Siren Call

Sometimes I give myself a lot of grief for not doing better "by now".  Other times, it's painfully obvious why this has been the slow, dark, super twisty path that grief is for everyone- made even slower, darker, and infinitely more bendy by trauma.

Today was one of the days I could see it so clearly:  side A, if Cory had died on the road and the police had knocked on my door and side B, running onto the scene before they got there and seeing her the way that I saw her.

Maybe everyone who knows me and has been reading this blog already knows about these sides and how they affect my behavior and others who have been through these situations.  But I'm not sure I always do.  I'm in the middle of it all the time and that makes it hard to see the distinction or sometimes to even lift my head out of the storm to look around at all. But today, during the course of an outing, it became so clear.

This morning, I was up early on a Saturday, wearing some new leggings and cute booties from last fall.  I was headed to Starbucks to work on my Stats for the Behavioral Sciences and I was feeling GOOD...good, in only the way that walking in a pair of boots with heels can make me feel.  You guys know what I mean...suddenly, you feel another half a foot taller, at least, and there is a swing to your hips that wasn't there before.  I love fall.

So I got all my work done while enjoying a Salted Caramel Mocha and without having my arm half chewed off by my puppy.  I even finished sooner than I expected.  I decided to head over to Kohl's and Target, on the hunt for Jake a couple more hoodies for school.  He is, after all, a fifteen year old boy who hates clothes shopping.  When we shopped for school over the course of the last month, he claimed to need very little in order to be able to leave the tortuous errand of shopping.  Well, the weather has turned cool in the mornings this past week, so guess who suddenly can't live without more hoodies?

I was on a mission.  And, as always, I found about twenty different things that looked exactly like Cory.  Partway through Kohl's, I put in my earbuds and started listening to music to block out how badly those clothing items prompted me to miss my girl.  This worked great for a good half hour until purely by chance, one of the songs that was played at her visitation came on:   "Miserable at Best" by Mayday Parade.  My mood started to slip as if I'd stepped onto a faulty part of the ground in my super cute block heeled black ankle boots.   The first line or so of that song squeezed my heart dry, but never did I feel like a bad mom.  I only yearned for her so powerfully it made me feel a little dizzy.  But I switched the music up and kept on trucking.  Jacob needed hoodies.

I made it through Kohl's and headed onto Target.  There I spotted the absolute coolest Princess Leia slouchy sweatshirt and before I could help it, tears had sprung up in my eyes.  Fuck.  This is hard.  Cory, I miss you SO much.

I ended my little Mommy Without Cory errand running day by venturing over to the mall and into Hot Topic to see if there were any Panic at the Disco hoodies Jake would like.  While there, I came across a Gerard Way shirt she would've literally jumped up and down for and several My Chemical Romance shirts she would've had draped innocently over her arm before I could turn around, batting her gorgeous eyes at me all the while.  What I wouldn't give to have her here so I buy them all for her just to hear her squeal.

But I was still doing good.  I missed her horribly, but I was doing okay.  I was snapping pics of stuff Jake might like and texting back and forth with him.  I was still, in other words, in the present tense.  I walked out of there, still digging my boots and swinging my hips, my shoulders straight, feeling impossibly tall.  I am safe.  I can handle this.

I listened to music the whole way home, looking forward to catching up with Jake, showing him his loot, and going over the movie It that we saw with my mom yesterday.  The sun was shining, it was a perfect 70 degrees out, and it was my day off.  I got my homework done and had decided to grab Subway instead of cooking...I'd had enough grief triggers for the day, thank you very much.

I left Subway with our dinner swinging in a bag around my wrist and some ice cold beverages in my hands.  Life was as good as it could be without Cory...which, by the way, always kind of sucks, but today...today was a good day.

Driving towards home on West Michigan, with The Used blaring, my only thoughts were how much I looked forward to seeing The Used in November with Jacob in Grand Rapids...his first standing room on the floor only concert at an all ages smaller venue and how to squeeze the three new dresses I saw at Target into the budget.  They must be mine.  They must!

