Her Name Was Cory

 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.

A Different Sort of Fourth of July

One thing that happens every year around this time, in addition to a ramp up in flashbacks and nightmares, is that I give myself a brutal self-evaluation as Cory's mother (i.e. rake myself over the coals, doubt myself, and generally come up short since she did, in fact, die).

Is this healthy?  Not so much, so of course, I have tried to avoid this through many different means but it always catches up with me sooner or later, so instead I've taken to writing down some of my harsher criticisms and doing some reality checking.  Is that what really happened?  Were there better options at the time?  What good things did I do?

One of the actions I've wrestled most with is allowing Bob back into Cory's life.  It certainly caused her more stress.  Did it possibly trigger her illness?  Did being around him harm or help her?  What did she gain in the short term? In the long term?  Did my giving him another chance set a bad example?  Did my leaving him set a good example?  What did I model for her?

It's funny these questions came to me today on the Fourth of July.  Being an introvert, it's a holiday I've never fully embraced.  Crowds?  No, thank you.  Being outdoors?  Meh.  Fireworks?  They're ok, but I could take them or leave them.  Since Cory's accident, I just don't mess with the fourth, at all.  Jake is equally unimpressed with the whole thing so it hasn't been an issue for our family.

Today, I remembered the Fourth of July that Cory and I spent with her birth father after he came back into our lives.  Jake was at Tim's for the holiday and so Cory and I watched the fireworks with Bob at one of his family's houses.  It was very likely the first real holiday he'd ever spent with her.  Sitting side by side sprawled out on lawn chairs, I remember watching her face lit up with the different colors of the night.  She was so incredibly beautiful at that age, like a tiny fairy with enormous eyes.  Her face was poised between childhood and the young woman she would become.   I remember noticing that a lot of the time her gaze was not on the sky but on Bob, watching him as he watched the fireworks with a non-alcoholic beer held loosely in one hand.  She studied his face the way I imagine you would if you were a child who had never known the other half of yourself and no idea when they might stop being part of your life.  She was memorizing him.

We had a good time that night.  I remember most our mingled laughter and sheer hope...hope that things would go well this time for all of us.  He wasn't drinking so that was a great first step.  Could he acclimate to being a father?  Could he handle the responsibility?  The thing that I couldn't help but notice is that Cory wasn't yet be herself around him.  Even when pressed, she wouldn't sing her Independence Day song she'd made up when she was 6.  But then again, they were for all intents and purposes, acquaintances.  It would take time, I told myself.

Long story short, his soberness and stability did not pan out over the long haul.  His mental instabilities rubbed up against Cory's. While he expected a full do-over, she was no one's do-over.  Being in her life would come with whatever she wanted to dole out.  He could own it and move forward or she would revoke her invitation.  Guess which option he chose most often? 
 There came a point when it was not in her best interest to spend time with him.  And eventually, it became clear that I had led us, along with Jake, back into a hopeless situation.

So here's the question I have to ask myself:  am I sorry?

Man, such a catch-22.
If spending time with him actually caused her illness, I would say 'yes'.  But I do not believe that getting to know produced her mental illness.  I believe her mental illness, with its genetic predisposition, surfaced during major life stressors...and easily could have, and likely would have, surfaced even if those stressors were different, such as losing a grandparent or Tim and I finalizing our divorce.

Did I have other options?  Sure, I could've refused to let her see him.  I could've closed my heart to him, as well.
Then, I ask, much as Dr. Z. did many years ago, what would have happened next?  How would she have felt about me if I had denied her the opportunity to get to know him for herself?  What would I have done next?  Would I still be the person I am today?

The things I don't regret at all are the good memories that were made (there were some, you know, that make me smile and giggle to this day) and what she was able to learn about herself.  No wonder she was so fricking funny!  No wonder she loved to sing and had an artistic side.  Guess what?  She actually looked like her mom AND her birth father.  Those Flintstone feet sure as hell weren't mine.

In the short term, she had the chance to get to know him and decide what she thought about him without my grievances clouding her judgment.  She got to see his strengths and his weaknesses in full.  She got to see his good heart underneath a lot of his less desirable behaviors.  She got to see his intelligence and charm.  She was able to see firsthand why I loved him in the first place and she knew without a doubt that she had come into being from two people's love for each other. 

In the long term, she was also able to see his addiction, and she told me herself how that shaped her thoughts about drugs and alcohol.  Even if that were the only take away from getting to see him, it's a big enough one for me to be able to sleep at night.  There's a couple of reasons my girl didn't turn to substances to cope with her symptoms.  While I think getting her into treatment early was one, I have no doubt that watching the decisions Bob made because of his addictions was the other.  She wanted to be nothing like him in that regard.  The last thing she wanted was a dual diagnosis.  She had plenty on her plate as it was.

And well, I know my Cory Girl.  Had I told her she couldn't see him, she'd have packed a bag and left in the middle of the night.  She was the same girl who had to find things out for herself, just like the time she licked an iron handrail in the dead of winter after Tim told her not to because her tongue would get stuck.  It might have hurt, but at least she no longer wondered.

As for me and my willingness to give him another chance?  Well, I won't bore you with the statistics, but I'm not such an anomaly.  Unless you've actually been in a relationship like that, it's hard to understand how and why women go back.  I will say that I exceeded the standard 7 times for sure and that even after Cory's accident, I dreaded telling him what had happened because I was certain he would blame me.  Completely non-nonsensical thinking- at that point there was no reason for me to value his opinion-  but also not so far off, since he did end up blaming me for her death.

  In full disclosure, I can be pretty stubborn myself.  Someone close to me told me I'm stubborn this last week and I was appalled, lol.  I like to fancy myself as committed to my beliefs and knowing my own mind.  I think I'm pretty damn flexible to boot.  Writing this today, I had to laugh at myself.  I can't think of a single person in my life, besides Cory and perhaps his mother, who thought giving Bob another chance was a good idea, but I wouldn't listen to any of them.  Am I sorry?  No, actually I'm not.  I have some amazing memories alongside the bad ones.  In the end, I came out stronger.  I know what I deserve.  I know what I won't tolerate.  I know I can do things on my own, if need be.  And hey, it might have hurt, but at least I no longer wondered.

Knowing your worth...knowing your deal-breakers...knowing you can recover from mistakes or lapses in judgment...knowing you can be self-sufficient...those are the things I hope Cory sifted out of the whole mess.  I hope she held those things up and looked them over at night.  I hope she saw me as strong and realized she could be strong, too.  I hope the lesson she took is that it's possible to rebuild from heartache, family dynamics, mental illness...all of it.

I'm sure I made lots of mistakes being Cory's mom. All parents do.   But I'm positive I did lots of things right, too.

The proof was in the amazing girl who died on July 5, 2012.  She was stronger than I'd ever imagined.  She was funny, kind, and sweet.  She was smart and thoughtful; mature and insightful.  She was passionate and stubborn.  She had a knack for accessorizing that I'll never be able to duplicate.  Her laughter was contagious.  She was quick to forgive, but had learned to set healthy boundaries.  She knew how to love.  She knew what love was and what it wasn't.

  She inspired me to keep going even when I want to give up.  She showed me how to do unimaginably hard things.  She made the world better just by being here.
So all things considered, maybe I did a pretty good job, after all.  Happy fourth, Cory Girl.

A Few Words From Jacob

It's sort of a somber count down party of one in my household as her death date approaches.  Tim doesn't talk about it at all and doesn't make time to visit the cemetery.  His escape, if she's on his mind, is the same as with  all other situations:  copious amounts of sleep.

 I checked in with Jake the other night while making dinner.  I asked him if the date approaching caused him stress.  His answer surprised me a little, but thinking it over today while leaving the cemetery, it was also completely Jacob:  calm, logical, and loving.

"Jake, how are you feeling about the fifth coming up?  Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.", he reassured me.   "I mean, it's sort of an arbitrary date for me."

Forcing myself not to bristle at "arbitrary" since the date holds such significance to me, I continued filling my pot with water and paused.  In my mind, I was wondering how that date didn't just set him on fire the way it does me, but I reminded myself that he wasn't at the scene. (Thank goodness!)  Sometimes because that experience has impacted me so much, I forget that no one I know or love was with me when I found her or when they told me she was gone.  I somehow automatically include the people that have supported me throughout the years, assuming they have the same memories that I do, when I should be so grateful they do not. 

 I reminded myself that although he has talked about remembering vividly the moment I got on my knees in our dining room to tell him Cory didn't make it nearly eight years ago, he was only ten years old, shocked, frightened, and unable to fully process what had just happened.  His perspective as a child would and should be completely different. 

