Doing Okay With It

Someone asked me today if Jacob ever talks about losing his sister.

My answer was, "Not really.  Sometimes, if I bring her up, but usually he gives a word or two and quickly changes the subject."  He does talk to her when we go to the cemetery which is less often these days than the first few years.  But in the day to day scheme of things, he doesn't normally bring her into conversation or talk about his feelings.  At all.

This has worried me for some time.  While I know everyone copes with loss differently...some people holding it in while others tend to share it out, I feared if he didn't talk about her EVER, it meant he was avoiding his grief and one day, it might back up on him all at once.

Jake has been to counseling at various points since Cory's accident:  right when it happened, a year after when he began to show physical and emotional distress, and again, in the last year or so.

 Jake popped out of the womb in a sweater vest and slicked back hair, capable of managing his emotions with little to no assistance from anyone.  Naturally then, he self-diagnosed his need to return to therapy last year.  He had learned about PTSD in a class at school and saw symptoms within himself of withdrawal and anxiety.  So off we went.  I was so relieved.  I just knew that now that he was ready, he would open up to talk about how losing his sister had affected him on his own terms.

In short, he would be okay.  More than anything in this life, I want him to be okay just as I wanted Cory to be okay.  Watching your child be very much not okay and not being able to do much about it is a traumatic experience of sorts all on its own.

Guess what Jake seldom speaks about at therapy?
At first, I couldn't believe it.  But over time, I've come to see just how different grief is for children and adults.  Jake is growing and developing every day...still...and has been every day since July 5, 2012.  The last seven and a half years have held major developmental tasks for him.  Maybe, despite how much he dearly, dearly loved his sister and how much losing her most certainly devastated him, maybe he has some other things on his mind...about himself.  About his place in the world.  About his belief systems.  About the future.

Pretty fricking normal, I'd say.  Pretty well-adjusted and healthy for him to be focused on those tasks.  He shared he thinks about Cory every single day.  He misses her a lot.  He wishes she was here.  He is sometimes sad, but overall thinking of her brings back positive memories.  He does not suffer from nightmares or intrusive thoughts about the accident.  In his own words, he is "doing okay with it".

Jacob Norman...what am I going to do with you, you amazing young man?

I know that until he turns 26 or so, he will continue to process his loss in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope as his emotional and cognitive abilities expand.  And beyond that age, he will continue to grieve for his sister his entire lifespan.  I will be there as long as I draw breath to support him in whatever way makes him most comfortable.  I will rein in my own anxiety and halt the projection.

He is doing okay.
And if that changes.  If someday, he's not doing as okay with losing Cory as he is today...well, I hope he'll tell me about it.  I think that he knows it's an acceptable thing in our family to say you're not doing okay and you need some help.  After all, his big sister, rather bravely, showed us all how to do that.

Cleaning Out My Closet

No, Eminem...not that one.  I'm talking about my actual closet.  Fall has always been my favorite season and I'm the first to admit I shop heavy, folks.  By the time the air actually becomes chilly enough to wear all the cute snugglies and boots I've stockpiled, I've run out of room to store them in any organized fashion.  So I go through my drawers and closet with a ruthless eye and make room.

It used to be my all too forgiving eye and Cory sitting cross-legged in the obscene pile of clothes on my bed, declaring firmly "Ummm, no!  Just no!"  or holding up an item I hadn't worn for seven years, and challenging me with one perfectly waggled eyebrow, "Mom, is this really who you want to be?"
That girl.  My world is so much less without her in it.

So tonight I made a halfhearted attempt to start going through my drawers and happened upon a cashmere sweater I'd bought at least twelve years ago.  I'd gotten the brown and the teal.  When Cory, all of fourteen or maybe almost fifteen began clamoring beside me, I caved and bought her the heather gray hooded one.

All these years later, and here I sat crying over an old cashmere sweater for no reason other than Cory is dead.  The teal one had not only began to pill, but there was a hole I'd not yet noticed.  It is no long wearable.  I have way too many sweaters.  This should not have bothered me SO much.  And yet...

Like some horrid six degrees of separation game gone awry, nearly every strong emotion I have comes back to that foundation:  Cory is dead.

