I had never heard of keeping a loved one's fingerprint before. My cousins got together, and arranged for it to be done. When they told me about it, I could scarcely contain my joy. To have her mark, her unique marking with me always? What an incredible treasure. I asked further into it right away, wanted to be sure I found every way to make the most of this opportunity. What is better than one precious photo of your dead child? A hundred. What is better than one precious piece of fingerprint jewelry? As many as I could carry away, obviously.
Was this reaction a typical example of the anxiety that has driven me to "collect" handbags in every hue and fabric? Or was this something more? Maybe some weird survival instinct burning deep in my chest every time I realized that if I'd had an extra container of chili powder in my spice cupboard, Cory would be here right now. Stock up, stock up, stock up...beats the rhythm in my head, sometimes consciously, sometimes subconsciously, but steady and relentless, either way.
It would seem, when I think back, that my first solid action after I realized a funeral home had indeed retrieved my daughter's sheet covered body from the road, and would not let me see her until they had "done some work" was to go buy her the last thing I remember her asking me for. I asked to be taken to the store to buy her the stuffed Hello Kitty she'd spied just days ago. I also bought her beads for her Pandora bracelet. I bought her earrings. I bought her new underwear. I bought her perfume that I wasn't sure they would use, but hoped they would because she loved to be told she smelled good.
I... shopped. Sitting here, now, over a year later, I shake my head, and try to figure it out. Like what did I think she was going to do with all those things? Why did I feel I needed to buy them for her?
That's easy enough. Cory and I were poor, okay? We were, and it made me feel inadequate, especially when I only had myself to give her, and not the mommy/daddy/doggy family like the one in her Barbie dream house. I took great pride in providing for her. Being a young mom was scary, and more than anything I was afraid of not giving her enough. As I grew older, I slowly realized what she craved most was free, but I still had that deep seated desire to give her everything that I could.
After the accident happened, someone eventually got me off my knees. I stopped puking. I disjointedly but successfully planned her day. I have looked back at the stages of grief a half dozen times, and wondered if I simply skipped over "denial". I knew she was gone. I had seen. And with what I had seen, there simply wasn't room to question. Was I ever truly in denial?
Well, based on the fact that I continued to shop for her, steady and unwavering, as if in a rush to fill her Christmas stocking- yeah, I think maybe I was.
This shopping that began with a stuffed Hello Kitty went on for well over a year. Thousands of dollars later, I try to figure out just what in the heck I thought I was doing.
Here's what I've come up with:
every object that I bought was placed in between me and the pain. Bright, shiny buffers...every single thing. I swathed myelf; I booted myself; I adorned myself. I made myself smell good; I moisturized; I covered myself in every fabric known to man. I think of all the clothing, hats, boots, purses, books, trinkets, candles, and the like and try to imagine them in a single slightly wavy line. How far would they stretch? That depends...how big and how forgiving is your imagination? Miles, my friend. Sick, debt-inducing miles. All with one basic behavior at the core: avoid the task. Or delay the task. Or these last few months, at least, soften the task.
The more objects I bought, the more things I had to manage...physically, in my hands and in my home, and in my mind. The more "things" required my attention, the less room I had left to look the truth in the face. See it. Smell it. Breathe it. Cory was never coming home. I would never see her again. To think about it for longer than a second was to risk my very sanity. Sometimes, it still is.
At the end of walking those long miles, picking things up and setting them down again, I am just exhausted, but I am still loathe to turn my attention to the task at hand. Who goes willingly to the blade?
Accept. Accept it, Nick. You lost her. It's real. There's no waking up, this time.
A lot of my shopping I regret. Here's one purchase that I don't:
Mark, the sweet and kind funeral director called me in when her fingerprint charm was ready. He sat me down on one of the little settees, and told me about fingerprinting my girl.
He said, "When you reach out to touch something, which hand do you use? Your right if you're right handed; left if you're left-handed. But then...what finger? Your pointer, of course. That's what you use to touch something you see or are being shown." He paused here, and put out his own finger to demonstrate. "So that's the finger I printed. I did it carefully and I took my time, because I know how important these lines and whorls are. There is no one else's just like your daughter's. When you miss her, you will be able to reach up and touch this piece of silver, and feel her finger right against yours. No one else's. Just distinctly hers."
He was right. On the worst days, I place it around my neck, and it's my touchstone all day long. Unlike all my other purchases that put distance between me and the reality that she was gone...this one somehow brings it closer, but gently.
It comforts, but it's honest. The finger this imprint was made from was cold and hard, and would never reach for my hand again. But it was hers, and it had been held in mine more times than I could count.
Sometimes instead of needing to know the nightmare is indeed real life, I need to know that the sweet dreams happened, too. Every hard, silly, crazy, scary, laughter filled, tear streaked moment of nineteen and a half years...all captured, per se, on a disc of silver, in the spaces between those lines and whorls.
What we had. What she was. It was real, and I refuse to give it up. It is priceless.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Monday, November 11, 2013
Statement to the Press
The last time I was in to see Dr. Z, he told me I was "recovering nicely". To his face, I flashed him a genuine smile. Dr. Z is just one of those dear men that you can't bear to disappoint. Cory'd had the same problem. His bedside manner was just so cute and charming, you found yourself not wanting to say anything to trouble him. He is an eternal optimist, a pretty good trick for a psychiatrist, I would say.
I remember sitting out in the lobby that day, waiting to be called back, my surroundings all too familiar: the tired stacks of magazines that no one ever really read, just leafed through and peered over, the receptionists who joked and smiled kindly, to them life could still be funny, and they could afford to be kind. The automatic doors that locked after you once you'd been called back reminding you that this was some serious shit, not an appointment with the skin doctor for your dry scalp condition.
