Survivor

Who actually loses weight over the holidays?  This girl right here.  It was evident in the way I didn't need to shimmy into my skinny jeans today, but just simply slid them on, and said hello to my hipbones as I did so.  Frickin HATE the holidays now.  The whole season is nothing more than a giant magnifying glass to me.  It hurts everyday.  It's lonely everyday.  But on these special days meant to be shared with your loved ones, it is anguish.  I tried my best to sleep through the majority of the worst 48 hours, and did a fairly good job.  Thank you, Trazodone.  You are a true friend.

By the time Christmas Eve came around, I had already giving up on eating and bathing, resigning myself to a single pair of mismatched pajamas and greasy hair.

 Hey, at first, I tried...I went out and got the absolute bare necessities needed for Jake's Christmas, and even attempted to cozy up to my husband for comfort.  When I recognized myself as  Mrs. Roper from Three's Company prancing around in her marabou feather nightie to Mr. Roper's constant indifference and annoyance, I threw in the towel.  Every time I so much as looked in Tim's direction, he shrank from my gaze, and began to look put-upon, as if I'd asked him to go install a garbage disposal or put up a set of shelves during his leisure time.

 I am no one's job.  I took my freshly shaved legs and retreated. 

Bargaining

I stand here, at the gate, at the door, at the barrier, rapping my knuckles against the stone until they come away bloody.  If I just keep at it, if I don't give up, if I persevere...surely, someone will answer me?  I just have to prove myself.  If I am loud enough, if I am tireless in my requests, if I refuse to leave my post, won't someone answer me? 

After all this time, have I simply swapped my position- horizontal for vertical-not an inch away from that woman who put her nose to the asphalt and screamed like an animal? 

I look down at my feet, as I continue to knock, planning what to say if I am answered.  What can I offer?  What do I have that would make a difference to anyone?  My belongings?  My soul?  My body?  I will give everything I have for one more moment, just one.  I won't be greedy.  Please answer.

Around me, on the ground, all the discarded calendar pages that mark the days of hell drift like snow.  All the paper and paint, my renderings and words so much fluff compared to this one undeniable need to see her face.  It never leaves my mind.

No one else understands the feeling of being trapped in time.  Or the sense of failure, not just to have let her go, in the first place, but to be stuck at this place as everyone else around me moves forward, smiling expectingly...come on, Nick, let's walk this way, okay?

Don't they know I can't?  I can't take one willful step away from her no matter what it costs.

I am the one you pity at the fancy restaurant who doesn't know what to do with the steamed lemon-scented napkin that is brought to you.  Everyone smiles with a mixture of compassion and amusement and demonstrates for my slow, addled brain, but I just sit there, frozen, with the hot towel in my hands and begin to wipe the table around my place setting.  The waiter looks on, embarrassed.  My cheeks burn with humiliation, but I clean the table the best I can.  It's all I know to do.

A Harsh Truth

A man who truly wants to save his marriage does not argue his point while eating pork rinds.

That is all.

The Cheese Stands Alone

There is no "right" way to grieve; there is only your way.  I know this.  I do.  But regardless, I search for someone who, at any one point in time, may be feeling what I'm feeling.  It is understanding that I crave.  And there is that unspoken social expectation to handle your grief in a certain way.  There's no denying that some feelings are simply more accepted than others.

I recently found this out when I shared the story of Cory with a handful of strangers.  One woman piped up, eager to tell me that she felt worse for the driver than she did for my daughter.  There aren't many things that can put me at a loss for words, but honey, that was one.  I just gaped.

She hurried to add, "Well, you know what I mean.  I mean your daughter is at peace and this poor woman has to live with what happened every day of her life."

Don't we all have to live with our actions?  Frantically, I glanced around me, certain I was the subject of a prank, and there must be a tv crew somewhere to record this exercise in poor taste.

I mumbled that I would keep my opinion on that one to myself, and turned away from her, but she pressed on, "I'm sure that lady's life has never been the same, you know?"

And up from the fiery depths of my heart came a blast missile, shooting up and out of my mouth, as the blood still rushed to my face, "Yeah, well, I look at it this way- that 65 year old woman had 65 years.  She had time to go to school, to get a job, to get married, to have children, to have grandchildren.  My daughter will never have any of that...so sorry if I don't pity the driver who took my child's life."

As soon as I'd said it, I felt eyes on me, judging my capacity for human compassion.  I struggled to throw out, "You know, I'm sure she's had a rough time, too, but... she is still alive.  ALIVE."

The driver's advocate looked at me, every bit as puzzled by my response as I'd been by her original statement.  We regarded each other dubiously.  I thought to myself, she's obviously never lost a child.  And she may have thought to herself, she's obviously never struck anyone fatally with her vehicle.  We were at an impasse.

Driving home later, I questioned myself, why shouldn't I be angry?  Whether what happened was intentional or not hardly mattered to my heart.   Cory's death was an injustice.  And furthermore, most accidents can be prevented with a hearty dose of caution.

Did people not realize this was my second go-round with the life-sucking five stages of  grief?  I was still in the process of accepting the fact that my daughter had a life long mental illness that impaired her ability to do many things when the accident happened in the first place.  To get through all of that only to reach the road as a conclusion was beyond insult to injury.

The next couple of days, I wracked my brain trying to remember who had been angry when it happened, or since then.  I even went to a few loved ones to ask where they stood with their feelings towards the driver, the police, God.  My findings were as inconsistent as the rest of this whole mess. 

The ones who held a seething resentment or a fierce desire for justice were the ones who'd been most closely enmeshed in Cory's life.  This led me to wonder if the intensity of your anger when you're grieving is equal to the intensity of your love for the one who died.  It was a thought that balanced a scale in my mind, something I have never needed as much as I need it now.  I need things to make sense.  I remembered a lovely quote I'd read about grief, "The joy you had then is the pain you have now.  That's the price."  C.S. Lewis, perhaps? 

It all made sense to me until I asked my father.  If he was angry, or had been angry, maybe there could be order in my world.  But asking my dad to harbor ill feelings towards someone is like asking Mother Theresa to go t.p. someone's house with you.  It's just not gonna happen.  He spoke instead of Cory being in a better place, whole and no longer frightened.

I trudged out to my car with his gentle words ringing in my ears, feeling like the worst sort of person.  Try as I might, I just couldn't be that good of a person.  I am mad as hell.  I seethe; I simmer; I boil.  It disturbs my sleep.  It affects my appetite.  People have questioned if the anger is towards the driver, the cops, myself, or just the fact that it happened at all...that I couldn't prevent it or change it.  Yes, yes, yes! Yes to one, and yes to all.

How I dream of waking up one day, and if not being able to see Cory walk through my bedroom door, could at least a Mark Wahlberg from The Lovely Bones or a Liam Neelson from Taken come in and just rant to me, outlining his plan to go after the person who harmed his baby?  Rant!  Rave!  Be a DAD. 

I've seen both Cory's stepfather and her biological father lose their tempers over the most inconsequential day to day disappointments, but kill off Cory, and they contain themselves like old biddies at a tea party.  I get to look like the loose canon.  I get to be the immature one.  I get to fantasize alone about avenging Cory's death.

You know what, boys, that's fine.  It's actually more than fine.  I did everything else by myself, why not damage control, as well.

  Am I bitter?  You're damn right, I am.  I've read that men who lose a child often react in anger and guilt, their need to be the protector of the family driving their emotions.  Well, folks, there were years when I was both mother and father to Cory, so I guess this is the fall out.  I will feel anger and harbor the irrational wishes for revenge.  I will take on the guilt that I couldn't protect her, that I wasn't there.  And why so passionately?  Because I was the one who always was!

And my helplessness makes me furious.  Whether I have to break plates or scream into pillows, I will not deny my anger.  It is part of the process, and pushing it down won't help me get any further.  I may have to take up chopping wood before it's all said and done, but I refuse to suppress my true feelings because it doesn't sound nice or look nice or fit the part of the graceful grieving mother.

Anger isn't a bad thing.  It's how you express it that counts.  That's what I always told Cory.  I'll never forget watching the truly horrendous remake of Footloose with her, and how we giggled over the solo dance scene in the warehouse where the guy dances his anger out.  Cory was so tickled, she could hardly speak through her laughter, "That's it, Mom.  That's my new go-to right there.  The next time I start to lose it, I'm just gonna....dance...it...out!" She stomped down one foot, put her nose in the air, and mimed swinging off of a pipe. We cracked up.

Don't worry, readers, I'm not gonna form a posse to go set the driver on fire where she stands.  But I might write some strongly worded posts from time to time.  And just for you, Cory Girl...I'm watching that movie this weekend...there may be some moves I need to learn.

Santa Paws

When I asked Jacob if he thought the reason he wasn't talking about his feelings about losing Cory was because she was the one he often talked to about things that bothered him, he answered immediately,  "Mom!  That is a good thought."

"Oh hey, Jake, guess what else I thought about?  It's a good thing." 

"What?"

"Do you remember how Cory was the one who started doing voices for the pets, making Church talk and be silly?"  I asked.


"Yeah."

"We are carrying that on when we make the kittens talk to each other and pretend."  I said.

"OH!!!  Yeah, Mom, we are.  Cory would think that was so cool."  He said, saying his sister's name with a big smile.

I stopped the discussion there, thrilled.


The next couple days, I tried to figure out how we were going to handle Christmas.  We still have no tree up, or any acknowledgement of the holiday season.  Everyone says we have to at least put a tree up for Jake, who seems just as melancholy as the rest of us, and I suspect only wants his haul delivered at his feet, so he can avoid the pain of walking into the living room alone to see what Santa left.

