He Returns

And just like that, I saw someone I thought I'd never see again.  Dr. Z has returned after a medical leave.  I had been told he would not be returning.  I could barely restrain myself from tackling him with a bear hug when I saw him earlier this week.  It was a very near thing.

He was exactly the same...same broad smile, same kind eyes, same dapper argyle socks, same sensible shoes. 

How did it feel to see him again after resigning myself to never being able to see him again...never being able to  say goodbye to someone who has consistently and kindly helped me through the worst times of my life?  It was like coming home.  It was like making it to the surface to take a breath when you though you'd never get there.  Pure joy. 

He said he felt on top of the world to be back on a lighter schedule, taking his extra time to write down all the stories he wants to leave behind.  I can't think of a better way to spend one's time.

Once we'd each expressed our delight that he was still in the land of the living, conversation turned to how I was doing with Cory's birthday approaching.  It was the biggest relief to lay it all out there without fear of worrying anyone or looking weak:  the constant pressure in my chest, the panic attacks no one really knew about, the pressing guilt, the nightmares that started again a couple of weeks ago.

He picked up his pen.  "What sort of nightmares?"

"Oh, you know, someone breaking into the house with a gun trying to kill Jake, being mugged at knife point, someone chasing me...lots of dreams about Cory on the road..."  I trailed off here, feeling strangely embarrassed.  Like, get it together, Nick.  What is wrong with you?

He caught my eyes and nodded.  "Yes, yes.  So tell me, then, are you getting any exercise?"

I never want to disappoint this man.  So I fibbed about walking the dog which I haven't done since the snow began to fall.  The only exercise I've been getting is walking down the hall to the copier at work.

"And do you still do some kind of art?  The beautiful memory making?"

Here I didn't have to fib.  "I do."  I nodded vigorously.

"Good."  He responded.  "Keep doing that.  You know, it is when you spend the time making something with your hands, thinking of her, that you are able to be together again.  That is how you keep her."

Yes!
Making art has always been a two fold for me.  I have a safe place to express all my feelings, explore them, and sometimes even figure things out.  But secondly, when I'm creating, I feel close to Cory.  It's the whole reason I started doing it in the first place.  I couldn't let her paintbrushes and things just sit there looking so lonely and abandoned. She didn't have enough time to make all the art she wanted to.  But without her, dealing with this relentless pain, I have nothing but time to fill, a sort of mental life prison sentence.

So in that moment sitting across from Dr. Z, it hit me why I always want to be alone when I head out on an "art day" or why I barricade myself in the studio, sometimes feeling put out when even a pet tries to join me.  My art dates are my new "Mommy/Cory" days.  We used to plan them elaborately, but they almost always included a fixed shopping pattern:  Target-Kohl's-Barnes & Noble-rest of the mall.  After this had been conducted to our satisfaction, we'd go to the movies and then dinner.  Somewhere in the middle, we'd stop to pay a bill so we felt somewhat responsible.  The order rarely changed, so over time it became a ritual.

 So now instead, there is packing up the art and journaling supplies, going to my favorite coffee shop, unpacking it all in a welcoming semi-circle, ordering the hot beverage, putting on the headphones, listening to the music we enjoyed together, and creating while looking through pictures of her.  Sometimes I end up posting memories of her while I wait for paint to dry, thus sharing her with others.  This is my new ritual.  This is my new relationship with Cory.  Visiting her grave never has the same effect.  I often feel the need to go to the cemetery, but I rarely, if ever, look forward to it.  And I usually feel wretched when I leave.  Angry, guilty, and depressed.

So then I asked him the question that plagues my every waking moment these days.  "She'd be twenty five this month.  How do you think she'd be doing?"

He templed his hands beneath his chin and leaned forward slightly.  "You know, I gave up predicting the future some time ago.  I found I'm not very good at it."

I nodded, waiting.

"It's hard to say.  Her illness came on early and was incredibly difficult to treat.  She was so brave in the way she managed what many of us cannot begin to imagine.  It may be that she is better off where she is than what may have been waiting for her.  It's hard to say.  Her illness was debilitating, as was her father's." 

My eyes immediately filled with tears.  I could only offer my silence.  I will never think she is better off dead than here.  This comfort I cannot accept.

Conversation turned to Jake and how he was coping. Jake is quiet, but steady.  He is unarguably withdrawn, but still generally optimistic.  Dr Z nodded, pleased with this report. I shared how he has his learner's permit, was excited at first to learn to drive, but is now reluctant to get behind the wheel at all.  I wondered if this was because of the way Cory died.  He answered, "Most certainly. It is the trauma.  Give him time."

He renewed my scripts and was walking me to the door when he stopped suddenly, raising an eyebrow, "Now wait, please remind me, your son does not have the same father as Cory?  He is your husband's, yes?"

"Yes, he is Tim's."