Not looking directly at him (a strategy I've learned over the years puts him more at ease to open up),  I invited, "Yeah?  Tell me more."

He responded that Cory's presence and absence in his life is constant and static.  For him, there is not much of an ebb and flow.  She is always with him and she is always missing.  He has adapted the best he can.  "There's not much else I can do, but love her."

We continued moving around each other in the kitchen as we prepared our food, joking around and asking Alexa to play our favorite songs.  A couple of beats later, he volunteered, "It's only really hard for me because it's so hard on you."

At this point, he puts his arm around my shoulder and draws me close, which is precious because of its rarity. He is a reserved soul. Finding myself still surprised to have to look up at him now that he's taller than me, I responded, "I hope I don't cause you to worry."

He answered, "No, I wouldn't say worry.  But when you're really sad, it makes me sad, too, cause I love you."

And that is Jacob.  We ate our dinner and nothing more on the topic was said.  He is quiet, but steady in his love and compassion. 

Tonight or tomorrow we'll  either visit the cemetery together or he'll accompany me to the road, a place I only visit twice a year.  He will be the same at either of her spots- respectful, supportive, and steadfast. Our little family of three triangle from so many years ago will come together again.  I hope Cory can somehow see the man her little brother is turning out to be...how I wish they knew each other now.

Doing Okay With It

Someone asked me today if Jacob ever talks about losing his sister.

My answer was, "Not really.  Sometimes, if I bring her up, but usually he gives a word or two and quickly changes the subject."  He does talk to her when we go to the cemetery which is less often these days than the first few years.  But in the day to day scheme of things, he doesn't normally bring her into conversation or talk about his feelings.  At all.

This has worried me for some time.  While I know everyone copes with loss differently...some people holding it in while others tend to share it out, I feared if he didn't talk about her EVER, it meant he was avoiding his grief and one day, it might back up on him all at once.

Jake has been to counseling at various points since Cory's accident:  right when it happened, a year after when he began to show physical and emotional distress, and again, in the last year or so.

 Jake popped out of the womb in a sweater vest and slicked back hair, capable of managing his emotions with little to no assistance from anyone.  Naturally then, he self-diagnosed his need to return to therapy last year.  He had learned about PTSD in a class at school and saw symptoms within himself of withdrawal and anxiety.  So off we went.  I was so relieved.  I just knew that now that he was ready, he would open up to talk about how losing his sister had affected him on his own terms.

In short, he would be okay.  More than anything in this life, I want him to be okay just as I wanted Cory to be okay.  Watching your child be very much not okay and not being able to do much about it is a traumatic experience of sorts all on its own.

Guess what Jake seldom speaks about at therapy?
At first, I couldn't believe it.  But over time, I've come to see just how different grief is for children and adults.  Jake is growing and developing every day...still...and has been every day since July 5, 2012.  The last seven and a half years have held major developmental tasks for him.  Maybe, despite how much he dearly, dearly loved his sister and how much losing her most certainly devastated him, maybe he has some other things on his mind...about himself.  About his place in the world.  About his belief systems.  About the future.

Pretty fricking normal, I'd say.  Pretty well-adjusted and healthy for him to be focused on those tasks.  He shared he thinks about Cory every single day.  He misses her a lot.  He wishes she was here.  He is sometimes sad, but overall thinking of her brings back positive memories.  He does not suffer from nightmares or intrusive thoughts about the accident.  In his own words, he is "doing okay with it".

Jacob Norman...what am I going to do with you, you amazing young man?

I know that until he turns 26 or so, he will continue to process his loss in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope as his emotional and cognitive abilities expand.  And beyond that age, he will continue to grieve for his sister his entire lifespan.  I will be there as long as I draw breath to support him in whatever way makes him most comfortable.  I will rein in my own anxiety and halt the projection.

He is doing okay.
And if that changes.  If someday, he's not doing as okay with losing Cory as he is today...well, I hope he'll tell me about it.  I think that he knows it's an acceptable thing in our family to say you're not doing okay and you need some help.  After all, his big sister, rather bravely, showed us all how to do that.

Cleaning Out My Closet

No, Eminem...not that one.  I'm talking about my actual closet.  Fall has always been my favorite season and I'm the first to admit I shop heavy, folks.  By the time the air actually becomes chilly enough to wear all the cute snugglies and boots I've stockpiled, I've run out of room to store them in any organized fashion.  So I go through my drawers and closet with a ruthless eye and make room.

It used to be my all too forgiving eye and Cory sitting cross-legged in the obscene pile of clothes on my bed, declaring firmly "Ummm, no!  Just no!"  or holding up an item I hadn't worn for seven years, and challenging me with one perfectly waggled eyebrow, "Mom, is this really who you want to be?"
That girl.  My world is so much less without her in it.

So tonight I made a halfhearted attempt to start going through my drawers and happened upon a cashmere sweater I'd bought at least twelve years ago.  I'd gotten the brown and the teal.  When Cory, all of fourteen or maybe almost fifteen began clamoring beside me, I caved and bought her the heather gray hooded one.

All these years later, and here I sat crying over an old cashmere sweater for no reason other than Cory is dead.  The teal one had not only began to pill, but there was a hole I'd not yet noticed.  It is no long wearable.  I have way too many sweaters.  This should not have bothered me SO much.  And yet...

Like some horrid six degrees of separation game gone awry, nearly every strong emotion I have comes back to that foundation:  Cory is dead.

It never stops shaking me to my absolute core, acceptance or not.
My closet isn't in nearly as good of shape without her.  I have sweaters with holes in them for Pete's sake.  There may be vests from fifteen years ago in the back.  You see what state I'm in without you?
And most of all, she is not here to offer her opinion, her commentary, to squirrel away items and sneak them upstairs to re-home in her own closet.  She and I aren't able to jump up and try something on just to see if it looks as ridiculous as we think it might and then giggle over the results.

She is not here.

Goal Orientation

I remember realizing Cory was stabilizing when we began to argue about the boys she wanted to date like any other Mom and teenage daughter.  I also remember noticing that she spoke more and more about the future.  She had begun to have some goal orientation again and it was a wonderful, amazing thing.  She was not stuck in delusions, and if the voices were sometimes still there, they were more of a nuisance, and not an all-encompassing source of terror.  Watching her pull herself out of that seemingly never ending fog was something I was privileged to witness.  A fighter?  Dude, you have no idea.

I still have only the smallest grasp on the mental anguish she faced during the worst of her episodes.  Tack on the...tumultuous is the kindest word I can find for it...off and on again relationship with her biological father, and well, I know nothing of the pain she faced in her young life.  I have Norman for Pete's sake...I have had only the best of experiences being fathered, so my frame of reference for that is nil.

She impressed me from the very beginning to the very end.

After all this time, and my own go rounds with trauma and depression, I yearn to compare some notes with her.  Boy, I could empathize better than I ever did back then.  One thing I've gotten like a critical puzzle piece clicking into place is the understanding of the pressure from other people to just be all right again and step on it, if you don't mind, please.  This may be because they love you but may also be because it's uncomfortable for them to watch your symptoms.  Maybe it's because watching someone struggle and circle back to places you thought were already well traversed can be frustrating.  Maybe it's because people feel useless when they don't know how to help.  Maybe it's because the rawness of your suffering scares the shit out of them.  Could this happen to my child?  To me?  To my family?

But I digress.

One thing Cory and I have in common is we recorded our recovery in words, art, and a million little tangible ways in our hand.  Being able to look back at the person you used to be and go, "Oh man, she was not well."  and know that's not where you are anymore?  It is one of the most impactful experiences a person can have.

It can be small things.  But as we know, as I've learned through the eternity since I've kissed her cold face, the small things are really the big things.  Always and forever.

I remember Dr. Z saying when a memory of her brings a smile before a tear, you're making progress.  Okay, as I sit here listening to Big Poppa by the Notorious B.I.G. on my headphones in Starbucks grinning like a fool thinking of her, I can only think how wise our Dr. Z really was.

The other thing I did this past week was take down all my pictures on my bulletin board at work and put up new ones.  I should mention the content had been the same from the six week mark when I returned to work, trembling and shell shocked:  all pictures of Cory, all pictures of Cory and Jake at the ages they were right before the accident.  This little makeshift shrine traveled with me from office to office over the last seven years.  Preserving my life BEFORE was paramount.  I could see nothing good for myself beyond the pain.