I heard him talking to the kittens the other day after how the whole Santa thing worked.  (Sidenote here:  If you are a child living in my house, you will go along with the Santa thing until you are at least 26, just get on board).  "You put up a tree, you leave your stocking out, and if you've been good, Santa will bring you surprises."

At this point, he switched over to his "Lucas the kitten" voice to ask anxiously, what if you haven't been good everyday?  What if you try, but tend to get in trouble because you like getting into things?

Jake reassured his young feline charge that Santa Paws could see into your kitten heart, and knew if you were really a good boy.  The important thing was to keep trying.

Jacob is quite taken with his kittens which were gotten after Church and Sassy passed away.   These fur-siblings have brought him more comfort than any of us humans put together.  He wants them with him all the time, carrying them from room to room, watching movies with him, sneaking them a French fry, and placing them on the bathmat while he showers.  Jacob want no part of being the only child, and it's been a lonely role for him.

I remember how he looked last Christmas, excited, sure, but equally miserable  to see his gifts sitting under the tree, as sad as any single pile of gaily wrapped packages can be.

I think I'd like to ease that pain for him.  This year, Santa Paws will be making a surprise stop at our house.  He will leave some inexpensive treats- soft cat food, toy mice, new collars, and the like.  And of course, something extra special for our canine little old man of the hour, Gizmo.

I think that just might bring a smile to Jacob's face that will last the whole day.  And Cory would've been all over it.

That Boy

One of the questions at the Western class was how has the loss of Cory changed my relationship with Jacob.  Once there, I opened to my mouth to say what I had been prepared to say- that I didn't even notice Jake was in the room for at least three months after the accident, that I distanced myself from him as a protective measure against future pain (maybe even to some degree to this day), and that I have become an extremely inconsistent and permissive parent...you can have anything you want, just please don't die.

While all those things are true, I also worked this out in my answer to the class.  I've been trying, consciously or subconsciously, to make Jacob to fill Cory's role in my life.  Cory was many things to me:  a daughter, a friend, a junior co-parent.  We held many of the same interests.  We had nearly twenty years of history. 

What it came down to was this:  if I expected the frizzy haired older woman back on the Urbandale playground to understand that telling me I had "one child still alive, so that's ok" was a horrible thing to say because I couldn't be Jake's sister anymore than he could be my daughter, then shouldn't I practice what I preach?

  It was unfair, and edging on psychologically harmful for me to poke and prod at Jacob to spend time with me doing things that Cory and I did, and to make him turn away from his personality in any way to fit into someone else's shoes.  I took every rebuff he doled out as "he doesn't love me like Cory did" instead of realizing I was asking him to be my Cory Girl, something he could never be, and something that shouldn't be asked of him.  Wow, what have I been doing to my child?


Yesterday morning, something else hit me.  No wonder he wasn't sharing his innermost feelings about the loss of his sister; with whom did he share all his secrets?  Cory.  Whatever secrets a young boy may have had were spilled out on the trek home from Urbandale Elementary to our house when Cory walked him home from school each day. 

Weren't they allies, afterall?  Even siblings that don't get along have a lifelong bond just from being the hostages to fortune of their parent's life decisions.  And Jacob and Cory did get along, amazingly so.  Not only had Jake lost his big sister, he'd lost the witness to his childhood.  Any stories he couldn't quite remember the details of, that were just between them, were now gone, just as she was.  When he is an adult, he will have no one to help him give testament about how his parents did everything wrong, and ruined his life. 

I thought about this, and just ached for my boy.  The one person he was most likely to open up to about how he was feeling was the person who had died.

What I feel so strongly coming from Cory is this:  It's okay, Mom.  Everybody makes mistakes.  But now that you know what you did wrong, what are you going to do different from now on?  Jacob needs you, and he is growing up so fast.  I just look at him and can't stop smiling...that boy!

More Smile Than Face

I smiled yesterday, and I actually meant it.  I smile a handful of times throughout the average day.  Social norms require this token gesture.  But if a person looked closely, they would see a mere reflex, practically involuntary and mostly thanks to muscle memory.  You can always tell if a smile is genuine by searching the eyes.  Often in mine, there is no one home or a "do not disturb" sign, cream in color with an understated green cursive font has been hung to discourage interlopers.

So, yesterday...here's what happened:

I was asked by a colleague to come speak at a class he was teaching at a local university.  The topic was a mix of the experience of raising a child with a mental illness and how a family reorganizes after a significant loss.  I didn't say yes right away.  I wavered back and forth between wanting to honor Cory's memory by helping in any way I could, and fearing I break down, be unable to answer questions adequately, or somehow be judged by strangers and a valued colleague for some of the choices I've made.

The second time I was asked, I agreed- writing it in my journal as a positive goal.  When the day approached, I debated taking my anti-diarrhea meds, as public speaking of any kind drives my anxiety through the roof.  I sat, with the tiny pills in the palm of my hand, and considered...should I be nervous?  I knew Cory better than anyone.  I've sat cheek and jowl with this grief madness for what feels like a lifetime.  What question would I not be able to answer?  And as far as judgment went, there was this:  I made the best decisions I could with the information available to me at the time.  Everyone makes mistakes- otherwise, how would we ever learn anything?

I put the pills back in the little bird pill case I'd stuffed into Cory's stocking on our last Christmas together, and decided to brave it sans meds.  I did, however, enlist a co-worker to go with me.  She was a Godsend as she chattered with me on the highway, and as we waited for the class to assemble once we'd arrived.

I'd had a good arrival, hearing a college girl behind me as we entered the building say, "Oh my God, I love her Vera bag!"  I grinned, dying to go back and tell my niece and my nephew's fiancé that they were completely and utterly mistaken...Vera Bradley is not just for old ladies, thank you very much.  This was reinforced as I spotted a couple of Vera totes and bags as the students walked into class.  I had lost a lot this last year and some odd months, but apparently not my figurative finger on the pulse of designer hand bags.  (Inward grin here).

I may have been nervous introducing myself and giving some background information, but once the questions started in a semi-circle around the room, I was lost to the joy of talking about my girl.  Some of it was difficult, and while I avoided a complete crying jag, there were some tears.  The thing was:  it was okay.  These young women and one young man were kind and respectful.  I quickly warmed to my audience and began to feel like I should lean back in my seat, and have a giant cup of coffee while we conversed.

Part of the interview process was to inquire about how I received new of my daughter's death.  That memory is always so close, so near, and so harrowing.  It hurt to tell of the worst experience of my life, but it also felt cathartic to be able to share whatever I felt comfortable sharing, not having to watch someone became uncomfortable with the raw details, changing the subject quickly, or worse- to see someone's back as they left the room.  The response I've gotten when I try to talk about it with my husband is, "Oh you don't need to talk about that."  I disagree.  Vehemently.  I think the story has to be told, in all of its horror, many times for the person to be able to take in such trauma and manage to someday integrate into their life's experiences...hopefully moving it from their short term memory to long.

The questions were, pleasantly, not that hard to answer.  It seemed my blog had not only kept me alive, but had also helped me recognize some of the issues that come up when you try to regroup yourself and your relationships with others after the loss of a child.

Once all the questions were over, there was a bit of a show and tell, as Cory's artwork, the newspaper articles, and my art journal were sent around the room.  I was beyond tickled to hear many of them saying they loved my artwork.  I am still not confident calling myself an artist, and have a long way to go before I produce anything exceptional.  I look at my drawings and painting, and they stir deep feelings for me.  I had not yet realized they might possibly cause other people to feel things, too. 

As I talked with students about the memorial jewelry I'd had made, they wanted to see what I was talking about.  Excited, I stripped off my bracelets and necklaces, eager to share one of ways I keep my girl close at all times.  As I explained to a very kind woman, "I've found out that not only do I like to look at them, but people will ask about them- and I get to say Cory's name and share her story."

One of the group's final questions was, "How has your outlook on life changed?"

There's one answer that didn't just fall right out of my mouth.  I hesitated, leery to tell these bright, shiny young faces that despite all the grief work, all the therapy, and all the meds, I still wanted to be dead more than I wanted to be alive.  Dare I say something so negative to people getting ready to embark on careers devoted to helping people better their situations?  In my mind, this thought pulsed, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.

I told them that I was not a huge lover of life right now.  My struggle is getting to a point where there are more good days than bad.  A lot of times I still do not want to be here.

I paused, and before I even thought about it, this popped out of my mouth, "But I'm trying.  Everyday.  And I'm going to keep trying."

My friend, Adrianne, told me later that was her favorite part, and that she's never heard that come out of my mouth before.  My response?  "I know!  Where the hell did that come from?"

She responded that it came from the truth, that underneath it all that's how I really feel.  I considered this, while wondering if Cory hadn't wanted to get a word in herself, and those were the ones she chose.  Crazy?  Maybe, but I was not the only person who felt her in the room with us.  Whatever the source, I felt it was a fitting statement for the mother of a brave girl whose epitaph will read, "Never, ever, ever, ever give up."

As we prepared to leave, my colleague asked me what was next, did I have future plans to keep Cory's memory alive?  I responded that I'd love to someday turn my blog into a book; I'd love to someday see Cory's and my artwork hanging together on display, and I would love to return to see Italy.

Say what?!  Somehow, this man and this group had gotten  long-term goals out of me- something I hadn't though of in quite a while as I paddled around in despair on the daily.

