What Would Cory Say?

When my heart is the blackest, when I am drowning in the guilt and despair, there is only one voice I want to hear.
But in order to hear it, I have to get creative, and I have to listen close.
I hold my pen and paper.  I clear my mind of all those bad images that cling like ugly barnicles to my brain.  I don't think; I just write.   I listen for my Cory Girl.
 This is what she said:

I love you, Mommy.  It's not your fault.  I don't know what happened, but I know you'd never want me to get hurt.  I know how much you loved me.  I do.  It flooded from you in waves.  Like the ocean.  It never stopped.  You are so strong, Mommy.  You've done so much.  Take care of my little brother.  Jacob loves you.  He can't wear a dress and be Twinkies with you, but he'll help you pick them out.  Take him shopping, and for coffee.  Buy him books and teach him new words.  Make sure he has good taste in music.  Remember me, and laugh, Mom, smile.  Be proud.  We had the best times together.  You were my best friend.  I just never knew I was yours.
I'm ok, Mom.  You don't have to worry about me.  I don't hear voices anymore, and that is so great.  But even better, I don't feel not good enough, anymore.  I'm perfect now.  And sooo happy.  I don't even have to take any meds.  Dr. Z was right.  God is the best judge.  I was always beautiful.  It's just now I can see it, too.
I love you more than anything.  Remember me, and smile.  Make some happy places to chase the dark thoughts away.  It's what you had me do.
And just know, I can hear you and see you.  When you think you feel me there, I am.  And I love you.

Your Cory Girl

All That I've Got

On the topic of coping with the loss of your child, I don't have a lot to offer.

You see, in order to cope, you would first need to accept, and frankly, I'm just not there yet.  I will get to acceptance in my own sweet time...  kicking and screaming every step of the way.   I loved her, people!!  She was my world.  I cannot just let her fade away into the night, and be okay with it.  I can't.  So if that means I'm being difficult, or weak, or whatever...then I guess I am.  There is no bucking up happening here.  I am doing the best I can to put one foot in front of the other without losing my mind.

Furthermore, why should I have to worry that I'm not recovering well enough or fast enough to suit anyone else?  That was my baby girl.  It's easy to dole out the well, if it were me, I would's when it in fact, is NOT you, and the apple of your eye is still within arm's reach.

 Do I sound angry?  I am.  I am angry all the time.  Sometimes I know why, and other times I just seethe in a confused, and miserable state that makes my stomach ache.  To anyone I may snap at, or hurt, just know it is likely not even you that I'm angry at...I'm just angry, in general.  I'm angry she's gone.  I'm angry she was cheated out of so many experiences.  I'm angry that her illness cheated her out of three good years that could have been filled with so much more than appointments, dr visits, and meds.  I'm angry that I tried so hard and screwed it all up in the end.  It makes me feel like everything I did for her didn't even matter at all.  Sweep, and gone. 

Here's where I am currently: 
 I cannot imagine my life without her, and I don't want to.  I do not want this to be happening.  Take it back, I'd like a do over.


Very few things help on this journey.
  But here's what I've learned so far:


1.  Buy a sound machine to help you sleep. 

2.  Use aromatherapy.  Light candles.  Wear a calming scent like lavender or vanilla.
 If it brings you comfort, versus upsetting you, wear a scent that smells like your loved one.

3.  If you are a woman, switch to a tiny purse.  If you are a man, clean out your wallet.  Grief is heavy enough all on its own, give your shoulders or your hip a break. 

4.  Embrace paper plates and plastic cups...at least until you are able to run your household more comfortably.

5.  Keep a journal.
You will likely resent it when people comment on how good you look, or how well you are doing.  Have a way to track your own progress in your own words.  Be honest. 

6.  Draw feeling pie graphs every few days.  You will have so many different feelings, it can be overwhelming.  Seeing them on paper will help you sort them out.
Also, people will likely tell you will be all right, or that one day you will be happy again.  This will make you want to punch them in the face. 
 But to feel LESS suicidal or LESS miserable are realistic goals that still validate your feelings.
 Happy?  No. 
 Whole?  Never. 
Not wanting to put your head in the oven on a daily basis?  That would be nice.

7.  If you have pets, let them comfort you.
 Sometimes there are no words that can be said to make you feel any better. They have better non-verbal skills than most humans. 
 Plus, it is highly unlikely that your dog or cat will ever say the wrong thing when all they are trying to do is a be a good friend or family member.

That's all I've got for now.

Post Traumatic Cooking

Cooking used to be my go to stress relieving hobby.  I love to create.  I love to make things.  I love art.  To me, making beautiful food is like making art you can eat.  What could be better?  You can be as creative as you want, but there are basic principles- guidelines- that if you follow, ensure success.  And not just success, but uniformity.  Predictability. 

In the last three or four years, my life has been anything but predictable.  Is it no wonder that I would latch onto to something that was?  Give me a wooden spoon and a spatula...they were my life preservers.  Not only did cooking distract me, make me feel successful, and in control of something in my life-if only what I set onto a plate at the end of an hour- but it also provided me with the single most powerful way to comfort my child who was in anguish that I could not stop, or even lessen. 

Yes, she loved my hugs.  Yes, she loved to sit and talk with me.  But boy, did she love a medium rare tenderloin with sauteed mushrooms and Manhattan sauce drizzled overtop...a double stuffed baked potato with the works...oven roasted string beans with fresh tarragon and a touch of lemon.

So here I am, in the most anguish I've ever been in, and I can't seem to set foot in my kitchen.  At first, I thought it was because of all the great times we spent together in there, prepping dinner, dancing, talking, laughing.  It was months- grief makes you slow on the uptake- before I realized my aversion to cooking, and the kitchen, in general, was likely because it was where I was, and what I was doing, when I found out about the accident.

I was chopping an onion and deboning a rotesserie chicken when the little boy came pounding on the door.  I dropped everything, and went on the run, screaming behind me for Jake to follow me.  Which thank God, he didn't.  How a ten year old boy knew it was a better idea to wait on the lawn is beyond me.  I left a pan of sauce on the stove, with the burner lit.  I ran like hell.  Within a short few minutes, I went from calmly making dinner for my two beautiful children, who were my entire world, to looking down at the face of my dead child...broken....twisted...crumpled...blue.