My new content?  It's a combination of present tense, past, and future.  Some goal orientation, if you will...

There are pcitures of Cory and her monument, but there are loads of pictures of the rest of my family in present day and things that make me smile and feel good about what I'm doing...right now.  Not who I was then, but who I am now.  She's a pretty cool chick, it turns out.  And I can't wait to see what she's up to in the future.

CoryGirl, I'm coming out the other side.  We can do anything together.  We are strong, aren't we, you and your Madre?  And we're still a team.

Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

Living with grief over the years is like some sort of strange arranged marriage.  Imagine already having the love of your life and being told in no uncertain terms, that no, your love has to go, underground, and instead you will spend the rest of your life with this unwanted ghoul.

At first, quite understandably, you despise Grief.  You hate everything it represents- losing your love, losing your dream of a happy life, pain that presses on your lungs relentlessly, even flashbacks of your love bleeding on the ground.  Grief brings all of this and shoves it in your face regardless of the time or company.  What is there to like about such an inconsiderate partner?

So then, you go on the run every time Grief comes knocking.  You hide under the bed.  You go shopping.  You take the meds that help you to sleep so your dreams are not filled with sirens, flashing lights, uniforms, blood, and twisted bones.  Better to have no dreams than those nightmares.

Nothing works for very long.  Let's face it, Grief is a fucking stalker.  Eventually, you invite Grief in and offer a chair, regard each other, albeit reluctantly, and get on with your relationship.  Turns out, facing Grief head on is the best way to conduct the sorry business of losing your child.  You get busy talking about it and learn who loves you enough to bear the discomfort of hearing about it, over and over again.  You see, for some of us, the nightmare never ends.  I get that the script gets old; but I'd rather witness it than live it, I promise you that.

Progress comes slowly and is probably less easily recognized by those who don't have children or who have never lost one.  But it is there.  Make no mistake; it is there.

You finally stop listening for Grief's knock on the door.  The two of you are now so enmeshed, that such formalities are no longer needed. 

That's why it feels like such a betrayal when Grief comes barging in when you are sick or stressed or doing almost okay.  You stand there, your heart beating out of your chest, realizing your loss as if it were the moment you were told she was dead on the road.  That pain of never seeing your child again rips through your body from your scalp that is now shrinking on your head to your feet, that no longer seem willing to hold you up.  You sit, folding in on yourself, wherever you are, a chair, the floor, your bed...and you look over at Grief.  I thought we were friends!  How could you do this to me?

Grief stands firm, no apologies.  You look again, and suddenly, there is recognition.  "Oh, it's you.  I know you."  You've seen this behavior before.  It is really no surprise.

There is an unwilling sort of commitment; you have to live with Grief until the day you die.  But friends you are not.

You Can't Wear Tennis Shoes to a Funeral

So Jacob had a couple of public speaking things at school recently.  He would pretty much rather have his skin peeled from his bones than talk in front of people.  But he soldiered through.

 We made a Kohl's run to pick out his business casual gear.  We hatched the plan while dropping him off for school one day.  "So, okay, one day after work, we'll run out by the mall and grab your stuff.  Slacks, khakis, button downs, a tie, and shoes, right?"

He didn't hear me in his haste to get out of the car.  He returned, "What, shoes?"

I thought he said, "I don't need shoes."

I responded, "You have to get shoes!  Some occasions call for real shoes. Like a funeral.  You can't wear tennis shoes to a funeral, Jake."

Jake stopped the door in mid-swing, and said, "Wait, what?!!"

I repeated it, and he clarified, "I'm fine with getting shoes.  I want shoes."  He grinned the open, easy smile that he guards so closely from just about everyone.  He continued, " I was so confused, like one minute we're planning a trip to Kohl's and the next minute you're talking funerals...like, why are you just going all dark on me?"  We cackled together, and he walked away, still smiling, and shaking his head.

As I drove away, I said to the car, "That boy." and smiled the whole way to work.

So fast forward to our shopping errand.  Before I could even say it, he did.  "This reminds me of the time me and you and Cory decided on a whim that I needed a suit."

"You remember that?"  I replied, more pleased than I could ever convey.

"Of course I do.  Remember me and Cory took all the pics of me looking GQ and I had a tie to match her dress at Easter."

We smiled, the full continuum of happy to sad and back again playing out on our faces, as we recalled that was her last Easter, and she'd been buried in the dress.  He'd worn the tie to her funeral.

We shopped together easily, filling two armfuls before deciding we might need a cart.  If I haven't said so before, Jake is the best company on any sort of errand.  He is easy to be with, helpful, funny.  If you buy him some Starbucks to get started and promise a burger or wings at the end, he's yours for the day.  His wife is going to adore him.  Ahem..you're welcome.

Finally he went to try everything on, and ended up calling me in the dressing room to try to help him get the tie fixed, at which I failed miserably.

I looked up at the mirror after checking the Google directions one more time, and caught a glimpse of him all dressed up.  It struck me suddenly that maybe this school year or maybe even since January, how much he has matured.  He has crossed the mid-line from boy to man.

I could only hope that Cory was somehow crammed in that little dressing room with us, admiring her little brother, now taller than both of us, from all angles.  She would approve of his dress shirt...purple.  She would crow excitedly over his adventurous tie choice:  flowered.  She would shake her head a few times and embarrass him, singing, "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy, it hurrrts..."

She would reach up to muss up his hair and call him, "hey there, Joe Jonas, I mean Brendon Urie..."

He would playfully smack her hand away, pretending to be bothered by all the attention, but secretly loving every moment.

Finally, broken out of my reverie, Jake called my attention to his shoes.  We'd spotted them at the same moment, and cried out, "Those!"

Now, he looked himself up and down in the mirror, pleased with what he saw, unknotted tie notwithstanding.  He gazed at his feet.  "These are MAN shoes.  I think you're right, Mom.  You can't wear tennis shoes to a funeral."

Somewhere, her fashion sense still intact, Cory smiled at her little brother and shook her head in agreement.  You really can't.

Turn Around

Even the happy things are a little sad.  That's hard, but fair, I suppose.

But it's the undeniable marks of progress make you more than a little uneasy.

It took years for me to feel even partially okay about celebrating holidays without Cory.  When asked by, Lady, my kindhearted therapist, why I felt so guilty about this, I remember telling her that it felt like I was leaving Cory behind.  That was something I swore I'd never do.  She would never see my back.  Not mine.  Leave that crap for the would-be dads and the would-be grandmas.

[In the painting and letter she made me, "Thank you for loving me...for staying with me...for holding my hand..."]

Lady, who by this time had dealt with me for months and was no doubt a little weary of my fatalist attitude, tried once again to help me see something different.

"What if you're not turning your back on her?  What if she's behind you, looking over your shoulder, so excited to see everything that you're doing?"

I stopped seeing Lady about three years ago, give or take.  But her words...here they are again.

Going back to finish my degree, in the same program I was in when the accident happened, was something I put off as long as possible.  By the time I did it; it was less a choice and more of a necessity.

 School has never been hard for me.  I love to read; I love to write.  But the triggers were everywhere.  It wasn't the work I was afraid of, not even the time it took up of my evenings and weekends; it was going back to the place where it all went so desperately wrong.

The first night I jumped back into class, all I could think about was my co-worker and classmate showing up at my house with chicken as soon as she'd heard, standing in the middle of my living room, crying and reaching out her arms to me...that dear, sweet woman.

For those first few nights of class, that scene washed over me again and again.  I remembered some parts down to the detail, like what my co-worker and classmate was wearing, but some parts were murky, like the order of things.   Most of all, I remembered how confused I felt to see this kind and dear friend that I'd only known in a work and school context standing in my living room.  It was sort of like when you were little and ran into your teacher out in public and could not understand what she was doing there since she obviously lived at the school.

But one class turned into another.  And another.  The semesters passed.  And in a week or so, I'll be finished.  Nearly seven years, after the accident and dropping out of the program, I will have finished what I started back when Cory was still alive.  Back when I was reading her my papers and whooping it up over my grades.

Don't get me wrong, part of me is ready to dance a jig that I am finished with this part of my education.  But there is another part, the part that tightens my chest without warning, that fears that whenever  I move forward, Cory gets further away.

Of course, logically, I know this isn't true.  But my heart.  My heart knows nothing of logic.