I looked around the room as I gathered up my things, tilting my head to the side, bittersweet, as I took in the faces of the young people who looked so young that I suddenly felt about a thousand, give or take a decade.  In another life, Cory might be sitting among them, smiling and chatting with her classmates, eager to learn and get on with the business of helping people, because that's what she liked to do.  And if you make your living doing what you love, you'll never work a day in your life.  These students were in their early to mid twenties.  Later that night, at home, working in my art journal, I would do the math on a scrap of paper to discover Cory would be 20 years 9 months and 9 days if she were alive...perhaps a year or two away from being part of that group.  It was almost enough to put my head on the table.  But then...

I remembered how I felt knowing that these people might someday remember a lady who came to their class to talk about her daughter, and that Cory might be remembered by people she'd never even met.  I remembered thinking that perhaps, in some small way, I might have helped people who would soon be working with families to better understand things from a client's perspective. 

Cory, are you proud of me?

I hoped so, and as I walked out the door, I had "more smile than face", as someone who is a great comfort to me often says. 

Love you, Cory-Girl.  Always, always, always.

The Blame Game

The day after Thanksgiving, my dog, Gizmo, and I laid in bed until five p.m. before finally catching each other's eye, disgusted with ourselves.  Perhaps I should have taken the hint when my cat looked down at my lack of grooming, and took the task on himself, as if to say, "If you're not going to do anything about this, I guess I'll give it a shot- but I'm no miracle worker, lady."  You have to love him for trying.

I had been awake off and on throughout the day, you understand.  But depression had settled further onto my limbs while I slept as if someone had covered my sleeping form with a blanket of bricks.  Move?  Why?  All I wanted was Cory, and she wasn't here.

 The last few days I had good intentions- maybe I'll take Gizmo for a walk, maybe I'll go for Chinese, maybe I'll make beef stew- but in the end, my bed beckoned and was not to be denied.  So there I laid in a place that was soft and warm- really the only comfort available.  Thoughts swirled- both good memories and reluctant trips down It's All Your Fault lane. 

I know I professed to have changed my thinking on the fault business when I returned from Italy.  That was a valiant effort, but didn't last.  The brain is pattern seeking, right?  It seems I will relentlessly look for a reason and the person to blame, even to my own detriment.  Over the last couple days I've blamed everyone from the driver to The Pioneer Woman who cooks on Food Network before circling back to myself.

The Pioneer Woman, you ask dubiously.  Yes.  For a brief moment in time, I blamed her just because she inspired the great spring/summer stock up of 2012.  She did a show on her pantry/freezer, and when I set my eyes upon all the duplicate spices, canned goods, dried goods, and frozen items, my anxiety piped up excitedly, "Oh my God, we've simply got to do that!  It would make me feel so good." 

Never mind the fact that this woman has much more income than I do.  I was determined to stock up, preventing last minute trips to the store, and saving money in the process.  As always, I went slightly overboard, not only stocking up on food, but also household cleaners, paper goods, and pet food.  It was to the point that Tim got into the act, planning a remodel of the spare room downstairs to turn it into a stockroom of sorts.  Sadly, this, as all his other projects born in the fever of hypomania, never quite came to fruitation.

Once the progam year ended at work and unemployment pay began, I found it a little more difficult to keep up on my overdone and endless stocking.  There just wasn't the funds to support it.  I went back to getting only what I needed at the moment, paying whatever price was being asked.  Somewhere, along the way, the chili powder was overlooked...and well, you know the rest.

How does this make The Pioneer Woman responsible?  It obviously doesn't.  She encouraged limited trips to the store and buying things on sale, not sending your daughter out to get hit by an SUV.  Last night, as I lay in bed, medicated but unable to sleep, putting one hand over my face as if I could hold back the images of Cory laid out on the road, knocked out of her shoes, and part of her hair trapped in a stranger's windshield, I entered a truly evil thought pattern.

I started thinking that Cory and I always let each other know when we ran out of something.  She was in on the stock up, you see.  Jacob was not old enough to cook without supervision.  So who did that leave? 

Shit.  That day when I called out, annoyed, that I would need to go to the store, and who used all the chili powder without saying anything, Cory said, "Probably Dad.  You know he makes all kinds of weird stuff to take to work."

Yes, he does- strange rice concoctions with a cube bouillon base and smattered with some spice over the top to make him feel fancy.  Had he used the last of the chili powder and not told anyone?  He was the prime suspect when all the milk was gone, and quite fond of putting an empty box of cereal back on top of the fridge.  One day the family was going to approach him as a lynch mob, and be done with his excuses.

I remember deciding that in addition to my mom not having to see Cory laying on the road before she was covered, the only good thing was that Tim had not been the one to send her to the store.  I had spent a week in Florida a couple months before, and to distract Cory from missing me and give her a role in helping run the household, Tim had sent her to Family Fare every day, pretending he had forgotten some small but crucial item.  Cory did it happily, and felt proud to be helping.  I used to imagine if this had happened on one of those trips, what would my feelings towards Tim be?  I would get ten seconds into this imaginary scenario and have to mentally turn away, not wanting to see myself in such an ugly light.

So last night, I pondered on who forgot to say we were out of chili powder and began to hate my husband until I fell asleep.

When I woke up this morning, I realized I was being ridiculous.  It is unbelievable what unbearable pain can breed.  I shook my head, bemused at how I had latched onto something so nonsensical.

 It was obvious whose fault it was.  Who did the grocery shopping, Nick?

Happy Holidays

If what it takes to prevent divorce is a brand new absurd pet name sung from three feet away, "Hi, honeybunches!" and the new courtesy of asking before he devours my take-out leftovers, then all my worries and disappointments are over.

Again, I have been courted with a glazed donut, which leaves me to wonder if he thinks I need to put on some weight or if the way to my heart is through the gluttonous consumption of baked goods.  Was there a donut around when he proposed, and I just can't recall it?

My dog, Gizmo, and I spent yesterday, and the better part of today in bed, snoring and staring into space.  I again refused to partake in the family gathering of Thanksgiving, which I fear is being misunderstood as selfishness (why would I deprive my loved ones of my sunshiny personality) and immature (when is she going to just accept it and move on?)  Get back to her old self?

I do not wish to be selfish or immature.  And I have no way, no possible way, to get back to my old self.  That woman is lying six feet under with her arms wrapped around her firstborn.  This shell that walks around, this ghost, is someone different, entirely.

I cannot stand the person I have become when surrounded with happy people, who laugh and eat and gaze upon their children at will.  I turn into an ugly, shriveled, bitter soul who is consumed with covetous thoughts and burning jealousy.  I would rather keep such unkindness to myself.  But mainly, I suppose- selfish if you say so- I want to avoid that empty chair...space unfilled forever.  It is too much to swallow past, even with turkey and dressing.  Just like the cemetery, these final truths only make me angry, vengeful, and frankly, a little dangerous.  I will avoid.

The State of My Union

He chooses his words, carefully, weighing them out, one by one- heavy enough to agree there is indeed a problem, but light enough to avoid any obligations to change anything he is currently doing or saying, (or not doing or not saying).  Even a half-assed compromise is a stretch he can't cover, so he agrees to nothing, promises nothing, just looks at the ground, and waits for her to stop talking. 

Hoping it will be enough, yet another time, he walks away, without looking back.  Looking back is for those that have the energy to do it; he does not.  Or maybe he just doesn't want to see the need written plainly on her face, knowing it is more than he can handle, even if he weren't lost to a disabling depressive episode, which he is.

Why I Sleep So Much

I spent about 10 minutes with Cory last night.  Here's what we did:

We spent five minutes in a Macy's dressing room as Cory tried on a cute little black Calvin Klein dress that fit like a glove.  I zipped it for her, and watched her twirl.  Overcome with joy just to be in the same room with her, I fixed on details:  her hair that lifted ever so slightly in the air when she moved, the proud way she pulled her shoulders back when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and her toes flexing as she stood up on pretend high heels.  She grappled for the price tag behind her with that question in her eyes, "Mom, can I have it?" and I waved a joyful hand,
"Sold!"

Last night, we also relived our last experience watching Children of the Corn together.  I don't care how old it is, how hokey, or how bad the special effects are.  That is a truly creepy movie if only because of cast of characters.  Add in all the murders and time spent outdoors, and I was prepared to never leave my house again.  The movie came out in 1984, and I remember watching it in my basement family room with my best friend, Nicole, amidst heaps of junk food. 

As everything good in life that I have experienced, it only grew better when I shared it with my girl.  Late one night, we watched it huddled under a blanket on the couch with the lights out, fully intending to keep the references going for the better part of a week.  We even got Gizmo in on the act, referring to him as "He Who Walks Behind the Rows" and turning Cory's cat, Church, into the prophet for our new household. 

This sheer ridiculousness was all par for the course for us, but got even better as we watched the credits roll up and Cory noticed that Malachai's character was named Courtney in real life.  She turned to me in disbelief and outright horror.   "Mom, Malachai is a girl!"

Cracking up, we carried on about this for the better part of an hour, peppering our review of his/her performance with heartfelt questions.  Why would they hire a girl to play a male's part?  Was the adam's apple that bobbed up and down on Malachai's neck in moments of uncontrollable rage real or manufactured?  Did the incidents of violence coincide with Courtney's time of the month?

When we could take it no longer, we googled Courtney Gains to discover the person in question was, in actuality, a male.  Slightly disappointed, we grinned at each other, continuing our banter with, "Yeah, but just think if that was a girl..."

Planning the Death of My Dog

Gizmo, our Pekinese/Pomeranian, has been suffering from sort of skin allergy.  Monday, Tim took him in for a recheck.  He called me mid-morning to say that the vet had done tests and found that something was pressing against Gizmo's stomach.  They'd like to do an ultra-sound and exploratory surgery. 

