Guilty By Survival

So when you travel for work, you have a lot of time in the car to think.  What I figured out today  is why I hate my birthday so much since Cory died.  Obviously, you're a bit less apt to break out the balloons and streamers when your kid is dead and in the ground; that party spirit just isn't there anymore, at least it isn't for me.  But I think it's more than that.

I turned 43 a few days ago.  I didn't want a special dinner or a cake.  I just wanted to sneak it past with as little fanfare as possible.  Why?  Survivor guilt, of course.  What right do I have to live to be 43 when Cory died at 19.  Nineteen.  I was nineteen when I had her for Pete's sake.  How do I deserve to keep going when she didn't get to?

If Cory had been the one to live, she might've met a man who would love her and care for her, create some stability, be her anchor- show her that some men can be trusted and depended on.  She may have made much better choices for herself than I have and ended up with a healthy, kind, patient man who would be content to sit on a porch swing, holding her hand and watching the corn grow.   She may have had a career that challenged her and made her feel like she was contributing something to the world.  She may have had children and actually kept them alive.  She should've had twenty four more years to do all of that or none of it, but something, anything, just to be here breathing, loving and being loved- she deserved that.

And she would've had that if...
I had went to the stupid store myself.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know:   I "couldn't possibly have foreseen what would happen and made the best possible decision at the time with the information available".  That's what I'm supposed to think and say.  But it doesn't really wash- not in my heart. One different decision on my part could've given her an education, a career, a marriage, a family.  One split second decision could've given her those twenty four years.
 "Hey, Cory, keep an eye on your brother, I'm running to the store for chili powder."

These thoughts run through my mind a lot.  My birthday just makes the fact that I put my life before my child's public knowledge.  Cause here I am another year.  And here she isn't.  Hey look everyone, I killed my kid and lived to tell about it.

I can't believe I fucked it all up in the end.  But I did.  Man, did I ever.