Her Name Was Cory

 I ordered a new Cory picture necklace recently and eager for its arrival, showed it to a couple of friends today.  I am super excited because pictures of my girl are my favorite possessions on earth (even above footwear) and I haven't bought a picture necklace in well...I couldn't quite remember when, so I looked it up.  I haven't purchased a Cory necklace since 2015.  (Let's just commend my consumer restraint here and not look in my jewelry closet that is crammed full of the ones I ordered from years 2012-2015, if you please).

Here's the thing.  It feels different.  My reason for buying it feels different.  My anticipation of its arrival feels different.  I wonder if wearing it will, too?

You have to understand that when I stumbled on this little photo jewelry website, I was so raw. It had been a handful of weeks since I buried her.   I was desperate for anything of hers, like her, or literally made in her image to hold onto it.  I was drowning everyday.  It felt like every moment that I didn't relive the sequence of that awful day to figure out how to make it untrue, I was failing her again.  

I found that little web shop and went to work ordering picture jewelry like it was my full time job.  And maybe it was.  The idea of going back to work, into the community, around people, without her and knowing she was dead and that everyone knew...it was the oddest mix of vulnerability and shame.  Yes, yes, guys, I know (eight years later- most days- I know), I had nothing to be ashamed off.  It was a horrendous, horrific fluke accident that I could not have prevented.  But then?  Oh no.   I could barely lift my head from the ground she was buried in, I was that ashamed.  You know how kids will joke about their parents screwing them up as children and the parent will raise a sardonic eyebrow, full on Mr. Chow-from-The-Hangover style and quip, "But did you die?"?  I would never have that luxury.  My child had indeed died and I had failed the most basic mission of parenthood:  sustaining and protecting life.

So I ordered a handful (or more, let's be honest here) of beautiful Cory photo necklaces and bracelets.  Those first few weeks, I approached each work day as I approached her funeral- I suited up for war.  They were my armor.  Not only were those pieces of jewelry my touchstones, but I also had the choice each day of which to wear.  And CHOICE in a time when I felt I had no control of anything in my life...that was a magical thing.

What I didn't realize then than I know now is those comfort objects were the most important transition objects of the most difficult transition I would likely face in my lifetime:  the transition of living in a world in which my child was alive to living in one in which she was dead.  Not passed away, not in a better place, nothing fluffy or fancy...just dead.  I had to figure out how to mentally digest that.  That was a huge, previously unfathomable task, as I assume it is for every parent who has never lost a child- to understand that my child was dead and I would never see her again on this earth.  And after I understood it, really knew it was permanent, I had to figure out to cope with it.  Those pieces of jewelry were with me through the whole mess.

I'll never forget the brash, exotically beautiful Italian woman on the night train to Venice who exclaimed over Cory's beauty when shown a picture of her, offered her sincere condolences, but scoffed at my idea of needing to carry something so she would always be with me.  Turns out she was right.  My little hoarder's heart would never have believed her back then.  Guess what?  I do now.

On a rough day, there is still tactile comfort in touching the mold of her fingerprint around my neck or looking down to my wrist to see her smiling up at me as I type.  But, Cory?  Cory is embodied within my soul and no amount of jewelry can ever compete with that.  I don't need them, but, man, they bring me so much joy.  

This new necklace that has my heart all flutter?  I'm not desperate for it to preserve my bond with her or keep her face fresh in my mind.  I was desperate then...wild eyed and barely surviving.  The pain is still my faithful companion and some days, it's just as fresh and runs just as deep.  But her face leaving my mind?  No, it won't stop until my heartbeat does.  

However, I sometimes forget I'm wearing a Cory necklace until someone comments on it.  What a gift it is when that happens!  I think that's something people don't realize about bereaved parents- we're so damn proud of our children, we could just explode!  We wait patiently for the socially acceptable time to gently fold them into an everyday conversation just to relish the way their name feels on our lips.  We try not to make it weird by talking about them too much, which makes some people uncomfortable, but when everyone is going all full bore Chatty Cathy about their live kids' accomplishments, we want to get right in there and crow about our babies, too.  They deserve it!  It's such a difficult tightrope to walk.  

 I never feel weird about talking about Jake's Covid-interrupted high school graduation or his burgeoning romance and as time goes on, I hope to boast about so many other milestones of his, both large and small, but I always feel a little greedy to take up people's time to boast about my child who is no longer alive. It feels like you're putting your audience out or unintentionally shifting the mood of the room into something that is no longer happy/pleasant/light/victorious.   Part of it is that I have less to work with as milestones go...19 years is a short life, and that dirty thief, mental illness, didn't do us any favors.   Not to mention if the people I'm talking to  know me at all, they've already heard my Cory stories...a few times over.

 No one likes Ground Hog's Day conversations.  I get it.  But guys, it's all I have. And she WAS successful and her story IS victorious in so many important ways. So I'm not gonna stop.  

It's impossible to work into a typical everyday exchange all the things that made her such an incredible human being.  But any shot I get to talk about her girly meets edgy fashion sense, her quick witted humor, a silly tradition we had, or even a song she liked and, buddy, I'm taking that swing.

