Stand Stills

They call them flashbacks, maybe because they come on so suddenly and take you back in time.  I would also say if you can't wish them away, you wish them to be mercifully brief.  Sometimes you get your wish, and sometimes you don't. 

These other moments in time that come on suddenly and take you back in time need a different sort of name because you wish you could hit pause and stay in that moment for as long as you need.

Here's two stand-stills I had today during an average work day:

Driving out of town for a meeting, I was struck with the image and sensation of sitting around after a Sunday dinner, just talking and laughing with my extended family.  I could see Cory crystal clear, dressed in a pair of faded jeans, hiphuggers just barely showing when she sat, a grey thermal top over a bright-colored cami, her hair up in a tiny pony, and her bright green eyes carrying a smile that hadn't yet passed her lips.  Just listening for the most part, she plopped her little hiny down in my lap, comfortable and content.  Like as not, I would grab her hand and we'd have a giggle over her freakishly small thumbs.  As we enjoyed some relaxed conversation with everyone, I could afford to get lost in a story or give her only my divided attention...you see, she was better now.  She was so much better, and I couldn't believe we'd made it through after so many miserable days and nights.

  I could joke and get my sisters to laugh, as I hadn't for quite awhile, because I knew I had done my job well, and could afford to relax.  She was right there, healthy and happy, chiming in when she wanted, and giggling right along with everyone else.  She was right there, all I needed was her weight settling into my bony knee to know we had made it, and she was just fine. 

That was my flashback on the road today, so real I could see the highlights in her hair, the curl of her lashes that framed those beautiful eyes, and actually feel the weight of her body pressing against my knee.  I wished I could stay there all afternoon.

That's a stand still, not a flashback.

Here's another: 

The last time I was in the coffeeshop, the uber talented artist who had his work on display during the Art Walk came in to take things down.  I watched his sure, easy gait, and thought of my father.  This similarly aged man had bright eyes, an easy smile, and charmed me with his outfit:  a pair of faded blue jeans speckled all over with bright paint, and a pair of croc-like loafers that were so splattered with drips, drabs, and splats that the background color of the shoes was no longer visible.

I complimented him, to which he responded, "Oh, these?  These are my 'studio' shoes.  I've been covered with paint in one way or another since the age of four."  He smiled and turned back to taking things down.

I put my head down, and had a stand still:  Cory, in her raggiest t-shirt, with a paintbrush clamped between her teeth, standing in front of her easel, pulling a pair of her grandpa's dockers up over her jeans.  I could see her face, alive and filled with the unparalleled excitement that said she had an idea, and she couldn't wait to capture it before it got away.  I thought of the many times I'd hounded her to wash her brushes out, and how cute she looked with a smudge of orange square in the middle of her chin.

When I raised my head to meet my friend's eyes, my face was shaking.  Did you know your face could shake?  I swear I have no control over my emotions these days.  To my friend, I whispered this, "She would have made so much more.  She just didn't have enough time."

On the way home, I thought about going into her bedroom and finding those Dockers or even a pair of her old jeans.  I want her with me when I paint.  She inspires me to give it my all.  She always has.

Progress Report

You know how it is when you move, even if it's just from one office to another right down the hall- you do some purging.  I went through all my "stuff" in my desk the other day between moves.  I had a few personal things crammed in with the rest- a Mother's day card Jake made in first grade, a picture here or there, and in with my TB card, I stumbled on one of Cory's progress reports.

Ever since Cory started school, she made excellent grades, and didn't even have to work up a sweat to do it.  She had a beautiful mind to match her beautiful smile, and was one of those students that had their poor mother in tears at their conference...not over academic struggles or behavior, but just due to the swelling pride that had to leak out somewhere or you would bust open right on the spot.

The semester she (I'm not sure what you call it) had her psychotic break, her grades went from straight A's to failing every subject with terrifying speed.  When meeting with school officials to try to get her evaluated as we discovered what was going on- you could look at her school record and pinpoint when the subtle symptoms that could be confused with the rollercoaster of adolescence threw their masks to the side, one after another, and stood still long enough to be recognized for what they really were.

That was the point my girl had to try harder than she ever had in her life to learn, to produce, to keep up, and earn her grades. 

