Hoarding

Tonight I won't be cooking.  I gave my husband a heads up and asked what he wanted from Schlotzky's,  When he responded, "Oh, just get me an Albuquerque Turkey like Cory used to get.", my face broke into an unexpected smile.  He said her name in casual conversation.  He referred to her like a member of the household.  How long have I waited for this?

It made me think of a moment last week when I mentioned Cory when a meeting at work ended, and people were starting to disperse.  Casual chatter breaks out often as notes are gathered, and purses are put on arms.  Without a thought, I pulled up a pic of Cory's monument on my phone and passed it around the semi-circle.

Was this appropriate?  Oh dear, I hope so.  Were my colleagues taken aback to gaze down at a headstone versus a fluffy cat or slobbering baby?  I don't know.

I just know that I still need Cory to be part of my everyday life.  The casual way I pushed her pic on people says that somehow in the midst of all this muddled grief, I have formed a new relationship with my dead child.  And guess what?  I'm just as proud of her as ever.  Isn't that why parents brag and pass photos around in the first place?  They are proud.  And I am so incredibly proud of the life Cory lived.

 Her monument is a poor substitute for a daughter, of course- a beautiful girl who talks and laughs and runs into my arms- but it is a fabulous representation of her life and the way she lived it.  It is strong and graceful.  And before the peanut gallery in the back guffaws, claiming Cory's dancing was certainly interesting, but perhaps not the exact definition of graceful, let me say this:  Cory carried herself with grace.  She fought a horrible illness with grace, dignity, and determination.  And for that, I will always admire her.

So then, there is this new relationship with her.  It's not everything I want and need, but it's what I have.  I will embrace it; but what I'm still having a hard time doing is letting go of the pain.  I am so afraid if I don't keep her death at the absolute center of my world every moment, I will lose her.  I'm afraid the razor sharp techno-color movies in my head will fade and become fuzzy.  I am barely retaining my sanity as it is, my friends.  If I had to face the rest of my days without her memory clear and strong...I would not be able to function.  So as my friend, Angie, pointed out in a recent conversation, I hoard them.  I hoard my memories of her and play them every free moment.  My anxiety has placed me in charge of preserving her memory, of keeping her alive.  Do you understand?  Jake was only ten.  What if he forgets her voice?  What if he forgets the stories?

Am I really a hoarder?  Step in my bedroom, my friend.  It is hard for me to let go of objects.  That shirt might come back in style in 5-7 years.  And yes, actually, I DO need every color offered of anything I truly love.  A Nook?  Are you kidding me?  You will pry my old, dusty, paper books from my cold, dead hands.  And yes, come to think of it, I did put a copy of one of Cory's favorite books in her casket with her.  Why?  Because you are never alone if you have a book.

So, then imagine trying to give up my daughter?  I realize there was never a choice in the matter, as far as her body and life went.  But her memory?  All the things she said?  I am the keeper, and even if it kills me, I am determined to keep them close and fresh.  I don't want that candle to blow out.  It can't.  I fear with every ounce of my being, that if I turn my attention fully to the living, to the present, to apple orchards and Christmases with a family of three, I will lose my memories of her.  They will diminish.  And if they get any smaller, I won't want to be here, anymore.  Just wind me in my shroud (the memorial blanket with her face on it, as a matter of fact), and let this horrid nightmare be at an end.

I know, I know.  I have another child.  Why aren't I making sure to take him to the pumpkin patch?  What about his childhood memories?  There is an unspoken but definitive push from others to make sure I don't forget to "make new memories" with my son.

To that, I say this:  what makes you think we aren't making new memories already?  And who says they have to take place at a pumpkin patch or at a holiday dinner?  So much that is meaningful about our lives takes place in the routine of an ordinary day.  Jake will look back on his childhood, and there will be a clean cut division:  before Cory died, and after.  I can't change that for him.  All the family gatherings or dinners out in the world won't make that any less pronounced or any less painful.  It is what it is.  Our family has had to do some very difficult adjustments since Cory died.  Some of the rituals we've kept, and others have fallen by the wayside.  That doesn't mean Jake has lost his childhood or is loved any less.  I think it means things are different now.  And that's okay.

When Jake looks back, he may remember how silly he and I are together, running around the house and cracking jokes.  He may remember that I let him take an ice cold cup of apple cider to drink into the hot shower with him the other night or how we snuck hot dogs into the movie theater.   He may remember the way we trudged through our weekends without Cory, eating meals together, just the two of us, stolidly putting one foot in front of the other.

  He will remember the good and the bad, just like any one else.  Most of all, I hope he remembers that we treated each other with love and kindness.  Really, what more can you ask for?