Countdown to Turkey Dinner

I'm trying like crazy to distract myself.
Because as another bereaved mother stated today, "It does not get easier with time, as so many people have said".
So these last few days moving towards the big family gathering, I've been cooking big meals, trying new recipes, immersing myself in news, politics, music, art...I've been logging too many hours on Netflix, Youtube, "pretend" internet shopping (where you fill the cart with all your wanties, but never actually pull the trigger).  I've been painting, collaging, drawing, and writing up a storm...anything to fend off this inevitable jealousy, that is so real and so thick. Picture me, camped out in Starbucks for hours, hunched over a pile of paper and leather notebooks, with a heap of art supplies spread out in a semi-circle around me.   I'm trying to be a good person, and rise above, but in the end I sink back, exhausted.  I'm just a mom who wants her girl.

It does not get easier with time. The loss of Cory still fills my world.  Some days, it's buried under routine and busyness, but it's always there, just under the surface, and some days -like today- it's the loudest voice in my head.

And so here comes the stupid holiday that magnifies this loss, as if it's not big enough already.  I want to hide, but I know I have to go to be with my parents and part of me wants to, I love them so much.  The hard part will be to see everyone else who is alive and flourishing...there will be job talk and house talk and wedding talk...maybe future grand baby talk.  Each conversation about another child's steps through life will feel like such a blow to my flesh and Cory's face will rise up...what would she look like now?  What would she be doing?  What would her plans be?

The unfairness of it all rises up and with it,brings the anger and rage.  I'll smile tightly in all the right places.  I'll banter because I'm pretty good at that, but it will be killing me inside.  My mom's incredible dressing that we all fight over, especially the crispy corner pieces, will sit in my stomach like a rock.

"The hardest part is letting go of your dreams."
Yes, and watching others get theirs.  Where are my girl's engagement pics?  Where is her handsome young man who is kind and funny?  Where is her little diamond to wink in the sunlight when she talks with her hands while sharing a funny story?  Where is her cramped kitchen with the hilly linoleum floor?   Where is the joy she should be experiencing to never have to say goodbye again at the end of the night?

The dress?  Sure, she should have that.  Walking her down the aisle?  I have dreams about it to this day, certainly, but marriages fail...
so I grieve for her just that feeling alone.
Where is her shot to put herself all in with another person?  Where is her "no one else will do" big love of her life, even if it's not one to stand the test of time?  Where is that for her?  Why did she get cheated out of that experience?
I'm not completely selfish, I don't just grieve the experiences I don't get to have, I think all the time about the ones she didn't get to have.

It's a lot to swallow.

Brain Stem and Limbic System Collide

I've been thinking a lot lately about Cory's service, and about how Bob flew up here to see her:
 "It's Bob, devastated by the news, on my way to BC."

I was frozen.  Didn't respond.  Couldn't respond. Brain stem.

 How do you text someone to explain that  you inadvertently, but most certainly, sent your mutual child to her death? Would he agree that it was indeed my fault?

So instead, I held the phone, reading and rereading that single line in the backseat of the car, unable to stop shaking, finally allowing myself to be led by the arm into a florist to pick out gobs and gobs of flowers to put on top of my child's casket.  It was the beginning of several surreal experiences. They all had capital letters:  The Selection of the Flowers.  The Choosing of the Casket.  Deciding on a Cemetery.  The Securing of the Plot.  Dressing Your Dead Child.  Viewing Your Child's Corpse.  The list went on and on, each thing more horrifying than the last.  Brain Stem.
 I have the vaguest recollection of demanding roses and firmly overriding Tim's suggestion that everything be pink.  There was a little table or a desk that we gathered around, some woman, my Mom, and my sisters. I remember my knees shaking hard enough to move the table above them. There was a big album to choose from like when you plan a wedding.  I remember feeling like I was floating above my body.  I fought the urge to vomit the entire time I sat there.  Walking out of that store was sweet relief.

By the time Bob got here, I had decided he'd forfeited his right to be there when he told Cory she was crazy and when he told me I could keep my schizophrenic kid.  Yes, I would keep her and I would put her to bed this last time without him just like every year of her childhood. Just like every single year-the sweet smell of her baby scalp, her chubby toddler body, her sturdy little girl body, her gawky pre-teen, long, lanky frame, her young adult body that sometimes shook with tears when the voices were particularly scary and demanding.  "Hold me, Mommy, I'm scared."  Limbic system.  Where were you for this girl?  You show up NOW?
 Was it the right thing to do?  It sure felt like the right thing, but I was quite out of my mind, so I'm not really sure. Protecting her seemed paramount, probably even more so since I had failed to do so when it counted most.  I had all those times he'd hurt her and disappointed her pulled up in my mind ("I lived without you for ten years and I can live without you for ten more") and anyone who had hurt her like that...well, they were not welcome.  Limbic system.