All of the times I'd been there with Cory, I had never once imagined that things would end up this way...me as Dr. Z's patient, and Cory gone- no more clozaril clinic for her, no update on her progress, ,no discussing the book she was currently reading for English, just the weary sadness on my face and his- her doctor and her friend.
So I smiled into Dr. Z's eyes- bless his sweet soul- and kept my dubious comments to myself. What constitutes 'recovered'? Because I can string a sentence together that makes sense? Because I remember to wear deodorant these days?
Naturally, I went home and looked up the meaning of recovered, asking myself, if I felt that I had indeed "regained strength" or "gotten better". "Better at what?" might be the real question here.
Was I stronger now because I could say her name without crying? Or was I stronger because I could say her name and smile?
During the work week, I'd like to imagine that I seem half-way put together. I have been busting my ass to focus on my job, and I hope that part of me at least appears better, and stronger. Take me home afterwards, surrounded by her things, and I am anything but.
I spend every weekend in my pajamas, just "recovering" from my participation in the real world for the last five days. People might think it's all depression, and a large part of it may be, this purposeful isolation, but another part is the need to rest my mind, my body, my soul. This looking normal crap is for the birds. Dude, I have no idea how Cory ever did it. I really don't. She is three times the woman I am, because in her place, I don't think I'd had ever gotten dressed again...for anything, no matter what my loving momma with the sparkling personality said to me.
Sleep is still elusive. This past weekend was windy, so in between my catnaps, her chimes played all night long. It's a comforting sound, but after awhile, I wished the wind would die down just a bit...after all, how many times do you need to be reminded that your child is underground while you're trying to escape into sleep? What kind of escape is that?
I've felt for a couple of weeks now that the stress and heartache has been building and swelling to the point that my mind would just break under the weight of it. Like, Okay, chick, look, I've put up with an ungodly amount of ugliness here and kept you afloat, but I am fricking dog ass tired and I just cannot take another step. I'm done. Right then, my mind would fold, and sit right where it was, like every stubborn three year old in the world who uses their dead weight silently, but masterfully- the least amount of work ever needed to win a power struggle.
One of those restless nights, I thought about the term "mental breakdown" and wondered how a body comes to such a condition. What would it look like? Was there a CEO of my mental well-being in a well cut power suit and French twist, who would state, however stylishly in her peep toe pumps and French tip pedicure, that we were being forced to shut down until processes could be improved to the point that the public could be assured quality output and quality interactions from this particular corporation?
I shifted to my side, and grinned in the darkness, charmed, in spite of myself, by this image. If there was a CEO, was there a board of trustees, as well? Had there been a special meeting to discuss the fate of the company? What did that look like?
With Cory's wind chimes going to beat the band outside my window, I closed my eyes, and pictured a long slab of mahagony wood shiny enough to see your reflection in. All my departments of head gathered around this mammoth table in their rolling chairs, busily shuffling their papers, and sitting up straight, ready to report out on their turn. What would they say of my current state of affairs?
Physical health: We're running at half capacity folks. She's not eating healthy at all. She's pretty much back on the Chips Ahoy and milk diet, and I think we all remember how that worked out last time. (Pause here, with a moue of disgust across his face). She's not kicking this flu stuff, either- just not able to recoup with the reserves down as long as they have been. Sleep?
Sleep: Look, I'm not gonna lie. I had to throw some nightmares from the road out there. She gave me no other choice. If I didn't, she'd have been sleeping the clock right around. Besides, I was told she was ready for more details of the accident. Sleep looked both sheepish and defensive before turning to anxiety.
Anxiety: I am on call 24/7. It hasn't been this bad for months. She's even got a new name for me these days: "going wolf teeth". She's started to clench her teeth in her sleep when she's stressed, and she tried so hard to avoid it one night that her teeth started to feel too big for her mouth. It really freaked her out. Full scale panic attack. I had to bring some extra man power in to cover that shift.
Socializations: She has pretty much isolated herself during her free time. I try to get her out there...call someone, get in the car, but it just doesn't work these days. Her thought patterns read: hurt, angry, jealous. She doesn't seem to think anyone else understands, so why bother.
Reality Testing: She's doing pretty well, actually, guys. But I catch her every once in awhile trying to slip back into that "maybe Cory's just gone on a trip" business. And you know we can't have that. I usually put a call into Flashbacks for immediate assistance.
Flashbacks: Not a problem, Reality Testing, that's what I'm here for. She doesn't like me one bit, but over time, I will make sure she has processed this whole disturbing event, small detail by small detail. There's no denial on my watch. Someone's gotta play the hard ass.
Thinking processes: She does well with one problem at a time, and I can keep her distracted for up to 90 minutes, but if I throw too much into the mix, she gets overwhelmed easily. Mistakes are common. This makes her feel stupid, and slow, but hopefully it will pass with time.
Relationships: Not functioning well at this time. She is ready to cut her losses and go it alone, rather than count on anyone who might not be there the next time she turns around. It's a common protective strategy. Sad to say, this has drifted down even to her relationship with her son. She is apt to avoid, rather than try, just in case she gets rejected yet again.
Depression: We are full steam ahead. She is not even painting anymore right now. There is a lot of "never" and a lot of "always". The upcoming holidays are just adding to it, really. The other day, she actually wanted to punch a happy couple walking through a public parking lot with their children. She's hit a new all time low, folks.
Suicidal thinking: Yes, yes, I've been called in quite a few times. The good news is that she's let someone know either openly or inadvertently each time. I think what we have going for her is her split belief system- on one hand she thinks Cory would be disappointed in her if she "got out of this", but she is equally certain that if anyone would understand, it would be Cory. This indecision slows her down...which is good for us.
