The Cheese Stands Alone

There is no "right" way to grieve; there is only your way.  I know this.  I do.  But regardless, I search for someone who, at any one point in time, may be feeling what I'm feeling.  It is understanding that I crave.  And there is that unspoken social expectation to handle your grief in a certain way.  There's no denying that some feelings are simply more accepted than others.

I recently found this out when I shared the story of Cory with a handful of strangers.  One woman piped up, eager to tell me that she felt worse for the driver than she did for my daughter.  There aren't many things that can put me at a loss for words, but honey, that was one.  I just gaped.

She hurried to add, "Well, you know what I mean.  I mean your daughter is at peace and this poor woman has to live with what happened every day of her life."

Don't we all have to live with our actions?  Frantically, I glanced around me, certain I was the subject of a prank, and there must be a tv crew somewhere to record this exercise in poor taste.

I mumbled that I would keep my opinion on that one to myself, and turned away from her, but she pressed on, "I'm sure that lady's life has never been the same, you know?"

And up from the fiery depths of my heart came a blast missile, shooting up and out of my mouth, as the blood still rushed to my face, "Yeah, well, I look at it this way- that 65 year old woman had 65 years.  She had time to go to school, to get a job, to get married, to have children, to have grandchildren.  My daughter will never have any of that...so sorry if I don't pity the driver who took my child's life."

As soon as I'd said it, I felt eyes on me, judging my capacity for human compassion.  I struggled to throw out, "You know, I'm sure she's had a rough time, too, but... she is still alive.  ALIVE."

The driver's advocate looked at me, every bit as puzzled by my response as I'd been by her original statement.  We regarded each other dubiously.  I thought to myself, she's obviously never lost a child.  And she may have thought to herself, she's obviously never struck anyone fatally with her vehicle.  We were at an impasse.

Driving home later, I questioned myself, why shouldn't I be angry?  Whether what happened was intentional or not hardly mattered to my heart.   Cory's death was an injustice.  And furthermore, most accidents can be prevented with a hearty dose of caution.

Did people not realize this was my second go-round with the life-sucking five stages of  grief?  I was still in the process of accepting the fact that my daughter had a life long mental illness that impaired her ability to do many things when the accident happened in the first place.  To get through all of that only to reach the road as a conclusion was beyond insult to injury.

The next couple of days, I wracked my brain trying to remember who had been angry when it happened, or since then.  I even went to a few loved ones to ask where they stood with their feelings towards the driver, the police, God.  My findings were as inconsistent as the rest of this whole mess. 

The ones who held a seething resentment or a fierce desire for justice were the ones who'd been most closely enmeshed in Cory's life.  This led me to wonder if the intensity of your anger when you're grieving is equal to the intensity of your love for the one who died.  It was a thought that balanced a scale in my mind, something I have never needed as much as I need it now.  I need things to make sense.  I remembered a lovely quote I'd read about grief, "The joy you had then is the pain you have now.  That's the price."  C.S. Lewis, perhaps? 

It all made sense to me until I asked my father.  If he was angry, or had been angry, maybe there could be order in my world.  But asking my dad to harbor ill feelings towards someone is like asking Mother Theresa to go t.p. someone's house with you.  It's just not gonna happen.  He spoke instead of Cory being in a better place, whole and no longer frightened.

I trudged out to my car with his gentle words ringing in my ears, feeling like the worst sort of person.  Try as I might, I just couldn't be that good of a person.  I am mad as hell.  I seethe; I simmer; I boil.  It disturbs my sleep.  It affects my appetite.  People have questioned if the anger is towards the driver, the cops, myself, or just the fact that it happened at all...that I couldn't prevent it or change it.  Yes, yes, yes! Yes to one, and yes to all.

How I dream of waking up one day, and if not being able to see Cory walk through my bedroom door, could at least a Mark Wahlberg from The Lovely Bones or a Liam Neelson from Taken come in and just rant to me, outlining his plan to go after the person who harmed his baby?  Rant!  Rave!  Be a DAD. 