I remember being a little nervous about taking classes back then because Cory hadn't been stabilized for very long and when she wasn't well, taking care of her was my number one priority.  Cory had come to me, sat on the end of my bed, the way she always used to do, and asked me about it.  She wanted to know if I thought she was a burden and if I wished I had a different sort of daughter who didn't have these problems.  Cory had these sort of thoughts often because she suffered from depression so much of the time.  Every time she asked me something like this or said something similar, I had to try every bit as hard as Lady tried with me.  "Cory, you are not a burden!  I wouldn't trade you for anyone!  Don't you see?  You've got it all turned around.  You are the reason I want to go back to school in the first place.  I want you to see that it doesn't matter how long it takes you to get there as long as you get there.  If I can do it, you can do it, too."

It doesn't matter how long it takes.  As long as you get there.

I'm not gonna walk.  Crowds, these days, make me feel ill.  And I'm not sure what exactly she can see from wherever she is.  But I hope somehow she will know when I'm finished.  And I hope she will know that she's the reason I made it.  Not despite her.  But because of her.

Always, always, my Cory Girl.

Our Time Is Up

When Dr. Z was out on medical leave, I bought a card for him.  It's still in my planner, blank and unsigned.  I sat down a half a dozen times trying to figure out what to say to this man who has had such a major impact on my daughter's life, my life, and the preservation of my family in so many situations that break other families apart.  Nothing I came up seemed to be enough.

It felt weird and sort of stalkerish to just write "I love you so much" in it and sign my name, knowing he must have dozens of patients who feel exactly the same way.  Would he know it was me, the "Mrs. Mansfield" with the "young miss" who was an "artist" and a "champion"?

I sat down once and tried again to think of how to thank him for everything he's done and just began sobbing.  How would I ever make it without his calm demeanor and kind eyes, his intelligent conversation and easy jokes?  I was so selfish in my need for him to be okay, to live, to be there for me.  No one else will  have known Cory; no one else had our shared history; no one else would be able to not only bear witness to my grief, but grieve alongside me, because he, too, had experienced the wonder of the Cory.

I never wrote the card, never mailed it and so should have missed my shot at telling him what he meant to me, thanking him properly, and having some sort of a goodbye.  It would've taught me, who should know better by now, a valuable lesson at seizing every chance to tell someone what they mean to you.  But as it happened, Dr. Z returned to work for a brief period.  I saw him a handful of times before he died.

And, it also so happened that I got my chance to say goodbye.
It was a dual appointment with my husband, as we tended to do.  Sometimes, I resented these because it seemed like Tim's needs would eclipse my own during the appointment, but in retrospect, there were times it went the other way and isn't that what marriage is all about?

So during this appointment, we went through the symptom reports, the med updates, the asking after Jacob and my parents...always, he never missed an opportunity to ask for news of the ones he knew I loved most and who supported me.  With the smallest of smiles, he told us he had some bad news to share...two things, really.

He said that since we are privately insured, we needed to transition to a private provider so the the community mental health center could better focus on clients who had little to no resources, especially with the opiate crisis.  He gave us a referral for the exact psychiatrist who had given Cory her first psych eval.  He then went on to say that, "I'm not sure how much longer I will be here so this is a good time to support that transition.  My health is not, well... I do not have much time left."

The tears came instantly.  He spoke with a peace that was in no way manufactured, "It is okay.  I mean I'm not crazy about it, but it is okay.  I said I wanted three things before I died...to see my son who lives across the country...which took some time to accomplish but we did work it out, to visit my homeland, which I did, and to do my best to vote that idiot out of office, which I have."

He giggled at this last part and my smile broke through my tears.  Dr. Z has always had this ability to coax a smile through tears and to point out the good in the midst of carnage and wreckage.

I drew in a deep breath and gave it my best shot, "I just want to thank you for everything you have done for me, for Cory, and for my family.  It has meant everything."

He gave a gallant little bow from the waist, templing his hands beneath his chin with a gentle smile, and said, "It has been my privilege."

The last part of every appointment is make arrangements for the next.  He scribbled on the half sheet, and said aloud, "I'm going to write us in for three months, but in the meantime, please do make the arrangements we spoke of.  And, we should say our goodbyes now."

At this, I began sobbing in earnest, bless that poor man's heart.  Like a spoiled child, I blubbered, "I don't like this at all."

He smiled, raised an eyebrow, and met my eyes.  "It's not my favorite, either, but what are we to do?"  He spread his hands out, palms up and in that gesture, I could see everything I admired about him- his calm acceptance, his bravery, his compassion, his intelligence, his humanity.

Goddamn it, Nicole, he's going to die, not just stop being your doctor.  Stop being so selfish!

I swiped at my tears, returned his smile, and thanked him one last time.  Again, he bowed, "It has been my pleasure."  I would not add to his burden by sobbing helplessly on his shirt front, although part of me wanted exactly that.

That was our last appointment.
 I went to his memorial with his colleagues and other clients:

Getting ready to go to Dr. Z's memorial service... I miss him already, just knowing he is not in the world. There is no way I could thank him enough for giving Cory hope, understanding, and a sense of dignity and self-efficacy surrounding her mental health. He was an amazing man that I respected as I do my own father. He was kind, gentle, funny, intelligent, supportive, consistent, and fair. He held up a candle in the darkest of times for me and my girl faithfully and tirelessly. Today, I will have the privilege of holding up a light in his honor.

I have avoided writing of losing him because it is so much more painful than I even imagined it could be.  I push it away every time I think about it.  This terrifies me when I think of losing either of my precious parents.  How will I survive without Dr. Z?  How will I survive losses that eclipse my imagination?  

If I learned anything from losing Cory...and from sitting across from Dr. Z for nearly ten years...grief must be faced head on.  So here I am, typing away, crying in Starbucks over a man who helped my daughter see herself as strong and capable, and after his death, continues to do that same thing for me.

Wherever you are, Sven, your legacy lives on.  And you will never be forgotten.

Concert Goers

So Jake and I decided to brave the polar vortex state of emergency weather/roads to see Panic at the Disco.  The hour and twenty minute drive took two hours.  We packed up the car with blankets, water, food, flashlights, phone chargers, and our own brute determination to see Brenden Urie on stage, weather be damned.
I was advised by at least three people who love and care about me not to go.
I responded we could go ten miles an hour if we had to.  We could pull off the road.  We could spend the night somewhere if we needed to.  And we went, white knuckled and strangely exhilarated.
Normally, we would have been blasting Jake's carefully made on-the-road-pre-concert playlist, usually synched to the set list we would be hearing at the show.  This time, in order to cut out distractions, there was only our quiet conversation.  Jake declared I was driving with the best navigator in the state of Michigan.  I heartily agreed and waited for him to reciprocate about my driving skills, which were definitely growing in their scope on this particular trip.  Jake with his quiet and quick wit allowed, "I'll tell you this, Mom.  If Dad were driving, the trip would've been over twenty minutes in."
Imagining that scenario, we both gave a little shudder and then resumed chatting.
Part of what we talked about was our decision to get out and brave the roads.  Was it foolhardy?
 It's funny how we both had the same sort of response.  "Well...I mean, if you can die crossing the road on a hot summer day in broad daylight...".

I guess you could take the accident two ways.  You could look at how fragile life is and only leave the house when you absolutely had to.
Or you could look at how precious each day is and live each moment to the fullest.  You don't get to pick your time.  It's gonna happen regardless of anyone's love for you or protection (or lack thereof) from a higher being, if such a Person even exists.  No one knows when it will happen.  Maybe you shouldn't put yourself in harm's way, but maybe you shouldn't stop taking risks, either.

Maybe it was both- a little foolish to get out, but maybe also a little brave.  If there's one thing I don't want to do to Jake, it's project my anxiety onto him.  He has enough on his own.  So we talked about how it's a good thing to try things that scare you- that's where the growth happens.  Comfort zones are necessary sometimes while you're healing, but real progress means you are able to step outside them at some point.

So of course, the questions about Cory's final errand came up in my mind.  A dear friend and family member said to me recently, "You could 'what if' all night.  What good does it do?"
And, I agree.  None, at all.  But I haven't quite figured out the trick yet to stop myself from doing it.  My brain just goes, "Yeah, he's right. Now let's get back to that unhealthy thinking pattern.  Pay attention.  I have questions."

So I started wondering a couple of things.
I wondered if crossing West Michigan scared Cory.
Then I wondered if her doing something that scared her was good or bad for her mental health.