The rug had been pulled out from under her with no warning, and you could see the terror in her eyes as she lost that "student" part of her identity.  It just slipped away, covered up with voices, delusions, fear, and anxiety.  You cannot learn if you don't feel safe.  That is a fact.  Here's another:  Cory felt safe only intermittently for three years.  Who cares about algebra when you think someone is hunting you down to do you harm?

So, her progress report?  Yeah, it wasn't from Battle Creek Public Schools.  No, she was dealing with much bigger things by that point.  This progress report was called "Levels of Recovery From Psychotic Illnesses".  When her illness was at its worst, I had highlighted where she was in yellow.  After the ECT treatment, I went back through and highlighted in pink.  She had hills and valleys, still, but by the time of the accident she had jumped two columns in most areas, going from "severely impaired" to "normalized activity". 

Normalized activity...such beautiful, beautiful words for my girl.  She did that. 

We did that.  Together.  I have never been prouder.  I think I might frame it and hang it up with some of her art.  It was an accomplishment some people never have to make, and others cannot make, even over their whole lives, a lot of which last longer than a mere nineteen years.

The American Girl doll company: a crazy rant from an unwell woman

So the American Girl company has been up to their bitchery yet again.  This time?  The Christmas catalog, people!  The actual festive happy joy joy Christmas catalog!  A smiling bright-eyed assumedly mentally stable young girl cradles her new doll with the crushed velvet red dress and matching hair ribbons.  I ask, is this really necessary? 

Why not just bring a bunch of closely resembled mothers and daughters to parade up and down my kitchen floor, dancing, and cooking broccoli cheddar soup together?   Maybe throw in some inside jokes and laughter, a cat named Church, and the plotting of tomorrow's outfits and the weekend's plans? What movie will we see next?  What book shall we discuss?  We have all the time in the world, since we're just so alive and healthy, and take it all for granted!

Gosh, that felt good.  Fine, I'm done.  If the American Girl company is a sadist, than I am no better for continuing to allow them into my home.  I STILL- 15 months counting- have not called or e-mailed them to get off their mailing list.  And yes, I do realize that I wouldn't have to tell them exactly why I wish to be removed.

 Still, I won't call.  Why, asks someone out there far more logical and far more mentally intact than I?  Because as much as I hate to look at the cover and remember what I've lost, I also love to look at the cover and remember Cory in her lounge pants, curled up on the sofa, "gettin muh girls' hair did" while we watched Gossip Girl.  See the dilemma?

These feelings of bitterness and sweet are butted right up to each other, without a crack of light between them.  This is where I live and breathe.

To get one, you have to take the other, like it or not...and that is the best explanation for coming to terms with the sudden death of your child that I can give.

 And if you're not there yet, you're just not.  You will be like me with my unopened cardboard package from none other than the mothereffing American Girl Company that has sat at the end of my dresser since the third day past the burial of my child.  Inside waits a shiny new Josefina doll, just like the one I gave to Cory on her eighth birthday, although being brand spanky new, it is slightly different than the well- maintained but undeniably well-loved original than sleeps beside her under the ground.

 I put it where she could reach it... not registering the fact that she couldn't reach it or hold it or seek comfort from it any more, as she had for years.  I didn't think of how the moisture would eventually work its way in, seal be damned, and began to wreak havoc on all the precious contents of that pretty pink box.  I also completely missed the point that Cory no longer needed said comfort any more than she needed the light of the ladybug nightlight I pressed in beside her still, rigid form, my trembling hand smoothing over  the flowers of her dress- the prettiest shade of  blue-, and lovingly running along her impossibly small waist encased in a belt that gave her a shape that made her smile and walk a little straighter.
She didn't need the light, and all batteries run out eventuallys...but my mind was far too broken to consider such logic.  I was being her mother, which is all I've known since I can remember- my childhood and motherhood again butting up together without a pause between, but it was so, so sweet. 

The idea of having my own Josefina to hug on the nights when I couldn't bare being without her seemed so right and so logical at the time.  Funny how once it got to the house, I couldn't imagine looking on that doll's smiling face, knowing where the original rested.  I couldn't even open the box. It may be that I even give it a wide berth when I pass by.

See how that works?  You want the comfort, yet you push it away.  You want to feel better, and you also want to be left alone to scream and keen for your girl.