I've seen both Cory's stepfather and her biological father lose their tempers over the most inconsequential day to day disappointments, but kill off Cory, and they contain themselves like old biddies at a tea party.  I get to look like the loose canon.  I get to be the immature one.  I get to fantasize alone about avenging Cory's death.

You know what, boys, that's fine.  It's actually more than fine.  I did everything else by myself, why not damage control, as well.

  Am I bitter?  You're damn right, I am.  I've read that men who lose a child often react in anger and guilt, their need to be the protector of the family driving their emotions.  Well, folks, there were years when I was both mother and father to Cory, so I guess this is the fall out.  I will feel anger and harbor the irrational wishes for revenge.  I will take on the guilt that I couldn't protect her, that I wasn't there.  And why so passionately?  Because I was the one who always was!

And my helplessness makes me furious.  Whether I have to break plates or scream into pillows, I will not deny my anger.  It is part of the process, and pushing it down won't help me get any further.  I may have to take up chopping wood before it's all said and done, but I refuse to suppress my true feelings because it doesn't sound nice or look nice or fit the part of the graceful grieving mother.

Anger isn't a bad thing.  It's how you express it that counts.  That's what I always told Cory.  I'll never forget watching the truly horrendous remake of Footloose with her, and how we giggled over the solo dance scene in the warehouse where the guy dances his anger out.  Cory was so tickled, she could hardly speak through her laughter, "That's it, Mom.  That's my new go-to right there.  The next time I start to lose it, I'm just gonna....dance...it...out!" She stomped down one foot, put her nose in the air, and mimed swinging off of a pipe. We cracked up.

Don't worry, readers, I'm not gonna form a posse to go set the driver on fire where she stands.  But I might write some strongly worded posts from time to time.  And just for you, Cory Girl...I'm watching that movie this weekend...there may be some moves I need to learn.

Santa Paws

When I asked Jacob if he thought the reason he wasn't talking about his feelings about losing Cory was because she was the one he often talked to about things that bothered him, he answered immediately,  "Mom!  That is a good thought."

"Oh hey, Jake, guess what else I thought about?  It's a good thing." 

"What?"

"Do you remember how Cory was the one who started doing voices for the pets, making Church talk and be silly?"  I asked.


"Yeah."

"We are carrying that on when we make the kittens talk to each other and pretend."  I said.

"OH!!!  Yeah, Mom, we are.  Cory would think that was so cool."  He said, saying his sister's name with a big smile.

I stopped the discussion there, thrilled.


The next couple days, I tried to figure out how we were going to handle Christmas.  We still have no tree up, or any acknowledgement of the holiday season.  Everyone says we have to at least put a tree up for Jake, who seems just as melancholy as the rest of us, and I suspect only wants his haul delivered at his feet, so he can avoid the pain of walking into the living room alone to see what Santa left.

I heard him talking to the kittens the other day after how the whole Santa thing worked.  (Sidenote here:  If you are a child living in my house, you will go along with the Santa thing until you are at least 26, just get on board).  "You put up a tree, you leave your stocking out, and if you've been good, Santa will bring you surprises."

At this point, he switched over to his "Lucas the kitten" voice to ask anxiously, what if you haven't been good everyday?  What if you try, but tend to get in trouble because you like getting into things?

Jake reassured his young feline charge that Santa Paws could see into your kitten heart, and knew if you were really a good boy.  The important thing was to keep trying.

Jacob is quite taken with his kittens which were gotten after Church and Sassy passed away.   These fur-siblings have brought him more comfort than any of us humans put together.  He wants them with him all the time, carrying them from room to room, watching movies with him, sneaking them a French fry, and placing them on the bathmat while he showers.  Jacob want no part of being the only child, and it's been a lonely role for him.

I remember how he looked last Christmas, excited, sure, but equally miserable  to see his gifts sitting under the tree, as sad as any single pile of gaily wrapped packages can be.