The next morning, our thirteen year old little man was laid out on their table, ready to be explored.  My phone rang shortly after they opened him up.  He indeed had a large mass that had spread to his spleen, and kidney.  The veterinarian wanted to know if we wanted him to be woken up or let go.

Let him go?  Are you kidding me?  If this kind woman thought I was able to make any but the most mundane decisions, she was mistaken.  If shealso  thought she had a mature, unselfish woman on the line who would put her pet's suffering above her own desperate needs for love and affection, well, she clearly had the wrong girl.

Once I had pulled over to the side of the road, and told her through huge gasps of air, that she was to wake him, and we would bring him home to say good-bye before putting him down, I hung up and let those huge donkey-braying sobs fly.  Why did it feel like every member in my sacred circle was on hit?  Oh, right..because they have been.  Cory...her cat Church...my cat Sassy...now Gizmo- every aging pet another chapter of Cory's childhood closed, and set to the side.

Gizmo was the only male in the house who didn't sigh and look equal parts sad and resentful when I brought up Cory's name.  He also slept in my bed, which is more than I can say for my spouse.

When Gizmo dies, I will be even more alone in a house that already screams of loneliness.

When Jake got home from school, I told him the news.  He responded with a single tear that fought a grisly three minute battle to be allowed the journey down his all-boy cheek.  Once, that single tear got underway, though, he gave up his tough pretenses, and climbed right into my lap like the little boy he still is.  His head on my shoulder, he clung for nearly twenty minutes...an eternity in a preteen's world.

That night, I knew not a wink of sleep.  Wolf Teeth, were in full abundance, and the next day I struggled to pay attention at my tasks, cradling my jaw as I zoned out.  Cognitively, I certainly understood that thirteen years and some odd months was a good long time for a small dog, but my heart cried out that it was unfair...we needed this small soul just a little bit longer, please.

 He was tied up in Cory's childhood, enmeshed to the point that one could barely be seen in your mind's eye without the other.  I felt as though some cruel hand was prying loose my connections to my girl, one white knuckled finger at a time.  What would I do when I had nothing left?  Would that be the point I would succumb to all the shitty self-help books that demanded you "let go" of your dead child, moving her from center stage to the sidelines so you can live your long, happy, satisfying life without her?  Eff that.\

Grocery Shopping With Sven

Okay, maybe it wasn't planned, and we only bumped into each other near the checkout...

One evening, after work, last week, I braved the curse that is Family Fare in the Urbandale Plaza.  As I'm sure I have mentioned, I hate going there.  However, it is so close to my house that my exhaustion usually gauges whether or not I will make the extra effort to drive out to Meijer's or WalMart.  I was having a decent sort of day, but wanted to get home in time to actually cook something for my son, instead of stopping for take out as I'd done the majority of the last two months, so I went for it.

One of the new changes in the store has helped at least a bit.  There are a few self check-outs, which is nice when you don't feel like having to smile or make small talk.  This is especially convenient when you are ready to burst into tears or feel like screaming. 

I was past the prepackaged produce, when I spied the Pistachios on sale, and reached to grab a couple for my cart.  My hand stopped partway out, and my chest began to burn and boil, so much lava and fire.  Pissed off at myself, I jerked my hand back to my side, and wondered how long my brain would continue to play these cruel tricks on me.  When will I know all the time that she's gone?  And once I do, will it feel better or worse?

I rolled on to the deli counter, getting my cold cuts, and walking away, chin on my chest, remembering all the times Cory had grabbed up the ham with glee, and snuck a few bites as we did the rest of our shopping.  I scolded her every time, and she grinned at me, her mouth full of ham, looking happy and alive.

Passing the center aisle, with its treasure trove of frozen goods, I paused, noticing Family Fare was moving up in the world.  You could now purchase frozen lobster tails for your cooking pleasure.  I grabbed at them, thinking of how excited Cory would be, and dropped them just as quickly.  Who knew seafood could be so infuriating?

I picked up my pace, grabbing things without looking at prices, in a hurry to get the hell out of this wretched store.  With each step, I became more and more angry with the store, with West Michigan Avenue, with the driver, with myself.  My steps quickened in time with the raising of my blood pressure.  By the time I nearly struck Dr. Z with my cart, I had surely worked up some patches of color high on my cheekbones that he likely took for signs of good health and cheer.

We each smiled and said hello, and I broke the professional boundary by giving him a hearty hug that he returned with a slightly embarrassed but equally hearty pat between my shoulder blades.  Looking back, I can see that as we made small talk, his assessment of my presentation was as automatic as breathing, even a full forty-five minutes off the clock:  the patient, a quiet woman in her early forties, was clean and reasonably groomed.  She was dressed in business casual attire, appropriate for a workday. 

Indeed, I had even matched my Hunter boots to my overcoat.  I had remembered to put on earrings.  My hair was squeaky clean and pinned back in some type of style.  I was even wearing makeup; my carefully applied eyeliner belying my desperation.

We bent our heads into each other's carts.  Dr. Z had his bag of navel oranges, and the makings of a bachelor dinner or three.  He glanced at the contents of mine, and asked politely, "Getting ready for the holiday?"

At the mere mention of the "H" word, I flinched.  "I don't really do the holidays anymore." I said quietly, sad to disappoint him.

He smiled warmly, anyways, asking after Jake and my parents, as he always does.  We soon said good-bye and wheeled away from each other.

Imagine his surprise, when days later I appeared in his office at 8 a.m. wanting to die.  All he kept saying, his puzzled expression genuine, was, "But when I saw you in the store..."

Yes, Sven, I know, I had matched my clothes, I had fresh fruit and veggies in the cart, but I still want to die the majority of the time.  I work to fight the urge, the same as I work to get out of bed, shower, and dress...facing the day without my girl is like those first steps into Family Fare that feel like walking on knives.  It's like that every day.  The worst days are the ones where I sit down and really question if it's worth it.  That's how I ended up your emergency appointment- I sat down, and really thought about it.

Night Walker

I have never seen a ghost.  I've been pretty much ambivalent on their existence all my life.   Until now. 

On the way home from coffee after work the other night, I took the usual route, taking care to avoid going too far down West Michigan.  I will pass the scene if I have to, but avoiding has become as automatic as stopping at a red light.  Without a lot of thought, my hands will do the work of avoiding the trigger:  hanging a right on Bedford, followed by a left on East Willard- which brings me to my street, two houses from my own.  Every time I pause at the yield sign, I register that I am partway through the last walk Cory ever took, and shudder either outwardly, inwardly, or both. 

On the worst sort of days, the ones in which flashbacks run rampant and comfort does not exist, I can just make her out there on the other side of the road:  blonde wavy hair streaked with pink, Where the Wild Things Are t-shirt, her new shorts from Macy's, woven belt, and the Hello Kitty sneaks.  I can see her there, a sort of half illusion/half conjured figure, walking with her head down, intent on finishing the task at hand, eager to get back to the a.c. and her family.

Each time this happens is torture enough, and I am merely glad I only have a few hundred yards to the driveway.  Better this stretch of my road, then the other two-thirds, that ends in images that will never leave my mind.  They are red and blue and black, dark and ominous, the colors of hurt, the colors of suffering.

Have I told you I hate living on this street?  In this neighborhood?  That every time I make a run to anywhere, I have to navigate against my emotions to get there?   That every time I pass her "spot" as her friends call it, I remember being there, screaming, and demanding that someone do something.  Or maybe that's what I wish I'd done.  I think, more likely, I only screamed, and asked every two seconds if she was breathing, unable to understand why no one would answer me.  Was it so obvious to everyone but me that she was clearly dead?

And all I can think about, on the heels of those memories that burn and scourge, are her final moments.  What was she thinking about?  Did she see the car coming for her?  Did she hurt?

That is the final indignity that feeds my rage.  There had been months and years of anguish for her that I couldn't do a damn thing about.  It killed this mother's heart to watch her suffer.  The only comfort I could provide was my presence.  "You're safe, Cory-Girl.  I won't let anyone hurt you."  It was never enough.  It made me feel useless.  Parents are supposed to be able to help their children, to stop their pain, to kiss those boo-boos, no matter how big and ugly they might be.  So after all that, all those nights and days of appointments and meds and night terrors and delusions...it somehow all led to this unbelievably unfair ending- my brave girl, broken and bleeding on the road, left to die alone.

Yeah, I asked all the academic questions of the people in the know.  Most offered that she likely died on impact.  I question if this is true or the only cheap comfort that can be given to a mother out of her mind with grief.  I will always return to the bystander, a neighbor from just around the way, who said when they first checked her, she was still breathing.  But by the time the ambulance got there, she wasn't. 

I think about this night after night when sleep won't come, and the road beckons, Cory being turned over so slowly, her blue lips throwing an ice cold bucket of water over my heart as I began to consider the impossible.  She was still breathing said the witness, one of the only people who would actually know for sure.  Did she hurt?  Did she want me, and I wasn't there? 

Somehow, that seems the most bitter failure of all.  What kind of parent lets their child die alone?

These are the thoughts that run through what's left of mind when I drive on my road.  I was well into them, when I rolled up to the Yield sign the other night, in the twilight that was just becoming full dark, and glanced to my left.  I slammed on the brakes, and just gaped at the small figure trudging along the nearest side of Miller Avenue.  Cory?!!!!  Oh my God, is that Cory???

Joy I haven't felt since that summer afternoon leapt up into my heart.  Could this be happening?  I pulled further into the fork in the road and looked, putting on my left turn signal.  As I did, the figure looked over its shoulder, and I clearly saw the face.  Not Cory's.

