Processing

I've been putting this one off for about three weeks.  Hanging onto it has accomplished nothing but a perpetual stomachache, so here goes:


If you want an honest answer to a hard question, ask my friend, Angie.  She will measure you with her direct gaze, and ask if you are sure you'd like her input, and then she'll give it, full bore. 


About three weeks ago, I gathered my courage- which you'd need if you ever entered a heated debate with this short little Minnie Mouse-voiced creature- and asked her opinion on my idea to get more information from Life Care about the decision to withhold resuscitation attempts.  Would this be going forward towards acceptance or backwards, staying stuck in the world of we-may-never-know?


Angie lifted one eyebrow, and answered easily, "I'm not sure, Nicole.  It depends on what you are hunting for.  What is really bothering you?"


What was bothering me?  That was easy.  Why was my girl denied the paddles?  Why no rescue breathing?  Why did no one do anything?  Plenty of people are clinically dead, but attempts to save them are made.  I was told, "There was nothing I could do for your daughter."


What exactly did that mean?


Without specific information, my mind was wild with ideas:  did they think she'd have been a paraplegic?  Did they think she'd have come back only to remain in a coma until a difficult decision of whether or not to remove life support was harnessed onto my shoulders? 


I shared these ponderings with Angie, who looked at me curiously.  I looked back steadily. 
"Nicole, is that what you really think?"


"I don't know what to think!  They didn't give me any details!"  I returned, arms waving in exasperation.


Angie paused.  "Okay, now you remember that Cory broke her neck in the accident, right?"


"Yes."  I allowed.  "So what?  Lots of people with broken necks still live."


"Yes, yes, they do.  Do you remember what the funeral director said about how Cory died?"  she asked.


"Yes, yes."  I answered impatiently.  "He said he thought she went on impact.  I get it.  But why didn't they try to bring her back?"


Angie shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  "Nicole, I don't think that was a possibility.  She had no heartbeat.  She had stopped breathing."


At this, I felt like punching a wall, but merely bunched up a fist and spat out, "Isn't that what CPR is fricking FOR?"


"But--"  she began.


"I GOOGLED IT!"  I cried irrationally.


God save us if Google becomes the defense of every emotionally based argument.


Angie hid a grin behind her hand and carried on, non-plussed.  "And what did Google tell you, Miss Nicole?"


"It said that refusal to resuscitate is done when either there are multi-system lethal injuries or irreparable harm to the brain is visible by external observation."  I recited by rote...words I had been seeing in my dreams of late.


"Okay, and what did you get out of that?"  she pressed.


"Well, no one told me any of that.  It's not like they said she had a big giant hole in her head and her brains were falling out, and I can't remember!"  And this point, my shaky hand came to rest near my cheek and the tears started up, Old Faithful present and accounted for.  "I don't remember that part, just what her face looked like, and her arm... and lots of blood...lots and lots of blood."


Angie handed me a box of tissues.  "It's okay that you don't remember, Nicole."


"But it's not!  Cause I don't know why the decision was made by that ER doctor not to even TRY to save her!  What did the EMT say to that doctor?  What did they SAY?"  I wailed.


Angie said, "Nicole, they probably told them about her broken neck.  Do you remember what we talked about last time...about how whether or not a broken neck is fatal or not depends on which vertebrae are broken and how badly?"


Damn Angie and her EMT ex-husband.  Yes, I remembered.  Sort of.


Angie handed me another Kleenex and said, "Miss Nicole, you can request reports from Life Care, but I think you already have the answers you're looking for...I think you just don't like them."


I stared at her, this dear friend, who had listened to more than her share of my blabbering, and hated her just a little for denying me this wholly comforting delusion.  "I don't have them!  I don't!"  I insisted.
I imagine my forty year old tear streaked face looked like the child who was denied another piece of cake lest she get sick, another half hour past bedtime lest she be a complete monster the next day, another glass of pop lest she rot her teeth.


And maybe, maybe I really didn't.
Because t still didn't make sense to me.


I took the conversation home with me and took it for a two week walk.  Many afternoons later, I grabbed a minute with Angie, and told her I had a question. 


"Sure."  she said.


"Okay, just don't answer me until I get all done, okay?"  I asked.


"Okay."  she agreed.


I put one hand up to block out her face and averted my gaze to the left, completely refusing eye contact of any sort, and blurted out this:


"When you said it wasn't possible for the EMTs to revive Cory because of her injuries...did you mean because her neck broke at or above the 5th vertebrae that it severed her spinal cord?  which meant that the signal between her brain and her body was broken?  so if the bystander said she was still breathing before the ambulance got there it was because right before the car hit her, her brain had already sent the signal for her to breathe, and her body was just catching up?  That even if they gave her CPR, her brain could no longer communicate with her lungs and heart for her to breathe and be alive?  Like... like a chicken whose head has been cut off, but still moves around a little afterwards?"  My heart just burned during this entire wavering speech.  " Is that what you mean?"


I stopped here, and finally met her eyes.


"Yes!  Yes, Miss Nicole!  That is what I mean!"


"Okay."  I said, and just put my head down and sobbed.


 ---To Be Continued

Pulling the Grief Trigger

Cory Days- #14


What do you do in the middle of the night when you can't sleep and you are missing your girl like crazy?


Well, if you're me, you tiptoe through the mostly dark house into the dining room, and kneel down in front of the wooden bench by the entry way.  On top of the bench, some seventeen months in counting, sits Cory's bright pink purse.


I moved Cory's shoes from their spot by the back door when I took them to Italy, but her purse is still where she last set it.  I didn't approach it earlier to move it, but just to touch it, maybe look inside, which is something I've done only a time or two since placing her broken phone case inside it carefully, and walking away.


