Just Try It On

I remember going with Tim to the psychiatrist shortly after we separated.  It was crystal clear to him that I was proceeding with the divorce, and he found himself unable to cope.  Sitting there across the room from my estranged husband and his trusted doctor, with whom he had shared only his side of the story and complaints, I felt like the biggest heel.  Any words I tried to squeeze in to defend myself where easily swallowed up by his hysterical sobs.  If you’ve never heard a grown man in his mid-thirties crying freely without abandon, I can tell you it is a sound that makes you wish you had sudden pressing business in…oh, I don’t know, say China?

Yes, I felt horrible.  Even those of us who are desperately unhappy, and want out of a marriage, still feel bad when they begin to see the devastation and disruption it causes the other party, especially if said party does not want the same thing, and even more so if said party was the one to initiate the split, seemed quite content for months, and then changed their mind at the eleventh hour.

  So there I was, trying to be the bigger person, trying to help the father of my child stabilize his mental health, and begin to form some type of life for himself, hopefully with a strange, new, uncomfortable friendship with his ex-wife in tow.  How do I keep finding myself in community and/or private mental health facilities?  Cory once told me if things didn’t pan out with her father, I should just skip the middle man, and start picking up dates in the waiting room of Summit Pointe, when I took her for counseling…”kill two birds with one stone, Mom-  your time is valuable”.   That girl was a mess, do you understand me?

The psychiatrist asked Tim, what, if anything was helping him during this time of distress?  He answered, “Spending time with my son.”  As he described missing Jacob every day and every night, as he had not spent a day without him since his birth prior to our separation, I began to look under my chair for a trapdoor.  Why had I come here?

He told his doctor the only thing he knew to do was to take Jake to the store, and buy him candy and toys, for that’s what his parents had done for him when he was little and being good or was particularly sad.  He then explained he didn’t have a lot of money right now because of the two household situation, and could only afford to buy Jake matchbox cars…or maybe a little helicopter.  At this, he resumed sobbing in earnest, his shoulders heaving, as he covered his face with one hand.  “I don’t know what to do, I just buy him little cars, and we play…” he trailed off uncertainly, looking out the window, and then suddenly seemed to remember I was in the room, and the source of all his displeasure.

“And this is all YOUR FAULT!”  he screamed at me, pointing one shaky finger in my direction.  “I HATE you.  You’ve ruined my life!”

The doctor sat silent, just letting Tim get it all out, all those black, hopeless feelings that were always tucked away, just waiting to come to life during an episode.  I’d seen it before, but never with this much fervor.  Of course, this was the first time we had split up, and certainly the first time his wife had ever been ok on her own, looked radiantly happy, hopeful for the future, and had subsequently filed for divorce.

I say all this to explain one observation made by his psychiatrist that I have thought of often since losing my daughter.  His doctor looked at me, none too kindly, and then turned her attention back to her patient, “Tim, you are experiencing not only a loss of your wife and your established routine, you are losing your sense of self.  Your life has been divided into roles:  employee, son, husband, father.  It would seem that you have lost the biggest part of yourself, and you’re not sure who you are any more or what to do.   Does that seem about right?”

His head on his lap, he agreed, still sobbing, raking his hands through the little hair left on his head.  Ten minutes and a couple of phone calls later, Tim was hospitalized in a psych ward, where his meds could be adjusted, and he could have some intensive counseling to prepare him for the next chapter in his life…that of a divorced, single parent who would eventually be back in the dating world.  This was a situation daunting enough for any one person, but even more difficult for someone diagnosed with bipolar disorder. 

Since Cory has been gone, I have thought about that idea of loss of self.  I don’t think most people really understand.  I hear often the completely non-comforting, “Well, you still have Jake.  You are still a mother.”

Look, people, I love Jake to pieces, but he is not Cory.  He loves me to pieces, but I am not his sister.  We, and our relationships, are not interchangeable.  And let’s face it, Jake is the most self-sufficient eleven year old I know.  Sure, he’s quiet; he doesn’t talk a lot.  But if he had an independent income, online checking account, and reliable transportation, I’d likely only see him on major holidays, when he would come to the table for pie, and not say much.

Conversation must be pulled out of Jake like a stubborn, rotting tooth.  He has suffered his own depression in this whole mess, and has become a homebody of scary proportions.  He will give me kisses, but only on request, and usually as some type of bribe.  He is a brilliant, kind, thoughtful soul who will someday make a girl unbelievably happy when he marries her.  In the meantime, he channels his grief through electronics, and you won’t find him squeezed into a dressing room with me trying on dresses any time soon.

There are three of us in the household right now:  two boys and one girl.  Cory and I together, or with our interactions with the boys made up 85% of the conversation in our household.  With her gone, it is painfully silent.  I’m talking crypt-silent.  Why do you think I blog so much?  I have to have someone to talk to.

My roles at the time of the accident were:  Cory’s caregiver, mother, wife, employee, daughter, and friend.  Does anyone notice which role came first?  How about which one is in bold type because it was a grave responsibility and a 24/7 type of gig?  I gave more of myself to Cory than anyone because she needed it.  I fought for her every day.  Not only am I devastated to have lost the biggest part of my heart, and what I now realize was the best friend I’ve ever had, but it has taken me over a year to come up with the slightest idea of what the hell to do with myself.  There are only so many times I can ask the dog how he’s feeling before I start to feel weird. 

If I’m not Cory’s mom, who am I?  I wore that title for nearly twenty years, and it was snatched away from me in like two seconds.  Seriously, who AM I?
Here are some new roles I am trying on for size:  writer, artist, and advocate.
I guess we’ll find out together how well they fit.

Because like it or not, I am also in a new chapter of my life, a scary, miserable place where I am the mother of one, and find it hard to believe that grieving mother won’t always come first on the listing of my life roles.

But just like that dress on the rack that you think will look terrible on you, but turns out to be ah-mazing, you never know until you give it a shot.
I can hear Cory near my right shoulder, as she always was, smiling gently, and whispering, “C’mon, Mom, just try it on, and let me see..."
For you, baby girl...only for you.  But you have to promise not to laugh.