 Leave me to die.
 Hold me. 
They are equally felt and equally logical statements in my experience. 
Why is grief not listed in the DSM-V? 

Oh yes, Dr. Z, I've recovered quite nicely.  Let's go have coffee sometime off the clock and really chat, why don't we?

I'm Still Here

Still here.  I've been sick, and suffering from the worst of ailments:  writer's block.  I have again reached that point where I really don't know what else to say. 

In a way, I hate to be the person who begins to repeat themselves- that's a hint, babe, just stop already.  But realistically, I have to put it out there:  that is the hell of this thing.  It never stops.  If grief were some wretched creature like the girl from The Ring 2, you could describe it this way, "She never sleeps."

Grief is watchful, and will not be ignored.  Sometimes I feel like it is vengeful, because just when you have ten minutes pass feeling like maybe you can do this, your thoughts running along this vein, "I loved her with my soul, she knew it, and she loved me the same.  I can do this.", you are hit with a sense of despair so great, you literally lose your breath.  Anything can bring this:  the smell of restaurant potato soup shared over so many Mommy/Cory days, a movie trailer that she would've loved but will never get to see, a funny moment no one else will understand- and so sits dormant in your heart- so much wasted joy.

Today, I am going to see the remake of Carrie with my mom.  She is my new movie buddy.  Spending the day with her is fun, and always comforting.  It is hilarious to realize that I got my love of scary movies from my mother, which I passed down to Cory.  When Cory's illness began, I tried to cut down on them, but she would say quite reasonably, "Really, Mom, if you think about it, there's nothing on those screens that could worse than what I already deal with every day.  Can I just have some fun being scared for a change?"

So today, I am excited to see this remake, holding high hopes for it, but at the same time, angry as always, that Cory won't get to be there, sitting at my right side. 

The first time I went to a movie after her death, I took her hoodie with me, and sort of propped it up against the seat next to me.  Crazy?  Morbid?  I don't know.  I don't do that anymore, but I do try to keep that seat open if possible, setting my jacket and purse there for her to hold.  And no matter how into the movie I get, I find myself turning to that empty space during the moving bits.  Cory was my favorite person in the world to watch a movie with- seeing her reaction, or sharing our reactions was the best part of the whole business.  I miss it still, and always will.  My neck is permanently trained to turn to the right and search for the expression on her face.  Muscle memory is a bitch.

Repetition is a given.  My heart, brain, and body are full of her memories.  They come up without even being called.  With them comes the pain of her absence, and sometimes a smile or a giggle.  Dr. Z said on my last visit that the goal is to concentrate less on the pain of her absence and more on the precious memories.   I guess I'm not there yet, because for now, they still come hand in hand, a set of conjoined twins who couldn't imagine life without each other, yet yearn for some autonomy.

To separate them will be to push a part of her away, and I'm just not ready to do that yet.  For now, I will suffer if it means I can hold on just a little longer.

Panic at the Studio (not at the disco)

I have been sick as a dog today, as my mom would say.  My throat hurts too much to eat or talk very much.  I've been achey and can't get warm.  Oh, and my bones hurt.  I took a ridiculously long nap after work, and ate some chicken noodle soup.  As I lay with my leaky nose and gook-clogged throat, I thought about how there are all different kinds of suffering.  My mom lives with pain every day that would make most grown men cry.  Tim is in a place with his illness where he had most bad days than good. 

This led me to wonder if grief, which can lower your immune system, left me wide open for the happy little bug going around.  Depression wise, I'd been doing fair this week.  Something about being surrounded by 15 three and four years olds just makes me smile.  I also discovered that I said Cory's name more this week than I can remember in months.  I always wear her picture made into bracelets and necklaces; naturally the kids wanted to know who she was.  One little lady told me most sincerely that my Cory-heart tattoo on my hand was "real cute", which touched me deeply and made me giggle at the same time.

I was busy; I was helping; I was maintaining. 

Sick or not, I dragged my butt out to the studio to paint a little.  Completely into my piece, I jumped at the sound of sirens, and then sat on my stool, muscles locked, waiting for them to stop.  But they didn't; instead they got louder and closer by the minute.  I heard someone moaning, and realized it was me.  As the sirens were joined by the blat of a fire truck, I began to scream and cover my ears, simultaneously tucking my head into my lap.  It wasn't far to the floor, so I slithered right out of stool into a boneless heap on the floor.