I think I'd like to ease that pain for him.  This year, Santa Paws will be making a surprise stop at our house.  He will leave some inexpensive treats- soft cat food, toy mice, new collars, and the like.  And of course, something extra special for our canine little old man of the hour, Gizmo.

I think that just might bring a smile to Jacob's face that will last the whole day.  And Cory would've been all over it.

That Boy

One of the questions at the Western class was how has the loss of Cory changed my relationship with Jacob.  Once there, I opened to my mouth to say what I had been prepared to say- that I didn't even notice Jake was in the room for at least three months after the accident, that I distanced myself from him as a protective measure against future pain (maybe even to some degree to this day), and that I have become an extremely inconsistent and permissive parent...you can have anything you want, just please don't die.

While all those things are true, I also worked this out in my answer to the class.  I've been trying, consciously or subconsciously, to make Jacob to fill Cory's role in my life.  Cory was many things to me:  a daughter, a friend, a junior co-parent.  We held many of the same interests.  We had nearly twenty years of history. 

What it came down to was this:  if I expected the frizzy haired older woman back on the Urbandale playground to understand that telling me I had "one child still alive, so that's ok" was a horrible thing to say because I couldn't be Jake's sister anymore than he could be my daughter, then shouldn't I practice what I preach?

  It was unfair, and edging on psychologically harmful for me to poke and prod at Jacob to spend time with me doing things that Cory and I did, and to make him turn away from his personality in any way to fit into someone else's shoes.  I took every rebuff he doled out as "he doesn't love me like Cory did" instead of realizing I was asking him to be my Cory Girl, something he could never be, and something that shouldn't be asked of him.  Wow, what have I been doing to my child?


Yesterday morning, something else hit me.  No wonder he wasn't sharing his innermost feelings about the loss of his sister; with whom did he share all his secrets?  Cory.  Whatever secrets a young boy may have had were spilled out on the trek home from Urbandale Elementary to our house when Cory walked him home from school each day. 

Weren't they allies, afterall?  Even siblings that don't get along have a lifelong bond just from being the hostages to fortune of their parent's life decisions.  And Jacob and Cory did get along, amazingly so.  Not only had Jake lost his big sister, he'd lost the witness to his childhood.  Any stories he couldn't quite remember the details of, that were just between them, were now gone, just as she was.  When he is an adult, he will have no one to help him give testament about how his parents did everything wrong, and ruined his life. 

I thought about this, and just ached for my boy.  The one person he was most likely to open up to about how he was feeling was the person who had died.

What I feel so strongly coming from Cory is this:  It's okay, Mom.  Everybody makes mistakes.  But now that you know what you did wrong, what are you going to do different from now on?  Jacob needs you, and he is growing up so fast.  I just look at him and can't stop smiling...that boy!

More Smile Than Face

I smiled yesterday, and I actually meant it.  I smile a handful of times throughout the average day.  Social norms require this token gesture.  But if a person looked closely, they would see a mere reflex, practically involuntary and mostly thanks to muscle memory.  You can always tell if a smile is genuine by searching the eyes.  Often in mine, there is no one home or a "do not disturb" sign, cream in color with an understated green cursive font has been hung to discourage interlopers.

So, yesterday...here's what happened:

I was asked by a colleague to come speak at a class he was teaching at a local university.  The topic was a mix of the experience of raising a child with a mental illness and how a family reorganizes after a significant loss.  I didn't say yes right away.  I wavered back and forth between wanting to honor Cory's memory by helping in any way I could, and fearing I break down, be unable to answer questions adequately, or somehow be judged by strangers and a valued colleague for some of the choices I've made.

The second time I was asked, I agreed- writing it in my journal as a positive goal.  When the day approached, I debated taking my anti-diarrhea meds, as public speaking of any kind drives my anxiety through the roof.  I sat, with the tiny pills in the palm of my hand, and considered...should I be nervous?  I knew Cory better than anyone.  I've sat cheek and jowl with this grief madness for what feels like a lifetime.  What question would I not be able to answer?  And as far as judgment went, there was this:  I made the best decisions I could with the information available to me at the time.  Everyone makes mistakes- otherwise, how would we ever learn anything?