I don't know a lot about post traumatic stress disorder, but I know I can't be in my kitchen for any prolonged amount of time.  If I linger, my heart starts beating way too fast.  I start to feel like I can't get my breath.  I become bombarded with images from the road...snatches that pass before my eyes like someone shuffling a deck of cards:  her arm twisted, her hair covering her face, the responders cutting her shirt open  right there on the road, her lips so blue, the faces of the bystanders who already knew the awful truth that my heart would fight everyday for the rest of my life.

I have tried cooking since the accident.  It is torture.  The first time I smashed a garlic glove, which used to be her job, it sounded like my heart breaking in two.   I've made it through a couple dishes, but usually leave the room every couple minutes, and return just as quickly...a sad and frenzied hummingbird at the feeder.  One evening, I realized I was humming Pop Goes the Weasel under my breath.  What the heck?  I don't even like that song.

So for many reasons, this is a problem.  First and foremost, it is not healthy to keep feeding my son take-out and fast food.  I don't want him to think back to his childhood dinners and have, "Does that complete your order?" ringing in his ears.  I want him to remember the sounds of chopping and rattling, sizzling and bubbling.  I want him to associate certain smells of cooking with me for all of his days.  I want him to rave over my best dishes long after I leave this world.  I want to vex the future girl who is lucky enough to marry him...try as she might she should never be able to duplicate his Momma's recipes.

I wish I could get Jake to join me in the kitchen.  I have tried including him in the cooking process, which he used to love.  He will appease me by doing a simple task- as quickly as humanly possible- and then he's out of there, as fast as his little legs can carry him.  He remembers our good times, too.  Cory and I might have spent a little more time in there, but he would always be drawn in to join us by the sounds of the music, and our uncontrollable laughter.  Tim is not an option because he works nights.  I am always alone in there, my heart beating too fast, and the grisly mental pictures overtaking me.

So what I came up with this tonight:  maybe you can come with me.  Just a couple nights a week to start.  I will bring my laptop in and set it off to one side of the counter.  I will write a little bit about what I'm making or how I'm feeling about being in the kitchen.  Writing has been the one thing that has helped me the most since the accident, maybe it can get me through this, as well.  I think it's worth a try.  And I am trying.

Girl Talk

On Cory's birthday, I heard from someone I haven't talked to for almost three years.  This person, at one time, wasincredibly dear to my heart.  I fell in love with this individual almost immediately, and over the years, even throughout absences that spanned decades, I carried a special place in my heart reserved solely for them...hurts, confusion, and sometimes anger, nonwithstanding... the affection and love was always just under the surface.  I had only to hear that voice to reignite it all.

Even though the communication this time was on paper, not via phone or in person, a huge and complex array of emotions were stirred.  It got me thinking of the old days, in another life.  Some days, it seems these memories must belong to another person, they are so far and away from where I am now...other days, like today, I could be seventeen again or eighteen...

Wanna go?

Bob and I went over to his parents at least a couple times a week that year.  His dad wasn’t always around, but his mom would invite us for dinner or we’d grab a pizza together.  While we were there, we’d do our laundry.  His mom had encouraged me to call her Mom and refer to his dad as Dad.  Bob and I were “the kids”.  She and I spent a lot of time together doing what Bob called women’s work while he suddenly found himself indispensable somewhere else – usually down the street visiting a friend or a cousin, listening to music and drinking beer.  This paved for the way for a lot of one on one conversations between his mom and I.  I was painfully shy, but she seemed to recognize that and would draw me out at my comfort level.  Besides, you became comfortable with someone pretty quickly standing side by side folding your underwear.  She called them unmentionables, but didn’t hestitate to comment on how lovely they were.  While having her comment on my underwear, knowing that she knew her son had also seen them and probably removed them from my body should have mortified me, it instead just added to the acceleration of our close relationship.  Strange, but true.

            His mom taught me lots of things over those baskets of clothes.  First of all, as shameful as this may be to admit, I didn’t have a clue how to do laundry.  My mom had always done mine.  Moving out at seventeen, it was a whole new world.  Bob expected me to run the household, doing everything from grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, to paying bills because they were what he considered women’s work.  Even then, a glimmer of my future cynicism broke through as I wondered what exactly he considered man’s work – since he didn’t have a job.

 A domestic goddess I was not.  I only knew how to cook the most basic dishes, although he raved over whatever I put on the table, as long as it wasn’t burnt.  He may have mentioned this to his mom, because she soon took me under her wing, giving me a crash course in all things related to the care and keeping of Bob.

As his mom and I mated socks and folded shirts carefully to minimize wrinkles, she taught me about coupons and budgeting.  “But princess, when you get paid, you right away take 10% of that money and set it aside for yourself.  Don’t even let Booker know it’s there.  Let that be just for you if you want a coffee or a book someday or some pretty to make you smile.  You worked hard for that money, you should have something from it that is just for you.   Or set it aside somewhere only you know about… you never know when you might have an emergency.”  By the same token, she urged me to set beer and cigarette money aside for Bob the same as I would money for groceries.  “Men will go crazy without their little vices.”  she said with a knowing woman of the world smile.  She went over a routine of household cleaning with me, encouraging me to always do my chores first, because only then would I be able to truly relax.  She said a clean house was a matter of a woman’s pride.  Besides, that way Bob would never have anything to fuss at me about.  He would just brag all the time about what a wonderful little woman he had.  And wouldn’t that be nice?  Finally, she cautioned me to never talk to Bob until he’d been awake for at least an hour, anything sooner than that was a recipe for disaster.  I thought to myself, Honey, who are you telling? That much I already knew.

            One afternoon, months after we’d formed this little Women of Bob’s Life club of two, I found the courage to bring up Bob’s temper.  The laundry room was in the basement, out of earshot, and a safe distance for confiding.  I mentioned how he had thrown a set of keys against the wall and cracked the plaster.  It was something fairly small, but completely alien to me.  I’d never seen anyone handle their frustration that way.  My dad didn’t even swear.  He might go to the garage where he could be alone and tinker around with his tools.   If it was really bad, you’d find him on his knees…praying.

            His mom nodded reluctantly in agreement.  “Yes, Booker does have his temper.  His dad can be the same way.”

            Shyly, wanting to get closer, not further apart, I ventured, “Does he break things when he gets mad too?”

