven mitts, but could only find one. "Hold on, I think one of these square ones has a pocket. That could work."
I handed my finds down to Jake. He reached inside the square pot holder to try out the coverage and exclaimed, "Hey, why is there a coin in here? Wait, no, it's a key. What in the world does this go to?"
I stood on the counter looking down at him, puzzled. "A key?"
It hit us both at the same time and Jake spoke first. "Ohhhh...I know what this is from."
So did I.
Cory's medbox.
All of the sudden I needed to get down. I reached for Jake's hand and hopped down, my head spinning with memories.
It's hard to explain just what it was like to raise a child with a major and chronic mental illness. But that key brought it all flooding back in a millisecond.
The feelings hit first. I remembered as I stood there, key in hand, eyes tearing up and Jake watching, just how scary and confusing the first year and a half were. I knew very little about mental illness and didn't understand what was happening to my child. I didn't know how to help her. I didn't know why it was happening, but was convinced I must have done something to cause her to have these problems. I took it all the way back to my pregnancy- when I should've left Bob sooner than I did and maybe that put too much stress on her growing brain in utero.
I must've driven the CMH nurses crazy with all my phone messages describing Cory's unfolding symptoms in detail and asking why the meds weren't working. It took a couple of years before I realized the symptoms were par for the course for her illness and the best we could hope for was to minimize them.
Safety was the biggest concern as the voices Cory heard were constantly pressuring her to hurt herself, telling her to cut herself, jump off the roof, break open the med box and take all her pills. Early on, I discovered Cory had hid a knife under her mattress and that's when I knew I had to secure all the sharps and all the meds.
It became part of the daily routine to get the med box down from the cupboard at dinner time, take out the knives needed to prepare dinner, get Cory her meds, and then lock it up again. I always had to guard the med box, locking it even it I had to go to the bathroom- that's how insistent the voices were to Cory. I would keep my body blocking the med box as I chopped vegetables at the counter and right away wash the knife, dry it, put it back in the box, and secure it.
On one memorable occasion, Cory had gotten the idea that the cats were actually tiny humans wearing fur suits- that they took them off when she wasn't in the room and walked around in their human forms. She tried desperately to catch them unaware and became frustrated when it never worked. One evening as I chopped veggies, she reached around me into the silverware drawer and grabbed the corkscrew. "Excuse me, Mommy. I'm gonna go open the cats now."
"Oh honey, I don't think that's a good idea." I said calmly and took the corkscrew out of her hand. She pouted a bit and said, "Okay, I just wish they'd let me see them."
"I know you do." Into the box went the corkscrew.
On another occasion, the voices insisted that she boil our dog. This was so distressing to Cory, that she asked to go spend the night at her grandma's. Between her sobs, she explained she loved Gizmo so much and she would never hurt him, but the voices were so insistent and they kept threatening to hurt her or me if she didn't do as they asked.
I don't know if I mentioned I was going this alone in the household with the two kids at the time. I was quite pleased with me and Tim's separation which had been a long time coming, but could not understand how he could cut himself off from her so completely and at a time that she so desperately needed consistency, love, and support. I had instantly become a single parent. While Tim still financially supported Jacob and took him every chance he got, Cory was left with only my support and attention.
I will never forget how her face looked when Tim would come to get Jake for the weekend. Jake would run to the door, his backpack ready, stuffies under his arm. Cory would watch, her heartbreaking, as Tim didn't so much as look in her direction, let alone greet her.
During this time, me and Cory's interactions with Bob were off and on. He couldn't possibly be a support for her mental health when he was as unstable as she was and mistrustful of mental health care and medication.
So I worked full time. My parents cared for Cory during the day when she couldn't be home alone. The nights were the hardest. I'll never forget the nights Cory couldn't sleep because the voices wouldn't stop. Sometimes, she'd get the idea that people were trying to break into the house. When her delusions about the agents were at their worst, she broke down one night, asking me if I'd still love if she told me something really bad that she'd done.
I told her I would always love her. She then shared that she'd stabbed an agent to death in the backyard and dragged his body into the house and hid it under the bed. Between her sobs, she tried to explain it was self-defense for her and for the family, and that now the cops were after her. She looked at me, her eyes wide, "Can't you smell his body, Mom? It's so bad."
My mind just reeled as I held her, her body shaking with fear and guilt of something that had never happened.
So the key? Well, with nights like those and the couple of times she'd wandered out of the house-once looking for her pretend fox and the second time because the voices told her to get out or they'd hurt her- sleep was hard to come by.
Cory was always beside me, whether I was making dinner, taking a shower, or on the toilet. The voices and visual hallucinations were worse when she was alone so she sought my protection during every waking moment. When I locked up the med box, I hid the key in a different spot each time. I had to because Cory watched carefully. The problem with this was that once and awhile I'd forget where I'd put the key myself. There I'd be, dinner needing to prepared, Cory's meds needing to be administered, and no idea where I'd put the damn thing. I'd tear the kitchen apart to no avail. On two occasions, I had to physically break the med box open and then go out and buy a new one to secure everything.
One of the times I found the hidden key later one. But one time, I never found it.
Seven years later, I stood there with that little silver key in my hand and relived it all.
The thing that kept going through my mind was how strong my Cory Girl was. She was amazing.
Friday, August 3, 2018
Still With Us
Cooking with Cory used to be like this:
Cory and I would rummage through the cupboards, Lazy Susan, and fridge to put together a quick homemade sauce while we put whatever pasta we had on hand to boil. We always used our Rachael Ray pasta pot and oval saute pan with the orange handles that Tim had bought for us while courting me back into a reconciliation of our marriage. We'd give ourselves steam facials, laughing all the while, while we drained the pasta, protecting our hands with the crocheted pot holders my Mom had made- our go to, no matter how many store bought ones sat in our cupboard.
Cory's favorite part was to "marry" the pasta with the sauce.
She'd stand over the pan, dramatic as always, intoning, "If anyone can show just cause why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their cheese." She'd cock an ear, pause, and then, with a flourish of arm to the room at large, announce, "I now pronounce you delicious!"
Instead of throwing rice at the new couple, we threw cheese. And more cheese. And because you only live once, a little more cheese. We'd ladle the glorious mess into our special pasta bowls reserved for just this type of celebration: a night to cook for just us girls because the boys were off doing their own thing and we were free to indulge our wildest pasta desires.
The house smelled spectacular by the time we were done, all garlic and fresh herbs. Cory'd grab her favorite fork and we'd sit cross-legged on the couch in front of the tv, stuffing our mouths shamelessly while watching Gossip Girl.
Pantry Pasta was the best. Cory was the best.
So fast forward six years. It was been a hard journey to feel any sort of comfortable cooking in my kitchen. The other night this happened:
I felt Cory's presence with me while I was cooking. I strongly felt like she'd put a thought into my head; it was so clear, I could actually hear her voice.
I was making enchiladas. I had the sauce simmering while I made the filling. Tim was on the other side of the room fixing something he'd accidentally broken. I turned to the stove to give the sauce a stir and shook my butt a little as I did. Tim grinned and asked, "Is that part of the recipe?"
I answered, "Why yes, they're saucy!"
No more had I said it then I could hear Cory at my shoulder saying, "If you're gonna make Mexican food, don't you think you need a Latina doing that?"
I smiled to myself, delighted that this pseudo-memory had presented itself with no effort on my part. It was like Cory had come along and placed it there. If I had schizoaffective disorder as Cory did, they'd probably say it was thought placing, but since I don't, it's attributed to grief and we just call it love. Hardly seems fair.
So in my head, I continued the well loved pattern of banter with my girl, imagining that at twenty five, going on twenty six, she might not still be living at home:
"Yeah, Cory, you do shake it better, but I can't call you to come across town every time I'm gonna make tacos. What then?"
In my head, she cocked her head, thinking, her eyes widening slightly and a smile unfolding as she declared, "Well, in that case, maybe you and Jake could do together...like two white people together shaking their booties might equal one Latina."
Still in front of the stove, I laughed out loud as Tim watched me with some concern. These were so Cory's words.
I called Jake into the kitchen and told him the whole story, ending with my request for him to stand at the counter and shake his booty beside me.
He stood there in a t-shirt and boxer briefs (his lounging at home outfit of choice) and smiled helplessly. There was no way to not indulge this ridiculously accurate representation of Cory.
We all laughed as I instructed Jake to "Come on, Jake, really move your hips! Like this!"
"Oh my." Tim said, smiling.
And in that moment, Jake and I shaking our butt like fools at our kitchen counter while the sauce simmered, she was with us.
She's still with us.
Friday, July 20, 2018
More Than
Sometimes I am consumed with fury. Other times my heart just breaks. Again.
There were two of these incidents this week. I'll tell you about them. But then, in an effort, to be more...hopeful...I'll share something that's been on my mind that counteracts the darkness and despair.
Picture it. I am driving down West Michigan- curse of my soul-
(a sidebar here to say it is the most evil of paradoxes that I want to move and flee this neighborhood never again to drive down that particular stretch of road, but know in my heart I will never do it because moving would require me to pack up Cory's room. I simply cannot. If nothing else, I know my limits. Her bedroom is tangible proof that I shared the wonder of her life. It is space that she walked and danced upon, stomped on and slept in.)
Okay, I am driving down West Michigan, lighthearted and joking with Jake, having just visited my parents before they leave for vacation when what to my resentful eyes should appear but a lone figure crossing West Michigan for the...thousandth time...
This time, it was a man- get ready for it- with earbuds in, not looking in either direction, a fucking man bun on his head, and actually, I kid you not, casually SIPPING A GODDAMN FOUNTAIN POP as he walked across the road in the exact path my girl had fatally set out on six years ago. The cars? They slowed. They braked. They parted like the Red Sea, their brake lights popping red all across the roadway. Of COURSE they did.
Immediate road rage. Immediate flashbacks. "Are you kidding me?!"
Jake sat beside me shaking his head, patting my shoulder, and looking miserably at his feet.
There I was mean-mugging a strange man rocking a stupid man bun. We actually locked eyes, him probably wondering why the hell a mid-forty year old woman was eyeballing him so hard. I drove the rest of the way home seeing red. Brake lights. Flashing lights. Blood.
The next night after dinner with my sister, Jake and I went to the cemetery to see our girl. We looked around for rabbits, saw none, caught her up on our week, and then I watched memorized as he said his goodbye. He leaned forward, taller than me, heavier than me, his shadow falling gracefully and full of life yet to live over her stone, and gently kissed the center of the cross. That single action said every word about his grief that he isn't yet willing or able to verbalize. His love for her was so obvious in his reverence, the linger of his lips to her stone, the wistful sound of his voice, "We love you, Cory." Heartbreak. Utter and complete. His. Mine. Hers. All three.
So what to counteract such darkness?
Just thought I'd share Tim's perspective for once. He's spent the last four weeks tiptoeing around my death-versary-wakened trauma symptoms, after all. Sometimes, I soak up his help when I need it so desperately that I forget he is grieving, too. What does that look like, you ask?
I've learned to listen carefully for the rare jewels the males in my family offer up about our girl. More importantly, I've learned to watch their actions. I spent the week of the fifth making art, writing, looking at pictures, and listening to songs that I seldom open myself up to. I remember thinking maybe I would read through her journals, but being afraid it would hurt too much and suddenly realizing that's probably how Jacob feels all the time and why he seldom speaks of her.
So Tim, what did he do? He ran errands. He made sure there were groceries. He picked up dinner more nights than I'd like to admit. There was no way in hell I was standing in front of my cutting board at the counter that week, that was for sure, head half cocked for a knock at the door. And in the midst of all these household duties, while I slept or medicated or drank coffee with my headphones on for hours at a time staring into a time when my daughter was within arms' reach, he snuck out to the cemetery. He never told me he was going until afterwards. He made three trips in total. He spent hours knelt down beside her monument, scrub brush in hand, meticulously scrubbing it, taking the time to get the bristles deep inside every letter etched into the stone. He pulled the weeds. He made it look cared for. When he was finished, he suggested we drive out to see her, the three of us, and waited to see if I noticed, which I did, the letters stood out against the stone beautifully. He told me how long it took him and the lump came without warning to my throat. "I wanted to make it right for her."
