The why is never answered, anyway. Why Cory? Why when she was getting so much better? Why did I lose my child when so many others get to keep theirs? Why to a million pieces of this horrid puzzle that add up to nothing but the same old misery and rage.
So then, let's try what. What can I do to get through this day? What can I do to get through this moment? What comes next? What example do I want to show Jake about grieving, about honesty, about accepting help from others when you need it? What can I do to keep Cory's name on people's lips? What can I do with all this love for her that I need to give?
See, I try. Sad faced Nicole who has bad days and worse days, seldom good days, does try. I've filled my trusty planner with optimistic quotes, so completely out of character, that I think Cory just shakes her head at me, and says, "Bless her heart, has it really come to this?"
A few days ago I bought a new dress and a new purse, which sounds like no big deal, but really is. Right after Cory's death, I bought the stores out trying to distract myself and keep up appearances, but once the dust settled, I couldn't care less if I wore a burlap sack day in and day out.
I saw no one I knew when I looked in the mirror, just a broken old woman who never smiled...and didn't care what she wore or how she looked, or even remembered why she should care about her appearance at all.
And somewhere, deep down, for a long, long time, I've felt I didn't deserve to buy something pretty or feel good about how I looked- not the woman who'd let her firstborn get run down in the street like a dog. I didn't deserve to look good or feel good, or even be here drawing breath, if you got right down to it.
So there's your honesty for the day.
Now here's my progess:
I bought a pretty lace pale pink vintage-look dress the color of ballet slippers. I have a pair of greige boots postively covered in buckles and hardware, that paired with tights will toughen it right up. I will wear my long Cory locket with it- the one with the picture of her, all dark hair, creamy skin, and luminous eyes, and a big silver "C" on the back. When I wear this dress, I'll frame my eyes with gray eyeliner, and take the time to put a couple of curls in my hair. I strongly suspect I'll look in the mirror, and see the girl who carried herself so proudly as Cory's mom not too long ago. I hope that will be a good day. I hope.
This past week, I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned for the first time since Cory's death. I had put it off for far too long, first not giving a crap if all my teeth fell out or not since I wished I was dead beside my girl in the ground, and then terrified and certain they would tell me my teeth must be pulled right away...all of them. Gum disease. Bone loss. The whole nine yards.
Well, I buckled down and made the appointment. I nearly cancelled it. Then I hiked up my big girl panties, and went anyway. I called ahead to ask if I could take anxiety meds before my appointment, and they were very understanding. They let me listen to music on my Beats, and although I kept my butt muscles clenched tightly throughout the entire appointment, and sat nearly a quarter inch off the seat, resting solely on my fear and anxiety, I got through it. The dentist laughed indulgently at my predictions of tooth loss, and declared I had no cavities, and my gums are perfectly healthy.
Back in the parking lot, I turned a page in my planner, and crossed dental visit off my self care list I've been ignoring forever. Only about a dozen things left now.
And finally, I went to a family event of my own free will. My dad turned 80 this past week, and although I dreaded seeing that imaginary empty chair where Cory should be, I could not give up the chance to spend this special day with my father. He is everything kind, gentle, and trustworthy that can and should exist in a man. He has laid his hands on me, along with my mother, as the wracking sobs of losing Cory have had their way with my body- two days after she died, two months, two years, and an untold amount of days in between. Every time I pass the threshold of his home, I know I am in a place of comfort and no judgment, just love and kindness, patience and understanding. If he can give that me consistently, surely I could bear this one dinner for him?
So I did the thing I despise in others the most: I put on the mask, and I performed. I smiled; I laughed; I even table-hopped. I made jokes and told stories, hamming it up as the old Nick would've done, prior to 2012. I wonder if anyone could tell I was dying inside to see my niece and nephews healthy and whole, sitting with their folks, just existing the magical way that they seem to do. All my whats fell short in the sight of parents with their children within arms reach, able to touch and kiss and talk at will. The whys came back to haunt me, winding their way slyly around the tables of happy people eating lobster and pasta, so bold and obvious, I could nearly reach up and pluck them out of the air. What to do with these pesky whys?
I shall paint them out, captured by my own hand, and then despite their desperate cries to stay a little longer, I will firmly turn the page.
What and I have business to do.
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