 “Sometimes.  But let me tell you how I fixed that.” she said, pursing her lips together firmly, her thin tan fingers deftly folding clothes as she talked.  “One night a few years back, when we lived in Galveston, Daddy came home from his friends and he’d had way too much to drink.  He had those mean eyes-“  she stopped, and turned to me.  “Do you know the mean eyes?”  I nodded that I did.  She continued, “well, he had the mean eyes and everything he said was a curse.  I just knew there would be trouble.”  She paused.  “It’s the drinking that brings it on, you know, they’re just fine till they get their noses in a bottle.  Once they do, they won’t quit till the money’s gone.  Then they’re mad at you cause they’re broke till next pay day.”

I nodded like I understood.  Bob hadn’t had a payday since we moved in together.  He still hadn’t found a job.  I was working minimum wage to support us.

“Well, princess, this one night Daddy came home so ugly and liquored up.  I said something he didn’t like and he threw a special pretty of mine right against the wall.  Crash!  Into about a million little pieces, you know?  I yelled at him, so he broke something else.  He wouldn’t stop and I was getting fed up.  This wasn’t the first time he’d broken my things.  So I decided right then and there I’d teach that bull-headed man a lesson.  I went to the cupboard and found his favorite bottle of whiskey…hurled it right to the floor.  Ah-hah!  How did he like that?  Doesn’t feel so good, does it, big man?”

            She had me spellbound.  “Then what happened?”  I asked.

            “Well, he didn’t like that one little bit.  So he broke something else.  Then I did.  We went on taking turns until the sun came up.  When we ran out of things, there just wasn’t anything left to break.  Nick, that house was a disaster!” 

            I waited for her to bring this little parable full circle.  I was trying desperately to follow her; I could sense that the telling of this story was important to her.  She was trying to teach me something.  But I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the moral could be?  What was the sense in breaking everything you own?

            “Well, after that, we had to start over from scratch.  Dishes cost money, whiskey costs money, everything costs money.  It took months and months before we had even half of the house put back together again.”  She shook her head, lost in the memory.

            “So, did he stop breaking things?”  I prodded, my blue eyes riveted on her brown.

            “Well…” she hesitated.  “no, but it’s never been as bad as that time since then.  He knows not to go that far.”  She dipped her head into the basket, whether to hide her face or retrieve the last errant sock, I’ll never know.  When her face came up, it was plastered with a bright smile.  “Well, princess, our laundry is all done.  How about if I teach you to make one of Bob’s favorite dinners?  I can give you the recipe to take home.”

“Sure.”  I said and smiled back.

“That’s my girl.”  she smiled triumphantly, and paused to tuck a lock of my long blonde hair behind my ear before hugging me briefly to her chest.  As we pulled away, she held me by the hands at arm’s length, declaring, “We girls have to stick together, right?” and laughed.  Laughing in response, I agreed and followed her up the stairs to the kitchen.

While she taught me to make pork chops smothered in gravy with onions, I went over and over what she had told me in my head.  I just couldn’t make sense of it.  How exactly did she win in that scenario?  That might have been the day I started to question her seemingly tireless sunny disposition, and began to watch her face to see if her smiles touched her eyes. 

 Looking back, I can only see that she lowered her standards, or kept them low, in order to make her husband seem better, like he was making progress.  Then she could stay.  It was okay because it didn’t seem as bad as it once was.  I didn’t take all the advice she doled out that day; I never broke up everything in the house right along with Bob when he was in a rage.  But the lesson on denying your own reality was one I took deeply to heart.  How sad it was that she was the one who showed me how to do it.

             

Baby, I'm Here

The distractions are over.  My friend, Nicole, has gone back home.  It is evening, darkness is just beginning to fall. This morning I got up, I got dressed, and I opened the door to my friend.  We went for coffee, we talked, and posed for the camera.  I even smiled.  Someone who doesn't know me might think I look fine, when I am anything but.

 Last night, I looked at the last picture of myself taken before July 5th, and realized I will never look that way again. The light in my eyes is gone.   I will never be whole because a part of me is dead and in the ground.  I know people are thinking that months have passed.  I know they are wondering, when is she going to rally?  When will she get back to doing her usual things? 

Well, folks, this is me rallying.  I go to work, and try my best.  I shower; I color coordinate; I accessorize.  I greet.  I smile.  My face is a mask I wear to make others around me feel comfortable.  This is as good as it gets.   And it is exhausting.

 Before you set a timeline you think I should follow, remember that until you happens to you, not in your mind-but actually in the real world, real time, gory and horrendous- you have no idea how you would actually react to the unexpected death of your child.  I have done things I never thought I would do, and of which I'm not proud.

I was nineteen when I had Cory.  Nineteen.  And for the next nineteen years, she was the most consistent person in my life.  Her biological father left, came back, left, came back, and left. And then he returned after a decade hiatus to tease us both with the promise of wellness, love, and family. 

 Tim and I separated after nine years of marriage.  Jacob spent many weekends with Tim during this time, but Cory was never invited.  That means every single time that Jacob was gone, Cory and I had Mommy/Cory day all weekend long. 
Each of the three times Cory was hospitalized, I drove to Grand Rapids to be with her every day.  I could not bear for her to be left alone for a single day.  I could not bear for her to think that I had or would ever abandon her. People thought I was being overprotective, perhaps, and should take advantage of the time she was under care to rest myself.  Are you kidding me?  My baby girl was in the hospital, miles and miles away.  She was ill and she was afraid.  She needed me.   She had been abandoned enough already in her short life, and I was not joining that cruel club.

Not only do I miss her unbearably, I feel that I have failed her... not only because I let her walk to the store, but also because she had to die alone.  I never wanted to be the one that left her alone.  Let Bob, let Tim, let any or all of their parents sweep her to the side at various points in her life.  But not me.  She needed to know that I was the one person that would always be there for her. 

But I wasn't.  I wasn't there.  I couldn't get there in time.  I didn't get to take her hand.  I didn't get to say, "Baby, I'm here." 

My mind deals out  gruesome mental pictures and unanswered questions that keep me awake night after night:  Did she know what was happening?  Did she try to move at the last second, but was frozen to the spot with fear?  Did she feel the impact?  Was she in pain?  Did she scream?  Did she cry out for me like she did so often in the grips of her night terrors those last couple years?  Was she still breathing when she fell to the road?  Did she want me?  Did she say my name -if only in her mind- to get no answer?