I'm gonna have to be neutral here and say I think it scared her as much as it does anyone else. It's a busy street with four lanes of traffic. But lots of people still cross that street.
I'm gonna say that when Cory was highly symptomatic, she sought the protection of her safe haven.  That was me.  That's why during the worst of her illness, she followed me around the house- shower, toilet, didn't matter.  I looked up and there she was, just like when she was little.
So for her to volunteer to go, alone? I don't think she was overly frightened.

But was it in her comfort zone? Probably not, but it was starting to be.  Such a simple task was something she couldn't have done two years before.  Every step she took in those Hello Kitty Vans, correctly medicated, regularly counseled...she was taking control of her illness and she was getting back to a place she felt good about herself.

Maybe I'm a wee bit biased since she is one of my two favorite humans on the planet, but I think she was rather brave.

So one last thing, it was automatic for me to look down the row alongside me and see Cory standing there, singing her lungs out, and shaking her little fist in the air.  It as clear to me as some of the hallucinations she used to describe.
 I wondered what she'd think of Panic's lyric, "Hallucinations only mean that your brain is on fire."  I wish I could ask her.
 For now, Jake and I have some really interesting conversations while we guess what she'd say.

Veils

I thought today about how looking at holidays now feels like looking through a veil.  Everything is darker now, less focused, and seen through a filter of deep sadness.  How upset Cory would be to think that is the way I see the world now and that it is has anything to do with her?  She was the joy-bringer.  She was the magic and the sparkle.  The two of us together?  We set the world on fire, or at least the room we were in, in my not-so-humble opinion.

So then, the veil cannot be Cory.  That is not fair to someone who, despite her suffering, went out of her way to make other people smile and laugh.

So what the fuck is this veil?  Will I have to wear it always?  Is this what I'm meant to do?

Is the veil depression?  That would explain why it's so damn heavy.  Or how sometimes my arms themselves feel like they have bricks tied to them and I can't even reach up to push it aside for even a day.  When you can't brush your hair, who has the energy for fiddling with veils?

Is the veil trauma?  Some synonyms for veil as a verb hit home.  Hide.  Shield.  Surround.  
Don't get too close to anything that makes you feel that good again, Nicole.  If you do, someone or Someone, might take it away.  You'll be in the pit again with no way out, wishing for death.  Better to keep your distance from the moments that make your heart that vulnerable.

Maybe the veil is grief.  Envelop.  Surround.  Conceal.  Cloak.  Blanket. Shroud.
If it is, I will wear it to my grave.  We've become frienemies, you see.  I hate grief, but I cling to it, as well.  It is the measure of the love for my girl.  It is my last tie to her.  Even as the cords burn my skin, cut off my circulation, and sometimes threaten my well-being...I will not let go.  I cannot.  There is no moving on.  There is moving forward...and backward...and forward again.  There are detours and roadblocks...unexpected accidents.  I am often, unintentionally, one of those rubber neckers who has to slow down to see the carnage.  There is no other way, but through.  There is only room for one on the path.

I remember my dear, sweet father telling me that God had known Cory's death date since the day she was born.  He reminded me that the Bible says that God knows each hair on our heads.  With my crisis of faith, I am not so sure.  I know there are a ton of people who believe just that, and a ton of people who find those ideas illogical.

Here's what I know about this veil, whatever it may be.  It has been in progress since I was 18 years old, pregnant and scared.  It has grown in length every year that precious girl was in my presence.  Every belly laugh.  Every tear.  Every time she threw her hands up in the air in joy.  Every time she couldn't lift her head under the weight of her illness.

The question now is what would Cory want me to do with this veil?  What did she do with hers?

Did a Thing

So I did a tiny thing that may actually be a big thing.  I haven't quite decided yet how I feel about it.

Returning to work a few weeks after Cory died was beyond difficult.  I was, as you can imagine, barely functioning.  My brain was a frazzled old school pin ball machine, that sent me veering from one obsessive, negative thought pattern to another.
There were the frightening images of Cory's body
on the road and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I recalled shutting the lid of her
casket.   There was the shock and disbelief...had this horrible thing really happened?  Unpleasant adrenaline coursed through my body constantly, which I can only describe as the feeling of being chased by someone with a knife.
 More than anything my back was bowed over with the weight of  massive guilt and
self-loathing that I had, in my mind, sent my daughter, my dearest girl, to her death.  I couldn't stand up straight to save my life.  All too often,
and certainly unbidden, came the haunting, soul-crushing billow of the sheet floating down over her body.  All I saw before me was an endless blackness; non-stop pain. I spent a lot of time checking for the nearest exits.

Those were my minute to minute thoughts.  These were overlaid with feelings of fear that something else horrible would happen, feelings of inability to do anything properly, and an overwhelming feeling of being naked and vulnerable to everyone's scrutiny.

It took a transition object to make the eight minute trip from my house to work everyday.  I had, in typical Nicole-fashion ordered about fifteen necklaces and bracelets with Cory's picture on them.  Figure out how to live without her?  That was a hard no.  Figure out how to act normal in public?  Not so much.  Figure out how to match the right piece of Cory jewelry with the right outfit?  That my brain could do.

 So once I arrived at work, necklace in tow, I found the large bulletin board in my office waiting for me to fill it with pictures of Cory.  When asked, it was the one thing I requested.  I could not be without my girl.  During those first few months, my only wishes were to a) crawl beneath the ground with her  b) spend extended time at the cemetery beside her grave or c) spend every waking moment keeping her memory as fresh and alive as I could by poring over her pictures, her belongings, and carefully cataloging anything her hands had come across.

So I brought in a stack of 4 x 6 pictures and got to work on the bulletin board, making it my Safe Place.  When did I last feel safe?  When my children were both alive, of course. I have moved offices four times in the last six and a half years.  Each time the same pictures of Cory, a very young Jacob, and Cory's deceased cat, Church, made the trip along with me.

I have never changed it.  This brought me comfort.  I can only compare it to the way I keep Cory's room exactly the same as it was when she died.  It is my proof that she existed.  It is sacred.

So year after year, my brain has gotten a little more healthy.  I still have rough times, but I can mostly anticipate them and I've developed better self-care skills. At least most of the time (insert grin here, no one is perfect).

Once and awhile, when feeling as good as one can feel when their child is gone, I'd look up at that bulletin board and realize Jake is six, seven, eight, and nine years old in all of them.  He will be seventeen next month.  He is almost a legal adult.

Do I feel safe yet?
Maybe that depends on the day you ask me. And the dreams I had the night before.

But a couple of weeks ago, I took the best picture of Jacob with my new phone.  I just love it.  So last week, I printed it out and stuck it up on my Safe Place board at work...a tiny 2 x 3 addition of the present to my treasured past.  I clipped it up there and stood back, waiting to see what I would feel.

I instantly felt two things.  First:  pride and love.  Second:  guilt.

Would Cory think I had forgotten her?  Would she think I was "moving on"?  Had I disturbed the careful time capsule of the happiest time of my life?  Would Cory get farther away?

I reached up my hand to take it down, but then left it up.
We shall see.

Oh, Jealousy!

Here's the thing.  I'm still jealous.  I'm so jealous I sometimes can hardly stand myself.  It's no more pretty of a look than it has ever been.  These milestones are kicking my ass.

I am so happy to see the young people in my life growing.  Each time they step out a little further on a branch, testing the weight...some cautiously, some no holds barred.., I imagine Cory in the same scenario.  It's involuntary, I promise you.  I see Cory in so many typical life moments that will never happen-things you take for granted that you'll get to experience with your child.

I look around at my sisters' kids, my friends' kids, Cory's friends, and I imagine them all.

Look at Cory taking classes at the local college.  You've got this, girl.
Look at her a little married lady with a husband who grins in the face of her open bossiness and banters back at every turn.  He adores her, clearly.  And he should.  She's rather amazing.
Look at her moving into a place of her own...any place...small, big, cheap, fancy.  Anywhere the sun shines through the windows and you can hear the rain on the roof.  Anyplace she feels safe.  Anyplace she can call her own.  Around the corner or across the country...just so long as I can still hear her voice.
Look at her with a hand on her belly, a little Momma in the making.
Look at Cory working part time, full time,  or staying home with her children the way I'd always wished I'd had the chance to do.
Any of it or all of it would be just fine.

What happens is that I watch the others moving steadily forward, morphing into these incredible young adults, and I wish she was here to see them, to know them, and to move along side them.  If her pace were slower, that'd be just fine.  I just wish she could see what an amazing father my nephew has become.  I wish she could see the nurturing little creature my niece has turned out to be.

