The Good, The Bad, and The Awful

It is closing in on June.  As the days march steadily towards July 5th, my anxiety has been popping unexpectedly and much more frequently, until I am now standing in its shadow all the time.

What is good right now?
Jacob.  Jacob is always a reason to stay in the game, to feel pride, to smile and laugh.  Last weekend, I took him to an empty parking lot and taught him the basics so he'll feel more comfortable when Driver's Ed starts this summer.  He was exactly as I had thought he would be:  quiet, calm, and in control.  I doubt I will ever fear driving with this boy.  To see him sitting in the driver's seat, not pretending this time, but actually moving a vehicle of his own will, even if only simple turns from one end to the other, was bittersweet.  He is growing up.  He will be a man soon.  I was happy, proud, and sad all at the same time (totally normal response). And immediately followed the feelings of despair that I never had those moments with his sister (a little extra emotion for the bereaved parent, hey don't forget your other child died before you could do this with her!")    I hung my head for a second in the seat and would you know that Jacob knew immediately what I was thinking about?  "I wish she was here, too, Mom."  He touched my hand ever so lightly and for a millisecond.  " I wish we were taking Driver's Ed together."  That boy is mature beyond his years and incredibly empathetic.

What else is good?
My grief group.  No, I'm not going to a community sponsored gathering.  I am getting together once a month with two of Cory's best friends since kindergarten.  It is a couple of hours every month where the focus is Cory.  Her name is said (the best type of therapy I've experienced yet).  We tell stories.  Sometimes we laugh until we are spitting out our beverages and afraid we may pee our pants, as we were the other night when one of them shared what Cory said about one of her crushes at school, "Mmmmhmmm, girl, break me off a piece of that!  One of these days, I'mma have his babies,   watch!"  Other times, one or more of us will begin sobbing out of nowhere.  Guess what?  It's totally okay either way.  There is no judgment in this safe circle.

We are able to talk about all the amazing things Cory said and did.  We are able to rage against the people who hurt her in any way.  Stupid boys.  Adults who failed her.  The driver.  Debate the existence of God.  We sit and ponder the fairness of it all.  We wonder if her biological father thinks of her still and has regrets or if he is too busy marveling over his second child, discovered after Cory's death, who will graduate this year, his whole life in front of him...Bob's self proclaimed "second chance" and the door God supposedly opened after shutting the door on his firstborn (his words and tasteless facebook post).

We have, through these frank discussions,bridged the gap between being "Cory's Mom" and "Cory's friends" to becoming friends ourselves.  It is an amazing thing.  I only wish we'd thought to start it years ago.  But honestly, I may have been too scary back then.

What is bad?  I have had dreams of her being alive the last couple of weeks.  The dreams where the whole accident was a mistake or a bad dream and she is just chilling in my living room or wandering around the house looking beautiful and whole and magically, unbelievably alive.  Why is this bad?  Because my joy is so great, my relief so immense, my soul  so completely restored, that waking up and realizing it was a dream is devastating.  You could chop off a limb and it would hurt no more.

If I could lucid dream, I would sleep the clock right around.  I would quit my job and no one would ever see me again.
That is how great the pain of losing your child really is.
I've often thought of people who become delusional due to their mental health problems and go about life having hallucinations of their loved one, ala Norman from Bates Motel.  Would I give up my standing in reality and every day life if I could comfortable secure myself in a make-believe world where Cory still lived,,,one in which I could see and talk to her every day? Umm, hell yes.  That may be the best way to describe the immense pain of losing my child.  I would give up reality, full participation in my current relationships, and even my freedom if it  meant Cory would not be dead anymore.  Please lock me up.  Give me substandard food and the same four walls, if I could just see her again.  And I would be cheeking my meds every step of the way, lest she start to disappear.  There's some perspective for the people who think that by now I should be trucking right along doing all the things I was doing before.  That's how bad this hurts, people who think that by now I should be doing more or better or what they would do in my shoes.

What is ugly?  It's ugly that when I woke up this morning and laid there in my bed with the warmth of my little dog snuggled up beside me, the image of Cory in her casket came to my mind and the way I asked so many people, "Doesn't she look beautiful?"  I was so desperate to have it be something else...that she looked beautiful or that she looked like herself...not that she looked like she was dead.
I wrenched away from image, making my puppy wake up and inch closer to me in his sleep, but that horrible image followed me.  The sensations invaded my mind...the way she felt, ice cold and hard as marble under my hands.  Please don't let this be true.  Please don't let this be true.  Notice, of course, the absence of God's name in those pleadings since he didn't do jack shit on the road side.

The flashbacks are back.  The images hit any time of day.  It makes me want to go to sleep until July 5th has past or longer.  If the shaking of my body from standing next to a uniformed police officer in line at Starbucks is any indication, PTSD does not have a specific cut off, any more than grief does.  I am doing the best I can, but it may be time to dust off my anxiety meds.