Same build.  Same height.  Same jean/hoodie uniform she'd be wearing this time of year.  Same headband/ponytail running-to-the-store everyday casual hair do.  Same walk, even:  head down, eyes on the road, shoulders slightly rounded in.  But it wasn't her. 

I guess I should've known.  I'd never my girl walk in the dark.

Dissing the Symbol of Our People

A couple of Thanksgivings before the accident, Cory and I decided that although we had a huge Thanksgiving dinner to partake of at my parents, we would put on our own.  We started out discussing how the best part of Thanksgiving dinner is always the sides, and how fun it would be to make a dinner of sides only- even introducing some yummy newcomers, like roasted asparagus and garlic roasted mashed potatoes.

This whimsical discussion grew until a week later found me hot and sweaty, giggles gone by the wayside of ruined homemade rolls, and not nearly enough oven space for my liking.  We had decided to go whole hog since neither of us were huge turkey fans, and had always questioned why one should have to have turkey in an traditional American Thanksgiving feast in the first place.

We brought this debate on hot and heavy at the Sunday dinner before the big holiday.  Eric, one of Cory's cousins, latched onto the argument with humor and glee.  He declared us the most un-American, un-patriotic eaters of the holiday he had ever personally known, and shook his head sadly.  "How you gonna diss the symbol of our people?"
  Cory and I grinned widely, arguing earnestly that America was a melting pot of many cultures- could we not break a variety of bread (and foul) while we said our thanks?

What had began as a Sides Only feast of epic proportions slowly grew to include:  a succulent roast chicken (gasp), a kettle of sizzling sherry soaked shrimp, a pot roast complete with baby red skinned potatoes, and glazed carrots, and even medium rare steaks covered with sautéed mushrooms swimming in Manhattan sauce. Basically, Cory and I sat down and made a ridiculously large menu of every dish we hoped was served in heaven.  Having never hosted a large holiday meal before, I did not realize that oven space determines the scope of your menu.  I merely smiled at our ambition, and declared, "We are strong, smart, beautiful independent young women!!  Let's do it!" 

It took us hours to shop for all the ingredients, with more than one return trip to the store because we'd forgotten some essential ingredient.  We made desserts the night before- pumpkin pies and an amazing chocolate pecan pie with a chocolate crust.  I was in the kitchen by 8 a.m. the morning of said feast, joined by Cory when she woke up, and we had great fun for a couple of hours until the Emeril's homemade stuffing incident.  Was it too much enthusiasm when measuring the unsalted butter?  Was the bread too fresh?  We may never know.  What greeted us coming out of the oven that afternoon was a gloppy, soggy bread pudding type concoction, that boasted a golden puddle of melted butter floating on the top.  We looked at it, and then looked at each other.  "Maybe, it'll taste better than it looks."  Cory said, always the optimistic one.

 Aggravated with my cooking ineptitude, I grouched, "We can't eat that, it'll cost us our arteries.  Damn you, Emeril!  What's with the butter, man?  Is that even legal?"

We giggled, and turned our attention to the green bean casserole instead.  When it was safely snuggled into the oven to brown, we began the joyous task of seasoning the potatoes, which often required that we eat close to a quarter of the pan as we tasted...such were the sacrifices of our times.

In the end, we made way too much food for fourteen people, let alone four.  We had leftovers for a week, and decided to downsize just a bit next time, but declared the feast a success on two counts.

 One:  no turkey.  Two:  It was purely us.

We didn't get around to trying it again that next year.  Looking back I have to wonder if the crazy need to cram it all into one tasting event wasn't some premonition to wring as much joy out of the holiday as I could while the getting was still good.  Someday, all too soon, she would not be at my table, and I wouldn't want to sit at a single one without her.

Things

I had never heard of keeping a loved one's fingerprint before.  My cousins got together, and arranged for it to be done.  When they told me about it, I could scarcely contain my joy.  To have her mark, her unique marking with me always?  What an incredible treasure.  I asked further into it right away, wanted to be sure I found every way to make the most of this opportunity.  What is better than one precious photo of your dead child?  A hundred.  What is better than one precious piece of fingerprint jewelry?  As many as I could carry away, obviously.

Was this reaction a typical example of  the anxiety that has driven me to  "collect"  handbags in every hue and fabric?  Or was this something more?  Maybe some weird survival instinct burning deep in my chest every time I realized that if I'd had an extra container of chili powder in my spice cupboard, Cory would be here right now.  Stock up, stock up, stock up...beats the rhythm in my head, sometimes consciously, sometimes subconsciously, but steady and relentless, either way.

It would seem, when I think back, that my first solid action after I realized a funeral home had indeed retrieved my daughter's sheet covered body from the road, and would not let me see her until they had "done some work" was to go buy her the last thing I remember her asking me for.  I asked to be taken to the store to buy her the stuffed Hello Kitty she'd spied just days ago.  I also bought her beads for her Pandora bracelet.  I bought her earrings.  I bought her new underwear.  I bought her perfume that I wasn't sure they would use, but hoped they would because she loved to be told she smelled good.

I... shopped.  Sitting here, now, over a year later, I shake my head, and try to figure it out.  Like what did I think she was going to do with all those things?  Why did I feel I needed to buy them for her? 

That's easy enough.  Cory and I were poor, okay?  We were, and it made me feel inadequate, especially when I only had myself to give her, and not the mommy/daddy/doggy family like the one in her Barbie dream house.  I took great pride in providing for her. Being a young mom was scary, and more than anything I was afraid of not giving her enough.  As I grew older, I slowly realized what she craved most was free, but I still had that deep seated desire to give her everything that I could.

After the accident happened, someone eventually got me off my knees.  I stopped puking.  I disjointedly but successfully planned her day.  I have looked back at the stages of grief a half dozen times, and wondered if I simply skipped over "denial".  I knew she was gone.  I had seen.  And with what I had seen, there simply wasn't room to question.  Was I ever truly in denial?

Well, based on the fact that I continued to shop for her, steady and unwavering, as if in a rush to fill her Christmas stocking-  yeah, I think maybe I was.

This shopping that began with a stuffed Hello Kitty went on for well over a year.  Thousands of dollars later, I try to figure out just what in the heck I thought I was doing. 

Here's what I've come up with:
every object that I bought was placed in between me and the pain.  Bright, shiny buffers...every single thing.  I swathed myelf; I booted myself; I adorned myself.  I made myself smell good; I moisturized; I covered myself in every fabric known to man.  I think of all the clothing, hats, boots, purses, books, trinkets, candles, and the like and try to imagine them in a single slightly wavy line.  How far would they stretch?  That depends...how big and how forgiving is your imagination?  Miles, my friend.  Sick, debt-inducing miles.  All with one basic behavior at the core:  avoid the task.  Or delay the task.  Or these last few months, at least, soften the task.

The more objects I bought, the more things I had to manage...physically, in my hands and in my home, and in my mind.  The more "things" required my attention, the less room I had left to look the truth in the face.  See it.  Smell it.  Breathe it.  Cory was never coming home.  I would never see her again.  To think about it for longer than a second was to risk my very sanity.  Sometimes, it still is.

At the end of walking those long miles, picking things up and setting them down again, I am just exhausted, but I am still loathe to turn my attention to the task at hand.  Who goes willingly to the blade?

Accept.  Accept it, Nick.  You lost her.  It's real.  There's no waking up, this time.

A lot of my shopping I regret.  Here's one purchase that I don't:

Mark, the sweet and kind funeral director called me in when her fingerprint charm was ready.  He sat me down on one of the little settees, and told me about fingerprinting my girl.

 He said, "When you reach out to touch something, which hand do you use?  Your right if you're right handed; left if you're left-handed.  But then...what finger?  Your pointer, of course.  That's what you use to touch something you see or are being shown."  He paused here, and put out his own finger to demonstrate.  "So that's the finger I printed.  I did it carefully and I took my time, because I know how important these lines and whorls are.  There is no one else's just like your daughter's.  When you miss her, you will be able to reach up and touch this piece of silver, and feel her finger right against yours.  No one else's.  Just distinctly hers."

He was right.  On the worst days, I place it around my neck, and it's my touchstone all day long.  Unlike all my other purchases that put distance between me and the reality that she was gone...this one somehow brings it closer, but gently. 

It comforts, but it's honest.  The finger this imprint was made from was cold and hard, and would never reach for my hand again.  But it was hers, and it had been held in mine more times than I could count.

Sometimes instead of needing to know the nightmare is indeed real life, I need to know that the sweet dreams happened, too.   Every hard, silly, crazy, scary, laughter filled, tear streaked moment of nineteen and a half years...all captured, per se, on a disc of silver, in the spaces between those lines and whorls. 
What we had.  What she was.  It was real, and I refuse to give it up.  It is priceless.

Statement to the Press

The last time I was in to see Dr. Z, he told me I was "recovering nicely".  To his face, I flashed him a genuine smile.  Dr. Z is just one of those dear men that you can't bear to disappoint.  Cory'd had the same problem.  His bedside manner was just so cute and charming, you found yourself not wanting to say anything to trouble him.  He is an eternal optimist, a pretty good trick for a psychiatrist, I would say.

I remember sitting out in the lobby that day, waiting to be called back, my surroundings all too familiar:  the tired stacks of magazines that no one ever really read, just leafed through and peered over, the receptionists who joked and smiled kindly, to them life could still be funny, and they could afford to be kind.  The automatic doors that locked after you once you'd been called back reminding you that this was some serious shit, not an appointment with the skin doctor for your dry scalp condition.

All of the times I'd been there with Cory, I had never once imagined that things would end up this way...me as Dr. Z's patient, and Cory gone- no more clozaril clinic for her, no update on her progress, ,no discussing the book she was currently reading for English, just the weary sadness on my face and his- her doctor and her friend.