I put the pills back in the little bird pill case I'd stuffed into Cory's stocking on our last Christmas together, and decided to brave it sans meds.  I did, however, enlist a co-worker to go with me.  She was a Godsend as she chattered with me on the highway, and as we waited for the class to assemble once we'd arrived.

I'd had a good arrival, hearing a college girl behind me as we entered the building say, "Oh my God, I love her Vera bag!"  I grinned, dying to go back and tell my niece and my nephew's fiancé that they were completely and utterly mistaken...Vera Bradley is not just for old ladies, thank you very much.  This was reinforced as I spotted a couple of Vera totes and bags as the students walked into class.  I had lost a lot this last year and some odd months, but apparently not my figurative finger on the pulse of designer hand bags.  (Inward grin here).

I may have been nervous introducing myself and giving some background information, but once the questions started in a semi-circle around the room, I was lost to the joy of talking about my girl.  Some of it was difficult, and while I avoided a complete crying jag, there were some tears.  The thing was:  it was okay.  These young women and one young man were kind and respectful.  I quickly warmed to my audience and began to feel like I should lean back in my seat, and have a giant cup of coffee while we conversed.

Part of the interview process was to inquire about how I received new of my daughter's death.  That memory is always so close, so near, and so harrowing.  It hurt to tell of the worst experience of my life, but it also felt cathartic to be able to share whatever I felt comfortable sharing, not having to watch someone became uncomfortable with the raw details, changing the subject quickly, or worse- to see someone's back as they left the room.  The response I've gotten when I try to talk about it with my husband is, "Oh you don't need to talk about that."  I disagree.  Vehemently.  I think the story has to be told, in all of its horror, many times for the person to be able to take in such trauma and manage to someday integrate into their life's experiences...hopefully moving it from their short term memory to long.

The questions were, pleasantly, not that hard to answer.  It seemed my blog had not only kept me alive, but had also helped me recognize some of the issues that come up when you try to regroup yourself and your relationships with others after the loss of a child.

Once all the questions were over, there was a bit of a show and tell, as Cory's artwork, the newspaper articles, and my art journal were sent around the room.  I was beyond tickled to hear many of them saying they loved my artwork.  I am still not confident calling myself an artist, and have a long way to go before I produce anything exceptional.  I look at my drawings and painting, and they stir deep feelings for me.  I had not yet realized they might possibly cause other people to feel things, too. 

As I talked with students about the memorial jewelry I'd had made, they wanted to see what I was talking about.  Excited, I stripped off my bracelets and necklaces, eager to share one of ways I keep my girl close at all times.  As I explained to a very kind woman, "I've found out that not only do I like to look at them, but people will ask about them- and I get to say Cory's name and share her story."

One of the group's final questions was, "How has your outlook on life changed?"

There's one answer that didn't just fall right out of my mouth.  I hesitated, leery to tell these bright, shiny young faces that despite all the grief work, all the therapy, and all the meds, I still wanted to be dead more than I wanted to be alive.  Dare I say something so negative to people getting ready to embark on careers devoted to helping people better their situations?  In my mind, this thought pulsed, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.

I told them that I was not a huge lover of life right now.  My struggle is getting to a point where there are more good days than bad.  A lot of times I still do not want to be here.

I paused, and before I even thought about it, this popped out of my mouth, "But I'm trying.  Everyday.  And I'm going to keep trying."

My friend, Adrianne, told me later that was her favorite part, and that she's never heard that come out of my mouth before.  My response?  "I know!  Where the hell did that come from?"

She responded that it came from the truth, that underneath it all that's how I really feel.  I considered this, while wondering if Cory hadn't wanted to get a word in herself, and those were the ones she chose.  Crazy?  Maybe, but I was not the only person who felt her in the room with us.  Whatever the source, I felt it was a fitting statement for the mother of a brave girl whose epitaph will read, "Never, ever, ever, ever give up."