It felt like that day again, but this time I knew no matter how much noise they made getting here, they wouldn't make it in time.  Tim couldn't make me stop screaming, and watched from a prudent distance as I did the only thing I could think of- turned on some super loud music to drown the sirens out.  Hands shaking, I cranked the volume, nearly knocking everything off my desk in the process.  Eventually Tim approached me.  I couldn't see him because my eyes were clenched shut, but I felt him begin to pat my shoulder as I wailed on, filling the room with my terror.  It was a chaotic sound track made up of ambulance sirens, fire truck horns, Fall Out Boy, and my panic attack.

"Someone's going to die."  was my first coherent thought connected to the present, instead of the past.

I guess my faith in emergency responders isn't quite what it used to be.  Don't feel bad, guys, I don't have faith in anyone else, either...so you're in good company.

Pat...pat...pat.  Tentative and standoffish.  Tim's a good guy, but he's not the man that's gonna gather you up in his arms, and let you cry all over his neck or take you onto his lap like a weird twist on Santa Claus.  He's just not.

Instead, he told me to take my meds and go to bed.

Which I am doing right now, as soon as I finish this post.

I'll leave you with a question:  is it that grief leaves you susceptible to illness or that physical illness leaves your brain even more vulnerable to triggers?

The chicken or the egg, folks?  Think on that...it'll drive you nuts, so to speak.

Is It In His Kiss?

I gave Cory advice on a hundred different topics over our years together, anything from the fact that Steven Tyler could still be considered sexy based solely on his past sexiness to patting on your face powder instead of the rubbing it in, which clogs your pores.  One piece of advice I borrowed from a one-time mother figure, changing it to make it mine...adding it my own mother's advice, as well as what I had learned so far in life. 

Cory asked me how she would know when a guy was the one...how do you know when it's love and not just like, or more accurately- hormone driven infatuation? 

The one-time mother figure had told me it was when the touch of his hand on yours was all the comfort you needed...when a touch, that wasn't in any way sexual, fulfilled you within your soul. For the touch part, I added what I knew to be true- for I am one those hopeless romantics who believe for each person, there is one other person out there who completes you- that when the guy was "the one", that touch would feel like home, everything else fading away until you knew only an overwhelming sense of safety, content to listen to their heartbeat with your head on their chest.

Considering my dealings with the men in my life, I amended this statement as soon as the words came out of my mouth.  What did I add?  Make sure you feel good about how he treats you, and make sure you are getting what you deserve.  And I especially made sure she knew what she deserved and what is unacceptable. 

Oh, and don't forget to go ahead and accept the fact that not everyone's "person" is ready for a life long relationship.  As much as my family and friends may throw sticks and stones at me, I will say with my dying breath, that this does not mean your person doesn't love you.  What it usually means is that they are lacking some skills...things like self-regulation, anger management, tolerating frustration, impulse control, seeing things from another person's perspective in the heat of the moment.  Maybe they don't know how to show affection or talk about feelings.  These things might have never been shown to them or maybe they have the skills mastered, but they fly out the window under a surge of brain chemistry.  Aren't we all lacking something?

And my mother?  She pretty much said, "marry a man like your father."  Yep, Cory had decided by age 19, she was on the hunt for a guy like Grandpa, Uncle Bud, or her cousin Blakie.  What do all those males have in common?  They are willing to sacrifice for another person.  They are givers.  Their women are their queens, their princesses, their goddesses.  They will do anything to protect them, comfort them, make them smile.  Lucky women, huh?

My last little piece of real world advice to both my children has been this:  do not ever feel bad about getting yourself out of a bad situation.  I would be proud of either of them being brave enough to leave an unhealthy situation, even if meant getting a divorce.  Staying in a bad relationship just because you believe in the concept of marriage doesn't make you smart in my book. 

Okay, enough from my soapbox.  I've got to get out of the coffee shop.  The teenage couple that thinks they are discreet with the soul kissing and heavy petting amongst the careful stage dressing of textbooks and wire bound notebooks are making me feel a little old, a little sad, and a little dead inside- not just for me, but for my girl.