Then tonight, he and Jake were up in her room replacing a pane of glass that had cracked in her window. When he finished he stood in the doorway of our bedroom and said, "I looked up there and it was just like it used to be. I could almost see her in the window like she'd be in the summer when I got home after work. 'Hey, Dad! Did you just get off work? How's it going?' And I'd say, 'Hey, Cory! What are you still doing up?' He smiled and laid a finger to his lips, and she'd say, 'Shhh! Don't tell Mom!'"
He chuckled sadly. I really didn't know a chuckle could be sad until we lost Cory. He turned away but not before I saw his eyes and in them was all his grief, all his love, and all the stories he hasn't yet shared.
I know some people say the secret to success in life is simply showing up. I can tell you this much. Being a father, being a dad...it's more than showing up. It's what you do when you're there.
There were two of these incidents this week. I'll tell you about them. But then, in an effort, to be more...hopeful...I'll share something that's been on my mind that counteracts the darkness and despair.
Picture it. I am driving down West Michigan- curse of my soul-
(a sidebar here to say it is the most evil of paradoxes that I want to move and flee this neighborhood never again to drive down that particular stretch of road, but know in my heart I will never do it because moving would require me to pack up Cory's room. I simply cannot. If nothing else, I know my limits. Her bedroom is tangible proof that I shared the wonder of her life. It is space that she walked and danced upon, stomped on and slept in.)
Okay, I am driving down West Michigan, lighthearted and joking with Jake, having just visited my parents before they leave for vacation when what to my resentful eyes should appear but a lone figure crossing West Michigan for the...thousandth time...
This time, it was a man- get ready for it- with earbuds in, not looking in either direction, a fucking man bun on his head, and actually, I kid you not, casually SIPPING A GODDAMN FOUNTAIN POP as he walked across the road in the exact path my girl had fatally set out on six years ago. The cars? They slowed. They braked. They parted like the Red Sea, their brake lights popping red all across the roadway. Of COURSE they did.
Immediate road rage. Immediate flashbacks. "Are you kidding me?!"
Jake sat beside me shaking his head, patting my shoulder, and looking miserably at his feet.
There I was mean-mugging a strange man rocking a stupid man bun. We actually locked eyes, him probably wondering why the hell a mid-forty year old woman was eyeballing him so hard. I drove the rest of the way home seeing red. Brake lights. Flashing lights. Blood.
The next night after dinner with my sister, Jake and I went to the cemetery to see our girl. We looked around for rabbits, saw none, caught her up on our week, and then I watched memorized as he said his goodbye. He leaned forward, taller than me, heavier than me, his shadow falling gracefully and full of life yet to live over her stone, and gently kissed the center of the cross. That single action said every word about his grief that he isn't yet willing or able to verbalize. His love for her was so obvious in his reverence, the linger of his lips to her stone, the wistful sound of his voice, "We love you, Cory." Heartbreak. Utter and complete. His. Mine. Hers. All three.
So what to counteract such darkness?
Just thought I'd share Tim's perspective for once. He's spent the last four weeks tiptoeing around my death-versary-wakened trauma symptoms, after all. Sometimes, I soak up his help when I need it so desperately that I forget he is grieving, too. What does that look like, you ask?
I've learned to listen carefully for the rare jewels the males in my family offer up about our girl. More importantly, I've learned to watch their actions. I spent the week of the fifth making art, writing, looking at pictures, and listening to songs that I seldom open myself up to. I remember thinking maybe I would read through her journals, but being afraid it would hurt too much and suddenly realizing that's probably how Jacob feels all the time and why he seldom speaks of her.
So Tim, what did he do? He ran errands. He made sure there were groceries. He picked up dinner more nights than I'd like to admit. There was no way in hell I was standing in front of my cutting board at the counter that week, that was for sure, head half cocked for a knock at the door. And in the midst of all these household duties, while I slept or medicated or drank coffee with my headphones on for hours at a time staring into a time when my daughter was within arms' reach, he snuck out to the cemetery. He never told me he was going until afterwards. He made three trips in total. He spent hours knelt down beside her monument, scrub brush in hand, meticulously scrubbing it, taking the time to get the bristles deep inside every letter etched into the stone. He pulled the weeds. He made it look cared for. When he was finished, he suggested we drive out to see her, the three of us, and waited to see if I noticed, which I did, the letters stood out against the stone beautifully. He told me how long it took him and the lump came without warning to my throat. "I wanted to make it right for her."
Then tonight, he and Jake were up in her room replacing a pane of glass that had cracked in her window. When he finished he stood in the doorway of our bedroom and said, "I looked up there and it was just like it used to be. I could almost see her in the window like she'd be in the summer when I got home after work. 'Hey, Dad! Did you just get off work? How's it going?' And I'd say, 'Hey, Cory! What are you still doing up?' He smiled and laid a finger to his lips, and she'd say, 'Shhh! Don't tell Mom!'"
He chuckled sadly. I really didn't know a chuckle could be sad until we lost Cory. He turned away but not before I saw his eyes and in them was all his grief, all his love, and all the stories he hasn't yet shared.
I know some people say the secret to success in life is simply showing up. I can tell you this much. Being a father, being a dad...it's more than showing up. It's what you do when you're there.
Friday, July 13, 2018
The Learning Curve
I remember reaching out to a friend and mentor about a week after we buried Cory. This was Cory-style fearlessness because prior to her death I had not yet fully found my voice. Speaking my despair so plainly, so desperately, to someone I looked up to was something I would never have entertained prior to losing my child. I had learned through parenting a child with a mental illness to advocate for my child, but perhaps I had not yet learned to speak up when I was the one in trouble. But something about seeing your child's casket lowered into the ground, inch by heartbreaking inch, has a way of stripping away any semblance of decorum you may have once possessed.
I remember dialing his number and mentally rehearsing what to say, the way I have done ever since I can remember because my anxiety dictates that I do so.
What I said was, "I'm really trying but I can't do this." What I clearly meant and what he clearly picked up, perhaps by the tone of my voice was, "I cannot see my way out of this overwhelming pain and I am considering ending my life." My voice, even over the phone, must've belied my mental exhaustion and near surrender. Somehow when I pull up that conversation in my head, six years later and replay it, I can hear my voice, simultaneously more passionate than perhaps I'd ever been and yet displaying that eerily flat affect that can indicate someone has nearly made their peace with an impossibly difficult decision and has accepted whatever the consequences will be.
What he said to me was slightly different than what he said to my friend. I'll share both.
After validating my feelings and expressing his empathy, he pulled out the only card in this world that I felt perhaps still belonged to me from my woefully small deck and laid it between us on the table.
"Think of how you want to model grieving for your son. He is watching you. How can you show him how to do that in a meaningful and healthy way?"
I remember holding my cellphone to my ear and looking in the bathroom mirror as I pondered his words. My reflection showed me a woman who had not bathed in more than a week...a woman who was wearing her dead child's nightgown, through which quite easily her hipbones were visible. I looked down at my feet, which were black with graveyard dust. I was not eating; I was not sleeping; the flashbacks of the scene played constantly. Taking a full breath was an effort.
I could not argue with my mentor, but I remember distinctly rolling my eyes at this advice. Model for my child? Seriously? Does he not see what I let happen to the other one?
I should interject here to say I had already decided it would be okay to kill myself and leave Jake in the care of his father. My thinking, distorted and full of guilt, was that since I had not kept Cory alive, the least I could do was leave Jake in the care of someone with better judgment.
I'm certain my mentor knew that such manipulations seldom work for someone experiencing suicidal ideation. By the time they voice their intentions to someone...if they do, at all... they have thought long and hard about all the possible implications. The weighing of these, often done sobbing silently, alone, in the wee hours of the morning, is the type of mental anguish I would not wish on a single soul.
What I think my mentor was trying to accomplish was to give me a vision of myself being successful, give me something to work towards, give me something to inspire any sort of will to continue the hard work of fulfilling the person he thought I could be. Isn't that what mentors do?
What he told my friend a few minutes later on the phone,unbeknownst to me until much, much later?
"Angie, this is serious. You need to do daily check ins with her. Here's the script. Ask her these three questions: Are you thinking of hurting yourself? Are you thinking of suicide? Do you have a plan? If she says yes to any of them, do not leave her alone. "
He added one final thought, "Watch her with the road. The idea of doing it there will probably be pretty powerful."
It's like he could read my mind.
So, here I am, six years later. I am probably more surprised than anyone to be still be here. And, although I've blundered in a few spots, as we parents always do, I have modeled grieving to Jacob in a way I can say I'm proud of...honestly, visibly, meaningfully, and finally, in more healthy ways.
Art and writing? They've kept me alive. When I show Jake my art journal or read him a blog entry, he sees a couple of healthy coping options.
Seeing therapists and Dr. Z? I think more than anything that says to Jake that there is nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it. It is one of the hardest things to do, with the stigma that exists around mental health. But it is okay.
I've taken Jake in tow to the cemetery regularly since he was that ten year old little boy whose face looked so solemn, watchful, and shell-shocked in the wake of losing his only sibling. We take our offerings. We speak to her. Since I can remember, we've stood in front of her together, our little triangle of the world united once again- the three of us, against the world.
It used to be that we held hands, maybe because it was so frightening and surreal to be speaking aloud to a piece of your heart that now resided under ground. We seldom hold hands anymore; he is a teenage boy, after all, but we stand shoulder to shoulder, our shadows sometimes thrown right over her grave. I'll start the well-known script with, "Hi Cory." and he'll chime in. I'll turn to him and ask, "What do you want to tell your sister today?" A little at a time, I've noticed him coming up with small details of his life to share with her.
Yeah, I think I'm okay with the model of grief I've showed him. Pretty smart, my mentor.
And finally, I'll share this with you.
Jake, like Cory, has taught me some important lessons, too. Today when we pulled up to the cemetery, we saw a tiny figure in the shadow of Cory's monument, right over her grave. At first, we thought it was a bunny statue someone had left for her, but realized as we got closer, it was a real animal. Jacob was delighted. "Look who's visiting Cory, Mom. See? She's not alone."
She's not alone.
I watched him taking pictures of the rabbit, following it carefully as it hopped along and observing as it foraged for grass and leaves. He was in wonder of the world around him.
There are still some good things here.
I remember dialing his number and mentally rehearsing what to say, the way I have done ever since I can remember because my anxiety dictates that I do so.
What I said was, "I'm really trying but I can't do this." What I clearly meant and what he clearly picked up, perhaps by the tone of my voice was, "I cannot see my way out of this overwhelming pain and I am considering ending my life." My voice, even over the phone, must've belied my mental exhaustion and near surrender. Somehow when I pull up that conversation in my head, six years later and replay it, I can hear my voice, simultaneously more passionate than perhaps I'd ever been and yet displaying that eerily flat affect that can indicate someone has nearly made their peace with an impossibly difficult decision and has accepted whatever the consequences will be.
What he said to me was slightly different than what he said to my friend. I'll share both.
After validating my feelings and expressing his empathy, he pulled out the only card in this world that I felt perhaps still belonged to me from my woefully small deck and laid it between us on the table.
"Think of how you want to model grieving for your son. He is watching you. How can you show him how to do that in a meaningful and healthy way?"
I remember holding my cellphone to my ear and looking in the bathroom mirror as I pondered his words. My reflection showed me a woman who had not bathed in more than a week...a woman who was wearing her dead child's nightgown, through which quite easily her hipbones were visible. I looked down at my feet, which were black with graveyard dust. I was not eating; I was not sleeping; the flashbacks of the scene played constantly. Taking a full breath was an effort.
I could not argue with my mentor, but I remember distinctly rolling my eyes at this advice. Model for my child? Seriously? Does he not see what I let happen to the other one?
I should interject here to say I had already decided it would be okay to kill myself and leave Jake in the care of his father. My thinking, distorted and full of guilt, was that since I had not kept Cory alive, the least I could do was leave Jake in the care of someone with better judgment.
