We all know it's not a safe idea to drive when you're emotionally distraught. It's also not the best idea to talk on the phone while driving. How I ended up doing both right after Cory's death is a complete mystery. Somehow, there I was, alone, at the wheel of a moving vehicle, headed across town to pick out candles for the beginning of the service and the next day, a frame for Cory's portrait.
I was at Target when the doors opened. My mind was so rattled, I doubt if I could have came up with my phone number or address, if asked. Was it any wonder that I ended up in front of their extensive aisle of candle choices, just checked out? Those long rows of endless colors and scents just swam before my eyes, a sort of mirage, overpowered by the sight of Cory, facedown in the road, her hair obscuring her face, her arm twisted, her legs scraped and dirty.
Before long, a cute little young lady in red shirt and khakis stuck her head in the aisle to ask if I needed help. This poor Target associate did not know what she was in for. Did I need help? Yes, and how...
Probably looking to be in the midst of a complete breakdown, I babbled to her about needing a candle for Cory's service. You'd think the accident would be the last thing I'd want to discuss, but any time a stranger crossed my path in those early days, I felt an overwhelming need to tell them the whole story. Later, I would discover this is all part of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and is actually a good thing. What I knew at the time was I must have scared the hell out of people. There were usually two responses to my overshare: a misty eyed hug or eyes that found the floor as they pretended they hadn't heard me.
This kind Target employee helped me find candles that would fit the horrifying occasion. I took them to the register, looking around the store in disbelief...would I really never be here with Cory again? How was that even possible?
The next day I pulled out of my driveway, deep in conversation with my mom about the things I'd written to have read about Cory at the service. Mom and I love each other deeply, but quickly discovered that planning a funeral- like a wedding to the nth power- brings out the worst in everyone. That whole sense of free fall makes everyone crave a sense of control. We were soon at each other's throats about seemingly every detail of the service. I finally bit out these words as I merged onto the highway, "Mom, when your daughter dies, you can say whatever you want at their service, but this is MY child, and I am going to say what I feel" I hung up before she could respond, and began crying hysterically. I took my hands off the wheel and put them at my temples. My foot pushed down on the gas, and I considered just letting the car drift into the lane of oncoming traffic: no more decisions I didn't want to make, but was bound heart and soul to make as Cory would've wanted them. No more arguing with well loved family members. No more feeling like I didn't belong anywhere- home, out, alone, with family and friends, in a crowd.
Just then, my phone began ringing. I thought it would be mom, and I picked it up, barking hoarsely into it. It was Tim, asking why I hadn't woke him, and where was I? Just like that, the moment was over; my hands were back on the wheel, and I was on my way to make new friends at Hobby Lobby while I picked out a frame for my daughter's funeral.
No one else would know the one she'd have liked best. No one.
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