I hate it that she had to die.  I hate it even more that she had to die alone.  Cory never did well with being alone, even under the best of circumstances.  And once her illness started, being alone left her at her most vulnerable.  She was open game to anxiety, voices, hallucinations, and paranoia.  Please God, tell me she didn't die hearing those damn voices berating her in her head.  That possibility preys on my mind, stealing any peace I try to harbor bit by relentless bit, until there is none.

After Cory went to the mental hospital the first time, she began sleeping in my bed.  She was terrified almost all the time.  She saw shadow figures roaming the halls.  She saw a man in an old fashioned suit and top hat appear wherever she happened to be.  She started out thinking there was a homeless man living in our basement, then started to believe there were agents after her, tracking her every move.  No matter what I said or did, I could not take away these fears.  All I could do was offer my presence.  If you can imagine, Jake soon began feeling a little jumpy.  He was all of 5 and 6 years old when all of this started, and soon began to fear being left in a room of the house alone, lest some strange figure would pop up, scaring him as they had scared his sister.
In a matter of weeks, he was in my bed, too.  We were a little scared family of three.  Cory scared of the things she saw and heard, Jake scared to see his sister screaming out of the blue, and me scared to death that this nightmare would never end.  There we were, three little pigs lined up in a queen bed, bundled in quilts, praying for each night to pass.  More nights than not were spent awake convincing Cory she was okay, that there weren't people in the house, and that no, Jake and I did not hear the noises she was hearing from outside. 

We are safe.  I will protect you.  I won't let anything happen to you, Cory Girl.  I won't ever let anything happen to you.

Show Me The Grief

 I said I would tell the truth.

So here it is.  Tim and I haven’t been arguing about Cory at all.  An argument would imply equal participation by both parties. 

Most times, I am standing above him bent at the waist, hands clenched into fists,  hot tears streaming down my face, vision blurred, my heart a stone in my chest, demanding , “Why don’t you ever say her name?  You never talk about her!”  or  the ever present, “If it were Jake, you would understand what I’m going through.  If it were Jake, you would be talking about him all the time.  If it were Jake, you would be in Fieldstone by now!”  Tim sits during these impassioned tirades, letting me get it out, letting the poison wash over him.  He studies his hands.  When his eyes finally meet mine –which they seldom do in these cases, he hates to see me cry- they look puzzled, hurt, and exhausted.

Quietly, dully, he will say, “I’m sorry.  I don’t know what to say.  Of course, I miss her.  She is always in my thoughts.” 

At that point, I am all out of accusations, still angry, but finding no satisfaction in raging senselessly at my husband who has stood by me during the most terrible time in my life.  I walk away, arms pumping, feet stomping, still fuming, letting the anger and resentment have their way with my limbs; they have already had their way with my mouth.  After these rages, I lay down, my heart beating so fast I fear a cardiac event of some type.  I close my eyes and see her body laid out on the road…crumpled, helpless, and so, so still. 

So now you know another of my dirty little secrets.  I jump all over my husband all too often for real or imagined slights on behalf of my Cory Girl.  Sometimes I wonder if my resentments are pure jealousy because he still has his mini-me, Jacob, while I walk the world without her arm linked in my mine and her voice in my ears or if they are because he is not meeting my level of satisfaction for grieving her.  She so wanted to be Daddy’s little girl.  It is all she ever wanted since preschool when everyone else’s Daddies came to pick them up, and she always had to make do with me or Grandma. 

I often feel that if people love her and miss her as much as I do, their grief should look just like mine.  Ridiculous, of course.  Why would it?  Who loved her just like me?  Who had our exact relationship and connections?  No one else.  Every person who was part of her life carries their own memories, their own conversations, their own little slice of her.   They take them out and look them over in their own safe spaces.  They may shed tears; they may not.  Each person has their own path of grief to walk.  It is a solo chore.  I cannot share my path with anyone else, just as they cannot share theirs with me.  Each path has its own twists and turns, dark places in the woods, and is wide enough for only a single soul to tread. 

Sometimes I wonder if I just can’t stop fighting for her.  I fought for everything for that child.  Now that there is nothing left to ask for, I demand displays of grief instead.   I ask for what I think she deserved.  And I happen to think she deserved so much more than what she got.

I think the you-still-have-yours-but-I-don’t-have-mine phenomenon began the first time we ate out in public after the accident.  I will never forget how surreal it felt to be going out into a crowd of strangers that were talking and laughing and living as if nothing odd had occurred in the world.  It puzzled me because I thought everyone would have felt the planet crack in half when the man said, “I’m sorry, ma’am.  She is gone.”

 Obviously, these people had not been paying attention.  They carried on, stuffing their mouths with food I could not bear to look at.  Some of them smiled into the faces of their children, and I hated them with my very soul.  Why do they get to keep theirs when I had to lose mine?

My heartbeat quickened as the waiter led us to a booth built for three.  Who is Jake going to want to sit by?  I knew the answer as well as I knew my own name, but I held out some crazy futile hope.  He slid in next to Tim without a pause. They ordered food for themselves, and for me.  “You really should eat something, honey.  You don’t want to have to go back to the hospital for another I.V.” Tim said kindly.

I stared at him, my gaze dull and sullen.  I watched as the two boys, who look like mirror images- Jake only missing the facial hair- talked and laughed, playing as they ate.  They looked just like the other people at the tables whose worlds were still intact.  Of course, he could eat, he still had his boy.  I sat alone, my food untouched, clinging to my purse that sat in the tiny spot beside me, where she should have been, where she should be.  This is how it would be from here on out.

 There would be the boys.  And then there would be me.  I would always be alone on my side of the table, desperate for my girl.  The blackness moved in as I pictured this future without her, and swallowed me whole.

 

 

The Back Story

Tim and I hardly ever fight.  Well, correction…Tim and I hardly ever fight anymore.  Our reconciliation began when Cory was ill to the point that the only thing left to try was shock treatment.  It seemed to be a wakeup call to Tim that hey, you and Nicole may not be together right now, but you have a daughter, too.  He hadn’t taken her over weekends or on holidays during all the years we were separated.  Although, in his defense, I must cut in to say he was not in a very good place with his own mental health at that time, and probably didn’t even realize what he was doing or what it was costing him.  Or what it was costing Cory, who was losing the only father she had ever known since the age of six. 