I remember sitting out in the lobby that day, waiting to be called back, my surroundings all too familiar: the tired stacks of magazines that no one ever really read, just leafed through and peered over, the receptionists who joked and smiled kindly, to them life could still be funny, and they could afford to be kind. The automatic doors that locked after you once you'd been called back reminding you that this was some serious shit, not an appointment with the skin doctor for your dry scalp condition.
All of the times I'd been there with Cory, I had never once imagined that things would end up this way...me as Dr. Z's patient, and Cory gone- no more clozaril clinic for her, no update on her progress, ,no discussing the book she was currently reading for English, just the weary sadness on my face and his- her doctor and her friend.
So I smiled into Dr. Z's eyes- bless his sweet soul- and kept my dubious comments to myself. What constitutes 'recovered'? Because I can string a sentence together that makes sense? Because I remember to wear deodorant these days?
Naturally, I went home and looked up the meaning of recovered, asking myself, if I felt that I had indeed "regained strength" or "gotten better". "Better at what?" might be the real question here.
Was I stronger now because I could say her name without crying? Or was I stronger because I could say her name and smile?
During the work week, I'd like to imagine that I seem half-way put together. I have been busting my ass to focus on my job, and I hope that part of me at least appears better, and stronger. Take me home afterwards, surrounded by her things, and I am anything but.
I spend every weekend in my pajamas, just "recovering" from my participation in the real world for the last five days. People might think it's all depression, and a large part of it may be, this purposeful isolation, but another part is the need to rest my mind, my body, my soul. This looking normal crap is for the birds. Dude, I have no idea how Cory ever did it. I really don't. She is three times the woman I am, because in her place, I don't think I'd had ever gotten dressed again...for anything, no matter what my loving momma with the sparkling personality said to me.
Sleep is still elusive. This past weekend was windy, so in between my catnaps, her chimes played all night long. It's a comforting sound, but after awhile, I wished the wind would die down just a bit...after all, how many times do you need to be reminded that your child is underground while you're trying to escape into sleep? What kind of escape is that?
I've felt for a couple of weeks now that the stress and heartache has been building and swelling to the point that my mind would just break under the weight of it. Like, Okay, chick, look, I've put up with an ungodly amount of ugliness here and kept you afloat, but I am fricking dog ass tired and I just cannot take another step. I'm done. Right then, my mind would fold, and sit right where it was, like every stubborn three year old in the world who uses their dead weight silently, but masterfully- the least amount of work ever needed to win a power struggle.
One of those restless nights, I thought about the term "mental breakdown" and wondered how a body comes to such a condition. What would it look like? Was there a CEO of my mental well-being in a well cut power suit and French twist, who would state, however stylishly in her peep toe pumps and French tip pedicure, that we were being forced to shut down until processes could be improved to the point that the public could be assured quality output and quality interactions from this particular corporation?
I shifted to my side, and grinned in the darkness, charmed, in spite of myself, by this image. If there was a CEO, was there a board of trustees, as well? Had there been a special meeting to discuss the fate of the company? What did that look like?
With Cory's wind chimes going to beat the band outside my window, I closed my eyes, and pictured a long slab of mahagony wood shiny enough to see your reflection in. All my departments of head gathered around this mammoth table in their rolling chairs, busily shuffling their papers, and sitting up straight, ready to report out on their turn. What would they say of my current state of affairs?
Physical health: We're running at half capacity folks. She's not eating healthy at all. She's pretty much back on the Chips Ahoy and milk diet, and I think we all remember how that worked out last time. (Pause here, with a moue of disgust across his face). She's not kicking this flu stuff, either- just not able to recoup with the reserves down as long as they have been. Sleep?
Sleep: Look, I'm not gonna lie. I had to throw some nightmares from the road out there. She gave me no other choice. If I didn't, she'd have been sleeping the clock right around. Besides, I was told she was ready for more details of the accident. Sleep looked both sheepish and defensive before turning to anxiety.
Anxiety: I am on call 24/7. It hasn't been this bad for months. She's even got a new name for me these days: "going wolf teeth". She's started to clench her teeth in her sleep when she's stressed, and she tried so hard to avoid it one night that her teeth started to feel too big for her mouth. It really freaked her out. Full scale panic attack. I had to bring some extra man power in to cover that shift.
Socializations: She has pretty much isolated herself during her free time. I try to get her out there...call someone, get in the car, but it just doesn't work these days. Her thought patterns read: hurt, angry, jealous. She doesn't seem to think anyone else understands, so why bother.
Reality Testing: She's doing pretty well, actually, guys. But I catch her every once in awhile trying to slip back into that "maybe Cory's just gone on a trip" business. And you know we can't have that. I usually put a call into Flashbacks for immediate assistance.
Flashbacks: Not a problem, Reality Testing, that's what I'm here for. She doesn't like me one bit, but over time, I will make sure she has processed this whole disturbing event, small detail by small detail. There's no denial on my watch. Someone's gotta play the hard ass.
Thinking processes: She does well with one problem at a time, and I can keep her distracted for up to 90 minutes, but if I throw too much into the mix, she gets overwhelmed easily. Mistakes are common. This makes her feel stupid, and slow, but hopefully it will pass with time.
Relationships: Not functioning well at this time. She is ready to cut her losses and go it alone, rather than count on anyone who might not be there the next time she turns around. It's a common protective strategy. Sad to say, this has drifted down even to her relationship with her son. She is apt to avoid, rather than try, just in case she gets rejected yet again.