As we prepared to leave, my colleague asked me what was next, did I have future plans to keep Cory's memory alive?  I responded that I'd love to someday turn my blog into a book; I'd love to someday see Cory's and my artwork hanging together on display, and I would love to return to see Italy.

Say what?!  Somehow, this man and this group had gotten  long-term goals out of me- something I hadn't though of in quite a while as I paddled around in despair on the daily.

I looked around the room as I gathered up my things, tilting my head to the side, bittersweet, as I took in the faces of the young people who looked so young that I suddenly felt about a thousand, give or take a decade.  In another life, Cory might be sitting among them, smiling and chatting with her classmates, eager to learn and get on with the business of helping people, because that's what she liked to do.  And if you make your living doing what you love, you'll never work a day in your life.  These students were in their early to mid twenties.  Later that night, at home, working in my art journal, I would do the math on a scrap of paper to discover Cory would be 20 years 9 months and 9 days if she were alive...perhaps a year or two away from being part of that group.  It was almost enough to put my head on the table.  But then...

I remembered how I felt knowing that these people might someday remember a lady who came to their class to talk about her daughter, and that Cory might be remembered by people she'd never even met.  I remembered thinking that perhaps, in some small way, I might have helped people who would soon be working with families to better understand things from a client's perspective. 

Cory, are you proud of me?

I hoped so, and as I walked out the door, I had "more smile than face", as someone who is a great comfort to me often says. 

Love you, Cory-Girl.  Always, always, always.

The Blame Game

The day after Thanksgiving, my dog, Gizmo, and I laid in bed until five p.m. before finally catching each other's eye, disgusted with ourselves.  Perhaps I should have taken the hint when my cat looked down at my lack of grooming, and took the task on himself, as if to say, "If you're not going to do anything about this, I guess I'll give it a shot- but I'm no miracle worker, lady."  You have to love him for trying.

I had been awake off and on throughout the day, you understand.  But depression had settled further onto my limbs while I slept as if someone had covered my sleeping form with a blanket of bricks.  Move?  Why?  All I wanted was Cory, and she wasn't here.

 The last few days I had good intentions- maybe I'll take Gizmo for a walk, maybe I'll go for Chinese, maybe I'll make beef stew- but in the end, my bed beckoned and was not to be denied.  So there I laid in a place that was soft and warm- really the only comfort available.  Thoughts swirled- both good memories and reluctant trips down It's All Your Fault lane. 

I know I professed to have changed my thinking on the fault business when I returned from Italy.  That was a valiant effort, but didn't last.  The brain is pattern seeking, right?  It seems I will relentlessly look for a reason and the person to blame, even to my own detriment.  Over the last couple days I've blamed everyone from the driver to The Pioneer Woman who cooks on Food Network before circling back to myself.

The Pioneer Woman, you ask dubiously.  Yes.  For a brief moment in time, I blamed her just because she inspired the great spring/summer stock up of 2012.  She did a show on her pantry/freezer, and when I set my eyes upon all the duplicate spices, canned goods, dried goods, and frozen items, my anxiety piped up excitedly, "Oh my God, we've simply got to do that!  It would make me feel so good." 

Never mind the fact that this woman has much more income than I do.  I was determined to stock up, preventing last minute trips to the store, and saving money in the process.  As always, I went slightly overboard, not only stocking up on food, but also household cleaners, paper goods, and pet food.  It was to the point that Tim got into the act, planning a remodel of the spare room downstairs to turn it into a stockroom of sorts.  Sadly, this, as all his other projects born in the fever of hypomania, never quite came to fruitation.

Once the progam year ended at work and unemployment pay began, I found it a little more difficult to keep up on my overdone and endless stocking.  There just wasn't the funds to support it.  I went back to getting only what I needed at the moment, paying whatever price was being asked.  Somewhere, along the way, the chili powder was overlooked...and well, you know the rest.