Public Displays of Affection aside, I so wanted to see Cory get what she deserves.  I wanted to see her eyes light up when someone saw her for everything she was- inside and out.  I wanted someone to crave her laugh.  I wanted to see her feel safe and loved.  I will never understand how some people get that- some so easily- while others just get killed by women driving home from work who never apologize to the surviving family.

What is this?  I guess I'm a little bitter today.  Oh well, everyday is an adventure. 

Moving Forward

They say anger is actually strength coming back when you are depressed.  Better to feel angry than to feel nothing, hopeless and immobile.  So I thank the well-meaning person who pissed me off this morning enough to get me out of bed at 7 a.m., into my car with my laptop, and to the coffee shop to write this blog post, all in the pouring rain, no less. 

I had spent my weekend so far mostly in bed, under the surface, coming up to feed Jacob and pet my dog.  Being back to work has been good for me in many ways, but by the weekend, I am exhausted and want to put down the heavy weight of smiling and bantering, trying to look normal even when I'm not.  When it is the worst, these weekend vacays from the real world are similar to the closing scene in Open Water (that movie about sharks)- I am done fighting, listless, hopeless, and close my eyes tightly before simply sinking into the dark depths.  Screw the sharks.  I'm done with this game.

So my typical sleeping pattern of waking up every hour or two led me to a rare positive post on facebook, something along the lines of "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened"  One of the comments was "enough with looking back".  Said with the best intentions, I'm sure, but it just pissed me off, providing a surge of energy...so thanks for that. 

And here I am.

I am not a stupid woman.  I have long since figured out that I am not moving forward at a faster pace because letting go of my pain will feel like letting go of my last connection with my child. 

But it's sort of like my paintings.  Again, I'm not a stupid woman- I know how to use color without making mud.  I know that colors opposite each other on the color wheel mixed make brown, such colors need to be done in layers with dry time in between.  I know this, but put a brush in my hand and let me do what comes naturally and every painting comes out dark, muddy, some even what others call "scary".  To me, they are just honest.

 I think again of the little boy in the Sixth Sense who drew some disturbing pictures, leading to a meeting between school administrators and his distraught mother.  After that, he stuck to rainbows, people smiling, etc.  What did he say?  "They don't have meetings about rainbows."  Yeah, I could make a conscious effort to use color more vibrantly but it wouldn't represent my true feelings.  Art is expression; so get down with my muddy, ugly renderings if you can- I have a feeling the pretty stuff is a long way off.

And in response to being told I need to "move forward"-  buddy, I am doing the best I can.  I am making a huge effort at work to kiss my girl on the forehead and check my grief at the door.  My time at work belongs to the children and families I serve.  My time at home belongs to me, to wade through my grief the best I can, stumbling often, and resting when I can't take another step.

I think what people may not realize is that not all of looking back is voluntary.  The flashbacks, the nightmares, the intrusive thoughts come when they please.  I deal with them the best I can.  The best way to stop them in to jump into a cold shower, which isn't always available.  Beyond that, I have learned I can pop a peppermint in my mouth, bite into a lemon (which sounds simply delightful and I can only imagine the faces of my colleagues if I pulled one out of my purse and popped it in my mouth at our next management meeting), or begin naming colors and pieces of furniture in my immediate surroundings.  The idea with the shower, peppermint hard candy, and lemon is to overwhelm your senses and interrupt the nastiness your brain is up to at the moment.  The naming of colors and furniture is called "grounding" and is meant to orient you to the present, so that the "real time" feel of your memory is challenged.  Fun stuff.

What happened over a calendar year ago to other people, still feels like a couple weeks to my overwrought brain.  Six months, twelve months- these ridiculous time markers when people start commenting to each other about how the person should get back to normal mean nothing.  Nothing.
 
And since I'm just putting it all out there today, let me share with the person who told me I was "wallowing" in my grief that the definition of wallow is to "indulge in an unrestrained way in something that creates a pleasurable sensation".  For the record, I'm not having a good time here- no pleasure going on.  And come talk to me about wallowing when you've lost one of your children in a sudden and violent manner.

Anger is strength coming back.  Think I'll go break some plates.