Depression: We are full steam ahead. She is not even painting anymore right now. There is a lot of "never" and a lot of "always". The upcoming holidays are just adding to it, really. The other day, she actually wanted to punch a happy couple walking through a public parking lot with their children. She's hit a new all time low, folks.
Suicidal thinking: Yes, yes, I've been called in quite a few times. The good news is that she's let someone know either openly or inadvertently each time. I think what we have going for her is her split belief system- on one hand she thinks Cory would be disappointed in her if she "got out of this", but she is equally certain that if anyone would understand, it would be Cory. This indecision slows her down...which is good for us.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
What It Is and What It's Not
It is this conversation:
"Jake, do you want to go trick or treating this year?"
"No, thanks."
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's no fun without Cory. I tried it last year, and it just wasn't worth it."
It's this one, too, a forty year old daughter texting with her I phone savvy seventy five year old mother:
me: Jake is passing out candy to the trick or treaters.
mom: Good, he's having fun. Bless his little heart. He probably likes that. That child is growing up on us.
me <pause of indecision here...do I say what I feel?>
me: He grew up July 5, 2012.
mom: I know, honey... I think we all grew older starting then.
It's the way I look forward to the wind blowing because I might catch the tinkling, silvery notes of her windchimes, which somehow manage to marry sadness with joy. I asked Jake once if he thought those sounds were just the wind or his sister. "Both", he replied with confidence. "How does that work?" I asked him. He responded, "I don't know. It just is."
It's coming across the slick Ziploc bag in your dresser drawer while getting ready for work in the morning. Inside is a shirt with her scent that you must protect at all costs. Moments go by unnoticed as you struggle to decide if opening it to smell her will help or hurt.
It's hearing someone mention bbq porkchops in conversation, which takes you back to Cory,7, Cory, 8, Cory,9, who loved Timber's grilled bbq porkchops with extra sauce more than anything, and would gorge her tiny body till she nearly burst.
It's her fluffy bathrobe still up in the bathroom. It's reaching for a towel without looking, and getting the hot pink one that she claimed as hers only, using others only when it was not clean, and with such disdain.
It's the stifling guilt that you should have given her more, until you read the quote that says, "Children will not value the things you give them as much as the feeling of being cherished." Then you breathe again, because that you did do, and you did it well.
It's opening the silverware drawer to get out utensils for the take-out - really, who around here cooks anymore- and passing over her "special" fork, which used to worry you, thinking she'd taken on autistic traits on top of everything else for Pete's sake, what with her rigidity to use anything else, but eventually realized a simple fork brought an everyday predictability to her unpredictable illness.
It's walking through the building at work and hearing a snatch of "Home" on someone's desk radio, which brings two memories home with alarming speed. You may miss a step but you keep walking as you remember the slideshow a teenage Cory with high hopes of reconciliation and a nuclear family with her father included had made, and how she'd showed it to her father, hoping to make him smile. You remember how she'd play it just to see our faces all together in the frame, and dream of a better day. You take a moment to mourn for her hopes and that family, which you had wanted with all your heart since you were sixteen years old. Then the other side crashes in, the footage of the slideshow at the visitations and her service. Heavy steps, heavier, heaviest.
It is closing your eyes in bed at night to writhe away from the casket.
It's dreaming about her, and waking up to her laugh still ringing in your ears.
It's coming so many steps to go backwards at a moment's notice, one hand over your face, blocking your eyes, but never the one inside...never that one. It's taking both small hands and scrubbing your face, trying to clear the terrible knowledge, but it refuses to budge, and sits on your contenance like a newborn's caul...sadly, no good luck to be had from it, only pain and misery.
It is daydreaming about just not coming home from work one day. Checking in at some hotel, pulling out the crappy stationary, and writing your goodbyes one by one. Going to sleep and never waking up again.
Cory would understand. She knew misery.
It is not easier the second year.
It is not honest to pretend you're ok when you're not.
It is not being an attention seeking drama queen to document this trip into hell without artifice.
Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.
I'm falling to pieces.
"Jake, do you want to go trick or treating this year?"
"No, thanks."
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's no fun without Cory. I tried it last year, and it just wasn't worth it."
It's this one, too, a forty year old daughter texting with her I phone savvy seventy five year old mother:
me: Jake is passing out candy to the trick or treaters.
mom: Good, he's having fun. Bless his little heart. He probably likes that. That child is growing up on us.
me <pause of indecision here...do I say what I feel?>
me: He grew up July 5, 2012.
mom: I know, honey... I think we all grew older starting then.
It's the way I look forward to the wind blowing because I might catch the tinkling, silvery notes of her windchimes, which somehow manage to marry sadness with joy. I asked Jake once if he thought those sounds were just the wind or his sister. "Both", he replied with confidence. "How does that work?" I asked him. He responded, "I don't know. It just is."
It's coming across the slick Ziploc bag in your dresser drawer while getting ready for work in the morning. Inside is a shirt with her scent that you must protect at all costs. Moments go by unnoticed as you struggle to decide if opening it to smell her will help or hurt.
It's hearing someone mention bbq porkchops in conversation, which takes you back to Cory,7, Cory, 8, Cory,9, who loved Timber's grilled bbq porkchops with extra sauce more than anything, and would gorge her tiny body till she nearly burst.
It's her fluffy bathrobe still up in the bathroom. It's reaching for a towel without looking, and getting the hot pink one that she claimed as hers only, using others only when it was not clean, and with such disdain.
It's the stifling guilt that you should have given her more, until you read the quote that says, "Children will not value the things you give them as much as the feeling of being cherished." Then you breathe again, because that you did do, and you did it well.
