Trigger, anyone?

I saw a hat lying in the middle of West Michigan the other day.

A baseball cap.

Not bloody.  Nothing around it to suggest something untoward had happened.  Probably somebody had lost it out the window of their car goofing around.

And yet.

And yet, the images began firing up in my brain as my throat closed in and chest tightened.

My own feet clad in purple sandals clapping the pavement furiously.  Getting there at the end of my road and craning around against the bright sunshine, unable to see anything  at first and wondering if this kid had his story straight..  Then spotting a throng of quiet, uncomfortable, helpful, sad, curious people trying to drag a kiddie pool over to block the passers by from seeing...

ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh nooo, oh no Cory Girl.  It is her.  It is. 

Trying to get to her but being politely intercepted and held gently but firmly back from approaching her where she laid splayed to the side of the road, facedown, hair covering her face.  Looking small.  Looking not quite right.  Something about the angles did not seem natural.  Looking very, very still.

I am her mother. My name is...her name is...she is nineteen.  Yes, she is allergic to Bactrim and any sulfa drugs.  Yes she is on medication.  They are.... Yes, we live ..... Yes, she lives with me....

"Let us work on your daughter.  Let us help her."

 The fear that dropped into my belly as I watched them turn her over...it was hot, liquid, and oozed into every nook and cranny of my soul.  She has to be okay. 

They turned her over so slowly, so carefully, seemingly inches at a time, maybe even reverently, maybe they already knew what I did not...her hair covered her face, her eyes were closed, and her lips were blue.  A dark blue.  My voice took up my heart's chant, "Is she breathing?  Is she?  Is she breathing?   Someone tell me!"

No one answered.  Instead they sliced her shirt open with shears and I jumped and rejoiced in my heart, for they were going to give her the paddles and it would be ok.  As I waited breathless, the paddles did not appear.  Someone brought a box thing, they hooked her up, they went back to the ambulance.  I kept waiting for the paddles, wanting to wash her legs which were dirty, wanting to stop looking at her arm twisted all the way around like a pretzel but unable to pull my gaze from it.  Shouldn't somebody be tending to that?

And that was it.
Six reluctant words later and it was done.

Insomnia

We are so fragile.  And not just our bodies.

Mental health is a continuum.  Even when you're on the healthy side, something can trigger a set back in the blink of an eye.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in a car accident.  I guess you'd call it a fender bender, except the man in the other car blew a yield sign, hit me, and then fled the scene.  It could have been a lot worse.  At least no one was hurt.  Well actually, I think my words were, "At least no one died".

But man, did it mess with my head.

It's always scary being in an accident.  Even seeing them as a bystander affects me horribly after Cory's accident.  This time, it was even worse.

I was just driving sedately along on the way to work after my lunchbreak.  All of the sudden I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye and I remember thinking:   He's not stopping!  He's gonna hit me! Oh shit, am I gonna die?!!

And then the jarring impact...the squeal of metal on metal.

When it stopped, I locked eyes with the other driver.  He looked furious with me that he had ran the yield sign and hit me.  I could see it on his face that he was going to run.  His eyes widened as I thought, You wouldn't dare!  His face said:  Watch me, bitch!

Sure enough, he put it in reverse, backed up, and floored it.  But not before I got his plate number.

I never cried.  I wasn't hurt.  My body was fine.

I shook all over as I waited for the cops to come.   My dealings with the officer that responded were the most positive feelings I've had toward anyone in uniform for over six years.  I could see a helpful, kind person doing his job and that was all.  Neutrality, can you dig it?  Baby steps.

The chemicals pumping through my body for the next few hours reminded me so much of that horrible day.  My scalp felt too small.  My mind wandered.  I couldn't relax.

That night I couldn't sleep, either.  I had began to visit the horrid land of What If.  All I could think about was how Cory had likely had those same exact thoughts if she'd seen the vehicle coming at her.  Oh, shit, am I gonna die?!!  And then she had.  It was almost more than I could bear.

My chest had tightened so much I couldn't imagine there being any room left in there for anything...heart, lungs...hope.  Taking a breath felt like blowing up the world's largest balloon.  I was tired before I even began.  I didn't even want to try.

From there, I relived the feel of the man's SUV slamming into my SUV...and the sound of the metal of his vehicle pushing and tangling into the metal of mine.  The more I considered it, the more I imagined that if the  impact was that strong within the protection of my vehicle, what would it have felt like for Cory?  Cory was just a woman, a small woman...flesh and bones, unprotected in any way from that impact that struck her and launched her into the air.  And what awful sounds did she hear?  Did she have time to scream?

 My heart would flinch quickly away from this consideration, but my brain?  My brain kept me up all night long, tapping my heart on its shoulder and insisting that together they examine the horrific situation...one more time.  Maybe another.  Maybe quite a few more times, actually.