When I spotted the flashing lights in my rear view mirror, I was in the middle of mentally matching each dress with the correct color of over the knee boots and dreaming up accessories.

To say, it caught me off guard...not even remotely accurate.   It was like being hit in face with a brick when you, eyes closed and smiling slightly, were expecting a feathery, tentative kiss.

Some responses are automatic.  I pulled over the right, ever the compliant citizen.  But I couldn't stop myself from watching it streak past.

And the sound?

There is not one single trigger I have experienced in the last five years and two months that instantly takes me back to that scene faster and harder than that damn blatting sound a fire engine makes when its en route to an emergency.  Do you know the sound?

I hear it in my dreams all the time.

Today, it seemed to fill the world.  Maybe it's because I was so far away from the scene in my enjoyment of the day.  It was jarring.  It interrupted -no scratch that- it threatened my sense of safety...and the careful management of my grief.  "You think you're okay, huh?  How bout now?", it sneered.

If you were sitting beside me in the car on the side of the road, you could've snapped your fingers right in front of my face and I'm not sure what response you'd have gotten.  Nothing?  A blank stare?  A scream?  A flinch?

What I do know is that the image of that fire engine streaking past combined with the blatting of the horn immediately placed my feet on the pavemenet and my eyes on Cory's body...a kaleidoscope of horrific images, or maybe an old-fashioned projector...legs dirty....click....hair hanging in her face...click...arm twisted...click...her mouth as they turned her over...the rescue workers cutting her shirt open...click...screaming, someone screaming, oh, right, that was me...

I could literally feel the heat coming up off the pavement.  I could feel it under my bare knees.  Sitting in the driver's seat of my car, where it was easily 70 degrees, maybe even 68 with the ac going, and my knees encased in the aforementioned motocross leggings, it suddenly felt like a hundred degrees and as if my face was baking.

I had to put my head down and my flashers on and just wait for it to pass...my hands shaking...breathing too fast...not at all like a S.T.A.R....crying without knowing it yet...

The sirens are bad enough. They always bother me.  The flashing lights suck.  They pick at scabs that will never fully heal. At least I know to look out for them.

The hidden triggers though...they are like sharp rocks launched at me while I'm walking by, completely unaware.  If I drive by an animal who has been hit and died on the road...it brings ups all sorts of awful connotations.  If someone in everyday conversation says, "roadkill" or "break your neck"  or "run them over with my car" or "splat on the road", it feels like someone has put my heart in a noose and pushed it off a short ladder.  I can hear and feel the snap, and the rest of my day, however good it has been, is ruined.

But the blatting of a fire engine horn is easily the worst.  It brings it ALL back and in seconds.   I am never prepared for it, even if I've spotted the vehicle first, as I did today.  Somehow, I am never expecting to hear that wretched sound.  Surely, it was bad enough the first time.  What sick universe would replay that shit?

So I pulled myself together and eased my car back onto the road to drive myself the rest of the way home on the road Cory died on. I hate West Michigan. I fucking hate it.

This is where the difference between trauma and not trauma surfaces.

How did I feel in the car, with dinner beside me on the seat, getting ready to greet my boy?

I felt afraid.  I felt worried.  I felt like I was on guard.  About what? Against what?   I don't even know.  My heart was beating too fast and my muscles felt too tight.  My scalp didn't seem to fit my head anymore.  But more than anything?  I felt that heavy sense of self-loathing and the weight of the guilt had instantly put a slump in my shoulders.  I did that to her.  I let her get hurt.  I broke her.  I broke my baby.  I shouldn't have let her walk to the store.  Maybe she wasn't ready.  Stupid, Nick, stupid, stupid, stupid!!!!

Here I am now, a couple of hours later, trying to process it all and gain some control over the free fall I feel in my body and in my mind.  Maybe in a little bit, I'll get my paints out or try on some boots.  It won't fix it, but it might help.  It can't hurt to try.  Just please, no more sirens tonight.