It's opening the silverware drawer to get out utensils for the take-out - really, who around here cooks anymore- and passing over her "special" fork, which used to worry you, thinking she'd taken on autistic traits on top of everything else for Pete's sake, what with her rigidity to use anything else, but eventually realized a simple fork brought an everyday predictability to her unpredictable illness.
It's walking through the building at work and hearing a snatch of "Home" on someone's desk radio, which brings two memories home with alarming speed. You may miss a step but you keep walking as you remember the slideshow a teenage Cory with high hopes of reconciliation and a nuclear family with her father included had made, and how she'd showed it to her father, hoping to make him smile. You remember how she'd play it just to see our faces all together in the frame, and dream of a better day. You take a moment to mourn for her hopes and that family, which you had wanted with all your heart since you were sixteen years old. Then the other side crashes in, the footage of the slideshow at the visitations and her service. Heavy steps, heavier, heaviest.
It is closing your eyes in bed at night to writhe away from the casket.
It's dreaming about her, and waking up to her laugh still ringing in your ears.
It's coming so many steps to go backwards at a moment's notice, one hand over your face, blocking your eyes, but never the one inside...never that one. It's taking both small hands and scrubbing your face, trying to clear the terrible knowledge, but it refuses to budge, and sits on your contenance like a newborn's caul...sadly, no good luck to be had from it, only pain and misery.
It is daydreaming about just not coming home from work one day. Checking in at some hotel, pulling out the crappy stationary, and writing your goodbyes one by one. Going to sleep and never waking up again.
Cory would understand. She knew misery.
It is not easier the second year.
It is not honest to pretend you're ok when you're not.
It is not being an attention seeking drama queen to document this trip into hell without artifice.
Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.
I'm falling to pieces.
Yet Another Trip
Last night:
Sizzling hot pavement. Blinding sun. Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap...my feet hitting the road..."What was she wearing?" thrown desperately over my shoulder to the boy. Slap-slap, slap-slap. The answer, "short shorts and a t-shirt" floating over the dead air to me, my head already turned back to straight ahead. Arms pumping, legs eating up the steps between us. It can't be far now, it can't be far now. Bending over, winded in the heat, at the stop sign, looking, looking, desperately scanning the area. Nothing, nothing...oh! A body. A body and people moving around trying to shield it from the passers-by....trying to hide the mess... locked knees, then running over, being held back by arms, by hands, who may have belonged to no one, they were just there, hanging in the air, it seemed. They reached for me, grasped hold, held tight as I took in hair, shirt, shorts, legs. Facedown. Facedown.
Oh my God, that's Cory.
Sizzling hot pavement. Blinding sun. Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap...my feet hitting the road..."What was she wearing?" thrown desperately over my shoulder to the boy. Slap-slap, slap-slap. The answer, "short shorts and a t-shirt" floating over the dead air to me, my head already turned back to straight ahead. Arms pumping, legs eating up the steps between us. It can't be far now, it can't be far now. Bending over, winded in the heat, at the stop sign, looking, looking, desperately scanning the area. Nothing, nothing...oh! A body. A body and people moving around trying to shield it from the passers-by....trying to hide the mess... locked knees, then running over, being held back by arms, by hands, who may have belonged to no one, they were just there, hanging in the air, it seemed. They reached for me, grasped hold, held tight as I took in hair, shirt, shorts, legs. Facedown. Facedown.
Oh my God, that's Cory.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Bedroom Half Empty or Half Full?
Okay, folks, I'm quite certain you never would've guessed this about me, but I am indeed a pessimist. Shocker, right? My pessimism is steadily fed by my constant low-grade anxiety, and has been reinforced for years by situations that turned out to be just horrible as they wanted to be.
Today, I was an optimist for nearly 5 minutes. I know, I know. What caused this out of character behavior? None other than my Cory Girl.
Here's what happened:
I had asked Tim to bring some of Cory's paintings down from her room this weekend so I could take them to my new little digs at work, that boasts one lovely burgundy wall. (Or if you are super into fashion, you might say ox-blood, right, Miss Angie?)
I have been in her room a handful of times, always to recover some treasure, and end up laid out for the better part of the day. Once I realized this, I began to avoid her room like the plague, and tried to delegate this torturous errand to anyone else who would take it. Ditto with the dusting, vacuuming, and clearing of the spider webs that began to multiply once they realized they were the sole remaining occupants of the place.
When I asked Tim for help, and he merely rolled over in his bed, sleep mask still on, muttering thickly about "not feeling real good", I had a surge of bravery. I kicked off the high heel ankle boots I'd just put on to leave the house, and went for it. I needed to be sure I could do anything that needed being done by myself, since I was practically by myself as it was.
I hear footsteps all the time from overhead. Have I told you that?
I shook my head back and forth, as if to clear it, and began trudging up the steep steps. The air still smells like her. It's a little stale, yes, but her scent lingers. I ducked my head under the slanted ceiling, and walked the narrow landing. The first thing I saw was the blanket and pillow fort the kids had made for their slumber parties. Jacob, then 9, and Cory, then 19, had been having movie nights on summer break.
They had called me up just a few days before the accident to see their stuffed animals lined up in careful rows, evoking a movie theater feel. I grinned a little shamefaced to see they were watching a movie on Netflix pulled up on Cory's IPad. It was propped up against a pile of DVDs, and was certainly the smallest movie screen I had ever seen.
The next morning, they were squealing with delight to see a tv and dvd player being carried into Cory's room.
So today, I glanced down at the fort that Jake had insisted remain just as it was, cleaning to happen if it had to, but those stuffed animals and pillows to be placed back just so. Normally, one look at that scene and I am done. It is then a huge rush to get what I needed and get the hell out before I have some sort of breakdown.
