Okay, I have to admit I might be giving somewhat inaccurate information here. I'm starting to think that seeing Cory's name on the announcement board at the funeral home, and going there to see her for the first time since I saw her on the road were two different occasions. It seems to have all blended together. After all, every day was the same: misery.
So, seeing her for the first time? What was that like?
It was like this:
Mark, the funeral director, who is one of the most understanding, patient, kind, and accepting men I've ever met sat us down in a semi-circle on the grieving sofas, those elegant little couches scattered throughout the entry way, and placed considerately just outside each of the viewing rooms. I guess the hope there was to have a soft landing spot for the ones whose legs can no longer hold them up, which is a pretty good idea, come to think of it.
My heart was hammering out of my chest as he talked about how good they had been able to make her look, considering. I spoke up to ask if I could please be allowed to see her first, and to go in alone. Mark gently informed me that while I certainly could go in to see her first, he was required to accompany me, walking slightly behind, in case I should need anything. He said this so logically, as if he was accompanying me just in case I needed to be handed a hankerchief, and not in case I hit the floor or tried to open my own throat with one trusty nail. I cannot say enough good things to describe this man; he was put on this earth to help families in their darkest and most unimaginable times.
So off we went, Mark and I to see my firstborn child, my only daughter, my heart...Corinne Nicole, my Cory Girl. They say in your final moments, when you know you may die, your life flashes before your eyes. In that space of maybe 45-60 seconds, being led into that awful, awful room, I saw Cory's life flash before mine...hauntingly beautiful still frames of her at all different ages. There she was in my arms, a red, wrinkled, and basically bald newborn, as I looked down fascinated, enamored, and frightened out of my mind as I prepared to bathe her for the first time. There she was with a stubby sideswept ponytail at two, walking the zoo like she owned the place, white Pocahontas moccasains on her tiny feet. There she was in my lap at eight, facing me with those bright, huge eyes, as I explained she would soon be a big sister...news she responded to with tears of pure joy. There was the beautiful, gangly preteen she had been, all legs and a smile that far outshone her braces, and colored rubberbands. There she was in the gorgeous black dress she'd worn to her first school dance, the shimmer of the fabric unable to compete with the happy glow of her smile to be going with a boy that she liked, and who liked her back...it was one of her moments. Cory, in my kitchen, mere days ago, laughing while bent over a grocery sack putting things away with me.
Cory: my life for the last nineteen years.
Mark walked beside me, keeping up a steady whispering monologue, punctuated with, "It's going to be okay." and "That is all right." I think he thought if he kept talking, I would fight the insanity that beckoned me from every corner of that cursed room. I wanted to run away, and never return, but more than that, i wanted to see my girl. Mark led me with a considerate hand firmly on my elbow, "Okay, we're going to go right over here. That's right. That's okay." My breath caught as I took in the outlines of her arms laying in a position someone had carefully arranged to convey...peace, dignity, rest? What it conveyed to me was that someone else had moved her arms because she no longer could. I put a hand over my mouth, and uttered some small cry, pulling Mark closer, closer, closest. I gazed down, expecting to see some creepy, damaged, dented girl that I would never know. Instead, I saw my Cory Girl looking breathtakingly beautiful, and very much like herself...eyes closed as if she was sleeping, and lips pouting as if she had been denied some small request that had meant the world to her.
"You can touch her. Very gently. Like this? See?" Mark was murmurring beside me. I reached out with a tentative hand that shook like a live wire. I touched her flesh, finding it indeed very cold, but perhaps even more shockingly- unyielding, hard, like a piece of wood or furniture.
My mind spun as I took in this new horror. Before I could fully digest the fact that my child was lying lifeless before me, family members began creeping wordlessly into the room, and discovering the horrors on their own.
Although I readily shared the space in front of her, I could not be persuaded away from her. I wanted to stay, and see her as long as I possibly could. After that first initial shock, there was nothing sweeter in the whole mess than to be near her, to see her, to touch her, to kiss her gently.
It was when we had to leave so they could continue preparations, that I finally reacted physically. As Uncle Bud and Tim tried to lead me away, I lost my footing and began to sag to the floor. I'm not sure if I had been too weak to stand, or if I had been unconsicously planning a sit-in. I rather suspect the latter. All I wanted was every second I could have with her before they put her in the ground.
Uncle Bud finally just bent down and picked me up, carrying me out the double doors. Sometime during the private viewing, Mark had, with permission, gently pinched my forearm, and informed Tim that I was extremely dehyrated, and needed to go to the hospital.
So what happened next was that Uncle Bud placed me in the backseat of his vehicle, and headed for the hospital. I sagged against the seat in the back, unable to respond to anyone, and unable to shed tears for my girl because I simply had no moisture left to give. Shock unfolded its cool black arms, beckoning silently. Without hesitation, I climbed right into its lap, and laid my miserable head down on its soft, shapeless shoulder. I floated.
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