The Real Deal

Actions speak louder than words.  And what you see from the outside may not always reflect what's happening on the inside.

Grand gestures are meant to be romantic, but for me, they have only bought time for people who weren't capable of following through with consistent loving actions.
All the red roses in the world can't make up for being thrown across the room or choked up against the wall.  They also don't ensure it won't happen again.   A dozen or so empty vases sit silently in the cupboards above my fridge, a tangible reminder of years gone by and many broken promises.

Having a man fly three thousand miles on Christmas day to show up at your front door to apologize for bad behavior doesn't mean he is well and ready to be a positive, healthy part of your life and family.  It means he has been trained from his mother's knee that saying you're sorry makes everything okay.

I have a beautiful diamond ring on my finger from my husband- a symbol of our new beginning when we reconciled.  It is gorgeous, and while I treasure it, it doesn't hold a candle to his loving actions in the days following the accident and the service.

I went back and read my journal from those foggy, black days following the fifth of July.  I only wanted two things:  Cory and death.  Death and Cory.  Apparently, I didn't bathe for eight days after leaving her in the ground.

I don't remember the whole of those seemingly endless days; I remember snatches- images or feelings.

I remember coming home to collapse on my bed, hollow and empty.  I was exhausted, husked out, but unwilling to let her go.  I set my alarm clock for 60 minutes- all I would allow myself for a nap, before going back to the cemetery to see if they had done right by my baby girl.

I remember that Tim had to go out to the mall and pick me up a ladybug nightlight.  I have never been afraid of the dark, but now I was completely terrified.  I had become Cory on her worst night of paranoia.

I remember a bad thunderstorm the second or third night after the service- one of those boomfests that shakes the house on its foundation, and lights up the night with that eerie bluish-white glow.  Jacob, sleeping beside me, lunged across the bed and clutched me tight.
"Mom, Cory must be so scared!"  he whispered frantically.
My exact thought.  What answer to that?
"I know, Jake, I know."  I said, hugging him tight.
"Hold me, Mom, just hold me."  he responded, his little voice quivering.  We clutched each other in desperation, misery, and fear.

I remember not leaving my bed until 8 p.m. each evening.  This was the time I had set to visit Cory, the only way I was putting any sort of structure to my day.  I figured she would be most afraid when dark started to fall, so that's when she needed me most.

I used rituals to get myself through the horrendous new experience of visiting her grave.  Everything had to be the same:  where I parked the car, how I said hello, what I did while I was there, and how I left her.  It was the only way I could be there without completing losing my mind.  I stuck to it without waver.  I played the same song every time I arrived.  I read to her from one of our favorite books.  I talked to her- which in itself, was a horrific, and heartwrenching experience.  Even in my shock, I began to wonder if she could really hear me- were the words for her or were they for me?  I clung to the hope that she could hear me, that I was still being a mother to her, even now, and still providing her comfort as I read to her and played her music.

Each night, I hoisted my dirty body into the safe haven of my bed, perhaps at times taking note of how black my feet were becoming, but unable to make myself care, let alone do anything about it.
And there I would lay- hair uncombed, teeth unbrushed, body unbathed- staring up at the ceiling that was lit with those cheerful colored ladybugs, running everything through my mind over and over again.  Her death was set on a ruthless loop in my brain.  Even when I tried to distract myself with pleasant memories, my brain dragged me back to the gory horror of the roadside, and meticulously pointed out all I was trying to avoid.  I could identify the cycle.  I even drew it out.  But I was powerless to stop it.

I remember one particular power struggle between Tim and I about a spoonful of yogurt.  My friend from work was at the house at the time, checking in on me.  To my indignation and utter disbelief, she sided with him in demanding that I eat at least one spoonful of yogurt.

I did not feel I deserved to eat.  One, she could not.  Two, I had killed her.  Three, if I hadn't killed her, my bad judgment had certainly sent her to her death.  I shouldn't have let her walk to the store.  It was too hot.  She wasn't ready.  I should have known she wasn't ready.  I was stupid.  Stupid, and selfish and lazy.  I screwed it all up.  I didn't think.  I made the wrong choice.  No one could talk me out of this.  And most who tried were met with tears and irrational anger.

You see, I knew what was happening.  They knew it was my fault, too.  They were just trying to make me feel better.  I mean, she was already gone, so why make it worse for me?  I knew as soon as I left the room, the whispers would begin, the discussions, the evaluation of my poor decision making that had led to my firstborn's brutal death.  I could practically hear them- what was she thinking?  I would never have let my kid walk in that heat.  And she knew Cory had a mental illness, why was she letting her wander the town unsupervised in the first place?

All this ran through my mind, as they harangued me about the yogurt.  I remember thinking, seriously, what difference is one stupid spoonful going to make?  I must have said this aloud, because Tim responded, "Then, just eat it."  I poked out my lower lip like a child, and drew a breath.  On the edge of a full blown tantrum, I surrendered.  I ate the bite, staring them both down with pure, unadulterated hatred.  If looks could kill, I'd have one less husband, and one less friend in this world.

If it were Jake, he'd understand.  If it were Jake, he wouldn't be eating, either, my mind chimed in.  I walked out of my dining room, hating my husband more than I ever did during our lengthly separation.

I remember the way my body felt during those days- my scalp too tight, seemingly too small to cover my head completely.  Unpleasant adrenaline was constantly pumping through me.  This danger, this stresser had been too big.  It had filled the world, and now my body didn't know how or when to shut back down again.  My senses were on hyperarousal, and sleep was impossible.

Looking back, I have to wonder if it's possible for flashbacks of a recent traumatic event to trigger flashbacsk from a previous tramautic event- even if  it took place almost twenty years ago.  During those first few days, I began to dream and relive being chased through the house when I was nine months pregnant by her biological father, who held a knife in hand and to my throat. 

I was terrified.  I was disconnected from the present, from my remaining child, from any normal routine...even from my self-help skills.  Looking back, I wonder if this is how Cory might have felt at times during her illness.  I suspect it may have been- our behaviors were all too similar.

As the days crawled by, I gradually brought more and more dust from her gravesite into my bed.  Distantly, I began to smell the unlovely odor of my unwashed body, but could not make myself care.  It was Tim who finally forced me into the shower, which felt like every sort of betrayal to my daughter.  Eating...bathing...caring for my son- they all seemed to be surrenders, and steps towards acceptance of the unthinkable.  I refused to accept her death.  To do so would mean handing her over from my care, from my heart to someone else...I could not let that happen.

Somehow, Tim coaxed me into the shower, and sat on the toilet seat to keep me company.  He reached in to steady me with his hands when I faltered.  I remember standing there naked, physically and emotionally, the warm spray from the shower mingling with my hot tears as he set about patiently and gently working the knots loose from my long hair.  I have never felt as loved by a man in my life as I did during those moments.  Once he'd worked them loose, he took a wide-tooth comb, and worked conditioner through my hair.  Sorrow, love, and helplessness were all there in his kind brown eyes as he dried me off, and dressed me in clean clothes like I was a toddler, not a grown woman of thirty eight.

That's what real love feels like.