It never stops shaking me to my absolute core, acceptance or not.
My closet isn't in nearly as good of shape without her.  I have sweaters with holes in them for Pete's sake.  There may be vests from fifteen years ago in the back.  You see what state I'm in without you?
And most of all, she is not here to offer her opinion, her commentary, to squirrel away items and sneak them upstairs to re-home in her own closet.  She and I aren't able to jump up and try something on just to see if it looks as ridiculous as we think it might and then giggle over the results.

She is not here.

Goal Orientation

I remember realizing Cory was stabilizing when we began to argue about the boys she wanted to date like any other Mom and teenage daughter.  I also remember noticing that she spoke more and more about the future.  She had begun to have some goal orientation again and it was a wonderful, amazing thing.  She was not stuck in delusions, and if the voices were sometimes still there, they were more of a nuisance, and not an all-encompassing source of terror.  Watching her pull herself out of that seemingly never ending fog was something I was privileged to witness.  A fighter?  Dude, you have no idea.

I still have only the smallest grasp on the mental anguish she faced during the worst of her episodes.  Tack on the...tumultuous is the kindest word I can find for it...off and on again relationship with her biological father, and well, I know nothing of the pain she faced in her young life.  I have Norman for Pete's sake...I have had only the best of experiences being fathered, so my frame of reference for that is nil.

She impressed me from the very beginning to the very end.

After all this time, and my own go rounds with trauma and depression, I yearn to compare some notes with her.  Boy, I could empathize better than I ever did back then.  One thing I've gotten like a critical puzzle piece clicking into place is the understanding of the pressure from other people to just be all right again and step on it, if you don't mind, please.  This may be because they love you but may also be because it's uncomfortable for them to watch your symptoms.  Maybe it's because watching someone struggle and circle back to places you thought were already well traversed can be frustrating.  Maybe it's because people feel useless when they don't know how to help.  Maybe it's because the rawness of your suffering scares the shit out of them.  Could this happen to my child?  To me?  To my family?

But I digress.

One thing Cory and I have in common is we recorded our recovery in words, art, and a million little tangible ways in our hand.  Being able to look back at the person you used to be and go, "Oh man, she was not well."  and know that's not where you are anymore?  It is one of the most impactful experiences a person can have.

It can be small things.  But as we know, as I've learned through the eternity since I've kissed her cold face, the small things are really the big things.  Always and forever.

I remember Dr. Z saying when a memory of her brings a smile before a tear, you're making progress.  Okay, as I sit here listening to Big Poppa by the Notorious B.I.G. on my headphones in Starbucks grinning like a fool thinking of her, I can only think how wise our Dr. Z really was.

The other thing I did this past week was take down all my pictures on my bulletin board at work and put up new ones.  I should mention the content had been the same from the six week mark when I returned to work, trembling and shell shocked:  all pictures of Cory, all pictures of Cory and Jake at the ages they were right before the accident.  This little makeshift shrine traveled with me from office to office over the last seven years.  Preserving my life BEFORE was paramount.  I could see nothing good for myself beyond the pain.

My new content?  It's a combination of present tense, past, and future.  Some goal orientation, if you will...

There are pcitures of Cory and her monument, but there are loads of pictures of the rest of my family in present day and things that make me smile and feel good about what I'm doing...right now.  Not who I was then, but who I am now.  She's a pretty cool chick, it turns out.  And I can't wait to see what she's up to in the future.

CoryGirl, I'm coming out the other side.  We can do anything together.  We are strong, aren't we, you and your Madre?  And we're still a team.

Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

Living with grief over the years is like some sort of strange arranged marriage.  Imagine already having the love of your life and being told in no uncertain terms, that no, your love has to go, underground, and instead you will spend the rest of your life with this unwanted ghoul.

At first, quite understandably, you despise Grief.  You hate everything it represents- losing your love, losing your dream of a happy life, pain that presses on your lungs relentlessly, even flashbacks of your love bleeding on the ground.  Grief brings all of this and shoves it in your face regardless of the time or company.  What is there to like about such an inconsiderate partner?

So then, you go on the run every time Grief comes knocking.  You hide under the bed.  You go shopping.  You take the meds that help you to sleep so your dreams are not filled with sirens, flashing lights, uniforms, blood, and twisted bones.  Better to have no dreams than those nightmares.