Somehow, the stars have aligned that a nephew and a niece of mine are buying their first houses  at the same time right now.  It's beyond surreal to think either of them are old enough to do such a thing.  Yet here we are.  It's exciting and crazy, sort of like when three of Cory's best friends were all pregnant at the same time.

My niece told me a few days ago how hard it is to be so excited about her house, but know Cory will never set foot in it and flop down on her couch.  It sobered me to think these changes are hard for the others to make as much as for me to watch.  Then she said this, "It makes me even sadder that Cory doesn't know who I am now.  I'm such a better person than I used to be."  Well, damn, Alisha, if that doesn't make a girl cry, I don't know what will.

So my jealousy is alive and well.  It is what it is.  I envy every scrap of experience Cory will not have.

However...
I'm wrong to think everyone else is moving along while she is stationary in her plot in Bedford Cemetery.  That is faulty thinking, my friend.  I can feel her moving.  She guides me.  She guides her brother.  Every once and awhile, she changes people's thinking that have never even met her.  Since the day she was born, that girl has propelled me forward.  And since her death, well, she's pushed me gently with those beautiful little hands of hers into discovering strength I didn't even know I had.

I am so focused on the labels she was cheated out of:  graduate, worker, wife, mother, that I am negating all the things that she had already become.

She was an excellent teacher to her little brother and to me.  I learned things from her perspective that aren't taught in college classes.  Jake said he showed her how to do so many things, he was at a loss to pick one, but the big things?  Those were easy, he said.  "She taught me how to be nice and to be a good friend."
She was an artist.  She inspired me to create and it has remained one of my best coping skills.  It has literally kept me alive.
She was a quiet and wry observer of human behavior.  I found this line on a page of one of her journals, months after making her biological father's acquaintance:  my father knows not how to parent.
That girl.  You hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.
She was generous with her love and quick to forgive- just ask the men in her life who failed her.  She was persistent, even when things were hard for her to do.
 She was brave.
She was so many things that some graduates, employees, wives, mothers, and homeowners may never be.

I remember seeing a meme on social media recently that said no one's gonna talk about your shoes at your funeral.  I thought to myself, they damn well better!  After I stopped giggling to myself, I reflected on why would be so important to me.  Am I so shallow?  I guess it's about the fact that the way I dress expresses my individuality and that's really the piece I hope people remember.

 So if I want my footwear choices to define me...why can't Cory's sweetness, her humor, and her strength define her?  Does it really have to be a degree, a job, the acquisition of property, the representations of independence, or any other milestone?
Maybe what is most important when we're gone is how we made other people feel while we were here and how we affect their decisions in the future.

If that's the case, Cory's impact...
was and remains significant.
 I have to stop letting my faulty thinking sell her short.

Cory died doing a normal thing.  She died doing an independent thing; as small as it was- it was also a huge sign of her wellness.  Is there a better milestone than that?

Trigger, anyone?

I saw a hat lying in the middle of West Michigan the other day.

A baseball cap.

Not bloody.  Nothing around it to suggest something untoward had happened.  Probably somebody had lost it out the window of their car goofing around.

And yet.

And yet, the images began firing up in my brain as my throat closed in and chest tightened.

My own feet clad in purple sandals clapping the pavement furiously.  Getting there at the end of my road and craning around against the bright sunshine, unable to see anything  at first and wondering if this kid had his story straight..  Then spotting a throng of quiet, uncomfortable, helpful, sad, curious people trying to drag a kiddie pool over to block the passers by from seeing...

ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh nooo, oh no Cory Girl.  It is her.  It is. 

Trying to get to her but being politely intercepted and held gently but firmly back from approaching her where she laid splayed to the side of the road, facedown, hair covering her face.  Looking small.  Looking not quite right.  Something about the angles did not seem natural.  Looking very, very still.

I am her mother. My name is...her name is...she is nineteen.  Yes, she is allergic to Bactrim and any sulfa drugs.  Yes she is on medication.  They are.... Yes, we live ..... Yes, she lives with me....

"Let us work on your daughter.  Let us help her."

 The fear that dropped into my belly as I watched them turn her over...it was hot, liquid, and oozed into every nook and cranny of my soul.  She has to be okay. 

They turned her over so slowly, so carefully, seemingly inches at a time, maybe even reverently, maybe they already knew what I did not...her hair covered her face, her eyes were closed, and her lips were blue.  A dark blue.  My voice took up my heart's chant, "Is she breathing?  Is she?  Is she breathing?   Someone tell me!"

No one answered.  Instead they sliced her shirt open with shears and I jumped and rejoiced in my heart, for they were going to give her the paddles and it would be ok.  As I waited breathless, the paddles did not appear.  Someone brought a box thing, they hooked her up, they went back to the ambulance.  I kept waiting for the paddles, wanting to wash her legs which were dirty, wanting to stop looking at her arm twisted all the way around like a pretzel but unable to pull my gaze from it.  Shouldn't somebody be tending to that?

And that was it.
Six reluctant words later and it was done.

Insomnia

We are so fragile.  And not just our bodies.

Mental health is a continuum.  Even when you're on the healthy side, something can trigger a set back in the blink of an eye.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in a car accident.  I guess you'd call it a fender bender, except the man in the other car blew a yield sign, hit me, and then fled the scene.  It could have been a lot worse.  At least no one was hurt.  Well actually, I think my words were, "At least no one died".

But man, did it mess with my head.

It's always scary being in an accident.  Even seeing them as a bystander affects me horribly after Cory's accident.  This time, it was even worse.

I was just driving sedately along on the way to work after my lunchbreak.  All of the sudden I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye and I remember thinking:   He's not stopping!  He's gonna hit me! Oh shit, am I gonna die?!!

And then the jarring impact...the squeal of metal on metal.

When it stopped, I locked eyes with the other driver.  He looked furious with me that he had ran the yield sign and hit me.  I could see it on his face that he was going to run.  His eyes widened as I thought, You wouldn't dare!  His face said:  Watch me, bitch!

Sure enough, he put it in reverse, backed up, and floored it.  But not before I got his plate number.

I never cried.  I wasn't hurt.  My body was fine.

I shook all over as I waited for the cops to come.   My dealings with the officer that responded were the most positive feelings I've had toward anyone in uniform for over six years.  I could see a helpful, kind person doing his job and that was all.  Neutrality, can you dig it?  Baby steps.

The chemicals pumping through my body for the next few hours reminded me so much of that horrible day.  My scalp felt too small.  My mind wandered.  I couldn't relax.

That night I couldn't sleep, either.  I had began to visit the horrid land of What If.  All I could think about was how Cory had likely had those same exact thoughts if she'd seen the vehicle coming at her.  Oh, shit, am I gonna die?!!  And then she had.  It was almost more than I could bear.

My chest had tightened so much I couldn't imagine there being any room left in there for anything...heart, lungs...hope.  Taking a breath felt like blowing up the world's largest balloon.  I was tired before I even began.  I didn't even want to try.

From there, I relived the feel of the man's SUV slamming into my SUV...and the sound of the metal of his vehicle pushing and tangling into the metal of mine.  The more I considered it, the more I imagined that if the  impact was that strong within the protection of my vehicle, what would it have felt like for Cory?  Cory was just a woman, a small woman...flesh and bones, unprotected in any way from that impact that struck her and launched her into the air.  And what awful sounds did she hear?  Did she have time to scream?

 My heart would flinch quickly away from this consideration, but my brain?  My brain kept me up all night long, tapping my heart on its shoulder and insisting that together they examine the horrific situation...one more time.  Maybe another.  Maybe quite a few more times, actually.

Looking Glass

Lately I've had trouble when I put on my eyeliner in the mirror.  I swipe it on with confidence, the same old way I always have, but lately it takes on a life of its own and heads in the other direction.  I've stubbornly denied this unfortunate phenomenon the best I could for several days.  But it kept happening and anger soon ensued.  Still I balked.  Maybe if I just tried another brand (bargaining).  When that didn't work, I became depressed, wearing my hair in cleaning lady buns and not bothering with makeup at all.  Finally, I accepted the fact that it was not the eyeliner at all.  I am getting old.  The skin around my eyes is not the firm writing surface it used to be.  And once I took a good- albeit horrifying- look, I realized those lines that pop up across my forehead when I curl my eyelashes are now present even when I'm not curling my eyelashes.  Gasp.  Can everyone see these?  ALL the time?  Oh my God!

