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.