I'm certain my mentor knew that such manipulations seldom work for someone experiencing suicidal ideation. By the time they voice their intentions to someone...if they do, at all... they have thought long and hard about all the possible implications. The weighing of these, often done sobbing silently, alone, in the wee hours of the morning, is the type of mental anguish I would not wish on a single soul.
What I think my mentor was trying to accomplish was to give me a vision of myself being successful, give me something to work towards, give me something to inspire any sort of will to continue the hard work of fulfilling the person he thought I could be. Isn't that what mentors do?
What he told my friend a few minutes later on the phone,unbeknownst to me until much, much later?
"Angie, this is serious. You need to do daily check ins with her. Here's the script. Ask her these three questions: Are you thinking of hurting yourself? Are you thinking of suicide? Do you have a plan? If she says yes to any of them, do not leave her alone. "
He added one final thought, "Watch her with the road. The idea of doing it there will probably be pretty powerful."
It's like he could read my mind.
So, here I am, six years later. I am probably more surprised than anyone to be still be here. And, although I've blundered in a few spots, as we parents always do, I have modeled grieving to Jacob in a way I can say I'm proud of...honestly, visibly, meaningfully, and finally, in more healthy ways.
Art and writing? They've kept me alive. When I show Jake my art journal or read him a blog entry, he sees a couple of healthy coping options.
Seeing therapists and Dr. Z? I think more than anything that says to Jake that there is nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it. It is one of the hardest things to do, with the stigma that exists around mental health. But it is okay.
I've taken Jake in tow to the cemetery regularly since he was that ten year old little boy whose face looked so solemn, watchful, and shell-shocked in the wake of losing his only sibling. We take our offerings. We speak to her. Since I can remember, we've stood in front of her together, our little triangle of the world united once again- the three of us, against the world.
It used to be that we held hands, maybe because it was so frightening and surreal to be speaking aloud to a piece of your heart that now resided under ground. We seldom hold hands anymore; he is a teenage boy, after all, but we stand shoulder to shoulder, our shadows sometimes thrown right over her grave. I'll start the well-known script with, "Hi Cory." and he'll chime in. I'll turn to him and ask, "What do you want to tell your sister today?" A little at a time, I've noticed him coming up with small details of his life to share with her.
Yeah, I think I'm okay with the model of grief I've showed him. Pretty smart, my mentor.
And finally, I'll share this with you.
Jake, like Cory, has taught me some important lessons, too. Today when we pulled up to the cemetery, we saw a tiny figure in the shadow of Cory's monument, right over her grave. At first, we thought it was a bunny statue someone had left for her, but realized as we got closer, it was a real animal. Jacob was delighted. "Look who's visiting Cory, Mom. See? She's not alone."
She's not alone.
I watched him taking pictures of the rabbit, following it carefully as it hopped along and observing as it foraged for grass and leaves. He was in wonder of the world around him.
There are still some good things here.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
July 5th Incoming
In a couple of weeks, it will be six years since I've been seeing Dr. Z. I've picked up on his mannerisms probably as much as he's picked up on mine, or so I'd like to think. For instance, he always greets you with a warm smile, making eye contact and waiting patiently to see if you are willing or able to return it. He sits down and lays his papers in front of him- one your return appointment half-slip and the other presumably for notes taking during the appointment. In my experience, if he writes nothing down, you are doing well, most of that time taken up with small talk and story telling. If he makes a couple of notations, it means you have some symptoms cropping up more than the usual and he after he puts his pen down, he will remind you to go for walks, get moving, leave the house. If he scribbles furiously, asking you to slow down or repeat what you've said, flips the paper over, and runs out of room, scrambling for a second piece?
Well, that's where we are right now. He greeted me the other day, I found my seat, and he asked me in his calm, voice (so like my father's), how are we doing? "Not very good." I answered him.
"Tell me about this." he invited.
And, buddy, I dove right in. Within 45 seconds, I had lost all control of my emotions, snotting all over myself, sending Dr. Z fumbling for a kleenex box, his own eyes looking a little wet.
"Normal. All of these feelings you are having are part and parcel for grief- the anger, the guilt. And if you have to be angry, I'd rather others take a little of the brunt of that than you save it all up for yourself."
He told me that the anniversary dates are no more and no less than re-experiencing the loss all over again. Well then, yes. I can't eat. I can't sleep unless I take meds to make me sleep. I can't concentrate. I'm on the verge of tears almost all the time. The guilt eats steadily away, negating every good decision that I know I made for that girl.
The surprise is back. At least three times this week, I looked at a picture of her and broke down, completely unable to accept the fact that I will never see her again. How has this happened? How can this be?
I feel anxious all the time, worst case scenario of every situation being my go to...and why wouldn't it be? That's what trauma does to you.
I was able to find out that they did uncover her and photograph her body, which I hope will help me to be less bitter towards the police who made me leave the scene. At the same time, I found out that some of timeline and events at the scene did not go the way I had understood them to. It's not like I ever liked the story, but because of my skewed perceptions, it has been important to me to try to create a narrative of what happened from beginning to end. To find out it was incorrect just pulled that rug right out from underneath me. I felt, once again, confused, out of control, and guilty, guilty, guilty.
I talked to Dr. Z a little about the comment Bob had made to me about her death being my fault because of the meds she was on and that she had ECT which made her into a "drooling idiot who couldn't figure out how to cross the road".
Dr. Z sat his pen down, shaking his head. "Well that's just a lack of knowledge. ECT has never compromised one's ability to cross a road."
He went further, ever the diplomat, ever logical, ever kind, "Her father, in his own way, is trying to make sense of this as well, looking for a reason, looking for someone to blame. You are blaming yourself, sometimes the driver. He blames the meds, the treatments, you. It is looking for a reason when in fact sometimes there isn't one."
We talked a little more about how terrible I feel that the police made me leave her there on the scene and that she was alone. He could only bow his head. "Many people who are around death often start to make this automatic distinction between the dead, who are no longer need help and the living who do. But to you, in your denial, you could not see her as dead."
I sobbed and took my glasses off.
"Should I not have asked about the pictures? Did I sabotage myself? I was only trying to feel less angry and now I feel even worse."
He held both hands up to me, "No, no. You are doing exactly what you should be, what you must. Listen, it is not the questions that are bothering you. It's that the answer never changes...she is still dead."
Donkey-braying sobs ensued here. I knew he was right on that. I'd written in my journal the night before.
I don't. I don't want her to be dead.
Well, that's where we are right now. He greeted me the other day, I found my seat, and he asked me in his calm, voice (so like my father's), how are we doing? "Not very good." I answered him.
"Tell me about this." he invited.
And, buddy, I dove right in. Within 45 seconds, I had lost all control of my emotions, snotting all over myself, sending Dr. Z fumbling for a kleenex box, his own eyes looking a little wet.
"Normal. All of these feelings you are having are part and parcel for grief- the anger, the guilt. And if you have to be angry, I'd rather others take a little of the brunt of that than you save it all up for yourself."
He told me that the anniversary dates are no more and no less than re-experiencing the loss all over again. Well then, yes. I can't eat. I can't sleep unless I take meds to make me sleep. I can't concentrate. I'm on the verge of tears almost all the time. The guilt eats steadily away, negating every good decision that I know I made for that girl.
The surprise is back. At least three times this week, I looked at a picture of her and broke down, completely unable to accept the fact that I will never see her again. How has this happened? How can this be?
I feel anxious all the time, worst case scenario of every situation being my go to...and why wouldn't it be? That's what trauma does to you.
I was able to find out that they did uncover her and photograph her body, which I hope will help me to be less bitter towards the police who made me leave the scene. At the same time, I found out that some of timeline and events at the scene did not go the way I had understood them to. It's not like I ever liked the story, but because of my skewed perceptions, it has been important to me to try to create a narrative of what happened from beginning to end. To find out it was incorrect just pulled that rug right out from underneath me. I felt, once again, confused, out of control, and guilty, guilty, guilty.
I talked to Dr. Z a little about the comment Bob had made to me about her death being my fault because of the meds she was on and that she had ECT which made her into a "drooling idiot who couldn't figure out how to cross the road".
Dr. Z sat his pen down, shaking his head. "Well that's just a lack of knowledge. ECT has never compromised one's ability to cross a road."
He went further, ever the diplomat, ever logical, ever kind, "Her father, in his own way, is trying to make sense of this as well, looking for a reason, looking for someone to blame. You are blaming yourself, sometimes the driver. He blames the meds, the treatments, you. It is looking for a reason when in fact sometimes there isn't one."
We talked a little more about how terrible I feel that the police made me leave her there on the scene and that she was alone. He could only bow his head. "Many people who are around death often start to make this automatic distinction between the dead, who are no longer need help and the living who do. But to you, in your denial, you could not see her as dead."
I sobbed and took my glasses off.
"Should I not have asked about the pictures? Did I sabotage myself? I was only trying to feel less angry and now I feel even worse."
He held both hands up to me, "No, no. You are doing exactly what you should be, what you must. Listen, it is not the questions that are bothering you. It's that the answer never changes...she is still dead."
Donkey-braying sobs ensued here. I knew he was right on that. I'd written in my journal the night before.
I don't. I don't want her to be dead.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
Rinse and Repeat
Someone once said, "What is healing, but a shift in perspective?"
Sometimes I avoid writing new posts because so much of what I say seems repetitive. I am heartbroken. I will never be the same. It's not fair. I am angry. I hate everything. I take turns, but manage to hit every possible target with my scathing words: the driver, the first responders, parents of children who still live, God (should such a being actually exist), Cory's biological father, my husband, and me. It is a rinse and repeat sort of thing. Some days, I am so furious in my accusations, I expect to see smoke coming off my keyboard.
This writing thing, though, has really helped me to explore things from different angles. Maybe the anger will never completely dissipate. I can't imagine ever being at peace that Cory died in such a horrific way at such a young age after all of her struggles. I think about it for about two seconds before just completing hulking out. The really dangerous thing about it is that most of the time I turn that anger inward.
The anger, in my opinion, has stemmed so much from the trauma of being at the scene, seeing it unfold in such a frightening, horrifying way and being unable to control any part of it. Any time my anger is at its peak, I am likely crying at the same time- those hot tears that burn on their way down my face. If you want to feel like a failure, watch your child be pronounced dead in front of you.
I have harbored so much anger from the way the police made me leave the scene. Every time I speak about it, I am overcome with seething rage. I could never understand their logic. In my mind, I had already seen it all- what more damage could possibly be done? But to have to leave her body there to be picked up...to leave her on the side of the road like something discarded? I already knew she had died alone. I already knew I hadn't protected her the one time it really counted. I already knew it my poor decision and no one else's to let her walk to the store in the first place. Being forced to leave her on the side of the road only compounded these feelings.
I've been over and over this a million times in my mind. How I've wished I could go back in time and refuse to leave the scene. I wish I would've tried, at least, to stay there for her, and let them carry me away if they would. Reconstructing the scene to me meant they would bagging up her shoes (already seen), they would be setting up cones (big fucking deal), they would be examining the damage to the vehicle (burned into my brain forever). What exactly was going to traumatize me further?
So a few nights ago, I was watching one of those crime shows on tv. There had been a homicide. I watched as the scene was secured and investigators moved in, cameras in hand, to photograph all evidence...including the body.
My scalp seemed to shrink on my head as I made the connection. Did they photograph Cory's body? Is that why they made me leave? Did they uncover her? Did that pull that sheet up and turn her this way and that? Would I have seen her twisted, crumpled, dirty, blue, and broken body all over again? Would I have noticed new horrors my mind had blocked out the first go around?
I remember how much it disturbed me to see Cory handled at the funeral home. The extremely kind and respectful staff there assisted with removing some of her jewelry and putting other pieces on her neck and arm before we buried her. I remember so specifically the moment two of them worked together to manipulate her arm. She could've been a mannequin or a piece of driftwood. Seeing my child reduced to that nearly broke my sanity. I had to put my head between my knees. The world did not seem real. I could not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. Could not. I floated somewhere above my body, thinking to myself, that poor, poor woman.
Was that what they were trying to avoid? If so, I cannot express how much I would've appreciated that information any time in the last six years, and the sooner the better. Maybe they could have said, "Ma'am, we are about to reconstruct the scene. We will be uncovering your daughter. We will be photographing her injuries. It will likely be upsetting to you. That's why we are required to have you leave. I'm very sorry."