Once I'd made it through the five stages of grieving in relation to my aging face, I started thinking about all the implications of aging.  I wondered how me and Cory's relationship would have evolved over the years.  See, it took me decades to realize just how brilliant my mother is- how amazing, how strong, and how absolutely precious.  Would Cory have felt that way about me, too, as the years have gone and continue to go by?  As Cory stabilized and didn't need my constant care, would she still have called me to tell me the highs and lows of her day?  Would I still be her person?  What would she think of my new puffy eye liner-resistant eyelids and permanent forehead wrinkles?  Would I still be one of the most beautiful women in the world to her, the way my mom is to me?  Would she still see her madre as strong and capable of anything?

I wonder sometimes how Jacob sees me.  My depression and anxiety have been so prevalent since Cory's death.  He gets it, I know, but sometimes as I describe something I'm worrying about, he just shakes his head with a quiet smile, puzzled in spite of himself, and says, "Mom, you're ridiculous.  Why would you think that?"
I miss the mostly happy, silly woman I used to be before the accident.  I fear sometimes that my grief has swallowed up my personality.  I don't want to be seen as a sad, troubled woman and have that be all that I am.  I remember my best friend saying once to not let my loss define me and I had thought, how could I not?  Maybe I understand what she was saying a little better now.  My loss absolutely defines me, but I hope it doesn't completely define me.  I hope when I am gone and Jake describes me to his kids or grandkids, he says more than "she was never the same after my sister died" or "she was sad all the time".  Granted, I have never been the same and I am sad all of the time.  But I hope he also tells them of my silliness and humor.  I hope he tells them that we talked about politics and movies and books.  I hope he tells them that yes, I wasn't the same, and yes, I was sad a lot, but it was because I loved so deeply.  I hope he tells them that I made him feel safe and he could always count on me.  Maybe he'll tell them I had swagger until the eyeliner went bad.  That would be okay, too.

It is the oddest thing to watch Jake growing older as Cory stays frozen in time, nineteen forever.  Sometimes, as I've mentioned before, I  manufacture false memories to include her in his growth.  I have to imagine how she would react in certain situations.  Other times, those pseudo memories pop up in my mind without even trying.  The other day, I was trying to get some intel from Jake about a girl he's been texting with and he wasn't giving up squat.  Suddenly, it was like Cory and Jake were together in the next room, just like the old days.  I could hear Cory teasing him one second, but trying to give him hair and fashion tips for the first day of school the next.  I could hear her saying, "Jake, heard from your lady friend, today?  Yeah?  What'd she say?  Well, what'd you say?  No, don't say that!  Say _______.  Here, just give me your phone.  I'll do it!"

I could see this conversation taking place as Cory sprawled on the couch, a cat beside her and Jake standing above her, smiling sheepishly as he forked over his phone with complete trust.  They have always helped each other.

These scenes warm my heart and break it at the same time.  I grieve for all that has not been and will never be. 

Sometimes I see a meme pop up on social media with some platitude about letting go of the past or how the best is yet to come and I snort.

Cory will never be in my past.  We're talking about my child.  My child.  My Cory Girl.  I will bring her forward into every day.  Always.

Single Parenting

A few days ago, Jake and I faced the task of putting Winston's flea and heart worm meds on him.  Once Winston figured out what we were up to, the chase was on.  We tried everything, plying him with his favorite toys and treats, but to no avail.  Every time we managed to get our hands on him, he'd growl and bare his teeth.  Not remembering his Thunder shirt at first, Jake suggested suiting up with oven mitts.

 "Great idea!"  I told him.  "Spot me."  I instructed before climbing on my kitchen counter to access the tallest, seldom used, of my kitchen cupboards.  Jake stood beside me as I vaulted up on the counter just like I used to do as a child (not bad for a forty four year old).  I rooted around looking for the hand style oven mitts, but could only find one.  "Hold on, I think one of these square ones has a pocket.  That could work."

I handed my finds down to Jake.  He reached inside the square pot holder to try out the coverage and exclaimed, "Hey, why is there a coin in here?  Wait, no, it's a key.  What in the world does this go to?"

I stood on the counter looking down at him, puzzled.  "A key?"

It hit us both at the same time and Jake spoke first.  "Ohhhh...I know what this is from."

So did I.

Cory's medbox.

All of the sudden I needed to get down.  I reached for Jake's hand and hopped down, my head spinning with memories.

It's hard to explain just what it was like to raise a child with a major and chronic mental illness.  But that key brought it all flooding back in a millisecond.

The feelings hit first.  I remembered as I stood there, key in hand, eyes tearing up and Jake watching, just how scary and confusing the first year and a half were.  I knew very little about mental illness and didn't understand what was happening to my child.  I didn't know how to help her.  I didn't know why it was happening, but was convinced I must have done something to cause her to have these problems.  I took it all the way back to my pregnancy- when I should've left Bob sooner than I did and maybe that put too much stress on her growing brain in utero.

I must've driven the CMH nurses crazy with all my phone messages describing Cory's unfolding symptoms in detail and asking why the meds weren't working.  It took a couple of years before I realized the symptoms were par for the course for her illness and the best we could hope for was to minimize them.

Safety was the biggest concern as the voices Cory heard were constantly pressuring her to hurt herself, telling her to cut herself, jump off the roof, break open the med box and take all her pills.  Early on, I discovered Cory had hid a knife under her mattress and that's when I knew I had to secure all the sharps and all the meds. 

It became part of the daily routine to get the med box down from the cupboard at dinner time, take out the knives needed to prepare dinner, get Cory her meds, and then lock it up again.  I always had to guard the med box, locking it even it I had to go to the bathroom- that's how insistent the voices were to Cory.  I would keep my body blocking the med box as I chopped vegetables at the counter and right away wash the knife, dry it, put it back in the box, and secure it.

On one memorable occasion, Cory had gotten the idea that the cats were actually tiny humans wearing fur suits- that they took them off when she wasn't in the room and walked around in their human forms.  She tried desperately to catch them unaware and became frustrated when it never worked.  One evening as I chopped veggies, she reached around me into the silverware drawer and grabbed the corkscrew.  "Excuse me, Mommy.  I'm gonna  go open the cats now." 

"Oh honey, I don't think that's a good idea."  I said calmly and took the corkscrew out of her hand.  She pouted a bit and said, "Okay, I just wish they'd let me see them."

"I know you do."  Into the box went the corkscrew.

On another occasion, the voices insisted that she boil our dog.  This was so distressing to Cory, that she asked to go spend the night at her grandma's.  Between her sobs, she explained she loved Gizmo so much and she would never hurt him, but the voices were so insistent and they kept threatening to hurt her or me if she didn't do as they asked.

I don't know if I mentioned I was going this alone in the household with the two kids at the time.  I was quite pleased with me and Tim's separation which had been a long time coming, but could not understand how he could cut himself off from her so completely and at a time that she so desperately needed consistency, love, and support.  I had instantly become a single parent.  While Tim still financially supported Jacob and took him every chance he got, Cory was left with only my support and attention.

I will never forget how her face looked when Tim would come to get Jake for the weekend.  Jake would run to the door, his backpack ready, stuffies under his arm.  Cory would watch, her heartbreaking, as Tim didn't so much as look in her direction, let alone greet her. 

During this time, me and Cory's interactions with Bob were off and on.  He couldn't possibly be a support for her mental health when he was as unstable as she was and mistrustful of mental health care and medication. 

So I worked full time.  My parents cared for Cory during the day when she couldn't be home alone.  The nights were the hardest.  I'll never forget the nights Cory couldn't sleep because the voices wouldn't stop.  Sometimes, she'd get the idea that people were trying to break into the house.  When her delusions about the agents were at their worst, she broke down one night, asking me if I'd still love if she told me something really bad that she'd done.

I told her I would always love her.  She then shared that she'd stabbed an agent to death in the backyard and dragged his body into the house and hid it under the bed.  Between her sobs, she tried to explain it was self-defense for her and for the family, and that now the cops were after her.  She looked at me, her eyes wide, "Can't you smell his body, Mom?  It's so bad."

My mind just reeled as I held her, her body shaking with fear and guilt of something that had never happened.

So the key?  Well, with nights like those and the couple of times she'd wandered out of the house-once looking for her pretend fox and the second time because the voices told her to get out or they'd hurt her- sleep was hard to come by. 

Cory was always beside me, whether I was making dinner, taking a shower, or on the toilet.  The voices and visual hallucinations were worse when she was alone so she sought my protection during every waking moment.  When I locked up the med box, I hid the key in a different spot each time.  I had to because Cory watched carefully.  The problem with this was that once and awhile I'd forget where I'd put the key myself.  There I'd be, dinner needing to prepared, Cory's meds needing to be administered, and no idea where I'd put the damn thing.  I'd tear the kitchen apart to no avail.  On two occasions, I had to physically break the med box open and then go out and buy a new one to secure everything. 

