Cory's Perch

Shall we start with the good news? 


In the last 30 days (with the help of my planner), I have cooked dinner 21 times!  I know it may sound wholly ordinary, but if you'd seen me three months ago, six months ago, a year ago...you'd know what a huge accomplishment this is.  I was at my kitchen counter when the boy came knocking to tell me of the accident, and being at that counter with my cutting board and knife in hand has been on par with hanging out at the scene- traumatic.   I avoided- strenuously- the counter, the kitchen, cooking, and grocery shopping like the plague since the accident.


Also, I feel it worthy to mention that last night I shaved my legs and this morning, I sharpened my eye liner pencil.  This is good news, not only because it means I am finally paying some attention to my personal presentation again, but in my experience, there are just some things that suicidal people don't do...shave their legs, apply makeup...floss.




I thought this morning when I took a selfie to paint from, that some of the very markers that showed Cory's progress with her symptoms can also be used to measure progress with grief.  How so?  Let me explain.


One, obviously, would be attention to personal appearance.  Bathing isn't an issue once some of the depression subsides, but in the thick of  it, you surely do feel as if you've been dipped in cement. 


Another would be your ability to organize your immediate environment.  When you start to care if your clean and dirty laundry mingle together on the un-vacuumed floor, you may have just turned a corner to better days.


Motivation is a huge marker.  Truly depressed people aren't lazy, they just have no energy or desire...for anything, except maybe carbs.  Again, I credit a great deal to my new found love of planners, and having done some tracking, I must say productivity doesn't lie.  I used to be perfectly okay with laying in bed all day exchanging mournful glances with my dog.  Now, I find myself having goals every day, even if they are small ones.  In fact, they often have to be small- which is a great way to keep from feeling overwhelmed.  That little hit of serotonin that you get when you've accomplished the tiniest task carries you over to the next, and the next.  Before you know it, you may have actually cleaned your whole house.


 I remember making Cory a "clean your room" checklist when she was just a little girl.  I thought at the time that she was more cooperative because she liked the heft of that clipboard in her hands and the absolute delight of drawing giant pink checkmarks beside each task.  While those things may be, I also know now how that small accommodation put some structure to a seemingly impossible task.  She would run back to show me each step she'd completed...so proud of herself.




The final thing that fell into place for me was the ratio between Cory's mental health and her comfort being alone in different rooms of the house.  When her symptoms were at their worst, I couldn't peel that baby off me if I tried.  She was so frightened and anxious that she followed me into the bathroom when I had to pee. I sat on the commode; she sat on the edge of the tub.  We had no secrets.


 Her hallucinations were worse when she was alone, so it made sense that she didn't want to be left alone.  Her sleeping arrangements progressed this way:  my bed after her first hospitalization; the couch; the chaise; and her brother's top bunk to finally, finally (my big brave girl)was in her own bed upstairs on a separate floor.  She was getting so much better!  It was so wonderful to watch her gaining confidence.  God, did I love that girl.




For me, my bed was my safe haven after the accident.  I left it only to go to the cemetery, and eventually to go to work like a zombie, only to return directly and wearily to it, curling up like a beaten dog.  I would not go in the kitchen or the dining room unless I absolutely had to.  I would not spend one minute in the living room where we'd spent all of family time; it was too hard.  I used the toilet when I had to, and I returned to my bed- sometimes watching tv, sometimes writing, sometimes just staring into space, unable to process the fact that Cory had been badly hurt, run over, broken, killed, and was not ever, ever coming back.  That was a slow, slow lesson to learn.




When Tim and I redid the toy room into an art studio, I finally took willing steps out of my bedroom.  Now there were two rooms of my house I didn't completely hate, and would frequent daily.




Ready for the latest addition?  You'll never believe it!






It's the kitchen counter.  The last place I ever wanted to be again has become a place to commune with my girl.  We had so many happy times there, dancing and cooking, laughing and talking.  Once I'd ripped my way through all the piled up junk mail (which by the way is absolutely OUTSTANDING as an anger management technique...for real, I ripped the shit out of some envelopes!), I could finally see the surface of the black bar stool we'd picked up at Hobby Lobby.  There was only room for one stool in my small kitchen, and I'd told the kids they'd have to take turns.  They did, of course, but let's tell the truth and shame the devil...that was Cory's stool and we all knew it.  It was her little perch to be at my side every minute she could, feeling safe and talking to her best friend. 




I think it was last week, that I finished cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, wiped the counter down, lit a candle, and went to fetch my planner.  I sat down on her stool, so carefully, and opened my planner up, looking at what tomorrow might bring. 


Tim called into the kitchen from the living room, "Honey?  What are you doing in there?"




"Nothing."  I responded, which couldn't be farther from the truth.  I was not only chosing not to give up; I was hard at work, planning a life that my Cory-Girl can be proud of when she looks down on me.  Three rooms now, baby girl.  Never, ever, ever, ever give up.