She sought out her biological father during that time, and I let her…feeling she needed to form her own opinion of him, instead of listening to all my past hurts and disappointments.  I knew she was trying to figure out who she was, and who she would be.  For me to stand in the way of meeting and getting to know this man would not help her do either.  I would not be able to stop her, and in the end she would resent me deeply.  So I watched, and I supervised as she soon came to know him on her own terms, and found out the reasons he had not been part of our lives for the last decade.  It was important to me that she know his best qualities, as well as his shortcomings, because I knew what she knew – she was part of him.  From her ears that stuck out slightly to her flat Flintstone feet, she was part of this man.  It was not fair for her to think her whole life that the only things he ever gave her were a bad temper and a mental illness.  Cory loved music.  Cory liked to draw.  She was funny; oh my goodness, that girl could make my belly ache.  She had a good heart, and so does he, deep down.

What Cory soon discovered, and what shouldn’t have surprised me, was that she and her biological father could barely be in the same space together for more than 5 minutes without arguing, getting on each other’s nerves, and slinging insults.  I say it shouldn’t have surprised me because Tim and Cory had a lot of the same issues over the years, although never to quite that extent. Abandonment issues had upped the ante, so to speak.  But in general, I think if you  take two people with bi-polar symptoms or tendencies and put them in a room together, it’s never pretty. 

Eventually, when it became clear that even with a diagnosis and treatment plan, her father was not going to make the efforts to remain stable, we had to cut off contact.  I loved them both, but he was an adult, and Cory was my child. She was my responsibility.  It was up to him to want help, and get it.  I could not let his refusal to do so interfere with her mental health.  Cory needed to be surrounded by positive, steady, dependable people who could give her what she needed.  She needed routine, and a predictable schedule.  She could not tolerate upset in her world.  She was much too fragile.  As Dr. Z told us so many times, she would do best to just “sit and watch the corn grow.”  Early to bed, early to rise.  Exercise and a good diet.  Supportive relationships.  Calm.  Patience.  These were what my baby girl craved.  She did not need to be on an emotional rollercoaster, which unfortunately is exactly what being involved with her biological father was like…for both of us.  Now mind you, I could hack it…I’m older, I’m seasoned, I’ve been around that particular block more than a few times.  I’ve got tough skin when it comes to that man.  I know he seldom means what he says when he’s angry, and can’t control his impulses.   Not to say it still didn’t hurt, but I had a few more coping skills than my baby girl.  I also didn’t have a major mental illness that all the meds in the world couldn’t seem to tame.  Cory did; she did not need to be around anyone who could so easily knock her off kilter; she was barely afloat most of the time as it was.  So he can say what he wishes, and so can anyone one else.  I did what I needed to in order to protect her.  And I would do it again in a heartbeat.  More than anything, I think it was sad that he wasn’t able to take the steps he needed to in order to be a positive, healthy part of her life.  They both lost out on something there.

But back to Tim.  While we were split up, Tim was diagnosed with Bipolar.  He went through the long process of regulating meds.  He had a long time to think about what was important to him, and what he needed to do for his own mental health.  So far, ignoring his symptoms, or medicating them incorrectly had cost him his family, more than one job, and his driver’s license.  He was ready to get well, and stay well.  Once he heard how bad things were with Cory, he came on the run.  All he offered at first was his help.  He could watch Jake while I took her to appointments.  He could mow the lawn, or haul the garbage to the curb.  When Cory was hospitalized, he went to visit her.  I think it meant the world to her to see him walk through her door. 

Tim was different on the correct medication.  He had so much more patience.  After Cory came home from the hospital, the battle was far from over.  She still had episodes often.  It could be exhausting.  Watching Tim talk to her, calm her when she was agitated or full of anxiety was special.  He was better at it sometimes than I was.  She told me more than once that she couldn’t go to sleep until she heard him come in the door from work around midnight.  Then she could relax; he made her feel safe.  The day of the accident, Tim and I had run out to do an errand early in the morning.  Cory was still asleep when we left.  I hollered upstairs to her to let her know we’d be back soon.  She called Tim on his cellphone the moment she woke up, eager for the 411.  As I drove us home from the shoe store, I listened to Tim talking her through it with a smile, and a heart full of love for this man.  “Hey Cory.  Yep, your mom and I had to run a quick errand to the shoe store, but we are on our way back to the house now.  We are just passing the arboretum. We should be there in about…oh…maybe 5 minutes.  Would you like to talk to Mom?”

You see, Cory had anxiety like nobody’s business, the slightest change in plans could send her into a complete panic, turning her into a small and beautiful bird flying desperately inside a glass house, unable to find a way out.  He kept his tone kind; he spoke slow; he gave her every step of the plan; he gave her a timeline.  Well, I guess that man listens to me sometimes, after all.

Reconciliation is a very difficult thing.  Tim and I disagreed quite a bit the first year just trying to figure out how to rejoin two separate lives back into one.  Maybe some people think getting back together is an instant thing, but it’s not.  Whatever has been broken takes twice as long to put back together.  It is hard work, but with each piece that is glued back into place, you feel stronger, and more invested in the final outcome.  And, naturally, you will handle this precious thing a little more carefully from here on out, no?

So, at the point of the accident, Tim and I were probably closer than we have been since the day we met.  We had been through the mill (or “milk” as Cory used to say when she was little, and always comes to mind when I say that phrase).  We seldom argued. 

After the loss of a child, everything, literally everything, becomes so meaningless, there is literally nothing left to argue about.  And really, who has the energy anyway?  I don’t even have the will to live, what in the world would I bitch at my husband about?

What, you ask?  What in the world do couples fight about after the loss of a child?  Well, I can’t speak for every couple.  But I can tell you what Tim and I have fought about…time and time again. 

 Cory.

--- to be continued

Out of a Clear Blue Sky?

Bipolar is not an adjective.  I think I first remembering hearing it in a Katy Perry song.  I’ve heard it in the last couple years in casual conversation, and have even heard it used to describe the weather.  Before my own personal experiences with loved ones battling mental illness, I likely would have fallen right in with everyone else who uses it as a descriptor. 

 In fact, I am mortified to find I did just this on one of my more recent blogs describing my husband’s grooming habits as “OCD”.  I must apologize from the bottom of my heart for that one.  While I do believe that we all have a little something going on to a lesser or greater, it is not respectful to use an illness to describe someone’s habits or personality.

When I hear someone using “bi-polar” casually in such a way, I have the urge to sit them down and tell them what it really means, and how deeply it can affect an individual and their family.  Both the fathers of my two children, and my daughter have carried this diagnosis- and I say “carry” because it is truly a heavy burden.  Without the right supports, a person will find themselves unable to even stand, let alone walk.