One of the times I found the hidden key later one.  But one time, I never found it.

Seven years later, I stood there with that little silver key in my hand and relived it all. 

The thing that kept going through my mind was how strong my Cory Girl was.  She was amazing.

Still With Us

Cooking with Cory used to be like this:

Cory and I would rummage through the cupboards, Lazy Susan, and fridge to put together a quick homemade sauce while we put whatever pasta we had on hand to boil.  We always used our Rachael Ray pasta pot and oval saute pan with the orange handles that Tim had bought for us while courting me back into a reconciliation of our marriage.  We'd give ourselves steam facials, laughing all the while, while we drained the pasta, protecting our hands with the crocheted pot holders my Mom had made- our go to, no matter how many store bought ones sat in our cupboard.  

Cory's favorite part was to "marry" the pasta with the sauce.

She'd stand over the pan, dramatic as always, intoning, "If anyone can show just cause why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their cheese."  She'd cock an ear, pause, and then, with a flourish of arm to the room at large, announce, "I now pronounce you delicious!"

Instead of throwing rice at the new couple, we threw cheese.  And more cheese.  And because you only live once, a little more cheese.  We'd ladle the glorious mess into our special pasta bowls reserved for just this type of celebration:  a night to cook for just us girls because the boys were off doing their own thing and we were free to indulge our wildest pasta desires.  

The house smelled spectacular by the time we were done, all garlic and fresh herbs.  Cory'd grab her favorite fork and we'd sit cross-legged on the couch in front of the tv, stuffing our mouths shamelessly while watching Gossip Girl.  

Pantry Pasta was the best.  Cory was the best.

So fast forward six years.  It was been a hard journey to feel any sort of comfortable cooking in my kitchen.  The other night this happened:

I felt Cory's presence with me while I was cooking.  I strongly felt like she'd put a thought into my head; it was so clear, I could actually hear her voice.

I was making enchiladas.  I had the sauce simmering while I made the filling.  Tim was on the other side of the room fixing something he'd accidentally broken.  I turned to the stove to give the sauce a stir and shook my butt a little as I did.  Tim grinned and asked, "Is that part of the recipe?"

I answered, "Why yes, they're saucy!"

No more had I said it then I could hear Cory at my shoulder saying, "If you're gonna make Mexican food, don't you think you need a Latina doing that?"

I smiled to myself, delighted that this pseudo-memory had presented itself with no effort on my part.  It was like Cory had come along and placed it there.  If I had schizoaffective disorder as Cory did, they'd probably say it was thought placing, but since I don't, it's attributed to grief and we just call it love.  Hardly seems fair.

So in my head, I continued the well loved pattern of banter with my girl, imagining that at twenty five, going on twenty six, she might not still be living at home:

"Yeah, Cory, you do shake it better, but I can't call you to come across town every time I'm gonna make tacos.  What then?"

In my head, she cocked her head, thinking, her eyes widening slightly and a smile unfolding as she declared, "Well, in that case, maybe you and Jake could do together...like two white people together shaking their booties might equal one Latina."

Still in front of the stove, I laughed out loud as Tim watched me with some concern.  These were so Cory's words.

I called Jake into the kitchen and told him the whole story, ending with my request for him to stand at the counter and shake his booty beside me.

He stood there in a t-shirt and boxer briefs (his lounging at home outfit of choice) and smiled helplessly.  There was no way to not indulge this ridiculously accurate representation of Cory.  

We all laughed as I instructed Jake to "Come on, Jake, really move your hips!  Like this!"  

"Oh my."  Tim said, smiling.  

And in that moment, Jake and I shaking our butt like fools at our kitchen counter while the sauce simmered, she was with us.

She's still with us.

More Than

Sometimes I am consumed with fury.  Other times my heart just breaks.  Again.

There were two of these incidents this week.  I'll tell you about them.  But then, in an effort, to be more...hopeful...I'll share something that's been on my mind that counteracts the darkness and despair.

Picture it.  I am driving down West Michigan- curse of my soul-

(a sidebar here to say it is the most evil of paradoxes that I want to move and flee this neighborhood never again to drive down that particular stretch of road, but know in my heart I will never do it because moving would require me to pack up Cory's room.  I simply cannot.  If nothing else, I know my limits.  Her bedroom is tangible proof that I shared the wonder of her life.  It is space that she walked and danced upon, stomped on and slept in.)

Okay, I am driving down West Michigan, lighthearted and joking with Jake, having just visited my parents before they leave for vacation when what to my resentful eyes should appear but a lone figure crossing West Michigan for the...thousandth time...

This time, it was a man- get ready for it- with earbuds in, not looking in either direction, a fucking man bun on his head, and actually, I kid you not, casually SIPPING A GODDAMN FOUNTAIN POP as he walked across the road in the exact path my girl had fatally set out on six years ago.  The cars?  They slowed.  They braked.  They parted like the Red Sea, their brake lights popping red all across the roadway.   Of COURSE they did.

Immediate road rage.  Immediate flashbacks.  "Are you kidding me?!"
Jake sat beside me shaking his head, patting my shoulder,  and looking miserably at his feet.

There I was mean-mugging a strange man rocking a stupid man bun.  We actually locked eyes, him probably wondering why the hell a mid-forty year old woman was eyeballing him so hard.  I drove the rest of the way home seeing red.  Brake lights.  Flashing lights.  Blood.

The next night after dinner with my sister, Jake and I went to the cemetery to see our girl.  We looked around for rabbits, saw none, caught her up on our week, and then I watched memorized as he said his goodbye.  He leaned forward, taller than me, heavier than me, his shadow falling gracefully and full of life yet to live over her stone, and gently kissed the center of the cross.  That single action said every word about his grief that he isn't yet willing or able to verbalize.  His love for her was so obvious in his reverence, the linger of his lips to her stone, the wistful sound of his voice, "We love you, Cory."  Heartbreak.  Utter and complete.  His.  Mine.  Hers.  All three.

So what to counteract such darkness?

Just thought I'd share Tim's perspective for once.  He's spent the last four weeks tiptoeing around my death-versary-wakened trauma symptoms, after all.  Sometimes, I soak up his help when I need it so desperately that I forget he is grieving, too.  What does that look like, you ask?

I've learned to listen carefully for the rare jewels the males in my family offer up about our girl.  More importantly, I've learned to watch their actions.  I spent the week of the fifth making art, writing, looking at pictures, and listening to songs that I seldom open myself up to.  I remember thinking maybe I would read through her journals, but being afraid it would hurt too much and suddenly realizing that's probably how Jacob feels all the time and why he seldom speaks of her.

So Tim, what did he do?  He ran errands.  He made sure there were groceries.  He picked up dinner more nights than I'd like to admit.  There was no way in hell I was standing in front of my cutting board at the counter that week, that was for sure, head half cocked for a knock at the door.  And in the midst of all these household duties, while I slept or medicated or drank coffee with my headphones on for hours at a time staring into a time when my daughter was within arms' reach, he snuck out to the cemetery.  He never told me he was going until afterwards.  He made three trips in total.  He spent hours knelt down beside her monument, scrub brush in hand, meticulously scrubbing it, taking the time to get the bristles deep inside every letter etched into the stone.  He pulled the weeds.  He made it look cared for.  When he was finished, he suggested we drive out to see her, the three of us, and waited to see if I noticed, which I did, the letters stood out against the stone beautifully.  He told me how long it took him and the lump came without warning to my throat.  "I wanted to make it right for her."

Then tonight, he and Jake were up in her room replacing a pane of glass that had cracked in her window.  When he finished he stood in the doorway of our bedroom and said, "I looked up there and it was just like it used to be.  I could almost see her in the window like she'd be in the summer when I got home after work.  'Hey, Dad!  Did you just get off work?  How's it going?'  And I'd say, 'Hey, Cory!  What are you still doing up?'  He smiled and laid a finger to his lips, and she'd say, 'Shhh!  Don't tell Mom!'"

He chuckled sadly.  I really didn't know a chuckle could be sad until we lost Cory.  He turned away but not before I saw  his eyes and in them was all his grief, all his love, and all the stories he hasn't yet shared.

I know some people say the secret to success in life is simply showing up.  I can tell you this much.  Being a father, being a dad...it's more than showing up.  It's what you do when you're there.