Today, I lingered. I couldn't help myself. I could smell her. I could feel her presence. I began to look at things a little differently. Instead of seeing how Cory and Jake would never have another movie or giggle together, I saw how their pillows had been placed head to head. That's how close they were. I saw that Jacob not wanting anything moved meant he treasured those last memories with her, and had made a solid decision to keep them fresh, whatever it took.
I started going through her paintings, setting the ones I meant to take on her bed, which I wandered over to and sat on, touching her stuffed animal fox with one hand, my heart full. Her bed was made. After all the times, she had not been able to keep her environment orderly, she had died with her bed made, and her stuffed sleeping companions in a tidy row. I drifted over to her dresser. More lines. All her little trinkets and treasures placed just so. She even had a little needlepoint Kleenex box cover with a full box of Kleenex in it.
All these lines showed how she was creating order where once there had been miserable chaos. She was thinking and planning ahead, even down to the Kleenex. Clothes were put away in their drawers. Presentation mattered.
I saw her self image had grown healthier, her Little League trophy and Carson Scholar medallion on prominent display. She had turned one low but super long wall into a mini art gallery with her favorite pieces. She was proud of her work, and they brought her joy. She had learned the skill of surrounding herself with positive things, something lots of us never quite master. She was such a smart girl, so precocious.
While I was still feeling good and full of love, I grabbed up what I had came for, and started down the steps. This is all a feel good story right up until the point I lost the top two paintings off the top of the pile in my arms and proceeded to trip over my own feet, falling the rest of the way down the stairs. I think I combined Tim's name with some pretty colorful language, and made the three trips out to the car, resentfully, without his assistance. Not even hearing the crash or perhaps deciding nothing was worth getting out of bed for, he slept on.
Without a look back, I took my daughter to work. She is still my constant. Love you, Cory-Girl, always, always, always. There really isn't anything we can't do together.
Today, I was an optimist for nearly 5 minutes. I know, I know. What caused this out of character behavior? None other than my Cory Girl.
Here's what happened:
I had asked Tim to bring some of Cory's paintings down from her room this weekend so I could take them to my new little digs at work, that boasts one lovely burgundy wall. (Or if you are super into fashion, you might say ox-blood, right, Miss Angie?)
I have been in her room a handful of times, always to recover some treasure, and end up laid out for the better part of the day. Once I realized this, I began to avoid her room like the plague, and tried to delegate this torturous errand to anyone else who would take it. Ditto with the dusting, vacuuming, and clearing of the spider webs that began to multiply once they realized they were the sole remaining occupants of the place.
When I asked Tim for help, and he merely rolled over in his bed, sleep mask still on, muttering thickly about "not feeling real good", I had a surge of bravery. I kicked off the high heel ankle boots I'd just put on to leave the house, and went for it. I needed to be sure I could do anything that needed being done by myself, since I was practically by myself as it was.
I hear footsteps all the time from overhead. Have I told you that?
I shook my head back and forth, as if to clear it, and began trudging up the steep steps. The air still smells like her. It's a little stale, yes, but her scent lingers. I ducked my head under the slanted ceiling, and walked the narrow landing. The first thing I saw was the blanket and pillow fort the kids had made for their slumber parties. Jacob, then 9, and Cory, then 19, had been having movie nights on summer break.
They had called me up just a few days before the accident to see their stuffed animals lined up in careful rows, evoking a movie theater feel. I grinned a little shamefaced to see they were watching a movie on Netflix pulled up on Cory's IPad. It was propped up against a pile of DVDs, and was certainly the smallest movie screen I had ever seen.
The next morning, they were squealing with delight to see a tv and dvd player being carried into Cory's room.
So today, I glanced down at the fort that Jake had insisted remain just as it was, cleaning to happen if it had to, but those stuffed animals and pillows to be placed back just so. Normally, one look at that scene and I am done. It is then a huge rush to get what I needed and get the hell out before I have some sort of breakdown.
Today, I lingered. I couldn't help myself. I could smell her. I could feel her presence. I began to look at things a little differently. Instead of seeing how Cory and Jake would never have another movie or giggle together, I saw how their pillows had been placed head to head. That's how close they were. I saw that Jacob not wanting anything moved meant he treasured those last memories with her, and had made a solid decision to keep them fresh, whatever it took.
I started going through her paintings, setting the ones I meant to take on her bed, which I wandered over to and sat on, touching her stuffed animal fox with one hand, my heart full. Her bed was made. After all the times, she had not been able to keep her environment orderly, she had died with her bed made, and her stuffed sleeping companions in a tidy row. I drifted over to her dresser. More lines. All her little trinkets and treasures placed just so. She even had a little needlepoint Kleenex box cover with a full box of Kleenex in it.
All these lines showed how she was creating order where once there had been miserable chaos. She was thinking and planning ahead, even down to the Kleenex. Clothes were put away in their drawers. Presentation mattered.
I saw her self image had grown healthier, her Little League trophy and Carson Scholar medallion on prominent display. She had turned one low but super long wall into a mini art gallery with her favorite pieces. She was proud of her work, and they brought her joy. She had learned the skill of surrounding herself with positive things, something lots of us never quite master. She was such a smart girl, so precocious.
While I was still feeling good and full of love, I grabbed up what I had came for, and started down the steps. This is all a feel good story right up until the point I lost the top two paintings off the top of the pile in my arms and proceeded to trip over my own feet, falling the rest of the way down the stairs. I think I combined Tim's name with some pretty colorful language, and made the three trips out to the car, resentfully, without his assistance. Not even hearing the crash or perhaps deciding nothing was worth getting out of bed for, he slept on.
