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.

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.

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.