I ordered a new Cory picture necklace recently and eager for its arrival, showed it to a couple of friends today. I am super excited because pictures of my girl are my favorite possessions on earth (even above footwear) and I haven't bought a picture necklace in well...I couldn't quite remember when, so I looked it up. I haven't purchased a Cory necklace since 2015. (Let's just commend my consumer restraint here and not look in my jewelry closet that is crammed full of the ones I ordered from years 2012-2015, if you please).
Here's the thing. It feels different. My reason for buying it feels different. My anticipation of its arrival feels different. I wonder if wearing it will, too?
You have to understand that when I stumbled on this little photo jewelry website, I was so raw. It had been a handful of weeks since I buried her. I was desperate for anything of hers, like her, or literally made in her image to hold onto it. I was drowning everyday. It felt like every moment that I didn't relive the sequence of that awful day to figure out how to make it untrue, I was failing her again.
I found that little web shop and went to work ordering picture jewelry like it was my full time job. And maybe it was. The idea of going back to work, into the community, around people, without her and knowing she was dead and that everyone knew...it was the oddest mix of vulnerability and shame. Yes, yes, guys, I know (eight years later- most days- I know), I had nothing to be ashamed off. It was a horrendous, horrific fluke accident that I could not have prevented. But then? Oh no. I could barely lift my head from the ground she was buried in, I was that ashamed. You know how kids will joke about their parents screwing them up as children and the parent will raise a sardonic eyebrow, full on Mr. Chow-from-The-Hangover style and quip, "But did you die?"? I would never have that luxury. My child had indeed died and I had failed the most basic mission of parenthood: sustaining and protecting life.
So I ordered a handful (or more, let's be honest here) of beautiful Cory photo necklaces and bracelets. Those first few weeks, I approached each work day as I approached her funeral- I suited up for war. They were my armor. Not only were those pieces of jewelry my touchstones, but I also had the choice each day of which to wear. And CHOICE in a time when I felt I had no control of anything in my life...that was a magical thing.
What I didn't realize then than I know now is those comfort objects were the most important transition objects of the most difficult transition I would likely face in my lifetime: the transition of living in a world in which my child was alive to living in one in which she was dead. Not passed away, not in a better place, nothing fluffy or fancy...just dead. I had to figure out how to mentally digest that. That was a huge, previously unfathomable task, as I assume it is for every parent who has never lost a child- to understand that my child was dead and I would never see her again on this earth. And after I understood it, really knew it was permanent, I had to figure out to cope with it. Those pieces of jewelry were with me through the whole mess.
I'll never forget the brash, exotically beautiful Italian woman on the night train to Venice who exclaimed over Cory's beauty when shown a picture of her, offered her sincere condolences, but scoffed at my idea of needing to carry something so she would always be with me. Turns out she was right. My little hoarder's heart would never have believed her back then. Guess what? I do now.
On a rough day, there is still tactile comfort in touching the mold of her fingerprint around my neck or looking down to my wrist to see her smiling up at me as I type. But, Cory? Cory is embodied within my soul and no amount of jewelry can ever compete with that. I don't need them, but, man, they bring me so much joy.
This new necklace that has my heart all flutter? I'm not desperate for it to preserve my bond with her or keep her face fresh in my mind. I was desperate then...wild eyed and barely surviving. The pain is still my faithful companion and some days, it's just as fresh and runs just as deep. But her face leaving my mind? No, it won't stop until my heartbeat does.
However, I sometimes forget I'm wearing a Cory necklace until someone comments on it. What a gift it is when that happens! I think that's something people don't realize about bereaved parents- we're so damn proud of our children, we could just explode! We wait patiently for the socially acceptable time to gently fold them into an everyday conversation just to relish the way their name feels on our lips. We try not to make it weird by talking about them too much, which makes some people uncomfortable, but when everyone is going all full bore Chatty Cathy about their live kids' accomplishments, we want to get right in there and crow about our babies, too. They deserve it! It's such a difficult tightrope to walk.
I never feel weird about talking about Jake's Covid-interrupted high school graduation or his burgeoning romance and as time goes on, I hope to boast about so many other milestones of his, both large and small, but I always feel a little greedy to take up people's time to boast about my child who is no longer alive. It feels like you're putting your audience out or unintentionally shifting the mood of the room into something that is no longer happy/pleasant/light/victorious. Part of it is that I have less to work with as milestones go...19 years is a short life, and that dirty thief, mental illness, didn't do us any favors. Not to mention if the people I'm talking to know me at all, they've already heard my Cory stories...a few times over.
No one likes Ground Hog's Day conversations. I get it. But guys, it's all I have. And she WAS successful and her story IS victorious in so many important ways. So I'm not gonna stop.
It's impossible to work into a typical everyday exchange all the things that made her such an incredible human being. But any shot I get to talk about her girly meets edgy fashion sense, her quick witted humor, a silly tradition we had, or even a song she liked and, buddy, I'm taking that swing.
Who knows? This new necklace, a gorgeous little conversation piece, may just get me a few more of those chances.
Her name was Cory. She is loved.