Even though I wouldn't have agreed with the protocol, at least I could've tried to understand where they were coming from. It's taken nearly six years for this to click, for me to be able to apply any sort of logic to their actions. It's been nearly six years before I could even consider that the cops on the scene were anything but cold, insensitive jerks. "Would you leave your child lying in the street like a...like a chipmunk?!" At least he'd had the decency to flush, before resuming his stolid request for me to leave. But with that single interaction, how much of my opinion of police officers, all police officers, had been colored?
Would I still have wanted to be there, see her uncovered, see the photographs taken, even if meant dealing with more flashbacks for the rest of my life? I really had to ponder that one. I had to weigh it out. What did I come up with?
I would've wanted to be there, even if at a distance. The good of being able to stay with her would've outweighed the bad of having to see her photographed or handled on the scene. And if there could've been a choice? "Ma'am, you can stay if you remain behind this line and in your vehicle or you may go home."..a choice?? Some small shred of control in the all of the chaos? It would've made such a difference.
I say all of that to say this. Creating my narrative: first what happened, then my feelings about what happened, then retelling it again and again in order to question whether or not my perceptions were accurate, then revisiting things many times until I can see them from other people's perspectives- it has been incredibly valuable.
So if I repeat myself, I apologize...or maybe I don't. Maybe there's value in putting it out there as many times as you need to until you feel heard or until you want to feel something different or until you can look at things another way. And even if I never change my mind on certain things, there is so much validation in speaking your truth.
Sometimes I avoid writing new posts because so much of what I say seems repetitive. I am heartbroken. I will never be the same. It's not fair. I am angry. I hate everything. I take turns, but manage to hit every possible target with my scathing words: the driver, the first responders, parents of children who still live, God (should such a being actually exist), Cory's biological father, my husband, and me. It is a rinse and repeat sort of thing. Some days, I am so furious in my accusations, I expect to see smoke coming off my keyboard.
This writing thing, though, has really helped me to explore things from different angles. Maybe the anger will never completely dissipate. I can't imagine ever being at peace that Cory died in such a horrific way at such a young age after all of her struggles. I think about it for about two seconds before just completing hulking out. The really dangerous thing about it is that most of the time I turn that anger inward.
The anger, in my opinion, has stemmed so much from the trauma of being at the scene, seeing it unfold in such a frightening, horrifying way and being unable to control any part of it. Any time my anger is at its peak, I am likely crying at the same time- those hot tears that burn on their way down my face. If you want to feel like a failure, watch your child be pronounced dead in front of you.
I have harbored so much anger from the way the police made me leave the scene. Every time I speak about it, I am overcome with seething rage. I could never understand their logic. In my mind, I had already seen it all- what more damage could possibly be done? But to have to leave her body there to be picked up...to leave her on the side of the road like something discarded? I already knew she had died alone. I already knew I hadn't protected her the one time it really counted. I already knew it my poor decision and no one else's to let her walk to the store in the first place. Being forced to leave her on the side of the road only compounded these feelings.
I've been over and over this a million times in my mind. How I've wished I could go back in time and refuse to leave the scene. I wish I would've tried, at least, to stay there for her, and let them carry me away if they would. Reconstructing the scene to me meant they would bagging up her shoes (already seen), they would be setting up cones (big fucking deal), they would be examining the damage to the vehicle (burned into my brain forever). What exactly was going to traumatize me further?
So a few nights ago, I was watching one of those crime shows on tv. There had been a homicide. I watched as the scene was secured and investigators moved in, cameras in hand, to photograph all evidence...including the body.
My scalp seemed to shrink on my head as I made the connection. Did they photograph Cory's body? Is that why they made me leave? Did they uncover her? Did that pull that sheet up and turn her this way and that? Would I have seen her twisted, crumpled, dirty, blue, and broken body all over again? Would I have noticed new horrors my mind had blocked out the first go around?
I remember how much it disturbed me to see Cory handled at the funeral home. The extremely kind and respectful staff there assisted with removing some of her jewelry and putting other pieces on her neck and arm before we buried her. I remember so specifically the moment two of them worked together to manipulate her arm. She could've been a mannequin or a piece of driftwood. Seeing my child reduced to that nearly broke my sanity. I had to put my head between my knees. The world did not seem real. I could not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. Could not. I floated somewhere above my body, thinking to myself, that poor, poor woman.
Was that what they were trying to avoid? If so, I cannot express how much I would've appreciated that information any time in the last six years, and the sooner the better. Maybe they could have said, "Ma'am, we are about to reconstruct the scene. We will be uncovering your daughter. We will be photographing her injuries. It will likely be upsetting to you. That's why we are required to have you leave. I'm very sorry."
Even though I wouldn't have agreed with the protocol, at least I could've tried to understand where they were coming from. It's taken nearly six years for this to click, for me to be able to apply any sort of logic to their actions. It's been nearly six years before I could even consider that the cops on the scene were anything but cold, insensitive jerks. "Would you leave your child lying in the street like a...like a chipmunk?!" At least he'd had the decency to flush, before resuming his stolid request for me to leave. But with that single interaction, how much of my opinion of police officers, all police officers, had been colored?
Would I still have wanted to be there, see her uncovered, see the photographs taken, even if meant dealing with more flashbacks for the rest of my life? I really had to ponder that one. I had to weigh it out. What did I come up with?
I would've wanted to be there, even if at a distance. The good of being able to stay with her would've outweighed the bad of having to see her photographed or handled on the scene. And if there could've been a choice? "Ma'am, you can stay if you remain behind this line and in your vehicle or you may go home."..a choice?? Some small shred of control in the all of the chaos? It would've made such a difference.
I say all of that to say this. Creating my narrative: first what happened, then my feelings about what happened, then retelling it again and again in order to question whether or not my perceptions were accurate, then revisiting things many times until I can see them from other people's perspectives- it has been incredibly valuable.
So if I repeat myself, I apologize...or maybe I don't. Maybe there's value in putting it out there as many times as you need to until you feel heard or until you want to feel something different or until you can look at things another way. And even if I never change my mind on certain things, there is so much validation in speaking your truth.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
"Tarry Me"
It still catches me by surprise to see Jacob walk across a room looking so impossibly tall and grown up. It seems like such a short time ago that he was looking up at me, his face tilted up to mine, little arms outstretched, "Tarry me!"
Jake couldn't say his /k/ or /g/ sounds for the longest time. While we were proud when his speech therapist helped him learn to form the sounds, the whole family missed some of the adorable substitutions he'd invented. Cory especially got a kick out of catering to his every whim when he was just a little guy and would beam when he'd trail behind her, clutching his stuffed puppy by one ear, clamoring for her attention. He'd hold up his arms and demand, "Tarry me, tarry me, Toey!"
I can see her hoisting him onto her bony little hip and off they'd go on one of their Dynamic Duo adventures. She talked him easily into playing Barbies or American Girl hair salon. Once, she called me into the room they were playing in to introduce her little sister...Jacobina. Yes, she had overridden any initial protests he might have had and poured him into a t-shirt-knotted-at-the-hip-makshift-dress, did his hair in the most micro of piggy tails, and added some glitter to his cheeks. If I remember correctly, there was a swipe of lip gloss on his lips. He looked equal parts proud and miserable. His face said something about this doesn't feel quite right, but I'll do anything for this girl.
She felt exactly the same way, finding it nearly impossible to say no to him about anything. As he gained inches in height, she marveled over his growth, his language, his ideas, his quiet sense of humor, but still secretly enjoyed (I could tell by the look on her face) that he still had to tilt his head to look up to her even if he was no longer easy to pick up and place on her hip. When dared, she would try anyways, very nearly rupturing something internally, and laughing all the while. Usually they ended up somewhere on the living room floor together, limbs tangled, screeching with laughter, and claiming each was stronger than the other. I'd look over at them, arms and legs half in the air, and know the exact geographic location of my purpose to be in this world. Those two hearts that beat together as they laughed and joked and teased, echoed my name, my identity, my soul. I am Cory and Jacob's Mom. That is me.
When Cory died she was five feet four inches and Jake was still shorter than she was. He still looked up to her. I despair sometimes that he still does not speak of the day she died or her funeral. Those moments are locked in the darkest corner of his heart. I don't know if I'll ever know exactly what it felt like for him to bend his neck to look down into her casket, ten years old, knowing he'd never look up to her again or be eye to eye with her when he grew taller.
Or look down at the top of her head when she hugged him to her chest, he in his cap and gown at his high school graduation...that he'd never dance with her at her wedding (if she could talk him into it, which I'm not entirely sure she could have, but buddy if anyone could get him to besides his own bride, it would've been Cory)...that he'd never beam down while she clutched her firstborn in a striped hospital receiving blanket, insisting he couldn't possibly hold her child, that he was too scared and it was too small, but caving appropriately when she gently pushed him to give it a try. No, none of those neck bending situations would come to be. Instead, he bent his neck to say his goodbyes. I'm certain none of those scenarios crossed his child's mind, but he is no longer a child and I'm pretty sure they cross his mind now.
I wait patiently for him to tell me anything about his perspective. I've found that telling your story is the only way to gain any sort of control over the most out of control experience you can have. I'm still stumbling over new hurts and marveling uneasily about how the grief expands and shifts into unforeseen shapes. And as you well know, I can't seem to stop talking about. It is the only thing that seems to help.
Sometimes when we go out to her grave, I catch sight of his shadow across her monument or the ground in front of it. I measure the top of his head with my eyes to the space aligned across from it on her stone. He speaks to her quietly, but always, always he bends his neck. He has to. She's in the ground now.
Never could I have imagined such an ending for my babies. I can see them playing on the living room floor. I can see them trick or treating. I can see them snuggled into a booth out to eat. Never could I have imagined one of their hearts to stop beating before mine. I am devastated for myself. But I am heartbroken for Jacob. They should have had the longest span of years to spend together. They should've been able to comfort each other in front of my casket and visit my grave together.
Never did I imagine that one day he would be carrying her every day in his heart and his mind. He is "the best little brother a girl could ever have". She said it so many times.
He may not be willing to talk about it yet, but he is carrying her well in his silence. He will never set her down. That is what she gave to him: strength, stability, love. And a gentle push to try things that he wasn't sure he could do.
Yes, he will carry her just as she carried him.
"Tarry me, Tory."
Jake couldn't say his /k/ or /g/ sounds for the longest time. While we were proud when his speech therapist helped him learn to form the sounds, the whole family missed some of the adorable substitutions he'd invented. Cory especially got a kick out of catering to his every whim when he was just a little guy and would beam when he'd trail behind her, clutching his stuffed puppy by one ear, clamoring for her attention. He'd hold up his arms and demand, "Tarry me, tarry me, Toey!"
I can see her hoisting him onto her bony little hip and off they'd go on one of their Dynamic Duo adventures. She talked him easily into playing Barbies or American Girl hair salon. Once, she called me into the room they were playing in to introduce her little sister...Jacobina. Yes, she had overridden any initial protests he might have had and poured him into a t-shirt-knotted-at-the-hip-makshift-dress, did his hair in the most micro of piggy tails, and added some glitter to his cheeks. If I remember correctly, there was a swipe of lip gloss on his lips. He looked equal parts proud and miserable. His face said something about this doesn't feel quite right, but I'll do anything for this girl.
She felt exactly the same way, finding it nearly impossible to say no to him about anything. As he gained inches in height, she marveled over his growth, his language, his ideas, his quiet sense of humor, but still secretly enjoyed (I could tell by the look on her face) that he still had to tilt his head to look up to her even if he was no longer easy to pick up and place on her hip. When dared, she would try anyways, very nearly rupturing something internally, and laughing all the while. Usually they ended up somewhere on the living room floor together, limbs tangled, screeching with laughter, and claiming each was stronger than the other. I'd look over at them, arms and legs half in the air, and know the exact geographic location of my purpose to be in this world. Those two hearts that beat together as they laughed and joked and teased, echoed my name, my identity, my soul. I am Cory and Jacob's Mom. That is me.