Nothing works for very long.  Let's face it, Grief is a fucking stalker.  Eventually, you invite Grief in and offer a chair, regard each other, albeit reluctantly, and get on with your relationship.  Turns out, facing Grief head on is the best way to conduct the sorry business of losing your child.  You get busy talking about it and learn who loves you enough to bear the discomfort of hearing about it, over and over again.  You see, for some of us, the nightmare never ends.  I get that the script gets old; but I'd rather witness it than live it, I promise you that.

Progress comes slowly and is probably less easily recognized by those who don't have children or who have never lost one.  But it is there.  Make no mistake; it is there.

You finally stop listening for Grief's knock on the door.  The two of you are now so enmeshed, that such formalities are no longer needed. 

That's why it feels like such a betrayal when Grief comes barging in when you are sick or stressed or doing almost okay.  You stand there, your heart beating out of your chest, realizing your loss as if it were the moment you were told she was dead on the road.  That pain of never seeing your child again rips through your body from your scalp that is now shrinking on your head to your feet, that no longer seem willing to hold you up.  You sit, folding in on yourself, wherever you are, a chair, the floor, your bed...and you look over at Grief.  I thought we were friends!  How could you do this to me?

Grief stands firm, no apologies.  You look again, and suddenly, there is recognition.  "Oh, it's you.  I know you."  You've seen this behavior before.  It is really no surprise.

There is an unwilling sort of commitment; you have to live with Grief until the day you die.  But friends you are not.

You Can't Wear Tennis Shoes to a Funeral

So Jacob had a couple of public speaking things at school recently.  He would pretty much rather have his skin peeled from his bones than talk in front of people.  But he soldiered through.

 We made a Kohl's run to pick out his business casual gear.  We hatched the plan while dropping him off for school one day.  "So, okay, one day after work, we'll run out by the mall and grab your stuff.  Slacks, khakis, button downs, a tie, and shoes, right?"

He didn't hear me in his haste to get out of the car.  He returned, "What, shoes?"

I thought he said, "I don't need shoes."

I responded, "You have to get shoes!  Some occasions call for real shoes. Like a funeral.  You can't wear tennis shoes to a funeral, Jake."

Jake stopped the door in mid-swing, and said, "Wait, what?!!"

I repeated it, and he clarified, "I'm fine with getting shoes.  I want shoes."  He grinned the open, easy smile that he guards so closely from just about everyone.  He continued, " I was so confused, like one minute we're planning a trip to Kohl's and the next minute you're talking funerals...like, why are you just going all dark on me?"  We cackled together, and he walked away, still smiling, and shaking his head.

As I drove away, I said to the car, "That boy." and smiled the whole way to work.

So fast forward to our shopping errand.  Before I could even say it, he did.  "This reminds me of the time me and you and Cory decided on a whim that I needed a suit."

"You remember that?"  I replied, more pleased than I could ever convey.

"Of course I do.  Remember me and Cory took all the pics of me looking GQ and I had a tie to match her dress at Easter."

We smiled, the full continuum of happy to sad and back again playing out on our faces, as we recalled that was her last Easter, and she'd been buried in the dress.  He'd worn the tie to her funeral.

We shopped together easily, filling two armfuls before deciding we might need a cart.  If I haven't said so before, Jake is the best company on any sort of errand.  He is easy to be with, helpful, funny.  If you buy him some Starbucks to get started and promise a burger or wings at the end, he's yours for the day.  His wife is going to adore him.  Ahem..you're welcome.

Finally he went to try everything on, and ended up calling me in the dressing room to try to help him get the tie fixed, at which I failed miserably.

I looked up at the mirror after checking the Google directions one more time, and caught a glimpse of him all dressed up.  It struck me suddenly that maybe this school year or maybe even since January, how much he has matured.  He has crossed the mid-line from boy to man.

I could only hope that Cory was somehow crammed in that little dressing room with us, admiring her little brother, now taller than both of us, from all angles.  She would approve of his dress shirt...purple.  She would crow excitedly over his adventurous tie choice:  flowered.  She would shake her head a few times and embarrass him, singing, "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy, it hurrrts..."

She would reach up to muss up his hair and call him, "hey there, Joe Jonas, I mean Brendon Urie..."