He exhaled.  "Okay, okay, then.  Yes, then, just monitor for depression.  If he complains of being bored, watch out for that."

I smiled as he ushered me out.  Watch out for that? 

I nearly suffocate the poor boy with my constant monitoring of his mood and mental health status.  Part of it is that I know Cory's death was traumatizing for him.  The other part is that Tim has Bipolar Disorder, too.  I've always been afraid that Jake will develop it.  It was even something Cory and I had talked about before she died.

 But I'll say this.  It's no longer my biggest fear that Jake develops a mental illness.  Instead, it's my biggest fear that he dies before I do.

Everything else...anything else...I know I can manage.

"Semi-Sweet"

I have the hardest time with family gatherings now.  Or maybe I should say, after almost six years, I have the hardest time with family gatherings STILL.  You'd think losing Cory so unexpectedly- so horrifically- would drive me to go to every family gathering, holiday or no, and milk every precious moment with my loved ones.  You would think...

but human behavior is not so simple, is it?  Grieving behavior even less so. 

There was a Girl's Night In with my mom and sisters last night. I dreaded going.  I've gotten at least to the point where I will go instead of staying home, but my anxiety about being there without Cory in tow makes every gathering painful and difficult to navigate.

We ate pizza together and started going through old pictures, most of which made us laugh until our stomachs hurt...the hairstyles, the clothing, the barely recognizable faces from decades past.  I found a picture of me with my Mom when I was nine or ten years old.  It was a silly Christmas snapshot- my mom modeling a leather coat she'd received and me sporting a new jogging suit.  We had our arms thrown around each other and my head was thrown back in a face splitting grin.  Silly, so silly! It immediately made me think of how Cory was at that age and I was pretty sure I had a pic at home of her doing almost the exact same pose for the camera.  Bittersweet.

A few minutes later, we'd made it through the years to the grandkids.  I was talking to someone, not paying attention really, when I suddenly came across a picture of Cory with three of her cousins as children sitting atop their uncle's back.  They were all so little, one still clutching his stuffed lovey.  The tears came without warning and I wanted nothing but to run out of the room, out of the house, out of my skin.  Run, Run, Run!  my brain said.

It is the oddest thing how much it disturbs me to see pictures of Cory as a child now that she is gone.  She was my absolute delight.  She was my biggest source of pride.  Why would I not adore revisiting these memories of her?  What is that about?  I know some bereaved parents who take great comfort in their deceased child's younger pictures.  It is so personal what some bereaved parents bring closer to comfort them and what others push away to lessen the pain. 

It's hard to explain.  When other people see pictures of her as child, I imagine they focus on the moment captured, exclaim about her looks at that age, remember something fun they did with her, and keep going.  When I look at pictures of my firstborn as a child, now that she is gone, it creates this painful chain reaction.  I see her little face, so innocent and trusting of her future....her eyes so bright and precocious, full of possibilities and discoveries yet to make...her narrow shoulders seeming to speak of fragility and vulnerability and then my mind short circuits immediately to the way it all ended:  her eyes closed, her skull and bones broken, her future over in a millisecond.  I guess that's trauma.  I don't understand it; I just know that the pictures bother me horribly. I"ve purposely looked at less than a handful since the day of her visitation.
From there, the guilt that I did not protect that sweet girl and prevent her from being hurt, from getting broken, from dying far too young is vicious and inevitable.  It eats me right up.  I feel paralyzed to stop it.  Might as well be swallowed by a python.

I considered leaving the gathering a few minutes later.  I was tired anyways and my heart hurt horribly.  It was no one's fault, of course, it is just what life is like now- you never know when a grief attack will strike.  Instead, I decided to stay a little longer.  The gang had just started playing Catch Phrase and I decided to give it a try.

Hours later, my stomach hurt from laughing.  Everyone's clues and guesses seemed to get funnier as we all became more and more tired.  At one point, I was describing the term "Bittersweet" for my teammates of my mom and oldest sister, Tammy, to guess.  I said, "You know, it's when something is happy but also sad.  Oh!  Oh! And it's also a type of chocolate chip for baking."

Tammy blurted out with calm confidence, nodding ever so slightly, "Semi-sweet."

The entire room broke up laughing and in that moment I knew coming to these gatherings is important.  Staying as long as I can is important.  One day I will lose my dear, sweet mother and my sisters...and these are the memories I will go to in my mind to be with them again.  If I'm not there to add to my memory bank...I lose out.  I will have regret.  Not irrational regret like not going to the store myself that day so Cory wouldn't have died (something I never could've predicted) but the rational regret of not making the most of opportunities to treasure my loved ones while I still had the chance.  That I can control.

So that one day, maybe twenty years from now, when I remember last night with my loved ones and the game, CatchPhrase, a smile will come and go on my lips as I think to myself., perhaps nodding slightly..
 "Semi-sweet."