When Cory died she was five feet four inches and Jake was still shorter than she was. He still looked up to her. I despair sometimes that he still does not speak of the day she died or her funeral. Those moments are locked in the darkest corner of his heart. I don't know if I'll ever know exactly what it felt like for him to bend his neck to look down into her casket, ten years old, knowing he'd never look up to her again or be eye to eye with her when he grew taller.
Or look down at the top of her head when she hugged him to her chest, he in his cap and gown at his high school graduation...that he'd never dance with her at her wedding (if she could talk him into it, which I'm not entirely sure she could have, but buddy if anyone could get him to besides his own bride, it would've been Cory)...that he'd never beam down while she clutched her firstborn in a striped hospital receiving blanket, insisting he couldn't possibly hold her child, that he was too scared and it was too small, but caving appropriately when she gently pushed him to give it a try. No, none of those neck bending situations would come to be. Instead, he bent his neck to say his goodbyes. I'm certain none of those scenarios crossed his child's mind, but he is no longer a child and I'm pretty sure they cross his mind now.
I wait patiently for him to tell me anything about his perspective. I've found that telling your story is the only way to gain any sort of control over the most out of control experience you can have. I'm still stumbling over new hurts and marveling uneasily about how the grief expands and shifts into unforeseen shapes. And as you well know, I can't seem to stop talking about. It is the only thing that seems to help.
Sometimes when we go out to her grave, I catch sight of his shadow across her monument or the ground in front of it. I measure the top of his head with my eyes to the space aligned across from it on her stone. He speaks to her quietly, but always, always he bends his neck. He has to. She's in the ground now.
Never could I have imagined such an ending for my babies. I can see them playing on the living room floor. I can see them trick or treating. I can see them snuggled into a booth out to eat. Never could I have imagined one of their hearts to stop beating before mine. I am devastated for myself. But I am heartbroken for Jacob. They should have had the longest span of years to spend together. They should've been able to comfort each other in front of my casket and visit my grave together.
Never did I imagine that one day he would be carrying her every day in his heart and his mind. He is "the best little brother a girl could ever have". She said it so many times.
He may not be willing to talk about it yet, but he is carrying her well in his silence. He will never set her down. That is what she gave to him: strength, stability, love. And a gentle push to try things that he wasn't sure he could do.
Yes, he will carry her just as she carried him.
"Tarry me, Tory."
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
All The Firsts
When you have a baby, it's all about firsts...
her first smile, the first time she sleeps through the night, her first coo, her first laugh...
and the firsts just keep coming through the years.
So then what are the firsts like when your child dies? Here's my list:
The first time you view her body at the funeral home.
The first time you return to the cemetery to see her grave filled in.
The first time you eat out in a restaurant without her.
The first time you go to a movie without her, draping a hoodie beside you in the seat to the right of you.
The first time you smile after she is buried.
The first time you seriously contemplate suicide.
The first time you admit you need help.
The first time you reach for your phone to call and check on her before you remember she's dead.
The first time you realize your remaining child is still alive and needs you.
The first time you realize never telling that remaining child "no" because he might die, too, is not helping him.
The first time you realize you are using medication to escape the pain.
The first time you realize you are not the only one grieving the loss of your child.
The first time you realize losing your child does not make you special.
The first time you know you can survive this loss.
The first time you speak in public about her.
The first time you do it without crying.
The first wedding you attend after knowing she will never have one.
The first one you attend without being medicated.
The first time you go to your family's holiday gathering without her.
The first time you wear one of her dresses.
The first time you allow yourself to see how many people she has touched and continues to touch.
The first time you watch American Idol without her.
The first time you know the pain she went through has found meaning.
The first time you think maybe your pain has meaning, too.
her first smile, the first time she sleeps through the night, her first coo, her first laugh...
and the firsts just keep coming through the years.
So then what are the firsts like when your child dies? Here's my list:
The first time you view her body at the funeral home.
The first time you return to the cemetery to see her grave filled in.
The first time you eat out in a restaurant without her.
The first time you go to a movie without her, draping a hoodie beside you in the seat to the right of you.
The first time you smile after she is buried.
The first time you seriously contemplate suicide.
The first time you admit you need help.
The first time you reach for your phone to call and check on her before you remember she's dead.
The first time you realize your remaining child is still alive and needs you.
The first time you realize never telling that remaining child "no" because he might die, too, is not helping him.
The first time you realize you are using medication to escape the pain.
The first time you realize you are not the only one grieving the loss of your child.
The first time you realize losing your child does not make you special.
The first time you know you can survive this loss.
The first time you speak in public about her.
The first time you do it without crying.
The first wedding you attend after knowing she will never have one.
The first one you attend without being medicated.
The first time you go to your family's holiday gathering without her.
The first time you wear one of her dresses.
The first time you allow yourself to see how many people she has touched and continues to touch.
The first time you watch American Idol without her.
The first time you know the pain she went through has found meaning.
The first time you think maybe your pain has meaning, too.
Friday, April 6, 2018
"Shut Up When I'm Talking To You"
I sabotage myself. I do. Still. But at least now I can spot it and name it, so that's something.
Two nights ago, I took Jake and Tim to see the musical, Lion King. It was amazing and we had a great time...except...
except at intermission, Jacob wanted a hoodie and while paying for it, I noticed a dainty little set of charm bracelets that belonged on Cory's arm. And just like, my heart landed at my ankles and the sneaky, nearly imperceptible feelings of guilt and shame began to hum in the background of my thoughts.
Here having a great time at Lion KIng, are you? For the second time? Seeing it in New York like Cory never got to wasn't enough, Nick? She should be here. But she's not. Why is that? What role did you play in that?
The persisting thoughts that I could've saved her started there; by the next day, they were all encompassing. I laid in my bed, my dog beside me, poring over every minute of July 5, 2012, seeing every frame...rewinding...replaying...pausing...so much horror. My chest began to hurt, but still I couldn't seem to stop myself from replaying every last moment and trying out all the possible variations if I'd done something...anything...differently.
The guilt I feel whenever I enjoy something now that she's gone? I don't know where that comes from. I know it's not logical. I can push my way past it after I've had a day or two to feel it, name it, and send it on its way. It does not help me.
But the shame? Where does that come from...this pervasive, horrifying feeling that a better mother would never have sent her child on an errand she could run herself? That certainty that my judgment in that single moment was deeply flawed and cost my sweet girl her life- it's nearly impossible to renounce; where does that come from?
I have one idea.
I remember feeling responsible for Cory's death the moment they told me she was dead on the road. So there's my ownership of feeling not good enough and like a failure at keeping her safe, the hardest thing I'd ever done up until that point.
Thinking it was my fault that Cory died has plagued me ever since. Every human being I've ever spoken to about this thought pattern has assured me that it is illogical and distorted...
except one.
Of all the hurtful things Bob has ever said to me, telling me Cory's death was my fault was easily the most damaging.
Most of the time I have been able to separate myself from his out of control emotions, even if took years to do it. Looking back now, almost all of his words have lost their power. Like anyone else, I can sometimes be difficult, but I am not a bitch. I may act foolishly at times, but I am not stupid. I didn't always know my self-worth, but I was never a slut. Those names he called me? They belonged to him and to his rage, not to me. I look in the mirror and see them nowhere in my reflection.
But the accusation I keep hearing in my head? "You might as well have been driving the car yourself."
Ridiculous? Yes. I would never hurt Cory on purpose. But my mind translates it so effortlessly to "You should've gone to the store yourself. She'd have never been on the road that day. She'd be alive today if only you'd done it differently." Now that plays in my heart so genuinely. For what is the primary job of a mother, if not to protect her child?
Unlike Bob, I don't for one second think I was a bad mother. But maybe I wasn't good enough.
So this is when I borrow a page from Cory who had to deal with auditory hallucinations, not just memories of something mean said to her by someone unstable, on a daily basis. Sometimes, she'd talk back to them, tell them they were wrong.
Shut up, Bob. Shut up when I'm talking to you.
Where were you that day?
What did you even know about her?
Did you ever worry when she was growing up if she was hungry or cold or scared? Did you?
Where were you all her life?
I know where I was. I was there taking care of her, loving her, feeding her, clothing her, tucking her in, soothing her fears, buying her books, listening to music with her, watching movies, talking, joking, laughing, enjoying the wonder that she was.
And I know where I was that day.
I was cooking her dinner. She was nineteen years old and I was still worried if she was hungry, if she was scared, if she felt loved, if she felt good enough, if she was okay. I thought about it when I woke up in the morning and I thought about it before I went to sleep at night.
So shut up, Bob, shut up when I'm talking to you.
And as far as Lion King goes, Cory would've loved it. I know every part she would've laughed at. I know the scenes she'd have declared her favorite. I know she would've clapped until her little hands throbbed, leaping to her feet before any of us for the final curtain call. But if she couldn't go, she'd want me to take her little brother who now stands three and half inches taller than she was. She'd want me to watch his face just as carefully. She'd want me to notice the parts that made him belly laugh and discuss them in length with him on the car ride home. She'd want me to reach over and grab his arm in the dark during the exciting parts, even if he pulled away in embarrassment. She'd want us to enjoy every moment. That's just the kind of girl she was.
The kind of girl I raised her to be, Bob.
That same girl told me the voices were scary and hurtful but they were wrong. That same girl, on a good day, would sometimes get so fed up with the voices' annoying commentary that she'd stop in mid-conversation with me to tap a slender finger lightly to the side of her head and roll her eyes in contempt. The look on her face? These stupid losers just don't give up. She'd give a wry grin, shrug her shoulders lightly, and refocus on our conversation. She'd try again.
Guess I need to start rolling my eyes whenever Bob's voice pipes up in my mind talking shit.
You see, Cory and I? We don't give up, either.
And we are smart enough to consider the source.
Two nights ago, I took Jake and Tim to see the musical, Lion King. It was amazing and we had a great time...except...
except at intermission, Jacob wanted a hoodie and while paying for it, I noticed a dainty little set of charm bracelets that belonged on Cory's arm. And just like, my heart landed at my ankles and the sneaky, nearly imperceptible feelings of guilt and shame began to hum in the background of my thoughts.
Here having a great time at Lion KIng, are you? For the second time? Seeing it in New York like Cory never got to wasn't enough, Nick? She should be here. But she's not. Why is that? What role did you play in that?
The persisting thoughts that I could've saved her started there; by the next day, they were all encompassing. I laid in my bed, my dog beside me, poring over every minute of July 5, 2012, seeing every frame...rewinding...replaying...pausing...so much horror. My chest began to hurt, but still I couldn't seem to stop myself from replaying every last moment and trying out all the possible variations if I'd done something...anything...differently.
The guilt I feel whenever I enjoy something now that she's gone? I don't know where that comes from. I know it's not logical. I can push my way past it after I've had a day or two to feel it, name it, and send it on its way. It does not help me.
But the shame? Where does that come from...this pervasive, horrifying feeling that a better mother would never have sent her child on an errand she could run herself? That certainty that my judgment in that single moment was deeply flawed and cost my sweet girl her life- it's nearly impossible to renounce; where does that come from?
I have one idea.
I remember feeling responsible for Cory's death the moment they told me she was dead on the road. So there's my ownership of feeling not good enough and like a failure at keeping her safe, the hardest thing I'd ever done up until that point.
Thinking it was my fault that Cory died has plagued me ever since. Every human being I've ever spoken to about this thought pattern has assured me that it is illogical and distorted...
except one.
Of all the hurtful things Bob has ever said to me, telling me Cory's death was my fault was easily the most damaging.
Most of the time I have been able to separate myself from his out of control emotions, even if took years to do it. Looking back now, almost all of his words have lost their power. Like anyone else, I can sometimes be difficult, but I am not a bitch. I may act foolishly at times, but I am not stupid. I didn't always know my self-worth, but I was never a slut. Those names he called me? They belonged to him and to his rage, not to me. I look in the mirror and see them nowhere in my reflection.
But the accusation I keep hearing in my head? "You might as well have been driving the car yourself."
Ridiculous? Yes. I would never hurt Cory on purpose. But my mind translates it so effortlessly to "You should've gone to the store yourself. She'd have never been on the road that day. She'd be alive today if only you'd done it differently." Now that plays in my heart so genuinely. For what is the primary job of a mother, if not to protect her child?