Without a look back, I took my daughter to work. She is still my constant. Love you, Cory-Girl, always, always, always. There really isn't anything we can't do together.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Re-working It
I made a truly horrendous painting tonight. I'm not sure when I will just accept the fact that I cannot paint a decent landscape, not even at gunpoint. Let's face it, nature and I have never really been one. I have, since childhood, strongly believed it's safer indoors.
So this painting, which halfway through I recognized as hideous and tried to turn into an abstact- the effort being a dismal failure- was so embarrassingly awful that I didn't post it on facebook. This speaks volumes since a few of my shares should never have seen the light of day.
I sat there for a few minutes, and decided to give it one last try. Paint is such a wondrous thing. It forgives your lack of skill or simple mistakes every single time. I grabbed the masking tape and started covering any tiny little bit that I actually thought had some potential. When you paint over something, you cover up anything you value.
We'll see how this sad little painting fares, and I will take the larger lesson. Things aren't so hot for me right now. It's time to mask and re-work.
So this painting, which halfway through I recognized as hideous and tried to turn into an abstact- the effort being a dismal failure- was so embarrassingly awful that I didn't post it on facebook. This speaks volumes since a few of my shares should never have seen the light of day.
I sat there for a few minutes, and decided to give it one last try. Paint is such a wondrous thing. It forgives your lack of skill or simple mistakes every single time. I grabbed the masking tape and started covering any tiny little bit that I actually thought had some potential. When you paint over something, you cover up anything you value.
We'll see how this sad little painting fares, and I will take the larger lesson. Things aren't so hot for me right now. It's time to mask and re-work.
Love you, bye
I surprisingly did not want Cory's service to end. I had gone from complete freak out mood at home while getting ready to go to sitting up tall and proud, sending out waves of love while I listened to people speak.
I had planned her service down to the smallest detail, making it look, sound, and feel like Cory. This was not to be a sermon based church event. This was to be her day. Hers. She thought no one liked her. She thought she wasn't important. I wanted her to finally see the truth now that the voices had been silenced forever, and I wanted her life, her suffering and pain, to show others how strong she was, and how beautiful- inside and out.
I never saw the pews packed and the chairs that were brought out to fill the aisles, but I heard later there were tons of people whose lives she had touched behind me as I got through it the only way I could- singing her songs under my breath, blowing kisses to the screen, and holding a reverent silence. We could do anything together. Even this.
The anxiety and foreboding that literally stilled my limbs at home while I tried to carry through with getting dressed and brushing my hair- inconceivable tasks that required physical assistance to accomplish- started up about two thirds of the way through. I had the order of the service in my head, and when it was down to the last song- a recording of Cory with a friend and her cousin singing a hymn at church for the congregation, I felt the first flutterings of a panic that would soon rival anything I had ever experienced. Never see her again? Never?
I watched, still not crying, still not making a sound, as people were walked past her casket and down the aisle. Time was so short. I can't do this...I can't do this...Oh my God, please don't make me do this. How do you willingly say goodbye to your heart? And yes, Nicole Conklin, that's just what she was- the "central and innermost part" of my self, my ambitions, my life- and had been for nearly twenty years.
I knew that as compassionate and kind our funeral director, Mark, had been, there was one request he would not be able to accommodate. My biggest concern had been being rushed at the end. I've been to the funerals where the survivors are hurried along, where people have thrown themselves over the casket, where out of their mind distraught people have to be pulled away from the corpse. That just wasn't how I wanted to say good-bye, and I thought somehow if I had some extra time...if I could say good-bye properly, I'd be able to take those unthinkable steps away, with the same strength Cory had showed, soldiering along day after day.
After everyone was gone, I went up with my mom to stand at Cory's side. Time stood still, as I just looked down at my baby girl, unable to believe how beautiful she was. It took my breath away. I smoothed her hair, and kissed her- cheek, mouth, hand. The cuts and scrapes, lumps and swelling stopped short, like a blown circuit as I refused to acknowledge them. In my eyes, she was whole, the only part that gave me pause being the rigidity of her flesh. I fought the urge to pick up her arm, or even her hand- perhaps illogically or perhaps logically- afraid if handled too much, she would simply fall apart before my eyes. It was nearly impossible to reconcile my memories of her laid out on the road with the carefully reconstructed body that laid in that casket.
The kind woman in charge of switching out our necklaces approached, and with shaky hands, I fumbled off my dragonfly pendant, and watched, my stomach dropping as they only placed it around her neck, not fastening it, just placing it carefully to give the illusion of her wearing it. What was that about? Would her head fall off? Is it only "placed" above her neck to give the illusion it is attached? Horrible, soul wrenching thoughts that ran rampant. I had to turn my back, and began shaking all over as I saw them lift her arm to remove one of her bracelets- her arm looking like a piece of wood or a mannequin's limb. I began to feel faint, and allowed my mom to walk me back to the first pew to sit, as the tears started to come against my will. This can't be happening...can't be...can't be...can't be...
Verbal nudging from the attendants. "It's time."
Legs feeling like they would fold any second, I went back to my girl. Touched her, kissed her, spoke into her ear. The attendants stood respectfully at the end, watching me and waiting. Time spun out, and I refused to budge an inch. Finally Mark, whom I did not really know but nonetheless came to love with all of my heart in the last few days, spoke up gently, "Nicole, it's time, dear."
I tried. I spoke earnestly down into her still face. I kissed her a half a dozen times and stumbled away, feeling faint. "I just need a minute. I gotta sit down."
Back to the pew, rocking and covering my face with my hands. Someone sat beside me- my mom, Tim? I don't really know. "They have to go now. People are outside waiting to go to the cemetery."
