Paint Your Target

Doubts about every decision I made as Cory’s parent ride on the coattails of my guilt over her death.  Things that I might have done differently take turns standing up quietly in my mind to argue their case with eloquence and ease.  They cite statistics; they quote research.  Relentlessly, they shine light on the patches of my decision making that were too thin or too frayed…insubstantial fabric, flimsy due to lack of experience, lack of knowledge, or lack of plain old common sense.  Behind these pitiful, well-worn sections of curtain peeks Cory’s vulnerable and frightened face.  Each time I spy her, I ask myself the same question:  could I have done better by her?

I left Bob, Cory’s biological father, when she was just eight weeks old.  At that point, things had gotten so bad, it was practically a family intervention, with a clergy man present, and the police on speed dial.  Unfortunately by this time, Cory had already spent nine months in my belly, and a month on the outside, all of which as my helpless hostage to fortune.

I’ve done the research.  Extreme stress during pregnancy causes problems with brain development in the fetus.  These problems can eventually lead to developmental delays, learning problems, and future mental health concerns.

Future mental health concerns…bingo.  I should have gotten out sooner.  Right there was my first question pitched to Dr. Z.  He knew exactly where I was headed with this train of thought, and refused to take the bait.

“Stress during pregnancy can cause some complications, yes, but in Cory’s case, there was a significant family history of mental illness.  She was predisposed to developing her illness.  Biological factors were at work.”  he said.

He paused here to remind me that I did remove myself and Cory from an unhealthy environment, whereas many do not.  In my mind, Bob’s mother’s face materialized, unbidden.  He further reminded me that early diagnosis, and consistent treatment had prevented Cory from succumbing to many bad experiences.  Easily he ticked them off on his fingers:  substance abuse, school failure, criminal conduct, indiscriminant sexual behaviors, possible violence towards herself and others.

I took this home, and chewed on it for awhile.

I went back the next week with a new question.  Had I caused Cory’s illness to begin when Tim and I separated?  Did I put the stress on Cory that set her illness in motion?  Was I responsible for all the suffering she endured?  I feared I was, and knew if it was true, I could not continue to live.  I did not deserve to.

Dr. Z looked at me with deep sadness, before answering me patiently.  “Cory’s illness began shortly after she hit puberty, as we know happens to many young people with this unfortunate illness.  The age of onset is one of the reasons it is so debilitating- it interrupts normal growth and development, schooling, and the acquisition of job skills.”

I listened carefully, not interrupting him.  His opinion meant much to me.

“Hormones, and the chemicals being released in the body have much to do with the onset of these type of illnesses.  Single parent or not, you provided Cory with a stable home environment and nurturing care.  You and she together were heroic in your team approach to fighting her illness.  I have long admired you both for your strength and perseverance.” he finished.

I broke into tears, here, not surprised at all to look up and catch a tear rolling down the cheek of Cory’s psychiatrist.  We had all tried so hard.  This was not the outcome any of us had wanted, or even considered, him included.

My doubts about my own judgment, however, were far from over.  I marched right back into his office the following week, and settled myself in my usual chair, the one next to me painfully empty, as always.  Here was the big one, which scared me so badly, I could barely verbalize it:  had I caused Cory’s illness by allowing her father back into our lives?

Dr. Z sat back in his chair, arching one eyebrow, as if to say, are we going to keep playing this game?  I can play this game all daaaay!  And I think I knew even before he spoke, that I would not get satisfaction in this conversation.  I could keep lining them up, and he would just keep knocking them down…one after another.  He would keep pointing out all I had done right, whether I wanted to hear it or not.

“Well, then, how would it have been for Cory to search out her father without your knowledge, and spend time with him on her own?” he asked.

I was at a loss for words.  Dr. Z was not.

He continued, “How would it have been for her to get to know him and sort out her feelings towards him without your support or supervision?  What if you had not taken her to regular counseling appointments so she could have the help of a professional while taking this all in?  What might the alternative have looked like if she had simply hopped a bus, while manic or depressed, and went off to find him?  Unmedicated and alone?”

Hmmm…I had never even thought of that.

I went home, and continued my search for blame.  The easiest place to find it was my own mirror…after all, I had been her legal guardian, in charge of making all her decisions.  Who better to blame?  I had been her caregiver through the entirety of her illness.  My main charge was her safety.  Keep her safe. 

Safe.

Multiple skull fractures, front and back…a broken neck…a broken arm…two broken hips.

They added up to one incompetent mother.  I had tried so hard, and just lost it all in the end.  How could this be?  Where had I gone wrong?  I would find out if it was the last thing I did.

The next time I questioned Dr. Z, it was about her meds, and my judgment of her mental state that day.  Any other doctor might have thought I’d finally brought both barrels around to a new target, but Dr. Z knew better.  This had absolutely nothing to do with him.

“I’ve been thinking maybe it was the meds.  Maybe I had her on too many meds…and she just…just collapsed into the street.  You know, it was a very hot day, and….”  I trailed off uncertainly.

Dr. Z took a breath and templed his hands under chin comfortably.  He spoke gently, “Cory was actually on less medication than previous times.  Do you remember we had backed it down once the voices seemed to be receding again?”

I nodded, albeit reluctantly.

He continued, “I do not think she was overmedicated.  I think we were prudent to use the least amount of medication needed to control her hallucinations, so that she was not feeling overly sedated.  At the time of the accident, the meds in her body would have been at their lowest point of the day.”

I lifted my eyebrows, in spite of myself.  I had never considered this.  She did take the bulk of her meds at bedtime.

He added, “In my personal opinion, I don’t think the heat of the day was a factor.  Perhaps, the sun shining into the driver’s eyes…”

Before I could latch onto this, he interrupted my thoughts with, “You do not control the sun.  If only we could be so all powerful, no?”

“Well, she just wasn’t ready.  I shouldn’t have let her go.”  I said.

“But she was ready.  We talked about her walking an errand to the store together.  She had made the trip many, many times.   It was exercise for her, which was good for her depression.  More importantly, she was developing some independence and growing more comfortable in her interactions with others.  This was part of her recovery process, no?” he stopped there, and waited.

“But maybe she wasn’t feeling well that day, if she was hearing voices…”

He stopped me, kindly, but firmly, “If she were feeling ill, she would never have offered to go.”

My tears began rolling.  “Maybe I didn’t teach her how to cross the road as well as I thought I did.”

Again, his gentle insistence, “You taught her many things, and you taught her well.  You gave her everything she needed.  You did a phenomenal job.  She was very blessed to have you.  You were blessed to have each other.”

At this, I began sobbing in earnest.

He continued, “You did everything for her that you could possibly do.  You believed her when others did not.  You listened to her.  You got her help.  You fought for her education.  You gave her the best of care.”

I became an unsavory sobbing pile on the cushioned chair, tears and snot running a crude race down my cheeks.

“I tried so hard!”  I wailed.

“Yes, you did.  And so did she.  She is a lovely young lady... and we must now keep her alive... in our hearts.”  he said.

And wasn’t that what all these accusations towards myself were all about?  Missing her?  I didn’t want her to be dead.  I was arguing with every fiber of my being against an unthinkable reality.  The longer I argued, the longer I could deny her death.  God help me, I was “bargaining”- one of those blasted stages of grief that I swore I’d never go through.  Even I recognized it when I saw it in action.

I also realized that it didn’t matter what I had done right or wrong through all the years, she was gone regardless.  And she wasn’t coming back.  There were no do-overs, here.

As Eninem so truthfully stated, “Life is no Nintendo game.”