Unlike Bob, I don't for one second think I was a bad mother. But maybe I wasn't good enough.
So this is when I borrow a page from Cory who had to deal with auditory hallucinations, not just memories of something mean said to her by someone unstable, on a daily basis. Sometimes, she'd talk back to them, tell them they were wrong.
Shut up, Bob. Shut up when I'm talking to you.
Where were you that day?
What did you even know about her?
Did you ever worry when she was growing up if she was hungry or cold or scared? Did you?
Where were you all her life?
I know where I was. I was there taking care of her, loving her, feeding her, clothing her, tucking her in, soothing her fears, buying her books, listening to music with her, watching movies, talking, joking, laughing, enjoying the wonder that she was.
And I know where I was that day.
I was cooking her dinner. She was nineteen years old and I was still worried if she was hungry, if she was scared, if she felt loved, if she felt good enough, if she was okay. I thought about it when I woke up in the morning and I thought about it before I went to sleep at night.
So shut up, Bob, shut up when I'm talking to you.
And as far as Lion King goes, Cory would've loved it. I know every part she would've laughed at. I know the scenes she'd have declared her favorite. I know she would've clapped until her little hands throbbed, leaping to her feet before any of us for the final curtain call. But if she couldn't go, she'd want me to take her little brother who now stands three and half inches taller than she was. She'd want me to watch his face just as carefully. She'd want me to notice the parts that made him belly laugh and discuss them in length with him on the car ride home. She'd want me to reach over and grab his arm in the dark during the exciting parts, even if he pulled away in embarrassment. She'd want us to enjoy every moment. That's just the kind of girl she was.
The kind of girl I raised her to be, Bob.
That same girl told me the voices were scary and hurtful but they were wrong. That same girl, on a good day, would sometimes get so fed up with the voices' annoying commentary that she'd stop in mid-conversation with me to tap a slender finger lightly to the side of her head and roll her eyes in contempt. The look on her face? These stupid losers just don't give up. She'd give a wry grin, shrug her shoulders lightly, and refocus on our conversation. She'd try again.
Guess I need to start rolling my eyes whenever Bob's voice pipes up in my mind talking shit.
You see, Cory and I? We don't give up, either.
And we are smart enough to consider the source.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
Let's Play Pretend
For as long as I can remember, I've loved to play pretend. Once I learned how to write, I had the ability to create any reality I wanted. I remember reading Stephen King's novel, Misery, about the writer held hostage by his greatest fan and wondering for a moment if that was really so terrible. I mean, you'd get to do what you love, no other responsibilities, writing every day, someone else to cook and clean up after you, you'd have an avid reader who enjoyed your work, someone to proof read...like, what was all the fuss about? If he hadn't complained so much maybe she wouldn't have chopped his foot off. I wanna be someone's pet writer.
Over the years, I've used my imagination in some admittedly unhealthy ways. When Bob and I were young, it was let's pretend if I do everything just right, he won't lose his temper. Let's pretend he can keep his promise to never do it again. Let's pretend that was really the last time he will ever push me, choke me, wreck the house, block the exit, smash the phone, etc. Then when he got down on his knees, his face tear stained, and asked me where my heart was...well, we all know what my answer was, time after time.
Nearly twenty years later, it was let's pretend he can do more than go to church and complete a substance abuse program. Let's pretend he can hold down a job, regulate his moods, and learn new roles [father, provider, husband]. Let's pretend he's not controlling anymore. Let's pretend he will stay in treatment. Let's pretend he can be part of a family...this family.
You see there were moments when it all fit together with no empty spaces, just one piece nestled up snugly against the other so perfect and warm, like the feeling of his hand in mine when we drove along in the car, the way my head fit against his chest...just right...the sight of he and Jake sitting together watching tv, laughing, and sharing a bowl of popcorn...the times Cory joked with him during a meal, looking up to see the two people who had come together to create her, together, loving, silly, and easy. It was in these moments that I had begun to hope, and my imagination ate that hope up like a starving creature...and once that happened, it was all too easy to propel myself into a future in which Bob worked a regular job, we ate dinner together with the kids every night as a family, and I went to sleep with my head on a pillow next to his head on a pillow, warm and safe, poor but happy. I'd look down at the diamond on my hand and my heart would nearly burst. It was going to be okay this time. It was.
Until it wasn't. You can't pretend mental illness, addiction, or abuse away. I'm a slow learner, but I finally got that lesson.
After Cory died, it was let's pretend there is a way out of this pain. What would it be like to have everything just stop? What it be like to never again have to open my eyes to that terrible knowledge? What would it be like to never see those awful pictures in my head again?
But playing pretend isn't always a bad thing. The morning after Mom's surprise party, my niece, Alisha texted me to tell me Cory had been on her mind. As she described a twenty five year old Cory, alive, strong, and healthy, with "meaningful and beautiful tattoos, a couple more piercings, and fashionable af, accessorizing the hell out of every outfit", I could see her in my mind's eye. Do you understand how huge that is? What a gift that is? I could see my child.
She went on to describe how Cory would've reacted to being asked to be both her and my nephew's wife's maids of honor: "asking if we were sure and jumping up and down and screaming". The tears rolled down my face at this image, this was just so perfectly Cory. She is still remembered. She is still loved. She is known. Someone other than me is carrying a perfect mental representation of her in their mind. I don't have to worry that when I'm dead, she will cease to exist- one of my biggest fears. I'm not carrying her all on my own.
A couple of hours later, it was Cayla calling me as I drove to the coffeeshop to tell me of a dream she'd had of Cory the night before. She'd had a dream of hanging out at my house, watching something on tv with Cory. Cory's eyes were bright and her energy high as she popped up off the couch, "Snacks?"
That one image...I've seen it a thousand times. Cory in pajama bottoms and an Aeropostale shirt, her hair pinned back or pulled into piggy tails, sitting cross legged on the couch, laughing and cracking jokes as we watched a show, popping up on her feet suddenly, as if on a spring, and saying, with one eyebrow slightly raised, "Snacks?" They padded into the kitchen to rummage through the fridge and freezer, finding only...wait for it...dozens and dozens of homemade doughnuts. Apparently at some point, I had learned to make doughnuts.
So there she was again. My child alive and standing in front of me, if only in my mind's eye.
This is the single best gift and the most powerful gesture you can ever give a grieving mother. For any second that my girl is raised from the dead, whole and in my company, I am made whole and I can fly again, free from the suffocating pain that weighs me down every moment I live in this Cory-less world. Because most days, I am merely surviving.
Playing pretend doesn't have to be dangerous, sometimes it is what keeps you alive.
Over the years, I've used my imagination in some admittedly unhealthy ways. When Bob and I were young, it was let's pretend if I do everything just right, he won't lose his temper. Let's pretend he can keep his promise to never do it again. Let's pretend that was really the last time he will ever push me, choke me, wreck the house, block the exit, smash the phone, etc. Then when he got down on his knees, his face tear stained, and asked me where my heart was...well, we all know what my answer was, time after time.
Nearly twenty years later, it was let's pretend he can do more than go to church and complete a substance abuse program. Let's pretend he can hold down a job, regulate his moods, and learn new roles [father, provider, husband]. Let's pretend he's not controlling anymore. Let's pretend he will stay in treatment. Let's pretend he can be part of a family...this family.
You see there were moments when it all fit together with no empty spaces, just one piece nestled up snugly against the other so perfect and warm, like the feeling of his hand in mine when we drove along in the car, the way my head fit against his chest...just right...the sight of he and Jake sitting together watching tv, laughing, and sharing a bowl of popcorn...the times Cory joked with him during a meal, looking up to see the two people who had come together to create her, together, loving, silly, and easy. It was in these moments that I had begun to hope, and my imagination ate that hope up like a starving creature...and once that happened, it was all too easy to propel myself into a future in which Bob worked a regular job, we ate dinner together with the kids every night as a family, and I went to sleep with my head on a pillow next to his head on a pillow, warm and safe, poor but happy. I'd look down at the diamond on my hand and my heart would nearly burst. It was going to be okay this time. It was.
Until it wasn't. You can't pretend mental illness, addiction, or abuse away. I'm a slow learner, but I finally got that lesson.
After Cory died, it was let's pretend there is a way out of this pain. What would it be like to have everything just stop? What it be like to never again have to open my eyes to that terrible knowledge? What would it be like to never see those awful pictures in my head again?
But playing pretend isn't always a bad thing. The morning after Mom's surprise party, my niece, Alisha texted me to tell me Cory had been on her mind. As she described a twenty five year old Cory, alive, strong, and healthy, with "meaningful and beautiful tattoos, a couple more piercings, and fashionable af, accessorizing the hell out of every outfit", I could see her in my mind's eye. Do you understand how huge that is? What a gift that is? I could see my child.
She went on to describe how Cory would've reacted to being asked to be both her and my nephew's wife's maids of honor: "asking if we were sure and jumping up and down and screaming". The tears rolled down my face at this image, this was just so perfectly Cory. She is still remembered. She is still loved. She is known. Someone other than me is carrying a perfect mental representation of her in their mind. I don't have to worry that when I'm dead, she will cease to exist- one of my biggest fears. I'm not carrying her all on my own.
A couple of hours later, it was Cayla calling me as I drove to the coffeeshop to tell me of a dream she'd had of Cory the night before. She'd had a dream of hanging out at my house, watching something on tv with Cory. Cory's eyes were bright and her energy high as she popped up off the couch, "Snacks?"
That one image...I've seen it a thousand times. Cory in pajama bottoms and an Aeropostale shirt, her hair pinned back or pulled into piggy tails, sitting cross legged on the couch, laughing and cracking jokes as we watched a show, popping up on her feet suddenly, as if on a spring, and saying, with one eyebrow slightly raised, "Snacks?" They padded into the kitchen to rummage through the fridge and freezer, finding only...wait for it...dozens and dozens of homemade doughnuts. Apparently at some point, I had learned to make doughnuts.
So there she was again. My child alive and standing in front of me, if only in my mind's eye.
This is the single best gift and the most powerful gesture you can ever give a grieving mother. For any second that my girl is raised from the dead, whole and in my company, I am made whole and I can fly again, free from the suffocating pain that weighs me down every moment I live in this Cory-less world. Because most days, I am merely surviving.
Playing pretend doesn't have to be dangerous, sometimes it is what keeps you alive.
Monday, March 5, 2018
Keep Looking Up
My mom's surprise eightieth birthday party? It started about two weeks ago when I got together with my sister and her family for dinner. I shared a conversation I'd had with my mother on the phone a couple of mornings prior, "...and then she said, 'I've never had a birthday party-not once in my whole life, not even as a child."
The whole table, minus the baby, hung their heads over their plates in shame.
I continued, "and she paused...and then she added, 'If I never do, I guess it's been an okay life, but I do wonder what it might have been like...' You guys! It was the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life! We should be ashamed of ourselves! We HAVE to do something! We are FAILING her!"
Not even twelve hours later, we were group texting with my other two sisters, their kids, and their kids' spouses to nail down a location, make a guest list, decide on food, decorations, and create a secret face book group for invitations.
At times we had as many as three group texts going at a time about gifts and party arrangements. I lived in constant fear of accidentally responding to Mom or including her in a reply. I tell my mother everything. Since Cory's death, she has become my best friend. I loved her dearly before, of course, and more than ever after, but I think it was sharing that tiny cookie while we waiting for them to get our room ready in Rome that gave our relationship a whole other dimension. We nearly laughed ourselves off that couch onto the lobby floor and suddenly, we were ...friends. We became and have remained so close. I don't want to imagine a day I can't speak to her. I get halfway into a thought about that, made even more vivid by my longing to hear Cory's voice, and turn my mind violently away. NO!
Everything came along pretty well, all of us splitting up the work and pooling our resources. My sister, Kim, snuck into Mom's house ninja-style to retrieve photos of Mom at different ages for the party. My sister, Tammy, pulled our dad aside at church to let him in on the plan. I asked him, afterwards, how he managed to keep the secret from She Who Knows All. He grinned broadly, and pulled me close, "You know how I handled it? Here's what I did...the only thing I could do given the situation. I avoided the topic ENTIRELY."