A lot of people have asked me if Cory’s illness just struck out of a clear blue sky when she hit puberty.  At the time, it certainly seemed that way.  The symptoms were subtle to begin with, and could be easily mistaken for the general angst of being a teenager these days…especially a teenage whose parents had recently separated…especially a teenager who was looking for her identity, and used MySpace to find her biological father whom she hadn’t seen or talked to in over ten years.  A lot of changes had taken place in Cory’s life at the same time.   Naturally, she felt stressed.  Some adjustment problems were to be expected, but it was when her behaviors began spiraling out of control, that I began looking for answers.

As a child, Cory always had a temper.  I thought, well, she’s just like her father.  Everyone knew her biological father had a temper, could be argumentative, and was hard to get along with at times.  Other times, he was the single most charming guy you’d ever meet, a guy with a great heart, and the life of every gathering.  While he had developed a reputation for his behaviors, being called “crazy” to “psycho” to plain old “asshole”, it was never known why he behaved the way he did.  Why did he get frustrated so easily?  Why did he go from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye?  Why could he not get along in life without turning to substances?

Getting a correct diagnosis depends hugely on family history.  Mental illness isn’t something a lot of folks are eager to talk about.  Imagine my surprise to find out there were several people on his side of the family that had these exact same issues.  As I ticked off the symptoms, it wasn’t just Cory’s face that I saw, it was her biological father’s as well.  It was so validating to finally see in black and white that there was something wrong with the way his brain worked; he had an illness; there was a legitimate reason for some of his erratic behaviors.

 It was as Dr. Z went down the list of life situations that occur with untreated major mental illness (school failure, job instability, involvement in the justice system, substance abuse, homelessness, family discord, relationship problems, financial struggles, suicide), that everything fell into place.  I remember thinking at the time it was one of the most important discoveries of my life.  There was a reason for his behaviors, and by God it wasn’t me.  I could feel the uncomfortable sense of guilt that every woman who’s been in an abusive relationship must feel just slip right off my shoulders.  The yoke was off.  I could forgive now.  I could stop carrying that hatred that had boiled and festered in my heart for the last decade.  The problem was, as that hate faded away, all that was left was the love I still had, and the desire for him to be whole.  Let’s be frank, shall we?  When does the abused stop loving the abuser?  If you find out, please let me know. 

So, I went right back into the lion’s den, taking him by the hand and leading him to the nearest mental health facility to be counseled, diagnosed, and prescribed medication.  I had hope the size of the world.  I loved this man, and wondered who he would be when he was free of the symptoms that had plagued him most of his life.  Could he be a father?  Could he be a husband?  Could we finally be a family?

Unfortunately, he, like so many others, would not remain in treatment.  I finally had to accept that I could not change him.  I could not make him take the steps needed to be well, and stay well.  It was difficult because it is hard to watch someone you care deeply about suffering, and not be able to help them.  It’s even harder to know you can’t help them because they don’t want the help. 

It felt like this:

I hadn’t heard from him in three or four days, and neither had Cory.  This was highly unusual.  He liked to keep close tabs.  He craved control, especially of me.  At first, when he asked me to call him as soon as I got home each time I left his sight, I thought it was caring and romantic- a return to chivalry, perhaps. 

            So to have not heard from him was strange.  I called, but didn’t get an answer.  I texted, but didn’t get a response.  He lived alone, and he wasn’t working.  I began to worry, and wonder if he was okay.  I couldn’t check with his mom to see when she’d last heard from him.  We’d become estranged since the last break up.  Her love for me, and even for the kids, was conditional, contingent on whether or not I was taking care of her son.  When we were on, I was “Angel” and could do no wrong.  When we were off, I ceased to exist.  She loved him dearly, and had a hard time making sure his needs were met from so far away.  I was an acceptable surrogate, whether I realized it at the time or not.

            One day after work, I decided to drop by his house to see if he was sick.  I was already wondering how it would play out if he needed to go to the doctor or the emergency room.  He had no insurance and wouldn’t complete the paperwork needed to get state assistance.  Maybe I’d have to call his mom after all, as much as I dreaded the thought.  I knocked and waited.  Nothing.  I knocked some more and tried to peek in through the front windows, but all the blinds were closed.  I couldn’t see a thing.  The house looked pretty dark for early evening.  I went back to the door and pounded.  He must be sleeping.  He slept like a rock and was not a ray of sunshine when woken.   Finally, his face appeared in the tiny window at the top of the door.  He looked out cautiously, saw my face, and began to fumble with the locks.  I noticed he had the chain drawn. 

            “Hey, are you ok?  We were getting worried.”  I said, stepping inside.

            “I’m fine.”  He mumbled.  I looked him over.  I had last seen him about a week ago. He didn’t appear to have bathed or changed clothes since.  His thick, dark hair was a rat’s nest.  He looked unwell, as if he hadn’t been sleeping.  I glanced past him into the house, the part I could see.  It was a mess.   Garbage and dirty dishes jockeyed for space on every available surface.  He was a bachelor for all purposes, sure, but this was not like him.

            He shuffled out of the living room and into the bathroom, and shut the door.  As he voided his bladder, I took the opportunity to peek inside his room; I was half-expecting to see a bunch of beer bottles, maybe even a rolled up dollar bill and a mirror on his nightstand.  Imagine my surprise to see none of those things, just a bunch of mirrors propped up all over the place.  It looked as though he had brought every mirror in the house into his room and set them up all over.  He had also rigged a sort of make shift ramp from his mattress to the floor.  What in the world?

            When I asked, he told me he’d been seeing things and hearing people in the house.  He was scared; the mirrors made him feel safe because he could see into the shadows.

            “What is that?”  I asked, pointing to the makeshift ramp.

            “That’s so the girl won’t grab my ankles when I get out of bed.”  he answered.

            My eyes widened.  “What girl?”  I asked.

            “The dead girl that lives under my bed.”  he said matter of factly.

            “The dead girl?”  I repeated.

            “Yeah, I’ve seen her.  She’s not nice.  She waits for me.  She watches and she waits cause she knows sooner or later I’m gonna have to get up and go pee.”  he whispered.  He sounded all of five years old.

            I took a deep breath.  I smiled gently and looked into his eyes.  I asked him if he was putting me on, did he really believe there was a dead girl under his bed?  Say no, say no, say no. 