He would playfully smack her hand away, pretending to be bothered by all the attention, but secretly loving every moment.

Finally, broken out of my reverie, Jake called my attention to his shoes.  We'd spotted them at the same moment, and cried out, "Those!"

Now, he looked himself up and down in the mirror, pleased with what he saw, unknotted tie notwithstanding.  He gazed at his feet.  "These are MAN shoes.  I think you're right, Mom.  You can't wear tennis shoes to a funeral."

Somewhere, her fashion sense still intact, Cory smiled at her little brother and shook her head in agreement.  You really can't.

Turn Around

Even the happy things are a little sad.  That's hard, but fair, I suppose.

But it's the undeniable marks of progress make you more than a little uneasy.

It took years for me to feel even partially okay about celebrating holidays without Cory.  When asked by, Lady, my kindhearted therapist, why I felt so guilty about this, I remember telling her that it felt like I was leaving Cory behind.  That was something I swore I'd never do.  She would never see my back.  Not mine.  Leave that crap for the would-be dads and the would-be grandmas.

[In the painting and letter she made me, "Thank you for loving me...for staying with me...for holding my hand..."]

Lady, who by this time had dealt with me for months and was no doubt a little weary of my fatalist attitude, tried once again to help me see something different.

"What if you're not turning your back on her?  What if she's behind you, looking over your shoulder, so excited to see everything that you're doing?"

I stopped seeing Lady about three years ago, give or take.  But her words...here they are again.

Going back to finish my degree, in the same program I was in when the accident happened, was something I put off as long as possible.  By the time I did it; it was less a choice and more of a necessity.

 School has never been hard for me.  I love to read; I love to write.  But the triggers were everywhere.  It wasn't the work I was afraid of, not even the time it took up of my evenings and weekends; it was going back to the place where it all went so desperately wrong.

The first night I jumped back into class, all I could think about was my co-worker and classmate showing up at my house with chicken as soon as she'd heard, standing in the middle of my living room, crying and reaching out her arms to me...that dear, sweet woman.

For those first few nights of class, that scene washed over me again and again.  I remembered some parts down to the detail, like what my co-worker and classmate was wearing, but some parts were murky, like the order of things.   Most of all, I remembered how confused I felt to see this kind and dear friend that I'd only known in a work and school context standing in my living room.  It was sort of like when you were little and ran into your teacher out in public and could not understand what she was doing there since she obviously lived at the school.

But one class turned into another.  And another.  The semesters passed.  And in a week or so, I'll be finished.  Nearly seven years, after the accident and dropping out of the program, I will have finished what I started back when Cory was still alive.  Back when I was reading her my papers and whooping it up over my grades.

Don't get me wrong, part of me is ready to dance a jig that I am finished with this part of my education.  But there is another part, the part that tightens my chest without warning, that fears that whenever  I move forward, Cory gets further away.

Of course, logically, I know this isn't true.  But my heart.  My heart knows nothing of logic.

I remember being a little nervous about taking classes back then because Cory hadn't been stabilized for very long and when she wasn't well, taking care of her was my number one priority.  Cory had come to me, sat on the end of my bed, the way she always used to do, and asked me about it.  She wanted to know if I thought she was a burden and if I wished I had a different sort of daughter who didn't have these problems.  Cory had these sort of thoughts often because she suffered from depression so much of the time.  Every time she asked me something like this or said something similar, I had to try every bit as hard as Lady tried with me.  "Cory, you are not a burden!  I wouldn't trade you for anyone!  Don't you see?  You've got it all turned around.  You are the reason I want to go back to school in the first place.  I want you to see that it doesn't matter how long it takes you to get there as long as you get there.  If I can do it, you can do it, too."

It doesn't matter how long it takes.  As long as you get there.

I'm not gonna walk.  Crowds, these days, make me feel ill.  And I'm not sure what exactly she can see from wherever she is.  But I hope somehow she will know when I'm finished.  And I hope she will know that she's the reason I made it.  Not despite her.  But because of her.

Always, always, my Cory Girl.

Our Time Is Up

When Dr. Z was out on medical leave, I bought a card for him.  It's still in my planner, blank and unsigned.  I sat down a half a dozen times trying to figure out what to say to this man who has had such a major impact on my daughter's life, my life, and the preservation of my family in so many situations that break other families apart.  Nothing I came up seemed to be enough.

