Speaking My Peace

When I was in high school, I took a required public speaking class that I passed with a D.  The D was courtesy of the book work.  Every speech, every presentation in front of the class was worse than the most miserable failure...I didn't even try.  I happily took my zero, and hid from the spotlight.  My anxiety had me frozen, immobile.

Later in life, when classes cost money, I forced myself through each and every presentation- white knuckled, red faced, voice warbling, and stomach churning.  As I said to a friend just the other day, I was the person most likely to poop their pants in public.

So to be doing these little talks at KCC and Western, voluntarily, is nothing short of miraculous.  Before Cory's death, I don't think anything short of threats to my life would've gotten me up in front of people to speak.

It's pretty amazing how comfortable I feel telling a roomful of strangers a lot of very personal stories.  I always stumble over the introduction part, but once the topic turns to Cory, I relax, often pulling my legs up into my chair to sit cross-legged, as if having a cup of coffee with a dear friend.  It is utter joy to talk about my girl.  I've decided to do an experiment this coming month, and simply tally how many times other people say her name or bring her up in conversation.  It's not as often as you'd think.

  I asked Tim awhile back why he never talked about her; it hurt my feelings so much.  He replied that he didn't want to upset me.  I certainly can't speak for every bereaved mother out there, but for me, there's no better sound in the world than to hear Cory's name spoken out loud.  It means she was here, and that she still matters.  It means she's not forgotten.

After the talks are over, and all the questions have answered, some with tears accompanying the words, I leave feeling incredible- incredibly validated, incredibly purposeful, incredibly close to my girl.  To be her voice in this world after she's gone is a sacred privilege; to share her with others is simple joy.  There may be tears, but there is often laughter, as well.  Cory was never her illness, and we had the most amazing times together.  I can remember her by myself, and I do it everyday, but sometimes sharing the memories with others seems to summon her into the room.  I can't see her, but I can feel her.

The most surprising part of doing these talks is that I usually end up saying something I didn't expect to.  I think I do a pretty good job of processing my grief on this blog, but other people have the uncanny ability to wring things out of you that you weren't even aware of...they catch you off guard.

The question at Western this last time was, "How has this loss changed the way you live?"
Six months ago I'd have said, "It's made me unsure I want a life."
A couple of weeks ago, I was stunned to hear this come out of my mouth, "You know, grief takes a lot from you, but it gives, too, when you get to a point where you're willing to take it."

Say what?

They asked me for examples.
I'm more careful with people now.  I'm more careful of their feelings because I'm painfully aware that you never know when it's going to be the last time you see someone.  Time with the people I love is important to me.  I treasure the small moments.  I write everything down.  I know now that someday these little gems will mean more to me than all the riches in the world.

Last night, I wandered into the kitchen for a snack, and looked over at Tim's little coffee corner of the counter.  He leaves a small tornado in his wake every single, blasted day:  dirty coffee cup, like as not filled with cold coffee, a dirty spoon, coffee stains that I physically cannot walk away from.  My tiny smattering of OCD demands that I clean this up, and my hands move of their own accord, so much muscle memory.  As I wipe up the mess, I practice in my mind the stern reproach I'll give him when I see him next.

I stopped mid-swipe, remembering how aggravated I used to get with Cory when she left bobby pins, ponytail elastics, and brushes scattered all over the bathroom sink.  Consistently, I'd call her in, and ask her to put her things away, and the next day we'd go at it all over again.  The first time I cleaned the bathroom after she died, it never occurred to me that I'd miss seeing those things out, cluttering up all that clean white space.  It didn't occur to me until a handful of days later when I realized I'd never get the chance to ask her to put them away again.  It hit me that I'd never see them out again, and I burst out sobbing over my perfect, shiny ceramic surface.

What would I give to have her here mucking up the bathroom?  My right arm.  With this bitter knowledge, I imagined how it will feel someday to see that part of the kitchen counter clear and perfect.  That will likely only happen after Tim dies, and it won't make me nearly as happy as having him around does.