Who knows?  This new necklace, a gorgeous little conversation piece, may just get me a few more of those chances.

Her name was Cory.  She is loved.

A Different Sort of Fourth of July

One thing that happens every year around this time, in addition to a ramp up in flashbacks and nightmares, is that I give myself a brutal self-evaluation as Cory's mother (i.e. rake myself over the coals, doubt myself, and generally come up short since she did, in fact, die).

Is this healthy?  Not so much, so of course, I have tried to avoid this through many different means but it always catches up with me sooner or later, so instead I've taken to writing down some of my harsher criticisms and doing some reality checking.  Is that what really happened?  Were there better options at the time?  What good things did I do?

One of the actions I've wrestled most with is allowing Bob back into Cory's life.  It certainly caused her more stress.  Did it possibly trigger her illness?  Did being around him harm or help her?  What did she gain in the short term? In the long term?  Did my giving him another chance set a bad example?  Did my leaving him set a good example?  What did I model for her?

It's funny these questions came to me today on the Fourth of July.  Being an introvert, it's a holiday I've never fully embraced.  Crowds?  No, thank you.  Being outdoors?  Meh.  Fireworks?  They're ok, but I could take them or leave them.  Since Cory's accident, I just don't mess with the fourth, at all.  Jake is equally unimpressed with the whole thing so it hasn't been an issue for our family.

Today, I remembered the Fourth of July that Cory and I spent with her birth father after he came back into our lives.  Jake was at Tim's for the holiday and so Cory and I watched the fireworks with Bob at one of his family's houses.  It was very likely the first real holiday he'd ever spent with her.  Sitting side by side sprawled out on lawn chairs, I remember watching her face lit up with the different colors of the night.  She was so incredibly beautiful at that age, like a tiny fairy with enormous eyes.  Her face was poised between childhood and the young woman she would become.   I remember noticing that a lot of the time her gaze was not on the sky but on Bob, watching him as he watched the fireworks with a non-alcoholic beer held loosely in one hand.  She studied his face the way I imagine you would if you were a child who had never known the other half of yourself and no idea when they might stop being part of your life.  She was memorizing him.

We had a good time that night.  I remember most our mingled laughter and sheer hope...hope that things would go well this time for all of us.  He wasn't drinking so that was a great first step.  Could he acclimate to being a father?  Could he handle the responsibility?  The thing that I couldn't help but notice is that Cory wasn't yet be herself around him.  Even when pressed, she wouldn't sing her Independence Day song she'd made up when she was 6.  But then again, they were for all intents and purposes, acquaintances.  It would take time, I told myself.

Long story short, his soberness and stability did not pan out over the long haul.  His mental instabilities rubbed up against Cory's. While he expected a full do-over, she was no one's do-over.  Being in her life would come with whatever she wanted to dole out.  He could own it and move forward or she would revoke her invitation.  Guess which option he chose most often? 
 There came a point when it was not in her best interest to spend time with him.  And eventually, it became clear that I had led us, along with Jake, back into a hopeless situation.

So here's the question I have to ask myself:  am I sorry?

Man, such a catch-22.
If spending time with him actually caused her illness, I would say 'yes'.  But I do not believe that getting to know produced her mental illness.  I believe her mental illness, with its genetic predisposition, surfaced during major life stressors...and easily could have, and likely would have, surfaced even if those stressors were different, such as losing a grandparent or Tim and I finalizing our divorce.

Did I have other options?  Sure, I could've refused to let her see him.  I could've closed my heart to him, as well.
Then, I ask, much as Dr. Z. did many years ago, what would have happened next?  How would she have felt about me if I had denied her the opportunity to get to know him for herself?  What would I have done next?  Would I still be the person I am today?

The things I don't regret at all are the good memories that were made (there were some, you know, that make me smile and giggle to this day) and what she was able to learn about herself.  No wonder she was so fricking funny!  No wonder she loved to sing and had an artistic side.  Guess what?  She actually looked like her mom AND her birth father.  Those Flintstone feet sure as hell weren't mine.

In the short term, she had the chance to get to know him and decide what she thought about him without my grievances clouding her judgment.  She got to see his strengths and his weaknesses in full.  She got to see his good heart underneath a lot of his less desirable behaviors.  She got to see his intelligence and charm.  She was able to see firsthand why I loved him in the first place and she knew without a doubt that she had come into being from two people's love for each other. 

In the long term, she was also able to see his addiction, and she told me herself how that shaped her thoughts about drugs and alcohol.  Even if that were the only take away from getting to see him, it's a big enough one for me to be able to sleep at night.  There's a couple of reasons my girl didn't turn to substances to cope with her symptoms.  While I think getting her into treatment early was one, I have no doubt that watching the decisions Bob made because of his addictions was the other.  She wanted to be nothing like him in that regard.  The last thing she wanted was a dual diagnosis.  She had plenty on her plate as it was.