It felt weird and sort of stalkerish to just write "I love you so much" in it and sign my name, knowing he must have dozens of patients who feel exactly the same way.  Would he know it was me, the "Mrs. Mansfield" with the "young miss" who was an "artist" and a "champion"?

I sat down once and tried again to think of how to thank him for everything he's done and just began sobbing.  How would I ever make it without his calm demeanor and kind eyes, his intelligent conversation and easy jokes?  I was so selfish in my need for him to be okay, to live, to be there for me.  No one else will  have known Cory; no one else had our shared history; no one else would be able to not only bear witness to my grief, but grieve alongside me, because he, too, had experienced the wonder of the Cory.

I never wrote the card, never mailed it and so should have missed my shot at telling him what he meant to me, thanking him properly, and having some sort of a goodbye.  It would've taught me, who should know better by now, a valuable lesson at seizing every chance to tell someone what they mean to you.  But as it happened, Dr. Z returned to work for a brief period.  I saw him a handful of times before he died.

And, it also so happened that I got my chance to say goodbye.
It was a dual appointment with my husband, as we tended to do.  Sometimes, I resented these because it seemed like Tim's needs would eclipse my own during the appointment, but in retrospect, there were times it went the other way and isn't that what marriage is all about?

So during this appointment, we went through the symptom reports, the med updates, the asking after Jacob and my parents...always, he never missed an opportunity to ask for news of the ones he knew I loved most and who supported me.  With the smallest of smiles, he told us he had some bad news to share...two things, really.

He said that since we are privately insured, we needed to transition to a private provider so the the community mental health center could better focus on clients who had little to no resources, especially with the opiate crisis.  He gave us a referral for the exact psychiatrist who had given Cory her first psych eval.  He then went on to say that, "I'm not sure how much longer I will be here so this is a good time to support that transition.  My health is not, well... I do not have much time left."

The tears came instantly.  He spoke with a peace that was in no way manufactured, "It is okay.  I mean I'm not crazy about it, but it is okay.  I said I wanted three things before I died...to see my son who lives across the country...which took some time to accomplish but we did work it out, to visit my homeland, which I did, and to do my best to vote that idiot out of office, which I have."

He giggled at this last part and my smile broke through my tears.  Dr. Z has always had this ability to coax a smile through tears and to point out the good in the midst of carnage and wreckage.

I drew in a deep breath and gave it my best shot, "I just want to thank you for everything you have done for me, for Cory, and for my family.  It has meant everything."

He gave a gallant little bow from the waist, templing his hands beneath his chin with a gentle smile, and said, "It has been my privilege."

The last part of every appointment is make arrangements for the next.  He scribbled on the half sheet, and said aloud, "I'm going to write us in for three months, but in the meantime, please do make the arrangements we spoke of.  And, we should say our goodbyes now."

At this, I began sobbing in earnest, bless that poor man's heart.  Like a spoiled child, I blubbered, "I don't like this at all."

He smiled, raised an eyebrow, and met my eyes.  "It's not my favorite, either, but what are we to do?"  He spread his hands out, palms up and in that gesture, I could see everything I admired about him- his calm acceptance, his bravery, his compassion, his intelligence, his humanity.

Goddamn it, Nicole, he's going to die, not just stop being your doctor.  Stop being so selfish!

I swiped at my tears, returned his smile, and thanked him one last time.  Again, he bowed, "It has been my pleasure."  I would not add to his burden by sobbing helplessly on his shirt front, although part of me wanted exactly that.

That was our last appointment.
 I went to his memorial with his colleagues and other clients:

Getting ready to go to Dr. Z's memorial service... I miss him already, just knowing he is not in the world. There is no way I could thank him enough for giving Cory hope, understanding, and a sense of dignity and self-efficacy surrounding her mental health. He was an amazing man that I respected as I do my own father. He was kind, gentle, funny, intelligent, supportive, consistent, and fair. He held up a candle in the darkest of times for me and my girl faithfully and tirelessly. Today, I will have the privilege of holding up a light in his honor.