So I smiled into Dr. Z's eyes- bless his sweet soul- and kept my dubious comments to myself.  What constitutes 'recovered'?  Because I can string a sentence together that makes sense?  Because I remember to wear deodorant these days? 

Naturally, I went home and looked up the meaning of recovered, asking myself, if I felt that I had indeed "regained strength" or "gotten better".  "Better at what?" might be the real question here. 

Was I stronger now because I could say her name without crying?  Or was I stronger because I could say her name and smile? 

During the work week, I'd like to imagine that I seem half-way put together.  I have been busting my ass to focus on my job, and I hope that part of me at least appears better, and stronger.  Take me home afterwards, surrounded by her things, and I am anything but. 

I spend every weekend in my pajamas, just "recovering" from my participation in the real world for the last five days.  People might think it's all depression, and a large part of it may be, this purposeful isolation, but another part is the need to rest my mind, my body, my soul.  This looking normal crap is for the birds.  Dude, I have no idea how Cory ever did it.  I really don't.  She is three times the woman I am, because in her place, I don't think I'd had ever gotten dressed again...for anything, no matter what my loving momma with the sparkling personality said to me.

Sleep is still elusive.  This past weekend was windy, so in between my catnaps, her chimes played all night long.  It's a comforting sound, but after awhile, I wished the wind would die down just a bit...after all, how many times do you need to be reminded that your child is underground while you're trying to escape into sleep?  What kind of escape is that?

I've felt for a couple of weeks now that the stress and heartache has been building and swelling to the point that my mind would just break under the weight of it.  Like, Okay, chick, look, I've put up with an ungodly amount of ugliness here and kept you afloat, but I am fricking dog ass tired and I just cannot take another step.  I'm done.  Right then, my mind would fold, and sit right where it was, like every stubborn three year old in the world who uses their dead weight silently, but masterfully- the least amount of work ever needed to win a power struggle.

One of those restless nights, I thought about the term "mental breakdown" and wondered how a body comes to such a condition.  What would it look like?  Was there a CEO of my mental well-being in a well cut power suit and French twist, who would state, however stylishly in her peep toe pumps and French tip pedicure, that we were being forced to shut down until processes could be improved to the point that the public could be assured quality output and quality interactions from this particular corporation?

I shifted to my side, and grinned in the darkness, charmed, in spite of myself, by this image.  If there was a CEO, was there a board of trustees, as well?  Had there been a special meeting to discuss the fate of the company?  What did that look like?

With Cory's wind chimes going to beat the band outside my window, I closed my eyes, and pictured a long slab of mahagony wood shiny enough to see your reflection in.  All my departments of head gathered around this mammoth table in their rolling chairs, busily shuffling their papers, and sitting up straight, ready to report out on their turn.  What would they say of my current state of affairs?

Physical health:  We're running at half capacity folks.  She's not eating healthy at all.  She's pretty much back on the Chips Ahoy and milk diet, and I think we all remember how that worked out last time.  (Pause here, with a moue of disgust across his face).  She's not kicking this flu stuff, either- just not able to recoup with the reserves down as long as they have been.  Sleep?

Sleep:  Look, I'm not gonna lie.  I had to throw some nightmares from the road out there.  She gave me no other choice.  If I didn't, she'd have been sleeping the clock right around.  Besides, I was told she was ready for more details of the accident.  Sleep looked both sheepish and defensive before turning to anxiety.

Anxiety:  I am on call 24/7.  It hasn't been this bad for months.  She's even got a new name for me these days:  "going wolf teeth".  She's started to clench her teeth in her sleep when she's stressed, and she tried so hard to avoid it one night that her teeth started to feel too big for her mouth.  It really freaked her out.  Full scale panic attack.  I had to bring some extra man power in to cover that shift.

Socializations:  She has pretty much isolated herself during her free time.  I try to get her out there...call someone, get in the car, but it just doesn't work these days.  Her thought patterns read:  hurt, angry, jealous.  She doesn't seem to think anyone else understands, so why bother.

Reality Testing:  She's doing pretty well, actually, guys.  But I catch her every once in awhile trying to slip back into that "maybe Cory's just gone on a trip" business.  And you know we can't have that.  I usually put a call into Flashbacks for immediate assistance.

Flashbacks:  Not a problem, Reality Testing, that's what I'm here for.  She doesn't like me one bit, but over time, I will make sure she has processed this whole disturbing event, small detail by small detail.  There's no denial on my watch.  Someone's gotta play the hard ass.

Thinking processes:  She does well with one problem at a time, and I can keep her distracted for up to 90 minutes, but if I throw too much into the mix, she gets overwhelmed easily.  Mistakes are common.  This makes her feel stupid, and slow, but hopefully it will pass with time.

Relationships:  Not functioning well at this time.  She is ready to cut her losses and go it alone, rather than count on anyone who might not be there the next time she turns around.  It's a common protective strategy.  Sad to say, this has drifted down even to her relationship with her son.  She is apt to avoid, rather than try, just in case she gets rejected yet again.

Depression:  We are full steam ahead.  She is not even painting anymore right now.  There is a lot of "never"  and a lot of "always".  The upcoming holidays are just adding to it, really.  The other day,   she actually wanted to punch a happy couple walking through a public parking lot with their children.  She's hit a new all time low, folks.

Suicidal thinking:  Yes, yes,  I've been called in quite a few times.  The good news is that she's let someone know either openly or inadvertently each time. I think what we have going for her is her split belief system- on one hand she thinks Cory would be disappointed in her if she "got out of this", but she is equally certain that if anyone would understand, it would be Cory.  This indecision slows her down...which is good for us.

What It Is and What It's Not

It is this conversation:

"Jake, do you want to go trick or treating this year?"

"No, thanks."

"Why not?"  I asked.

"It's no fun without Cory.  I tried it last year, and it just wasn't worth it."



It's this one, too, a forty year old daughter texting with her I phone savvy seventy five year old mother:

me:  Jake is passing out candy to the trick or treaters.

mom:  Good, he's having fun.  Bless his little heart.  He probably likes that.  That child is growing up on us.

me <pause of indecision here...do I say what I feel?>

me:  He grew up July 5, 2012.

mom:  I know, honey... I think we all grew older starting then.

It's the way I look forward to the wind blowing because I might catch the tinkling, silvery notes of her windchimes, which somehow manage to marry sadness with joy.  I asked Jake once if he thought those sounds were just the wind or his sister.  "Both", he replied with confidence.  "How does that work?"  I asked him.  He responded, "I don't know.  It just is."

It's coming across the slick Ziploc bag in your dresser drawer while getting ready for work in the morning.  Inside is a shirt with her scent that you must protect at all costs.  Moments go by unnoticed as you struggle to decide if opening it to smell her will help or hurt.

It's hearing someone mention bbq porkchops in conversation, which takes you back to Cory,7, Cory, 8, Cory,9, who loved Timber's grilled bbq porkchops with extra sauce more than anything, and would gorge her tiny body till she nearly burst.

It's her fluffy bathrobe still up in the bathroom.  It's reaching for a towel without looking, and getting the hot pink one that she claimed as hers only, using others only when it was not clean, and with such disdain.

It's the stifling guilt that you should have given her more, until you read the quote that says, "Children will not value the things you give them as much as the feeling of being cherished."  Then you breathe again, because that you did do, and you did it well.

It's opening the silverware drawer to get out utensils for the take-out - really, who around here cooks anymore- and passing over her "special" fork, which used to worry you, thinking she'd taken on autistic traits on top of everything else for Pete's sake, what with her rigidity to use anything else, but eventually realized a simple fork brought an everyday predictability to her unpredictable illness.

It's walking through the building at work and hearing a snatch of "Home" on someone's desk radio, which brings two memories home with alarming speed.  You may miss a step but you keep walking as you remember the slideshow a teenage Cory with high hopes of reconciliation and a nuclear family with her father included had made, and how she'd showed it to her father, hoping to make him smile.  You remember how she'd play it just to see our faces all together in the frame, and dream of a better day.  You take a moment to mourn for her hopes and that family, which you had wanted with all your heart since you were sixteen years old.  Then the other side crashes in, the footage of the slideshow at the visitations and her service.  Heavy steps, heavier, heaviest.

It is closing your eyes in bed at night to writhe away from the casket.

It's dreaming about her, and waking up to her laugh still ringing in your ears.

It's coming so many steps to go backwards at a moment's notice, one hand over your face, blocking your eyes, but never the one inside...never that one.  It's taking both small hands and scrubbing your face, trying to clear the terrible knowledge, but it refuses to budge, and sits on your contenance like a newborn's caul...sadly, no good luck to be had from it, only pain and misery.

It is daydreaming about just not coming home from work one day.  Checking in at some hotel, pulling out the crappy stationary, and writing your goodbyes one by one.  Going to sleep and never waking up again.

Cory would understand.  She knew misery. 

It is not easier the second year.

It is not honest to pretend you're ok when you're not.

It is not being an attention seeking drama queen to document this trip into hell without artifice. 

Tell the truth.  Tell the truth.  Tell the truth.

I'm falling to pieces.