And the last part to share sort of fits all three categories:  Jake and I took flowers out to Cory's grave day before yesterday.  We threw away the old, cleaned the cut grass off Church's statue, and arranged the new offering.  We stood there, as we always do, beside each other, knowing it is never enough.  "Is there anything you want to tell your sister?"  I asked him.  He gathers himself and says, "Cory, Mom took me to drive in the old Toys R Us parking lot and I did really good....Umm, I had my fitness test in gym the other day, I'm 5' 6 1/2" and 110 pounds now.  I miss you so much, Cory.  I wish you were here."

Good.  Bad.  Awful.

All the Cory Girls

I haven't been doing this very long in regular people's time frame.  Nearly five years is not very long to most people.  It seems like both an eternity when I think of the pain and yet mere months ago that Cory died when I pull that event from my memory bank.  My first instinct is to deny.  My heart screams out it couldn't possibly be true, there is a mental throwing up of hands and a horrified warding off gesture.  But then, too, there are the images from the scene, which brook no argument...andthen  there is the monument, its words forever carved onto my brain as well as onto that piece of stone.  There is no denying written documentation.

But as a friend noticed in passing conversation the other day, there has been some real progress in my accepting this awful truth.  I said without flinching, "But that was after Cory died."  My friend stopped and turned to me right away.  "I've never heard you say that before...that she died."

It used to be "the accident".  The funeral was not a funeral; it was "the service".

These were the most subtle manipulations of my strongest coping skill:  words. They were exercises in denial.   But they were, of course, futile against reality.  But I seldom catch myself saying them anymore.  Denial has made way for acceptance as it always does.

However, it's important to share that when your child dies, they don't die once. He or she dies many times.  Denial will be a frequent visitor.  Acceptance will come to you when you are ready- on your timeline and no one else's.  You'll say "dead" and "funeral" when you are ready to, no matter how many people say it first, say it in front of you, or wish you'd just spit it out.  You'll say when you're ready, even if they only wish you'd say something like "passed away" because it makes them less uncomfortable or just keep quiet about the whole thing.

She didn't die once.  What do I mean?
I mean I lost a girl who was chronologically nineteen years old.  I buried a brave, strong, funny, intelligent girl who lost some time and experiences while she learned how to manage her mental illness.  She worked hard at it.  It took all of her time and energy.  Was she the average nineteen year old when she died- graduated from high school, starting college, maybe working part time?  Dating a series of lame ass guys while figuring out what was really important to her in a relationship?  No, not quite.  She was catching up.  She was setting goals to get there.  She wanted all of those seemingly small, but irreplacable things and all of the things that would come after.

So what happens when your child is gone but your love for them remains?  What happens when you have to continue a relationship with them,somehow, someway or die yourself?  What happens when their birthday comes around or their friends and family members are getting jobs, getting degrees, getting engaged, buying homes,  getting married, having babies?

Maybe it's not this way for every mother.  But here's how it is for me:

I conjure her up in my mind.  I recall every conversation we had about her hopes and dreams, her fears and insecurities.  I tally up her strengths. I think about her struggles.   I remember all the observations she made about life around her- people's jobs, people's marriages, people's love affairs, how people parented or chose not to, people's work ethics, what bothered her about the world, what she wanted to change.  I sit with her face in my mind, watching her talk to me, her little hands moving a mile a minute, perhaps laughing, maybe a little pissed off and I start to piece together what she would look like at twenty.  I fashion her together out of sheer love and longing.

I see that Cory in my mind.  I marvel over her.  I tell her how proud I am that she is healthy, that she feels safe, that she is doing things with friends again.  I tear up with her when we whisper (not too loud- don't jinx it!) how incredible it is that the voices have receded!  I let her cry on my chest a little when the asshole guy she's dating changes his mind about his ability to commit.  I crow over her good grades and high school credits and count down the classes she has left before she's ready to start college.  I take her in the car for driving time cause she has a learner's permit now.   I go with her to see Dr. Z for one of her appointments and hear him exclaim over her progress and fortitude.  "You are amazing, Miss!"  He smiles broadly and lifts one eyebrow at her, "You know this, yes?"

Yes.  She is.

 I have this Cory, who is twenty.  I search and adore every feature.

Then I put her in the ground.

I do it when she's twenty one.

When she's twenty two.

When she's twenty three.

When she's twenty four.

I'll do it until the day I die.

And along the way, I also bury the imaginary diploma, jobs, driver's license, boyfriends, college GPA, fiancee, husband, and child.  Maybe she'd have some of them, maybe all of them.  Who is to say?  And I wanted her to have them all.

She deserved a shot at every one of them.  One day maybe it'll roll off my tongue that she didn't graduate or drive or work a job...go to college, get engaged, walk down the aisle, or have a child.  But I'm not there yet.

I'm still laying those Cory-Girls to rest.