I have avoided writing of losing him because it is so much more painful than I even imagined it could be.  I push it away every time I think about it.  This terrifies me when I think of losing either of my precious parents.  How will I survive without Dr. Z?  How will I survive losses that eclipse my imagination?  

If I learned anything from losing Cory...and from sitting across from Dr. Z for nearly ten years...grief must be faced head on.  So here I am, typing away, crying in Starbucks over a man who helped my daughter see herself as strong and capable, and after his death, continues to do that same thing for me.

Wherever you are, Sven, your legacy lives on.  And you will never be forgotten.

Concert Goers

So Jake and I decided to brave the polar vortex state of emergency weather/roads to see Panic at the Disco.  The hour and twenty minute drive took two hours.  We packed up the car with blankets, water, food, flashlights, phone chargers, and our own brute determination to see Brenden Urie on stage, weather be damned.
I was advised by at least three people who love and care about me not to go.
I responded we could go ten miles an hour if we had to.  We could pull off the road.  We could spend the night somewhere if we needed to.  And we went, white knuckled and strangely exhilarated.
Normally, we would have been blasting Jake's carefully made on-the-road-pre-concert playlist, usually synched to the set list we would be hearing at the show.  This time, in order to cut out distractions, there was only our quiet conversation.  Jake declared I was driving with the best navigator in the state of Michigan.  I heartily agreed and waited for him to reciprocate about my driving skills, which were definitely growing in their scope on this particular trip.  Jake with his quiet and quick wit allowed, "I'll tell you this, Mom.  If Dad were driving, the trip would've been over twenty minutes in."
Imagining that scenario, we both gave a little shudder and then resumed chatting.
Part of what we talked about was our decision to get out and brave the roads.  Was it foolhardy?
 It's funny how we both had the same sort of response.  "Well...I mean, if you can die crossing the road on a hot summer day in broad daylight...".

I guess you could take the accident two ways.  You could look at how fragile life is and only leave the house when you absolutely had to.
Or you could look at how precious each day is and live each moment to the fullest.  You don't get to pick your time.  It's gonna happen regardless of anyone's love for you or protection (or lack thereof) from a higher being, if such a Person even exists.  No one knows when it will happen.  Maybe you shouldn't put yourself in harm's way, but maybe you shouldn't stop taking risks, either.

Maybe it was both- a little foolish to get out, but maybe also a little brave.  If there's one thing I don't want to do to Jake, it's project my anxiety onto him.  He has enough on his own.  So we talked about how it's a good thing to try things that scare you- that's where the growth happens.  Comfort zones are necessary sometimes while you're healing, but real progress means you are able to step outside them at some point.

So of course, the questions about Cory's final errand came up in my mind.  A dear friend and family member said to me recently, "You could 'what if' all night.  What good does it do?"
And, I agree.  None, at all.  But I haven't quite figured out the trick yet to stop myself from doing it.  My brain just goes, "Yeah, he's right. Now let's get back to that unhealthy thinking pattern.  Pay attention.  I have questions."

So I started wondering a couple of things.
I wondered if crossing West Michigan scared Cory.
Then I wondered if her doing something that scared her was good or bad for her mental health.

I'm gonna have to be neutral here and say I think it scared her as much as it does anyone else. It's a busy street with four lanes of traffic. But lots of people still cross that street.
I'm gonna say that when Cory was highly symptomatic, she sought the protection of her safe haven.  That was me.  That's why during the worst of her illness, she followed me around the house- shower, toilet, didn't matter.  I looked up and there she was, just like when she was little.
So for her to volunteer to go, alone? I don't think she was overly frightened.

But was it in her comfort zone? Probably not, but it was starting to be.  Such a simple task was something she couldn't have done two years before.  Every step she took in those Hello Kitty Vans, correctly medicated, regularly counseled...she was taking control of her illness and she was getting back to a place she felt good about herself.

Maybe I'm a wee bit biased since she is one of my two favorite humans on the planet, but I think she was rather brave.

So one last thing, it was automatic for me to look down the row alongside me and see Cory standing there, singing her lungs out, and shaking her little fist in the air.  It as clear to me as some of the hallucinations she used to describe.
 I wondered what she'd think of Panic's lyric, "Hallucinations only mean that your brain is on fire."  I wish I could ask her.
 For now, Jake and I have some really interesting conversations while we guess what she'd say.