So now, when I look back, I can see I made that decision with my emotions and I start to feel responsible.  But then, I remember that his actions towards Cory happened, regardless of how I felt about them.  Those actions were not my fault, so I cannot be held entirely to blame.  Stand up fathers who treat their children well, who provide for them, who love and care for them their entire lives are seldom turned away from their children's funerals.  You just don't see it much.

 I don't feel good about my decision.
But somehow, I bet Bob doesn't feel too great about his decisions, either.
 It was what it was.  I have to live with my decision of not allowing him to come to the funeral just as he has to live with failing Cory her entire life.  I hope for his sake and his son's that he's doing better by his boy than he did by my girl.

The Good Fight

My approach to the holiday season over the last four years has been "Hell, no, I won't go!".  The only thing missing was a strongly worded sign with a catchy slogan to express my disapproval and objection to the holidays going on without my girl- something I could heft around while marching around my parents' neighborhood, actively making my voice heard. #notwithoutmygirl

It struck me when I woke up one morning this weekend that opting out of family holiday functions has been a protest to Cory's death entirely.  Part of it has been avoidance to the task-it is damn hard work to be around a bunch of joyous people who can touch and hug their children at will.  Underneath the fog of anxiety meds, I would gaze across the room at her empty chair, my eyes would fall on one of my nieces, nephews, or one of my sisters and I would feel the jealousy just swallow me up, covering any kind or decent part of me and turning me into somehow I'm not proud to be.   I'd listen to the casual chatter and laughter, all the while trying my best to figure out how they got to be over there while I was over here in hell.  Cue the guilt, with suicidal thoughts soon to follow.  But underneath it all was the simple fact that I didn't want to acknowledge that she was really gone.

What I figured out pretty quickly was that if I didn't put myself at that table, eating dressing and faking small talk, I could ignore what was happening entirely.  Denial, we meet again.  And again.  And just when I think we've parted ways forever...we might hit each other up just to see how the other has been.  Hey, stranger.  Long time, no see.

The longer I put off coming to or being full present (i.e. not bombed out of my mind on anxiety medication) at holiday events, the longer I could refuse to accept my new reality.  It was more time that I could preserve the past as it was when Cory was here.  And let me tell you, that felt markedly better than sitting there watching the happy families bantering away while my heart shriveled in my chest.  I could be safe in my bed.  If I took enough meds, I could sleep through the whole damn thing.  If had to show up, they'd get my body only, I'd medicate myself right out of the experience.  I'm here, can't say I'm not...but it hurts too much, so I'm not really here. Are you happy now?

It worked quite well for me, so what's the problem?  One problem is the time I gave up with my parents.  I know that someday, all too soon, I will be wishing for five more minutes with them, just five.  And by the time I'm wishing for it, it will be an impossibility.  Losing Cory has taught me that.  It would be a shame to lose the lesson.  What else is her senseless death worth, if not that?

The second problem is that I'm giving up the chance to make new memories with Jacob.  This is his childhood, his adolescence, and his upbringing, too.  He does not deserve to be short-changed.  He is important.  He is worthy.  And even though, our holidays, I suspect, have changed forever and will always have a somber cast to them until he goes off and starts holiday traditions with a family of his own- creating a safe circle in which all participants are alive- they are still special days to share...together.  Watching his face, making him smile, hearing him laugh...these are the things that make living,despite the pain, worth it.  I don't want to sacrifice those moments because it's easier.

So, I'm gonna try to show up for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, and...wait for it...  I will try not to be bombed out of my mind. 

Christmas Eve is still open for debate.  I may not make that.  But at least I'm starting to think that at some point I probably should.

Power Nap

Today, while napping, I had my favorite dream- the one in which she's home running around fine and they buried someone else in her box.  I could feel her solid weight as she jumped into my lap and I could breathe her in as I kept asking her if she could believe the whole thing had been a mistake.  Pure joy.  Pure delight.  Utter and sheer relief.  The world was a safe place once again.

I wish I could touch her hair and hold her that close again.  The dream was so vivid and shot my senses fuller than any illegal drug ever could.  Somewhere, even while asleep, my subconscious knew the truth because the paranoia set in, wondering when this sweet respite would come to an end, which it did all too soon.

Oh my, the feeling of her in my arms one more time.  People just don't know if they haven't experienced it.