Last Stop

I've put this off long enough.


The last couple of weeks, I have enjoyed the kind of sleep-through-the-night-for-the-most-part, wake up before the alarm with no desire to hit snooze, get stuff accomplished kind of energy I haven't known for almost two years.  Was it taking my anti-depressant faithfully at the same time everyday with no gaps in between?  Was it using my planner that brought structure and predictability to my days, seeming so powerful with its ability to box in my horror, contain my grief, give me purpose, and color the endless parade of days to come without my baby girl?  I have no idea, but I felt safer and more hopeful than I had in quite some time.


Then something happened that wasn't on my agenda.  Last Sunday evening I was notified that Cory's monument was finished, and ready to be shipped.  There were pictures.


Just like the video footage of Cory and her little brother being silly that I stumbled across a couple of weeks ago, I was okay with my first look.  I could look at it from a purely aesthetic viewpoint, and admire the beauty and craftsmanship.  The designer had taken a straggly little sketch that a desperately heartbroken mother had made and turned it into something real- it was like having a passing thought turned into reality before your eyes...a sad sort of magic.


It was that second look.  I looked at it again, and my heart began to beat so fast I thought it would just explode.  End of the road...end of the road...my brain began chanting.


Because, truly, isn't the marker the culmination of the whole putting someone to rest process?  I am a line-it-up sort of girl; order soothes my brain.  When a loved one dies in our culture, a certain predictable giant machine of grieving takes over.  The one responsible for the deceased sort of falls in line like stepping on a conveyor belt:  choosing a funeral home, choosing an outfit for the deceased, planning the service, choosing the flowers, choosing the casket, choosing the flowers, how to feed the mourners.  These tasks provide structure to the free fall of shock that the survivors are experiencing.  Supporting family and friends nudge you gently whenever you stray too far from the path.  But at no point, do you wonder what you are supposed to be doing in the ghastly situation...there is an unwritten checklist that demands your attention.


 So the final item is then the marker.  Some people find comfort in having it placed as soon as humanly possible and feel deep shame and embarrassment every day that their loved one goes with their resting space unmarked.  Others put it off as long as they can because it seems so incredibly final.


Guess which group I'm in?


It took me a good long time to order the monument in the first place.  I struggled against my own heart to buy Cory the last thing I would ever give her.  I wanted her to have something unique, something that resembled her, something that said she was cherished, but at the same time, I was loathe to start the process.  Who, exactly, is eager to buy their kid a headstone?


Since the monument was a custom piece, it took a long time to be finished, and that was fine with me.  Once it had been ordered, I had fulfilled my obligation, and could walk away, continuing to deny her death in varying degrees to my heart's content.  I never followed up.  Not once.  I sent the guy partial payment, and washed my hands of the whole miserable business.


So it is a little ironic, isn't it, that I would get the news that it was ready when I was feeling as healthy as someone walking around without their heart can possibly feel?  It was as if two strong and angry hands reached out and pushed me from behind.  I know, by the way, exactly what that feels like, and there was such a sense of deja vu... I nearly looked behind me for her father.


Don't get me wrong, the monument is absolutely beautiful and exactly what I asked for.  But at the same time, I have never hated something so beautiful in all my life.  And while I asked for it to be made, I never asked to need it.


The anger is back and just running rampant through my veins.  It boils and sizzles.  I smile on the outside and say all the socially acceptable things, but on the inside I am foul mouthed and beset with such a sense of jealous and envy, it's a wonder there's room for anything else in there.  I am right back to "why do they get to keep their kids and I had to lose mine?".


In the midst of all these emotions, I remain conflicted about the monument itself.  I profess to hate it, but can't stop myself from showing people who matter to me, slowly, one at a time. 


What does the monument say? 
Corinne Nicole Mansfield.  February 23, 1993-July 5, 2012.  Never, ever, ever, ever give up.


What does it say to my heart?
"Here lies Cory.  She is dead."


Acceptance was gained some months ago...wasn't it?  How can I be back at this waystop?  Because that's what this is really about, isn't it?  The monument is just the trigger.  Cory is no more dead now than she was two months ago. 


I don't want her to be dead.  I'm not ready for her to be dead.  It's not fair.  I need her.  I need her in my life.  She didn't have enough time.


These are my thoughts running non-stop over the last week.  Which one of them specifically mentions the monument?


Not one.


Grief is not a clean, linear journey, maybe that's another reason I suck at it so badly- my brain rebels this type of messy, haphazard denouement.