Yet Another Trip

Last night:

Sizzling hot pavement.  Blinding sun.  Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap...my feet hitting the road..."What was she wearing?" thrown desperately over my shoulder to the boy. Slap-slap, slap-slap.  The answer, "short shorts and a t-shirt"  floating over the dead air to me, my head already turned back to straight ahead.  Arms pumping, legs eating up the steps between us.  It can't be far now, it can't be far now.  Bending over, winded in the heat, at the stop sign, looking, looking, desperately scanning the area.  Nothing, nothing...oh!  A body.  A body and people moving around trying to shield it from the passers-by....trying to hide the mess... locked knees, then running over, being held back by arms, by hands, who may have belonged to no one, they were just there, hanging in the air, it seemed.  They reached for me, grasped hold, held tight as I took in hair, shirt, shorts, legs.  Facedown.  Facedown. 

Oh my God, that's Cory.

Bedroom Half Empty or Half Full?

Okay, folks, I'm quite certain you never would've guessed this about me, but I am indeed a pessimist.  Shocker, right?  My pessimism is steadily fed by my constant low-grade anxiety, and has been reinforced for years by situations that turned out to be just horrible as they wanted to be.

Today, I was an optimist for nearly 5 minutes.  I know, I know.  What caused this out of character behavior?  None other than my Cory Girl.

Here's what happened:

I had asked Tim to bring some of Cory's paintings down from her room this weekend so I could take them to my new little digs at work, that boasts one lovely burgundy wall.  (Or if you are super into fashion, you might say ox-blood, right, Miss Angie?)

 I have been in her room a handful of times, always to recover some treasure, and end up laid out for the better part of the day.  Once I realized this, I began to avoid her room like the plague, and tried to delegate this torturous errand to anyone else who would take it.  Ditto with the dusting, vacuuming, and clearing of the spider webs that began to multiply once they realized they were the sole remaining occupants of the place.

When I asked Tim for help, and he merely rolled over in his bed, sleep mask still on, muttering thickly about "not feeling real good", I had a surge of bravery.  I kicked off the high heel ankle boots I'd just put on to leave the house, and went for it.  I needed to be sure I could do anything that needed being done by myself, since I was practically by myself as it was.

I hear footsteps all the time from overhead.  Have I told you that?

I shook my head back and forth, as if to clear it, and began trudging up the steep steps.  The air still smells like her.  It's a little stale, yes, but her scent lingers.  I ducked my head under the slanted ceiling, and walked the narrow landing.  The first thing I saw was the blanket and pillow fort the kids had made for their slumber parties.  Jacob, then 9, and Cory, then 19, had been having movie nights on summer break.

They had called me up just a few days before the accident to see their stuffed animals lined up in careful rows, evoking a movie theater feel.  I grinned a little shamefaced to see they were watching a movie on Netflix pulled up on Cory's IPad.  It was propped up against a pile of DVDs, and was certainly the smallest movie screen I had ever seen.

The next morning, they were squealing with delight to see a tv and dvd player being carried into Cory's room. 

So today, I glanced down at the fort that Jake had insisted remain just as it was, cleaning to happen if it had to, but those stuffed animals and pillows to be placed back just so.  Normally, one look at that scene and I am done.  It is then a huge rush to get what I needed and get the hell out before I have some sort of breakdown.

Today, I lingered.  I couldn't help myself.  I could smell her.  I could feel her presence.  I began to look at things a little differently.  Instead of seeing how Cory and Jake would never have another movie or giggle together, I saw how their pillows had been placed head to head.  That's how close they were.  I saw that Jacob not wanting anything moved meant he treasured those last memories with her, and had made a solid decision to keep them fresh, whatever it took.   

I started going through her paintings, setting the ones I meant to take on her bed, which I wandered over to and sat on, touching her stuffed animal fox with one hand, my heart full.  Her bed was made.  After all the times, she had not been able to keep her environment orderly, she had died with her bed made, and her stuffed sleeping companions in a tidy row.  I drifted over to her dresser.  More lines.  All her little trinkets and treasures placed just so.  She even had a little needlepoint Kleenex box cover with a full box of Kleenex in it.

All these lines showed how she was creating order where once there had been miserable chaos.  She was thinking and planning ahead, even down to the Kleenex.  Clothes were put away in their drawers.  Presentation mattered.

I saw her self image had grown healthier, her Little League trophy and Carson Scholar medallion on prominent display.  She had turned one low but super long wall into a mini art gallery with her favorite pieces.  She was proud of her work, and they brought her joy.  She had learned the skill of surrounding herself with positive things, something lots of us never quite master.  She was such a smart girl, so precocious.

While I was still feeling good and full of love, I grabbed up what I had came for, and started down the steps.  This is all a feel good story right up until the point I lost the top two paintings off the top of the pile in my arms and proceeded to trip over my own feet, falling the rest of the way down the stairs.  I think I combined Tim's name with some pretty colorful language, and made the three trips out to the car, resentfully,  without his assistance.  Not even hearing the crash or perhaps deciding nothing was worth getting out of bed for, he slept on.

Without a look back, I took my daughter to work.  She is still my constant.  Love you, Cory-Girl, always, always, always.  There really isn't anything we can't do together.

Re-working It

I made a truly horrendous painting tonight.  I'm not sure when I will just accept the fact that I cannot paint a decent landscape, not even at gunpoint.  Let's face it, nature and I have never really been one.  I have, since childhood, strongly believed it's safer indoors.

So this painting, which halfway through I recognized as hideous and tried to turn into an abstact- the effort being a dismal failure- was so embarrassingly awful that I didn't post it on facebook.  This speaks volumes since a few of my shares should never have seen the light of day.

I sat there for a few minutes, and decided to give it one last try.  Paint is such a wondrous thing.  It forgives your lack of skill or simple mistakes every single time.  I grabbed the masking tape and started covering any tiny little bit that I actually thought had some potential.  When you paint over something, you cover up anything you value.

We'll see how this sad little painting fares, and I will take the larger lesson.  Things aren't so hot for me right now.  It's time to mask and re-work.

Love you, bye

I surprisingly did not want Cory's service to end.  I had gone from complete freak out mood at home while getting ready to go to sitting up tall and proud, sending out waves of love while I listened to people speak. 

I had planned her service down to the smallest detail, making it look, sound, and feel like Cory.  This was not to be a sermon based church event.  This was to be her day.  Hers. She thought no one liked her.  She thought she wasn't important. I wanted her to finally see the truth now that the voices had been silenced forever, and I wanted her life, her suffering and pain, to show others how strong she was, and how beautiful- inside and out.

 I never saw the pews packed and the chairs that were brought out to fill the aisles, but I heard later there were tons of people whose lives she had touched behind me as I got through it the only way I could- singing her songs under my breath, blowing kisses to the screen, and holding a reverent silence.  We could do anything together.  Even this.

The anxiety and foreboding that literally stilled my limbs at home while I tried to carry through with getting dressed and brushing my hair- inconceivable tasks that required physical assistance to accomplish- started up about two thirds of the way through.  I had the order of the service in my head, and when it was down to the last song- a recording of Cory with a friend and her cousin singing a hymn at church for the congregation, I felt the first flutterings of a panic that would soon rival anything I had ever experienced.  Never see her again?  Never?

I watched, still not crying, still not making a sound, as people were walked past her casket and down the aisle.  Time was so short.  I can't do this...I can't do this...Oh my God, please don't make me do this.  How do you willingly say goodbye to your heart?  And yes, Nicole Conklin, that's just what she was- the "central and innermost part" of my self, my ambitions, my life- and had been for nearly twenty years.

I knew that as compassionate and kind our funeral director, Mark, had been, there was one request he would not be able to accommodate.  My biggest concern had been being rushed at the end.  I've been to the funerals where the survivors are hurried along, where people have thrown themselves over the casket, where out of their mind distraught people have to be pulled away from the corpse.  That just wasn't how I wanted to say good-bye, and I thought somehow if I had some extra time...if I could say good-bye properly, I'd be able to take those unthinkable steps away, with the same strength Cory had showed, soldiering along day after day.

After everyone was gone, I went up with my mom to stand at Cory's side.  Time stood still, as I just looked down at my baby girl, unable to believe how beautiful she was.  It took my breath away.  I smoothed her hair, and kissed her- cheek, mouth, hand.  The cuts and scrapes, lumps and swelling stopped short, like a blown circuit as I refused to acknowledge them.  In my eyes, she was whole, the only part that gave me pause being the rigidity of her flesh.  I fought the urge to pick up her arm, or even her hand- perhaps illogically or perhaps logically- afraid if handled too much, she would simply fall apart before my eyes.  It was nearly impossible to reconcile my memories of her laid out on the road with the carefully reconstructed body that laid in that casket.

The kind woman in charge of switching out our necklaces approached, and with shaky hands, I fumbled off my dragonfly pendant, and watched, my stomach dropping as they only placed it around her neck, not fastening it, just placing it carefully to give the illusion of her wearing it.  What was that about?  Would her head fall off?  Is it only "placed" above her neck to give the illusion it is attached?  Horrible, soul wrenching thoughts that ran rampant.  I had to turn my back, and began shaking all over as I saw them lift her arm to remove one of her bracelets- her arm looking like a piece of wood or a mannequin's limb.  I began to feel faint, and allowed my mom to walk me back to the first pew to sit, as the tears started to come against my will.  This can't be happening...can't be...can't be...can't be...

Verbal nudging from the attendants.  "It's time."

Legs feeling like they would fold any second, I went back to my girl.  Touched her, kissed her, spoke into her ear.  The attendants stood respectfully at the end, watching me and waiting.  Time spun out, and I refused to budge an inch.  Finally Mark, whom I did not really know but nonetheless came to love with all of my heart in the last few days, spoke up gently, "Nicole, it's time, dear."

I tried.  I spoke earnestly down into her still face.  I kissed her a half a dozen times and stumbled away, feeling faint.  "I just need a minute.  I gotta sit down."