And well, I know my Cory Girl.  Had I told her she couldn't see him, she'd have packed a bag and left in the middle of the night.  She was the same girl who had to find things out for herself, just like the time she licked an iron handrail in the dead of winter after Tim told her not to because her tongue would get stuck.  It might have hurt, but at least she no longer wondered.

As for me and my willingness to give him another chance?  Well, I won't bore you with the statistics, but I'm not such an anomaly.  Unless you've actually been in a relationship like that, it's hard to understand how and why women go back.  I will say that I exceeded the standard 7 times for sure and that even after Cory's accident, I dreaded telling him what had happened because I was certain he would blame me.  Completely non-nonsensical thinking- at that point there was no reason for me to value his opinion-  but also not so far off, since he did end up blaming me for her death.

  In full disclosure, I can be pretty stubborn myself.  Someone close to me told me I'm stubborn this last week and I was appalled, lol.  I like to fancy myself as committed to my beliefs and knowing my own mind.  I think I'm pretty damn flexible to boot.  Writing this today, I had to laugh at myself.  I can't think of a single person in my life, besides Cory and perhaps his mother, who thought giving Bob another chance was a good idea, but I wouldn't listen to any of them.  Am I sorry?  No, actually I'm not.  I have some amazing memories alongside the bad ones.  In the end, I came out stronger.  I know what I deserve.  I know what I won't tolerate.  I know I can do things on my own, if need be.  And hey, it might have hurt, but at least I no longer wondered.

Knowing your worth...knowing your deal-breakers...knowing you can recover from mistakes or lapses in judgment...knowing you can be self-sufficient...those are the things I hope Cory sifted out of the whole mess.  I hope she held those things up and looked them over at night.  I hope she saw me as strong and realized she could be strong, too.  I hope the lesson she took is that it's possible to rebuild from heartache, family dynamics, mental illness...all of it.

I'm sure I made lots of mistakes being Cory's mom. All parents do.   But I'm positive I did lots of things right, too.

The proof was in the amazing girl who died on July 5, 2012.  She was stronger than I'd ever imagined.  She was funny, kind, and sweet.  She was smart and thoughtful; mature and insightful.  She was passionate and stubborn.  She had a knack for accessorizing that I'll never be able to duplicate.  Her laughter was contagious.  She was quick to forgive, but had learned to set healthy boundaries.  She knew how to love.  She knew what love was and what it wasn't.

  She inspired me to keep going even when I want to give up.  She showed me how to do unimaginably hard things.  She made the world better just by being here.
So all things considered, maybe I did a pretty good job, after all.  Happy fourth, Cory Girl.

A Few Words From Jacob

It's sort of a somber count down party of one in my household as her death date approaches.  Tim doesn't talk about it at all and doesn't make time to visit the cemetery.  His escape, if she's on his mind, is the same as with  all other situations:  copious amounts of sleep.

 I checked in with Jake the other night while making dinner.  I asked him if the date approaching caused him stress.  His answer surprised me a little, but thinking it over today while leaving the cemetery, it was also completely Jacob:  calm, logical, and loving.

"Jake, how are you feeling about the fifth coming up?  Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.", he reassured me.   "I mean, it's sort of an arbitrary date for me."

Forcing myself not to bristle at "arbitrary" since the date holds such significance to me, I continued filling my pot with water and paused.  In my mind, I was wondering how that date didn't just set him on fire the way it does me, but I reminded myself that he wasn't at the scene. (Thank goodness!)  Sometimes because that experience has impacted me so much, I forget that no one I know or love was with me when I found her or when they told me she was gone.  I somehow automatically include the people that have supported me throughout the years, assuming they have the same memories that I do, when I should be so grateful they do not. 

 I reminded myself that although he has talked about remembering vividly the moment I got on my knees in our dining room to tell him Cory didn't make it nearly eight years ago, he was only ten years old, shocked, frightened, and unable to fully process what had just happened.  His perspective as a child would and should be completely different. 

Not looking directly at him (a strategy I've learned over the years puts him more at ease to open up),  I invited, "Yeah?  Tell me more."

He responded that Cory's presence and absence in his life is constant and static.  For him, there is not much of an ebb and flow.  She is always with him and she is always missing.  He has adapted the best he can.  "There's not much else I can do, but love her."

We continued moving around each other in the kitchen as we prepared our food, joking around and asking Alexa to play our favorite songs.  A couple of beats later, he volunteered, "It's only really hard for me because it's so hard on you."

At this point, he puts his arm around my shoulder and draws me close, which is precious because of its rarity. He is a reserved soul. Finding myself still surprised to have to look up at him now that he's taller than me, I responded, "I hope I don't cause you to worry."

He answered, "No, I wouldn't say worry.  But when you're really sad, it makes me sad, too, cause I love you."

And that is Jacob.  We ate our dinner and nothing more on the topic was said.  He is quiet, but steady in his love and compassion. 

Tonight or tomorrow we'll  either visit the cemetery together or he'll accompany me to the road, a place I only visit twice a year.  He will be the same at either of her spots- respectful, supportive, and steadfast. Our little family of three triangle from so many years ago will come together again.  I hope Cory can somehow see the man her little brother is turning out to be...how I wish they knew each other now.

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.