I would take a few deep breaths, and put on a face that said I was in control, knew exactly what to do next, and if I wasn't sure, I knew exactly who to ask in order to find out. Cory needed that from me. When she was feeling out of control or confused, she needed to take one look at me and know I could handle the situation, and be positive that I would keep her safe. We had an emergency partnership agreement that we'd hatched together. It went something like this: I brought the calm and she brought the cooperation. There were huge amounts of trust required on each of our parts in order to make it work. What we learned as time went on is that we could count on each other. We were honest with each other, and we talked... a lot. Our relationship was strengthened and deepened to a bond I haven't shared with anyone else. There were times her life was literally in my hands, and she trusted me enough to be perfectly comfortable with that. She knew I would take the time to explain things to her, we would make decisions about her treatment together, and that we had the same goal: her health and happiness.
It was something I couldn't do without her cooperation, and something she couldn't do without my support.
Faced with the horror of sitting through her funeral (grimace), my brain went looking for a familar pattern, and landed on our teamwork of the past. If there was ever a time for a crisis plan, it was surely now. So as the people beginning filing in to take their seats, I leaned over my baby girl and whispered this to her,
"Okay, Cory, I'm gonna need your help. Do you remember how I used to take you to the hosptial sometimes when you weren't feeling well, when you were scared? Cory, I was really scared, too, I just didn't want you to know cause I knew you were counting on me to be strong.
Cory, Mommy is so scared right now. But I know we're a team, and we can get through anything together. So, I had an idea. I have this painting with the heart on it that you made. I'm gonna hold it all through the service, and try to be strong. If I feel like I'm going to lose it, I'm gonna push on that heart, and if you could, Cory, could you please send me some strength?"
I laid my hand on top of hers that was icy, unyielding marble. I leaned to kiss the small scrape on her right hand. I smoothed her hair. I ran my hand gently over her arm, and made sure her sweater was straight. Even in the extremity of my sorrow, I could not help but to beam down at her face, she was just so damn beautiful. She still brought me pride. She still brought me joy. I would have stayed fixed to that spot, staring raptly down at her face through a prism of tears the entire day, if someone hadn't stepped over to turn on the slideshow. It was nearly time. And I didn't want to miss a thing.
Reluctantly, I stumbed away from her side, and found a seat in the front row, my mother on my right side, and Tim on my left. Bookended by love, I collapsed on the pew, clutching a small picture of her and the heart painting to my chest.
The panic was loose, free and raving through my body, undoing me. Push. I reminded myself, and pressed down on the heart with my thumb.
As I lifted my head to look at the screen, I panicked, realizing I was too far away to see. I had forgotten my glasses. Cory's lifetime was playing up there, and it was sacred.
I mumbled something incomprehensible to Tim, and stood up, nearly tripping as I began barreling my way over to a small bench directly in front of the screen. There, that was better. Push.
Jacob appeared beside me like an appartion, crowding against my side for comfort, for safety. I could feel him, distantly, as he ducked his head under my arm like a chick seeking the shelter of its momma's wing. I am ashamed to admit, I barely registered his presence. My ears, my eyes, and my heart were full of Cory. There was room for nothing and no one else. I let the music and the images wash over me- the sweetest sort of agony. I communed with my girl.
Occasionally, a well-meaning friend or relative would approach me to offer their condolences. I could not engage with them at all. I wanted to be left alone, alone with my girl, to enjoy our last moments listening to music together.
I bent down and begged for Jake to tell his dad to make the people stop coming. Bless his heart, Jake did just that- quietly, respectfully, and without being asked twice.
Maybe once, I came out of myself enough to put an arm around my son, but it was an automatic gesture. The only time during that wretched day that I actually connected to my son was when I asked him if he wanted to sing a line of a song to Cory with me. It was a song we'd listened to many times, especially in the car. Jacob is a shy soul, who remains on the edges of large group situations...watching, and observing silently before he's willing to join. It spoke volumes of his love for Cory, and the magnitude of his loss to hear his small voice pipe up beside me, clear, confident, and full of sorrow..."I miss the lips that made me fly..."
My body rocked gently to the music. I sang along quietly, completely unaware of what I would find out later was a full house sitting behind me. As certain images appeared on the screen, I blew her a kiss, as if she were simply embarking on a trip, and would surely return. Far too soon for my taste, a man walked up and turned the slideshow off. It was time.
Tim, Jacob, and I- all of our hands trembling- worked together to light her two candles as the Coldplay song we had both loved filled the church. With my eyes glued to my feet, working harder than I ever have in my adult life to operate my legs, I concentrated on walking back to my seat. I fell into the pew, and reached, wihout looking, for my mother's hand. It was there. Push.
I longed to sink into myself, sink down in the pew, disappear into the ground if I could.. I do not want to be here. Please God, don't let this be happening. Push.
As I pushed down at that small red heart, so tiny and perfect, a small voice within me directed me to sit up straight and hold my head high. These people were here to see my girl, and she was a lovely, kind, strong, remarkable young woman. I deserved to feel proud. I had every reason to hold my head high.
I sang along to the song, and felt so present in the moment, it could have been just me and my girl in that large room packed with people and filled with a mournful, and reverant silence. Push.
At different points throughout the service, I struggled to stay calm. I pushed that heart over and over again, determined not to cry, not to wail, not to disturb...this was her time. Above all, i wanted everyone under that roof to leave with a better understanding of who Cory was and what she stood for than what they had known when they walked in the door. She deserved that. Isn't that what everyone wants? To be understood?
A couple of times, my mom turned to me, searching my face that was remiss of tears. She would squeeze my hand tighter, no doubt wondering if shock had finally severered the tenuous cord between my mind and body. I could see the question in her eyes: why was I not shedding a tear for the love of my life, the biggest part of my heart?
Because she meant everything to me. Because I promised her. Because she needed me to be strong. Because we had a plan. Because we were a team. Push.
Cory did that for me. I have no doubt in my mind. She heard me asking for her help, and she made good on her part of the plan. She kept my tears at bay. She silenced the hysterical wail that was lurking in my throat. There was nothing she wouldn't do for me. Just as there was nothing I wouldn't do for her.
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