At one point, we needed my uncle's phone number and had to get creative in order to get it. It would be weird to ask Mom for it out of the blue. We couldn't ask Dad because he can't hear very well over the phone. I see my cousin at the local coffee shop nearly every weekend, so I invented a plausible story line about running into her and how she had asked me if I could get his number from Mom to give her. We soon realized Mom may decide to call the cousin herself instead,so I had to get a hold of her and let her know we'd included her in our ruse. Worked like a charm.
The nearest disaster was when two of my sisters went shopping for the food items and discovered Mom and Dad were in Meijer's shopping, as well. There they stood with no less than sixteen bags of shredded cheese in the cart. "Oh my God! We've got to get out of here!" Indeed, they did. There is simply no explanation for that much cheese.
Kim ditched the cart, actually pretending it did not belong to her as Tammy broke into a near run to grab the Parmesean. Kim said she nearly bent over laughing when Tammy appeared in her line of vision, holding the Parmesean up like a trophy and giving it a good waggle, her face victorious. This may have been the best part of planning this party for my mother... the way it brought me and my sisters together and the fun we had doing something good for someone else.
My niece, Alisha, had the pictures made. My nephews' wives put the decorations together. My sister, Ronda, ordered the cake and picked up flowers for the tables. I ordered the balloons and picked up a flower arrangement for Mom, which Tim took over the the party early. My sister, Tammy and her husband made lasagna. Everyone worked together to decorate and then wait for the big arrival.
Everyone but me. Jake and I were in charge of bringing Mom and Dad to the party without Mom knowing where she was going or why. The minute I heard I was to be in charge of this task, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation...time to put my creative writing (making crap up) skills to the test.
So originally, I invited Mom to the movies with Jake and I. I figured keep it routine; keep suspicions low. Tim would pick Dad up and take him to the party location with the balloons and flowers.
But then, Mom wanted, naturally, to have dinner with her girls for her birthday. We were forced to make up reasons why it would be better to wait until the following weekend, claiming that one of my sisters had to work and my nephews wanted to come but had to work, as well.
She seemed so sad. At one point she said, "I'll be the big 8-0." sort of despondently. I kept to the story and said, "Yes, so we want EVERYONE to be there. Better to wait till next weekend." Heartless, I am a heartless child. If there is a hell, I will surely burn there.
The day before the party, she announced she wasn't sure if she could make the movie, that she'd been talking to Dad and figured since no one else wanted to go out to eat with her on her birthday, she'd just have him take them both to Finley's. Well, crap.
I switched gears quickly. "Oh! You're going to Finley's? We want to go! How about if Jake and I just pick you up and we'll go just the four of us?" I may have thrown something in about how we loved her best and preferred her all to ourselves anyway.
So now, how to explain when we didn't drive straight to Finley's, but in the opposite direction? And how to lure her inside the building? Girl, hold my coffee.
I came up with the idea to tell her my best friend since childhood, Nicole's, parents were having their anniversary party at the party location. I'd been invited, but hate large social gatherings and so needed to drop off a card and maybe give Nicole a hug as she was setting up and doing the decorations. Mom could even come in and say hi, if she wanted...Nicole would love to see her. I'd even worked a prop into the story, writing "Mr. and Mrs. Havens" on the birthday card for my mom and sealing it shut.
Mom texted me a couple of hours before the party saying my sister, Tammy, and her husband, Dave, were planning to join us at Finley's. Was that okay? I told her it was, trying to make it real by teasing that Tammy invites herself everywhere, doesn't she?
Jake and I picked my parents up at precisely 3:40. Twenty minutes and counting...
The minute she got in the car, I said, "Oh, Mom, I'm glad we're early. I forgot to tell you I just need to make a quick stop on the way to Finley's. Nicole's parents are having their anniversary party today and they invited me, but you know I don't do big crowds so I just wanted to drop this card off and say hi to Nicole real quick. I won't stay. It's not even until 6. They're setting up the decorations."
She said, "Oh, okay. But I'd better call Tammy and tell her we'll be a few minutes later than we thought."
I apologized, "I'm sorry. I hope that's okay. I just hated to say no. Nicole's been so supportive to me."
Mom patted me as she settled the card for "Mr. and Mrs. Havens" safely into her lap. "It should be fine. It won't take long. You do have a good excuse not to go, though. It IS your mother's birthday, after all! And her 80th!" she laughed.
I laughed right back, "Right?"
Mom started dialing. I fell right into my lie, headfirst. "Hey, Mom, this party is that place where Alisha's bridal shower was, but I didn't go, so I'm not sure I know where it is exactly. Can you ask Tammy how to get there?"
As we drove along, Tammy gave Mom directions to the building I'd staked out earlier that morning when getting the flowers and balloons. I knew exactly where I was going but pretended I didn't so Mom would guide me every turn. I was padding my cover story here and there, asking what she thought about using the same location for Jake's open house in two years. It was so much fun getting her to believe it, I had to restrain myself from just throwing in random lies unnecessarily. Like what could I get her to believe? Had I missed my calling? Should I have been a spy? An undercover cop?
A used car salesman?
Once we got to Riverside Drive, I made a big to do about Jake learning to drive but not knowing his way around the city yet (as if I could talk...I've lived here for four decades and could still get lost driving home from the mall). The mention of "Riverside" was code for Jacob to text Cayla and give the Estimated Time of Arrival, which he did efficiently and discreetly.
Sure enough, as we closed in on the party location, Cayla was on the phone with Mom distracting her by asking what time would be okay to bring Lillie by for a visit with her great grandma.
Mom pointed. "Here, right here! That's it. Just park right there on the grass, we won't be but a minute."
Knowing we would be staying, I ignored her directions and drove a little further down. "What are you doing?" she protested. "We're gonna have to walk a long way."
"I don't want them to come out and tell me to move. I'll just park right here." I said, going against her wishes, which made me way more uncomfortable than the gollywhopper of a lie I'd been telling her for the last twenty minutes or so.
Without another word, I put it in park, casually saying to Dad, "Oh Dad, maybe you should come, too, if Nicole finds out you're in the car and I didn't bring you in to say 'hi', she'll never forgive me."
Jake took this cue perfectly. "Don't leave me in the car."
I kept her talking the whole way up the walk, Dad and Jake right behind us, certain she would recognize a vehicle and the whole cover story would come tumbling down. "Do you think I should knock?" I asked her, playing the shy-in-social-situations-Nicole.
"No, you don't need to knock. Just push it open." she directed.
I did, with her close at my heels.
"SURPRISE!!!"
The look on her face. It worked! It really worked!
The moments that will stand in my memory always:
My Dad turning to me and my sister, Ronda, at one point, looking around the room at all the people and saying, "Do you see all these people? How they showed up for her? They love her! They just love her!"
As the crowd sang "Happy Birthday" to her with the candles lit, my Dad suddenly become so overwhelmed with love for her, that he spontaneously leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, right there in front of everyone. My dad is the shyest man I've ever met and that includes Jake and Blakie. So if you didn't tear up for that one or at least feel a tug at your heartstrings, you have no soul, buddy.
Me, calling out to Mom as she opened her presents, "Mom! I just have to know...is this the best birthday party you've ever had?"
She laughed right back at me, her blue eyes twinkling. "You know, I think it just might be."
My Dad, smiling and laughing, with his baby brother, he at 83 and his brother at 81. As his brother got ready to leave, they hugged and jostled, my Dad's face lighting up as they joked about their youth. He whispered to me ruefully, with a smile, "We were always in trouble."
As Uncle Len got ready to leave, Dad grabbed him. "Take care, Brother!" he said giving him a final arm squeeze.
Uncle Len answered heartily, "You take care, too, Brother!" smiling from ear to ear. "All right, now!"
My Dad called out to him as he walked away, "Keep looking up!"
This last comment, thrown out in excitement, I pondered later. What did he mean? Keep positive? Keep trying? Keep looking up, as in towards God? After all, my Dad never misses an opportunity to share his faith. He'd ministered to me and my sister, Ronda, not five minutes ago.
The only drawbacks to this wonderful event were that Cory wasn't there and Mom couldn't call her sister, Dorothy, afterwards to tell her all about it.
When she opened the card I'd bought from Jake and Cory (Jake being so insistent that he only sign his name and I sign Cory's so they appeared in different handwriting), I watched the pain wash over her face as she read her name. My eyes filled with tears to hear her say quietly, "That sweet girl would've loved to be here with us today." Man, would she ever. Cory would've loved to get caught up in the covert operations required to pull this shindig off. Every single moment, she'd have been plotting and helping and offering to do whatever was needed. Cory loved to make people happy.
I haven't done any searching behavior in years, like when I used to look for her in the aisles of Barnes and Noble, but there are still moments when my guard is down and I half expect her to just come flouncing out from the bathroom, radiant and alive, talking about getting a second piece of cake or complaining that her shoes are hurting her feet.
And I'll tell you a secret totally unrelated to my mom's birthday party. It's taken me a long time to realize that Cory was the "mover" in our family- my family of me, Tim, her, and Jake. She was the one who urged us to plan outings and family activities. After she died, we sat around looking at each other, none of us quite sure how to fill her silly, fun loving, spontaneous shoes. None of us had ever done that role before and we were all too traumatized to even try. So our family stood still...for years. Slowly, slowly, we are reorganizing. It will never be the same, but we are doing our best.
We took a zillion photographs towards the end of the party- Mom with every possible combination of every human being in the room. Had someone walked in off the street, we'd probably have taken a few of the two of them, as well, just to be safe. So, of course, Cory's absence was heavy on my mind as I saw her pose with her grandchildren. Cory had loved Mom so very much. I sometimes think Cory could never have handled losing Mom. Maybe that's why she died first.
I didn't want Mom to see me sad on her special day so I did what I do best. I just turned it up all the way, draping myself across her lap for the sort of silly, impromptu pictures I know will mean the most to me someday. If there's one thing I've learned in losing Cory is that pictures are incredibly important and the ones that tell the story of your relationship with that person... priceless.
I know at the party, behind the smiles and the banter, Mom was already thinking about how she wanted to tell Aunt Dorothy all about this party...and couldn't. Sure enough, on the way home, she said just that, her eyes filling with tears and I had to reach across the seat and hold her hand as we drove along. I get it. I know how much that hurts. And I will sit here with you while your heart is breaking as we drive home in the dark.
The next morning, at the coffee shop, I reflected on the party...how happy and joyous Mom had been with her friends and family around her and I realized that we never stop modeling for our children our entire lives. It doesn't stop when they become our adult children. They still watch us the entire time.
I've watched Mom struggle with her grief after burying her grandchild and now her dear, sweet sister. She is the one person, outside of Jake, that I feel really understands what I'm going through. Yet she shows up to every family gathering, she smiles, she has fun, and she hugs everyone when she leaves. She told me once, "We have to try, honey. And we have to help each other." She hugs us a little tighter and she tells us she loves us every time we part. In fact, she usually tells me she loves me multiple times in a row just to be sure I've heard her and perhaps to emphasize the weight and sheer vastness of her affection. If anything, she loves more fiercely now, more purposefully. She makes sure every interaction ends with her love voiced as loudly and as plainly as she can muster.
You see some things our parents teach us outright. Other things we pick up just by watching.
I hope your teachers have been as incredible as mine.
Love with all of your might. And keep looking up.
The whole table, minus the baby, hung their heads over their plates in shame.
I continued, "and she paused...and then she added, 'If I never do, I guess it's been an okay life, but I do wonder what it might have been like...' You guys! It was the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life! We should be ashamed of ourselves! We HAVE to do something! We are FAILING her!"
Not even twelve hours later, we were group texting with my other two sisters, their kids, and their kids' spouses to nail down a location, make a guest list, decide on food, decorations, and create a secret face book group for invitations.