How does this make The Pioneer Woman responsible?  It obviously doesn't.  She encouraged limited trips to the store and buying things on sale, not sending your daughter out to get hit by an SUV.  Last night, as I lay in bed, medicated but unable to sleep, putting one hand over my face as if I could hold back the images of Cory laid out on the road, knocked out of her shoes, and part of her hair trapped in a stranger's windshield, I entered a truly evil thought pattern.

I started thinking that Cory and I always let each other know when we ran out of something.  She was in on the stock up, you see.  Jacob was not old enough to cook without supervision.  So who did that leave? 

Shit.  That day when I called out, annoyed, that I would need to go to the store, and who used all the chili powder without saying anything, Cory said, "Probably Dad.  You know he makes all kinds of weird stuff to take to work."

Yes, he does- strange rice concoctions with a cube bouillon base and smattered with some spice over the top to make him feel fancy.  Had he used the last of the chili powder and not told anyone?  He was the prime suspect when all the milk was gone, and quite fond of putting an empty box of cereal back on top of the fridge.  One day the family was going to approach him as a lynch mob, and be done with his excuses.

I remember deciding that in addition to my mom not having to see Cory laying on the road before she was covered, the only good thing was that Tim had not been the one to send her to the store.  I had spent a week in Florida a couple months before, and to distract Cory from missing me and give her a role in helping run the household, Tim had sent her to Family Fare every day, pretending he had forgotten some small but crucial item.  Cory did it happily, and felt proud to be helping.  I used to imagine if this had happened on one of those trips, what would my feelings towards Tim be?  I would get ten seconds into this imaginary scenario and have to mentally turn away, not wanting to see myself in such an ugly light.

So last night, I pondered on who forgot to say we were out of chili powder and began to hate my husband until I fell asleep.

When I woke up this morning, I realized I was being ridiculous.  It is unbelievable what unbearable pain can breed.  I shook my head, bemused at how I had latched onto something so nonsensical.

 It was obvious whose fault it was.  Who did the grocery shopping, Nick?

Happy Holidays

If what it takes to prevent divorce is a brand new absurd pet name sung from three feet away, "Hi, honeybunches!" and the new courtesy of asking before he devours my take-out leftovers, then all my worries and disappointments are over.

Again, I have been courted with a glazed donut, which leaves me to wonder if he thinks I need to put on some weight or if the way to my heart is through the gluttonous consumption of baked goods.  Was there a donut around when he proposed, and I just can't recall it?

My dog, Gizmo, and I spent yesterday, and the better part of today in bed, snoring and staring into space.  I again refused to partake in the family gathering of Thanksgiving, which I fear is being misunderstood as selfishness (why would I deprive my loved ones of my sunshiny personality) and immature (when is she going to just accept it and move on?)  Get back to her old self?

I do not wish to be selfish or immature.  And I have no way, no possible way, to get back to my old self.  That woman is lying six feet under with her arms wrapped around her firstborn.  This shell that walks around, this ghost, is someone different, entirely.

I cannot stand the person I have become when surrounded with happy people, who laugh and eat and gaze upon their children at will.  I turn into an ugly, shriveled, bitter soul who is consumed with covetous thoughts and burning jealousy.  I would rather keep such unkindness to myself.  But mainly, I suppose- selfish if you say so- I want to avoid that empty chair...space unfilled forever.  It is too much to swallow past, even with turkey and dressing.  Just like the cemetery, these final truths only make me angry, vengeful, and frankly, a little dangerous.  I will avoid.

The State of My Union

He chooses his words, carefully, weighing them out, one by one- heavy enough to agree there is indeed a problem, but light enough to avoid any obligations to change anything he is currently doing or saying, (or not doing or not saying).  Even a half-assed compromise is a stretch he can't cover, so he agrees to nothing, promises nothing, just looks at the ground, and waits for her to stop talking. 

Hoping it will be enough, yet another time, he walks away, without looking back.  Looking back is for those that have the energy to do it; he does not.  Or maybe he just doesn't want to see the need written plainly on her face, knowing it is more than he can handle, even if he weren't lost to a disabling depressive episode, which he is.