            He fetched the deepest sigh and said, “Look, Nick, you don’t have to believe me.  That’s fine.  I saw her.  She’s real and she’s after me.  They all are.”  He raked his hands through his hair and then cradled his head in his hands.  He rocked gently back and forth.

            “But, babe– “ I began.

            “Shhh!  Don’t talk so loud.  She’ll hear you.”  he warned, his eyes wide.  He shivered.  After that, he clammed up and wouldn’t say another word about it.  He explained that he hadn’t showered because he was just too tired, and besides, every time he got in the shower, he heard someone in the house.  He’d get out, walk around checking all the rooms, and double checking the windows and doors were locked.  Sometimes along the way, he’d hear a sound behind him and circle back to search more thoroughly.  When he finally worked his way back to the bathroom, convinced the house was empty of prowlers, he’d step back in the shower, only to hear someone again.  The whole process would repeat itself until the hot water was a faint memory and he was in a complete panic.  “It’s just not worth it.”  he told me.

            Seeing him like this, so obviously ill, all was immediately forgiven.  He looked tortured.  It hurt my heart just to look at him.  Images of him flooded my mind:   sitting up in bed bare chested, reading a book with the aide of his “spectacles”,  teasing Cory by putting a set of paper bushy eyebrows he’d drawn  on the fridge to represent her new boy band crush,  eating popcorn with Jake while they watched the fights,  standing back to survey his lawn work.  I just couldn’t reconcile those images with this dirty, scared, delusional little man.  They just didn’t jibe.  In the same way, I couldn’t reconcile the man whose touch when given in love gave me goosebumps with the man who in years past had easily backed me up against a wall… screaming, spitting in my face, and throwing whatever was at hand.  That wasn’t really him, either.   It was more like some mean-spirited little demon living in his brain had gotten to fooling around in there, pushing buttons and flipping switches at random, but with malicious glee. 

He huddled on his bed… well away from the edge.  I held him.  Then I put my head to his chest and listened to the beat of his heart that must be under strain after all it had been through– not just from the past few days of fear and anxiety, but from a lifetime of drinking and drugs that surely must have taken their toll.  I wondered all too often when it would simply give out like an old watch that someone had neglected to wind.  Was this my safe place?  How could it be when even its owner felt under siege from things he didn’t understand?  I pondered this for another moment before starting to care for him like I would one of my children.

            I sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom and kept him company while he showered.  I tidied up the place and took out the garbage.  I asked him when he had last eaten to discover he wasn’t sure.  In the kitchen, I found empty cupboards and a fridge housing sour milk and questionable hot dogs.  Nothing else.  He wasn’t sure, but thought his mom had loaded his debit card so he could get groceries.   When I asked if he’d heard from his mom lately, he said no.  The phone had been ringing, but it was in the kitchen.  It was easier to stay in bed…safer.  His cell phone had been shut off.  He hadn’t paid the bill again.

            I hopped in my car and headed to the store to get him a few things:  milk, cereal, some soup, bread, and peanut butter.  Pulling back into his driveway, replaying the things he’d told me, I knew he needed much more than clean clothes and food to eat.  This wasn’t a common cold; chicken soup was just not going to do it.  He needed professional help.  But would he be willing to get it?

Making Sh** Happen

My stubborn refusal to take any of the meds Dr. Z offered me lasted just shy of a month.  It was a grim month with no sleep, and full of flashbacks...day and night.  I could not stop seeing her on the road.  In my mind, I ran down my street over and over and over again, but I was always too late.  I always arrived, just as I did that day, to find her laid out on the road, facedown, her hair obscuring her face, and one arm horribly twisted.  Several times a day I relived the horror of not being able to get close to her, or to touch her.  The passerby had already called 911, and had enough sense to know not to try to move her.  I screamed, "Is she breathing?" to anyone and everyone, but no one would meet my eyes.  Watching the ambulance come down West Michigan, seemingly in slow motion, sirens going full blast is an image that will never leave my mind.  I cannot abide sirens to this day.  At the least, I will visibly cringe, and the memories come flooding.  On a worse day, I will begin shaking all over, with a crying jag not far behind.

As the first responders arrived, I would shout to anyone who would listen that she was my daughter, and that she was 19, only 19...as if, somehow, her very age might protect her.  As I ran down the road, I thought a broken leg, a broken arm, at most, please God, please.
When I saw her, I thought concussion, but we'll go the hospital.  She may have to stay over night.
But then they turned her over.  My insides collapsed as I got a good look at her face.  Her beautiful lips were blue...blue.  I have never felt such utter terror.  My hands begin raking and pulling down the sides of my face of their own accord.  I could only scream, "Is she breathing?" at the top of my lungs like a broken record, until at last a man came over to give me the news.  Six words that sent me to my knees on the concrete, screaming at the sky, quite out of my mind.

So, thirty-odd days of these types of unbidden images finally took their toll.  I still stoutly maintained that I was not depressed.  This was not depression.  No pill could fix this, or make it better.  But I needed to sleep.  I needed to shut my eyes for once, and not be at the side of the road.  So, I agreed to take something to help me sleep.  This was a tiny white flag that I struggled to lift, and I wondered if Cory had felt the same way when she went on meds.
 I think for everyone, there must be that initial denial that anything is that wrong, or that they are wrong to the point that nothing could possibly help.  But after suffering has gotten a good strong foothold, you begin to weaken, and rethink your position on help, and on medication.  I would budge on the sleep meds, but on an anti-depressant, the jury was still out.

