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.