At times we had as many as three group texts going at a time about gifts and party arrangements. I lived in constant fear of accidentally responding to Mom or including her in a reply. I tell my mother everything. Since Cory's death, she has become my best friend. I loved her dearly before, of course, and more than ever after, but I think it was sharing that tiny cookie while we waiting for them to get our room ready in Rome that gave our relationship a whole other dimension. We nearly laughed ourselves off that couch onto the lobby floor and suddenly, we were ...friends. We became and have remained so close. I don't want to imagine a day I can't speak to her. I get halfway into a thought about that, made even more vivid by my longing to hear Cory's voice, and turn my mind violently away. NO!
Everything came along pretty well, all of us splitting up the work and pooling our resources. My sister, Kim, snuck into Mom's house ninja-style to retrieve photos of Mom at different ages for the party. My sister, Tammy, pulled our dad aside at church to let him in on the plan. I asked him, afterwards, how he managed to keep the secret from She Who Knows All. He grinned broadly, and pulled me close, "You know how I handled it? Here's what I did...the only thing I could do given the situation. I avoided the topic ENTIRELY."
At one point, we needed my uncle's phone number and had to get creative in order to get it. It would be weird to ask Mom for it out of the blue. We couldn't ask Dad because he can't hear very well over the phone. I see my cousin at the local coffee shop nearly every weekend, so I invented a plausible story line about running into her and how she had asked me if I could get his number from Mom to give her. We soon realized Mom may decide to call the cousin herself instead,so I had to get a hold of her and let her know we'd included her in our ruse. Worked like a charm.
The nearest disaster was when two of my sisters went shopping for the food items and discovered Mom and Dad were in Meijer's shopping, as well. There they stood with no less than sixteen bags of shredded cheese in the cart. "Oh my God! We've got to get out of here!" Indeed, they did. There is simply no explanation for that much cheese.
Kim ditched the cart, actually pretending it did not belong to her as Tammy broke into a near run to grab the Parmesean. Kim said she nearly bent over laughing when Tammy appeared in her line of vision, holding the Parmesean up like a trophy and giving it a good waggle, her face victorious. This may have been the best part of planning this party for my mother... the way it brought me and my sisters together and the fun we had doing something good for someone else.
My niece, Alisha, had the pictures made. My nephews' wives put the decorations together. My sister, Ronda, ordered the cake and picked up flowers for the tables. I ordered the balloons and picked up a flower arrangement for Mom, which Tim took over the the party early. My sister, Tammy and her husband made lasagna. Everyone worked together to decorate and then wait for the big arrival.
Everyone but me. Jake and I were in charge of bringing Mom and Dad to the party without Mom knowing where she was going or why. The minute I heard I was to be in charge of this task, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation...time to put my creative writing (making crap up) skills to the test.
So originally, I invited Mom to the movies with Jake and I. I figured keep it routine; keep suspicions low. Tim would pick Dad up and take him to the party location with the balloons and flowers.
But then, Mom wanted, naturally, to have dinner with her girls for her birthday. We were forced to make up reasons why it would be better to wait until the following weekend, claiming that one of my sisters had to work and my nephews wanted to come but had to work, as well.
She seemed so sad. At one point she said, "I'll be the big 8-0." sort of despondently. I kept to the story and said, "Yes, so we want EVERYONE to be there. Better to wait till next weekend." Heartless, I am a heartless child. If there is a hell, I will surely burn there.
The day before the party, she announced she wasn't sure if she could make the movie, that she'd been talking to Dad and figured since no one else wanted to go out to eat with her on her birthday, she'd just have him take them both to Finley's. Well, crap.
I switched gears quickly. "Oh! You're going to Finley's? We want to go! How about if Jake and I just pick you up and we'll go just the four of us?" I may have thrown something in about how we loved her best and preferred her all to ourselves anyway.
So now, how to explain when we didn't drive straight to Finley's, but in the opposite direction? And how to lure her inside the building? Girl, hold my coffee.
I came up with the idea to tell her my best friend since childhood, Nicole's, parents were having their anniversary party at the party location. I'd been invited, but hate large social gatherings and so needed to drop off a card and maybe give Nicole a hug as she was setting up and doing the decorations. Mom could even come in and say hi, if she wanted...Nicole would love to see her. I'd even worked a prop into the story, writing "Mr. and Mrs. Havens" on the birthday card for my mom and sealing it shut.
Mom texted me a couple of hours before the party saying my sister, Tammy, and her husband, Dave, were planning to join us at Finley's. Was that okay? I told her it was, trying to make it real by teasing that Tammy invites herself everywhere, doesn't she?
Jake and I picked my parents up at precisely 3:40. Twenty minutes and counting...
The minute she got in the car, I said, "Oh, Mom, I'm glad we're early. I forgot to tell you I just need to make a quick stop on the way to Finley's. Nicole's parents are having their anniversary party today and they invited me, but you know I don't do big crowds so I just wanted to drop this card off and say hi to Nicole real quick. I won't stay. It's not even until 6. They're setting up the decorations."
She said, "Oh, okay. But I'd better call Tammy and tell her we'll be a few minutes later than we thought."
I apologized, "I'm sorry. I hope that's okay. I just hated to say no. Nicole's been so supportive to me."
Mom patted me as she settled the card for "Mr. and Mrs. Havens" safely into her lap. "It should be fine. It won't take long. You do have a good excuse not to go, though. It IS your mother's birthday, after all! And her 80th!" she laughed.
I laughed right back, "Right?"
Mom started dialing. I fell right into my lie, headfirst. "Hey, Mom, this party is that place where Alisha's bridal shower was, but I didn't go, so I'm not sure I know where it is exactly. Can you ask Tammy how to get there?"
As we drove along, Tammy gave Mom directions to the building I'd staked out earlier that morning when getting the flowers and balloons. I knew exactly where I was going but pretended I didn't so Mom would guide me every turn. I was padding my cover story here and there, asking what she thought about using the same location for Jake's open house in two years. It was so much fun getting her to believe it, I had to restrain myself from just throwing in random lies unnecessarily. Like what could I get her to believe? Had I missed my calling? Should I have been a spy? An undercover cop?
A used car salesman?
Once we got to Riverside Drive, I made a big to do about Jake learning to drive but not knowing his way around the city yet (as if I could talk...I've lived here for four decades and could still get lost driving home from the mall). The mention of "Riverside" was code for Jacob to text Cayla and give the Estimated Time of Arrival, which he did efficiently and discreetly.
Sure enough, as we closed in on the party location, Cayla was on the phone with Mom distracting her by asking what time would be okay to bring Lillie by for a visit with her great grandma.
Mom pointed. "Here, right here! That's it. Just park right there on the grass, we won't be but a minute."
Knowing we would be staying, I ignored her directions and drove a little further down. "What are you doing?" she protested. "We're gonna have to walk a long way."
"I don't want them to come out and tell me to move. I'll just park right here." I said, going against her wishes, which made me way more uncomfortable than the gollywhopper of a lie I'd been telling her for the last twenty minutes or so.
Without another word, I put it in park, casually saying to Dad, "Oh Dad, maybe you should come, too, if Nicole finds out you're in the car and I didn't bring you in to say 'hi', she'll never forgive me."
Jake took this cue perfectly. "Don't leave me in the car."
I kept her talking the whole way up the walk, Dad and Jake right behind us, certain she would recognize a vehicle and the whole cover story would come tumbling down. "Do you think I should knock?" I asked her, playing the shy-in-social-situations-Nicole.
"No, you don't need to knock. Just push it open." she directed.
I did, with her close at my heels.
"SURPRISE!!!"
The look on her face. It worked! It really worked!
The moments that will stand in my memory always:
My Dad turning to me and my sister, Ronda, at one point, looking around the room at all the people and saying, "Do you see all these people? How they showed up for her? They love her! They just love her!"
As the crowd sang "Happy Birthday" to her with the candles lit, my Dad suddenly become so overwhelmed with love for her, that he spontaneously leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, right there in front of everyone. My dad is the shyest man I've ever met and that includes Jake and Blakie. So if you didn't tear up for that one or at least feel a tug at your heartstrings, you have no soul, buddy.
Me, calling out to Mom as she opened her presents, "Mom! I just have to know...is this the best birthday party you've ever had?"
She laughed right back at me, her blue eyes twinkling. "You know, I think it just might be."
My Dad, smiling and laughing, with his baby brother, he at 83 and his brother at 81. As his brother got ready to leave, they hugged and jostled, my Dad's face lighting up as they joked about their youth. He whispered to me ruefully, with a smile, "We were always in trouble."
As Uncle Len got ready to leave, Dad grabbed him. "Take care, Brother!" he said giving him a final arm squeeze.
Uncle Len answered heartily, "You take care, too, Brother!" smiling from ear to ear. "All right, now!"
My Dad called out to him as he walked away, "Keep looking up!"
This last comment, thrown out in excitement, I pondered later. What did he mean? Keep positive? Keep trying? Keep looking up, as in towards God? After all, my Dad never misses an opportunity to share his faith. He'd ministered to me and my sister, Ronda, not five minutes ago.
The only drawbacks to this wonderful event were that Cory wasn't there and Mom couldn't call her sister, Dorothy, afterwards to tell her all about it.
When she opened the card I'd bought from Jake and Cory (Jake being so insistent that he only sign his name and I sign Cory's so they appeared in different handwriting), I watched the pain wash over her face as she read her name. My eyes filled with tears to hear her say quietly, "That sweet girl would've loved to be here with us today." Man, would she ever. Cory would've loved to get caught up in the covert operations required to pull this shindig off. Every single moment, she'd have been plotting and helping and offering to do whatever was needed. Cory loved to make people happy.
I haven't done any searching behavior in years, like when I used to look for her in the aisles of Barnes and Noble, but there are still moments when my guard is down and I half expect her to just come flouncing out from the bathroom, radiant and alive, talking about getting a second piece of cake or complaining that her shoes are hurting her feet.
And I'll tell you a secret totally unrelated to my mom's birthday party. It's taken me a long time to realize that Cory was the "mover" in our family- my family of me, Tim, her, and Jake. She was the one who urged us to plan outings and family activities. After she died, we sat around looking at each other, none of us quite sure how to fill her silly, fun loving, spontaneous shoes. None of us had ever done that role before and we were all too traumatized to even try. So our family stood still...for years. Slowly, slowly, we are reorganizing. It will never be the same, but we are doing our best.
We took a zillion photographs towards the end of the party- Mom with every possible combination of every human being in the room. Had someone walked in off the street, we'd probably have taken a few of the two of them, as well, just to be safe. So, of course, Cory's absence was heavy on my mind as I saw her pose with her grandchildren. Cory had loved Mom so very much. I sometimes think Cory could never have handled losing Mom. Maybe that's why she died first.
I didn't want Mom to see me sad on her special day so I did what I do best. I just turned it up all the way, draping myself across her lap for the sort of silly, impromptu pictures I know will mean the most to me someday. If there's one thing I've learned in losing Cory is that pictures are incredibly important and the ones that tell the story of your relationship with that person... priceless.
I know at the party, behind the smiles and the banter, Mom was already thinking about how she wanted to tell Aunt Dorothy all about this party...and couldn't. Sure enough, on the way home, she said just that, her eyes filling with tears and I had to reach across the seat and hold her hand as we drove along. I get it. I know how much that hurts. And I will sit here with you while your heart is breaking as we drive home in the dark.
The next morning, at the coffee shop, I reflected on the party...how happy and joyous Mom had been with her friends and family around her and I realized that we never stop modeling for our children our entire lives. It doesn't stop when they become our adult children. They still watch us the entire time.
I've watched Mom struggle with her grief after burying her grandchild and now her dear, sweet sister. She is the one person, outside of Jake, that I feel really understands what I'm going through. Yet she shows up to every family gathering, she smiles, she has fun, and she hugs everyone when she leaves. She told me once, "We have to try, honey. And we have to help each other." She hugs us a little tighter and she tells us she loves us every time we part. In fact, she usually tells me she loves me multiple times in a row just to be sure I've heard her and perhaps to emphasize the weight and sheer vastness of her affection. If anything, she loves more fiercely now, more purposefully. She makes sure every interaction ends with her love voiced as loudly and as plainly as she can muster.
You see some things our parents teach us outright. Other things we pick up just by watching.
I hope your teachers have been as incredible as mine.
Love with all of your might. And keep looking up.
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