Dr. Z was entirely pleased to write me a presciption for something to help me sleep.  I had this idea that I would take it, and the lights would go out.  Knock me out.  I should've known better.  When your mind is unsettled, sleep meds don't always work quickly or efficiently.  On a day Cory was doing pretty well, she nodded out about twenty minutes after taking her meds.  But if she was delusional, they made no dent.  Her brain was in such high gear, it would take one look at those meds, and sniff, saying, to hell with you, catch me if you can.
It was the same case for me.  We had to try more.  Then we had to try something different.  He gave me Seroquel, and guaranteed I should be out in no time.  In fact, he told me to be sure I took the pills laying in bed because I might not make it safely to bed if I didn't.  I was duly impressed.  Cory had taken this med, and while it wasn't for her, I did remember it being quite sedative.
Yeah, not so much.  It did nothing.  I wasn't even drowsy.  Dr. Z told me not to worry, and doubled the amount.
I should cut in here to talk just a bit about my diet at this time.  It was non-exisistent.  I wasn't eating, or really drinking at all.  Eventually I went to my comfort food,and subsisted on Chips Ahoy cookies and milk, going from one package to two a week, and then eventually the family size.
Is it really any surprise that I started to have some digestive issues? 
I began to feel bloated.  Even drinking water, made me feel too full, and ill.  I started to vaguely notice it had been awhile since I had moved my bowels.  Within a couple more days, my stomach was visibly swollen, and continued to swell until I could only fit into a roomy maxi dress.  From the side, I looked about 5 months pregnant, and my belly had begun to ache all the time.
I went to my next appointment with Dr. Z, and asked him if constipation was a side effect of the Seroquel.  Indeed, it was.  And certainly, my current diet was not helping.  He told me what to buy at the drugstore, and what to eat...dried fruit, veggies, lots of water, all the usual suspects.  I left feeling relieved; I would soon be feeling better.
Only, none of that worked.  I took the drugstore meds.  Nothing.  I ate prunes by the handful.  Nothing.  I beat a steady path between my bed and the bathroom, crying and screaming by turns.  At one point, I climbed on my kitchen counter (completely unsafe), and began ravaging the top shelf of my baking cupboard for dried fruit of any kind.  With tears streaming down my face, I crouched, eating huge handfuls of golden raisins, dried apricots, and craisins.  Nothing.
A friend called to check in on me, as was her daily habit, and suggested I do the bicycle exercise they have infants do when they can't have a bowel movement.   I tried that as well.
Still nothing.
I began to feel like I was going to literally explode.  Desperate, I asked Jake to call my sister and brother in law and beg them for help.  They came to the rescue, bringing over a large container of powder laxitive and a Gatorade.  They told me my worries were over.  Both of them were at the age that they had suffered the indignity of a colonoscopy.  Their doctor had them clear out their systems before the procedure by taking heroic amounts of powdered laxitives.  They mixed it, and stayed with me while I drank it.  I laid on my bed, prudently on my side, butt in the air.  At this point, I could not lay or sit comfortably.  They assured me if I drank every drop, I would be pooping like a champion within the hour.  I cannot describe how much I looked forward to this prospect.  If someone had offered me a million dollars or the immediate  ability to take a shit, I wouldn't have hesitated to turn that  money down.  If you have ever been truly constipated, I am sure you understand.  It is misery, in every sense of the word.
It took me thirty or forty minutes to down that vile powdery orange flavored gloop.  To this day, I cannot look at an orange Gatorade without my stomach rolling helplessly.  Once I had managed the last sip, talking with my sister and her husband about Cory and the accident, sobbing the entire time, and stinking the up the room with a foul stench, they assured me I would soon feel the urge to go, and went back home.
They were gone about five minutes, when I had an urge all right.  I barely made it to the toilet when I began violently throwing up all over the place.  I have never vomited quite like that before.  I could feel my eyeballs pushing out of their sockets, as my bladder gave way.  By the time Tim got home a few minutes later, I was in a pool of my own vomit, urine, and some unidentifiable foul liquid solid that was seeping out of my rear.  I had vomited so much, I could not move.  Tim, a cleancut, slightly OCD sort of fellow about his grooming habits, looked in the bathroom doorway to find his wife, who certainly wasn't looking her best these days in the first place, had become a dirty, stinky salamander beached on her side, laying in her own filth, vomit splattered hair in her face.  "Oh dear!"  were his first words.
With a protective layer of towels down on the car seat, Tim and Jake drove me to the E.R.  I was crying and wailing with pain.  They put me in a wheelchair, that I could not sit in on my butt, but had to wedge myself into on my side.  Then the wait began.  During the next two hours, Tim later told me, I cried out for Cory every few minutes.  At one point, I asked him to call my mom to make sure she was okay.  I begged for him to tell me she was ok.  He would not.
When I was finally called back into triage, the E.R. doctor asked me what meds I was on, and what they were for.  I would only allow that the Seroquel was because I had trouble sleeping because my daughter was very ill.  "She has a mental illness, and she's been very sick".
Tim, the voice of inarguable no-nonsense logic overrode my statement, telling the doctor about the accident.  At this point, I naturally -and quite logically to me- covered my ears and began screaming hysterically.
I wasn't truly delusional.  Deep down, I knew where and how she was.  I only wanted the small comfort of not facing it for a bit.  These medical personnel didn't know me or Cory.  If I told them she was alive, just ill, they had no reason not to believe me.  In a sense- for a couple of hours anyway- she could be alive again.
I was in tremondous physical pain.  I just couldn't juggle that pain with the mental agony of her being gone.  It was too much.  I wasn't strong enough.  The physical pain I could do nothing about, but if I could pretend away my loss for a few minutes, what was the harm?  My mind created this temporary reprieve to protect itself from becoming overloaded like a jammed switchboard. 
I wanted to be the mother of two beautiful children, again...my dynamic duo.  For God's sake, why won't he let me?  Didn't he ever play dress up as a child?
The doctor absorbed this information quietly, and ordered something to calm my nerves.  They sent me to x-ray to make sure a load of crap was all that we were dealing with.
In the end, that's just what it was.  The Seroquel combined with my poor diet had blocked my system.  The doctor informed me, once Tim and Jake had left the room, that there was only one way to remedy the situation.  The nurse pulled the curtain, and the doctor gloved up.  I don't have to tell you what happened next.  You really don't want to know.  Let's just say, I've never let a man become that intimate with my ass, if we weren't in a committed relationship.
I didn't even know his name.  But I know he earned every cent of his money on that particular shift.
Just as a follow up treat, the nurse gave me my first ever warm water enema.
If you've never had one, try to avoid it at all costs.
Not only will it clear your system, it will also strip away any semblance of dignity that you have maintained.  Nurses giving enemas are not cheery and caring.  They are irritable and frightened...mostly frightened because with any false move, they will become splattered with another human being's shit water from head to toe. 
To add insult to injury, Tim ducked his head in to check on me, mid-enema.  I don't know how he could ever look at me sexually again.  The smell was so foul, he practically sprinted away with a dubious, "Check on you later, honey!"

 So, my point for this overshare is this:  whenever you think things cannot possibly get worse, just remember they could.  You could feel that way AND be unable to poop.
It seems God enjoys a little healthy perspective taking.