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.

More Than

Sometimes I am consumed with fury.  Other times my heart just breaks.  Again.

There were two of these incidents this week.  I'll tell you about them.  But then, in an effort, to be more...hopeful...I'll share something that's been on my mind that counteracts the darkness and despair.

Picture it.  I am driving down West Michigan- curse of my soul-

(a sidebar here to say it is the most evil of paradoxes that I want to move and flee this neighborhood never again to drive down that particular stretch of road, but know in my heart I will never do it because moving would require me to pack up Cory's room.  I simply cannot.  If nothing else, I know my limits.  Her bedroom is tangible proof that I shared the wonder of her life.  It is space that she walked and danced upon, stomped on and slept in.)

Okay, I am driving down West Michigan, lighthearted and joking with Jake, having just visited my parents before they leave for vacation when what to my resentful eyes should appear but a lone figure crossing West Michigan for the...thousandth time...

This time, it was a man- get ready for it- with earbuds in, not looking in either direction, a fucking man bun on his head, and actually, I kid you not, casually SIPPING A GODDAMN FOUNTAIN POP as he walked across the road in the exact path my girl had fatally set out on six years ago.  The cars?  They slowed.  They braked.  They parted like the Red Sea, their brake lights popping red all across the roadway.   Of COURSE they did.

Immediate road rage.  Immediate flashbacks.  "Are you kidding me?!"
Jake sat beside me shaking his head, patting my shoulder,  and looking miserably at his feet.

There I was mean-mugging a strange man rocking a stupid man bun.  We actually locked eyes, him probably wondering why the hell a mid-forty year old woman was eyeballing him so hard.  I drove the rest of the way home seeing red.  Brake lights.  Flashing lights.  Blood.

The next night after dinner with my sister, Jake and I went to the cemetery to see our girl.  We looked around for rabbits, saw none, caught her up on our week, and then I watched memorized as he said his goodbye.  He leaned forward, taller than me, heavier than me, his shadow falling gracefully and full of life yet to live over her stone, and gently kissed the center of the cross.  That single action said every word about his grief that he isn't yet willing or able to verbalize.  His love for her was so obvious in his reverence, the linger of his lips to her stone, the wistful sound of his voice, "We love you, Cory."  Heartbreak.  Utter and complete.  His.  Mine.  Hers.  All three.

So what to counteract such darkness?

Just thought I'd share Tim's perspective for once.  He's spent the last four weeks tiptoeing around my death-versary-wakened trauma symptoms, after all.  Sometimes, I soak up his help when I need it so desperately that I forget he is grieving, too.  What does that look like, you ask?

I've learned to listen carefully for the rare jewels the males in my family offer up about our girl.  More importantly, I've learned to watch their actions.  I spent the week of the fifth making art, writing, looking at pictures, and listening to songs that I seldom open myself up to.  I remember thinking maybe I would read through her journals, but being afraid it would hurt too much and suddenly realizing that's probably how Jacob feels all the time and why he seldom speaks of her.

So Tim, what did he do?  He ran errands.  He made sure there were groceries.  He picked up dinner more nights than I'd like to admit.  There was no way in hell I was standing in front of my cutting board at the counter that week, that was for sure, head half cocked for a knock at the door.  And in the midst of all these household duties, while I slept or medicated or drank coffee with my headphones on for hours at a time staring into a time when my daughter was within arms' reach, he snuck out to the cemetery.  He never told me he was going until afterwards.  He made three trips in total.  He spent hours knelt down beside her monument, scrub brush in hand, meticulously scrubbing it, taking the time to get the bristles deep inside every letter etched into the stone.  He pulled the weeds.  He made it look cared for.  When he was finished, he suggested we drive out to see her, the three of us, and waited to see if I noticed, which I did, the letters stood out against the stone beautifully.  He told me how long it took him and the lump came without warning to my throat.  "I wanted to make it right for her."

Then tonight, he and Jake were up in her room replacing a pane of glass that had cracked in her window.  When he finished he stood in the doorway of our bedroom and said, "I looked up there and it was just like it used to be.  I could almost see her in the window like she'd be in the summer when I got home after work.  'Hey, Dad!  Did you just get off work?  How's it going?'  And I'd say, 'Hey, Cory!  What are you still doing up?'  He smiled and laid a finger to his lips, and she'd say, 'Shhh!  Don't tell Mom!'"

He chuckled sadly.  I really didn't know a chuckle could be sad until we lost Cory.  He turned away but not before I saw  his eyes and in them was all his grief, all his love, and all the stories he hasn't yet shared.

I know some people say the secret to success in life is simply showing up.  I can tell you this much.  Being a father, being a dad...it's more than showing up.  It's what you do when you're there.

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.