Furious, I spat out, "FINE!! FINE!! Just do it, I'm never gonna walk away on my own."
"Okay."
As I looked up, they began to shut the lid, and I screamed desperately, "WAIT!! WAIT!! Just one more minute!"
The attendants measured my face, "Then we have to go."
"Okay, okay."
I ran to her, looking on her face that one last time, speaking her name, kissing her cold lips. How do you say goodbye to your child, your best friend, your constant? The same way you did the last time you spoke.
Mustering a cheery tone that surely didn't match the worst mental agony I have ever experienced, I trilled, "Love you, bye!"
I saw the lid lowered, full darkness obliterating her degree by degree, and my heart following suit, closing up tight bit by bit, becoming as black as the inside of Cory's casket. I stumbled away, wanting to run, wanting to hide. But we were on to the cemetery. This nightmare would never end.
I had planned her service down to the smallest detail, making it look, sound, and feel like Cory. This was not to be a sermon based church event. This was to be her day. Hers. She thought no one liked her. She thought she wasn't important. I wanted her to finally see the truth now that the voices had been silenced forever, and I wanted her life, her suffering and pain, to show others how strong she was, and how beautiful- inside and out.
I never saw the pews packed and the chairs that were brought out to fill the aisles, but I heard later there were tons of people whose lives she had touched behind me as I got through it the only way I could- singing her songs under my breath, blowing kisses to the screen, and holding a reverent silence. We could do anything together. Even this.
The anxiety and foreboding that literally stilled my limbs at home while I tried to carry through with getting dressed and brushing my hair- inconceivable tasks that required physical assistance to accomplish- started up about two thirds of the way through. I had the order of the service in my head, and when it was down to the last song- a recording of Cory with a friend and her cousin singing a hymn at church for the congregation, I felt the first flutterings of a panic that would soon rival anything I had ever experienced. Never see her again? Never?
I watched, still not crying, still not making a sound, as people were walked past her casket and down the aisle. Time was so short. I can't do this...I can't do this...Oh my God, please don't make me do this. How do you willingly say goodbye to your heart? And yes, Nicole Conklin, that's just what she was- the "central and innermost part" of my self, my ambitions, my life- and had been for nearly twenty years.
I knew that as compassionate and kind our funeral director, Mark, had been, there was one request he would not be able to accommodate. My biggest concern had been being rushed at the end. I've been to the funerals where the survivors are hurried along, where people have thrown themselves over the casket, where out of their mind distraught people have to be pulled away from the corpse. That just wasn't how I wanted to say good-bye, and I thought somehow if I had some extra time...if I could say good-bye properly, I'd be able to take those unthinkable steps away, with the same strength Cory had showed, soldiering along day after day.
After everyone was gone, I went up with my mom to stand at Cory's side. Time stood still, as I just looked down at my baby girl, unable to believe how beautiful she was. It took my breath away. I smoothed her hair, and kissed her- cheek, mouth, hand. The cuts and scrapes, lumps and swelling stopped short, like a blown circuit as I refused to acknowledge them. In my eyes, she was whole, the only part that gave me pause being the rigidity of her flesh. I fought the urge to pick up her arm, or even her hand- perhaps illogically or perhaps logically- afraid if handled too much, she would simply fall apart before my eyes. It was nearly impossible to reconcile my memories of her laid out on the road with the carefully reconstructed body that laid in that casket.
The kind woman in charge of switching out our necklaces approached, and with shaky hands, I fumbled off my dragonfly pendant, and watched, my stomach dropping as they only placed it around her neck, not fastening it, just placing it carefully to give the illusion of her wearing it. What was that about? Would her head fall off? Is it only "placed" above her neck to give the illusion it is attached? Horrible, soul wrenching thoughts that ran rampant. I had to turn my back, and began shaking all over as I saw them lift her arm to remove one of her bracelets- her arm looking like a piece of wood or a mannequin's limb. I began to feel faint, and allowed my mom to walk me back to the first pew to sit, as the tears started to come against my will. This can't be happening...can't be...can't be...can't be...
Verbal nudging from the attendants. "It's time."
Legs feeling like they would fold any second, I went back to my girl. Touched her, kissed her, spoke into her ear. The attendants stood respectfully at the end, watching me and waiting. Time spun out, and I refused to budge an inch. Finally Mark, whom I did not really know but nonetheless came to love with all of my heart in the last few days, spoke up gently, "Nicole, it's time, dear."
I tried. I spoke earnestly down into her still face. I kissed her a half a dozen times and stumbled away, feeling faint. "I just need a minute. I gotta sit down."
Back to the pew, rocking and covering my face with my hands. Someone sat beside me- my mom, Tim? I don't really know. "They have to go now. People are outside waiting to go to the cemetery."
Furious, I spat out, "FINE!! FINE!! Just do it, I'm never gonna walk away on my own."
"Okay."
As I looked up, they began to shut the lid, and I screamed desperately, "WAIT!! WAIT!! Just one more minute!"
The attendants measured my face, "Then we have to go."
"Okay, okay."
I ran to her, looking on her face that one last time, speaking her name, kissing her cold lips. How do you say goodbye to your child, your best friend, your constant? The same way you did the last time you spoke.
Mustering a cheery tone that surely didn't match the worst mental agony I have ever experienced, I trilled, "Love you, bye!"
I saw the lid lowered, full darkness obliterating her degree by degree, and my heart following suit, closing up tight bit by bit, becoming as black as the inside of Cory's casket. I stumbled away, wanting to run, wanting to hide. But we were on to the cemetery. This nightmare would never end.
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