Back to the pew, rocking and covering my face with my hands.  Someone sat beside me- my mom, Tim?  I don't really know.  "They have to go now.  People are outside waiting to go to the cemetery."

Furious, I spat out, "FINE!!  FINE!!  Just do it, I'm never gonna walk away on my own."

"Okay."

As I looked up, they began to shut the lid, and I screamed desperately, "WAIT!!  WAIT!!  Just one more minute!"

The attendants measured my face, "Then we have to go."

"Okay, okay."

I ran to her, looking on her face that one last time, speaking her name, kissing her cold lips.  How do you say goodbye to your child, your best friend, your constant?  The same way you did the last time you spoke.

Mustering a cheery tone that surely didn't match the worst mental agony I have ever experienced, I trilled, "Love you, bye!"

I saw the lid lowered, full darkness obliterating her degree by degree, and my heart following suit, closing up tight bit by bit, becoming as black as the inside of Cory's casket.   I stumbled away, wanting to run, wanting to hide.  But we were on to the cemetery.  This nightmare would never end.

Stand Stills

They call them flashbacks, maybe because they come on so suddenly and take you back in time.  I would also say if you can't wish them away, you wish them to be mercifully brief.  Sometimes you get your wish, and sometimes you don't. 

These other moments in time that come on suddenly and take you back in time need a different sort of name because you wish you could hit pause and stay in that moment for as long as you need.

Here's two stand-stills I had today during an average work day:

Driving out of town for a meeting, I was struck with the image and sensation of sitting around after a Sunday dinner, just talking and laughing with my extended family.  I could see Cory crystal clear, dressed in a pair of faded jeans, hiphuggers just barely showing when she sat, a grey thermal top over a bright-colored cami, her hair up in a tiny pony, and her bright green eyes carrying a smile that hadn't yet passed her lips.  Just listening for the most part, she plopped her little hiny down in my lap, comfortable and content.  Like as not, I would grab her hand and we'd have a giggle over her freakishly small thumbs.  As we enjoyed some relaxed conversation with everyone, I could afford to get lost in a story or give her only my divided attention...you see, she was better now.  She was so much better, and I couldn't believe we'd made it through after so many miserable days and nights.

  I could joke and get my sisters to laugh, as I hadn't for quite awhile, because I knew I had done my job well, and could afford to relax.  She was right there, healthy and happy, chiming in when she wanted, and giggling right along with everyone else.  She was right there, all I needed was her weight settling into my bony knee to know we had made it, and she was just fine. 

That was my flashback on the road today, so real I could see the highlights in her hair, the curl of her lashes that framed those beautiful eyes, and actually feel the weight of her body pressing against my knee.  I wished I could stay there all afternoon.

That's a stand still, not a flashback.

Here's another: 

The last time I was in the coffeeshop, the uber talented artist who had his work on display during the Art Walk came in to take things down.  I watched his sure, easy gait, and thought of my father.  This similarly aged man had bright eyes, an easy smile, and charmed me with his outfit:  a pair of faded blue jeans speckled all over with bright paint, and a pair of croc-like loafers that were so splattered with drips, drabs, and splats that the background color of the shoes was no longer visible.

I complimented him, to which he responded, "Oh, these?  These are my 'studio' shoes.  I've been covered with paint in one way or another since the age of four."  He smiled and turned back to taking things down.

I put my head down, and had a stand still:  Cory, in her raggiest t-shirt, with a paintbrush clamped between her teeth, standing in front of her easel, pulling a pair of her grandpa's dockers up over her jeans.  I could see her face, alive and filled with the unparalleled excitement that said she had an idea, and she couldn't wait to capture it before it got away.  I thought of the many times I'd hounded her to wash her brushes out, and how cute she looked with a smudge of orange square in the middle of her chin.

When I raised my head to meet my friend's eyes, my face was shaking.  Did you know your face could shake?  I swear I have no control over my emotions these days.  To my friend, I whispered this, "She would have made so much more.  She just didn't have enough time."

On the way home, I thought about going into her bedroom and finding those Dockers or even a pair of her old jeans.  I want her with me when I paint.  She inspires me to give it my all.  She always has.

Progress Report

You know how it is when you move, even if it's just from one office to another right down the hall- you do some purging.  I went through all my "stuff" in my desk the other day between moves.  I had a few personal things crammed in with the rest- a Mother's day card Jake made in first grade, a picture here or there, and in with my TB card, I stumbled on one of Cory's progress reports.

Ever since Cory started school, she made excellent grades, and didn't even have to work up a sweat to do it.  She had a beautiful mind to match her beautiful smile, and was one of those students that had their poor mother in tears at their conference...not over academic struggles or behavior, but just due to the swelling pride that had to leak out somewhere or you would bust open right on the spot.

The semester she (I'm not sure what you call it) had her psychotic break, her grades went from straight A's to failing every subject with terrifying speed.  When meeting with school officials to try to get her evaluated as we discovered what was going on- you could look at her school record and pinpoint when the subtle symptoms that could be confused with the rollercoaster of adolescence threw their masks to the side, one after another, and stood still long enough to be recognized for what they really were.

That was the point my girl had to try harder than she ever had in her life to learn, to produce, to keep up, and earn her grades. 

The rug had been pulled out from under her with no warning, and you could see the terror in her eyes as she lost that "student" part of her identity.  It just slipped away, covered up with voices, delusions, fear, and anxiety.  You cannot learn if you don't feel safe.  That is a fact.  Here's another:  Cory felt safe only intermittently for three years.  Who cares about algebra when you think someone is hunting you down to do you harm?

So, her progress report?  Yeah, it wasn't from Battle Creek Public Schools.  No, she was dealing with much bigger things by that point.  This progress report was called "Levels of Recovery From Psychotic Illnesses".  When her illness was at its worst, I had highlighted where she was in yellow.  After the ECT treatment, I went back through and highlighted in pink.  She had hills and valleys, still, but by the time of the accident she had jumped two columns in most areas, going from "severely impaired" to "normalized activity". 

Normalized activity...such beautiful, beautiful words for my girl.  She did that. 

We did that.  Together.  I have never been prouder.  I think I might frame it and hang it up with some of her art.  It was an accomplishment some people never have to make, and others cannot make, even over their whole lives, a lot of which last longer than a mere nineteen years.

The American Girl doll company: a crazy rant from an unwell woman

So the American Girl company has been up to their bitchery yet again.  This time?  The Christmas catalog, people!  The actual festive happy joy joy Christmas catalog!  A smiling bright-eyed assumedly mentally stable young girl cradles her new doll with the crushed velvet red dress and matching hair ribbons.  I ask, is this really necessary? 

Why not just bring a bunch of closely resembled mothers and daughters to parade up and down my kitchen floor, dancing, and cooking broccoli cheddar soup together?   Maybe throw in some inside jokes and laughter, a cat named Church, and the plotting of tomorrow's outfits and the weekend's plans? What movie will we see next?  What book shall we discuss?  We have all the time in the world, since we're just so alive and healthy, and take it all for granted!

Gosh, that felt good.  Fine, I'm done.  If the American Girl company is a sadist, than I am no better for continuing to allow them into my home.  I STILL- 15 months counting- have not called or e-mailed them to get off their mailing list.  And yes, I do realize that I wouldn't have to tell them exactly why I wish to be removed.

 Still, I won't call.  Why, asks someone out there far more logical and far more mentally intact than I?  Because as much as I hate to look at the cover and remember what I've lost, I also love to look at the cover and remember Cory in her lounge pants, curled up on the sofa, "gettin muh girls' hair did" while we watched Gossip Girl.  See the dilemma?

These feelings of bitterness and sweet are butted right up to each other, without a crack of light between them.  This is where I live and breathe.

To get one, you have to take the other, like it or not...and that is the best explanation for coming to terms with the sudden death of your child that I can give.

 And if you're not there yet, you're just not.  You will be like me with my unopened cardboard package from none other than the mothereffing American Girl Company that has sat at the end of my dresser since the third day past the burial of my child.  Inside waits a shiny new Josefina doll, just like the one I gave to Cory on her eighth birthday, although being brand spanky new, it is slightly different than the well- maintained but undeniably well-loved original than sleeps beside her under the ground.

 I put it where she could reach it... not registering the fact that she couldn't reach it or hold it or seek comfort from it any more, as she had for years.  I didn't think of how the moisture would eventually work its way in, seal be damned, and began to wreak havoc on all the precious contents of that pretty pink box.  I also completely missed the point that Cory no longer needed said comfort any more than she needed the light of the ladybug nightlight I pressed in beside her still, rigid form, my trembling hand smoothing over  the flowers of her dress- the prettiest shade of  blue-, and lovingly running along her impossibly small waist encased in a belt that gave her a shape that made her smile and walk a little straighter.
She didn't need the light, and all batteries run out eventuallys...but my mind was far too broken to consider such logic.  I was being her mother, which is all I've known since I can remember- my childhood and motherhood again butting up together without a pause between, but it was so, so sweet. 

The idea of having my own Josefina to hug on the nights when I couldn't bare being without her seemed so right and so logical at the time.  Funny how once it got to the house, I couldn't imagine looking on that doll's smiling face, knowing where the original rested.  I couldn't even open the box. It may be that I even give it a wide berth when I pass by.

See how that works?  You want the comfort, yet you push it away.  You want to feel better, and you also want to be left alone to scream and keen for your girl.

 Leave me to die.
 Hold me. 
They are equally felt and equally logical statements in my experience. 
Why is grief not listed in the DSM-V? 

Oh yes, Dr. Z, I've recovered quite nicely.  Let's go have coffee sometime off the clock and really chat, why don't we?