Once, since the last book we'd been reading together was The Things They Carried, I set out to make a list of all the things she'd had in her purse, but I gave up pretty quickly, finding that it was too painful to go through the things she considered important enough to lug around on her person most days.


A little while ago, I knelt in the silent house, a cat rubbing up against my cold legs now and again, and just took a peek inside.  There was the bird zip pouch I'd gotten her on our last Christmas together.  Think my hand trembled a little as I unzipped it?  It did.  I looked inside to find an emergency pad, her house key on a key ring of baubles including a rabbit's foot, and her EOS lip balm. 


Nope, nope, nope.  Still too soon.


Hurriedly, as if I'd been caught pilfering through my mom's vanity as a little girl, I zipped it up, tucked it back inside next to the broken cellphone case, and backed away.


What is nineteen months to your heart?  Not a damn thing, people.  Nothing.


I remembered her as I touched her things; I did.  She could have been in the bathroom, towel drying her hair.  I wanted to grab her by the hand in her pajamas, and make a crazy midnight run to Family Fare so we could make a cheesecake we just happened to have a hankering for after too many episodes of Frazier on dvd, as we often did on the weekend or a holiday break.


I'd grab my purse, and she'd grab hers.  And we'd just go.  Partners in crime.

Hoping

Cory Days # 13


I remembered Cory today by looking at her artwork up on the wall in my office.  And yesterday, on my way out to a meeting, I took a second to touch one of her paintings.  She had used her fingers to paint this particular canvas, and I could follow her fingers with mine through the open frame.  Just a minute to be with my girl, and remember how much she loved helping people, helping them even when she didn't realize that she was...just by the example that she set.  She took her pain, and she made it into something beautiful. 


I found one of her journals in Jacob's top bunk after the accident.  She'd written about how the voices had been bothering her so much, and she just didn't know if she could handle getting sick again.  She wrote about how much she worried for her future- graduating, going to college, finding a job- wanting it to be something that mattered- trying to help people like others had helped her. 


 I hope she knows how many lives she has touched.  I hope.

.                                                                  

How EveryDay Objects are Made Sacred

Cory Days #11 & 12


I remembered Cory by wearing my Venice earrings today.  I still remember going into the little shop with my mom and admiring all the little trinkets on display.  Most of all, I remember that day when the night train arrived in Venice at sunrise, I stepped off of it, and took what seemed like the first deep breath since the day Cory died.  I remember my chest feeling full, but light...for once, not crushed under the weight of so much pain.  I remember looking at everything around in me wonder, smiling and laughing with my mother, and realizing for just a moment that the world could still be beautiful.  Sometimes, I take these earrings out, and wear them, remembering that feeling and knowing it is just what my Cory-Girl would want for me.






And, I remembered Cory tonight with Jacob.  He clamored to taste test the sauce I'd made.  Although a spoon might have been more practical, I handed him Cory's special fork, which he took reverently.  "Perfect."  Taste tester duty has been lovingly passed down from Cory to Jake, and I know she'd have it no other way. 

W-H Questions Part II

I don't want her to be dead. 


See how Acceptance does me?  The jerk promises to stay with me forever, and then just blows town in the middle of the night for parts unknown.  I should have known.  Wasn't there that little bit of mistrust all along?  This is not the guy that's gonna stay and raise a family with you.  This is the guy who will float in and out of your life on a whim.


You cannot accomplish these stupid stages and be done with them.  You simply move in and out them...forever. 


Something else I've discovered- that are many facets to Acceptance.


 Just because you have one down, doesn't mean you have them all.  Most days, I know Cory is gone and isn't coming back.  You'd think I've mastered Acceptance.  But not only do you have to make peace with the fact that your child is dead, you have to accept how she died, what was or was not done to save her, her mutilitated body.  At some point, you'll have to accept the answers you get and the ones you'll never have no matter how much you pursue them.

Birthday Plans

30 Days of Cory- #10


Remembering Cory today started with a conversation with Tim.  He told me he got February 23rd off from work to be with me on Cory's birthday, and thought we should do something to honor her.  I was surprised to hear this, but pleased.  His suggestion was to go to a favorite restaurant of hers with Jake, and have a birthday dinner.


This seems like a perfectly reasonable, and lovely idea.  Naturally, I feel completely opposed to the idea.  While he planned his surf and turf order out loud, I inwardly recoiled.  Would this become just another dinner out without her, where the boys had a great time and I couldn't swallow?  Do I really want to make such a public recognition of her absence?


Somewhere, my closest friends roll their eyes.  Yes, I am that difficult.  Yes, I get that it is a nice idea from Tim, who wouldn't even talk about Cory three months ago, let alone try to plan a freaking ritual to honor her life.  So what is my problem?   What?


Don't slap me.  I don't want her to be dead.

W-H Questions

I caught the questions bug right before the holiday season.  In my spare time, I was stuck on researching pedestrian right of way laws, injury correlation to driving speeds, and the logic behind withholding resuscitation attempts.


I had the worst urge to step out for a gallon of milk, and just show up at the driver's door, unannounced and full of questions...what?  how?  when?  why?


The research happened; the impromptu home visit to the driver who struck and killed my daughter did not.  A friend of mine reasoned that if I ever wanted any truth from this woman, I wasn't likely to get it catching her off-guard and on the defensive.


Still, the urge remains.


Another friend asked me if I would feel better or worse to have some answers.  Ironically, that's a question I can't really answer, can I?  I only know that the wanting to know eats at me, and there's not much of me that I can afford to give away.


As the holidays came to a close, my anxiety quieted down some, and with it, my desperate investigations sort of dried up.  I'm sure they're not gone for good, just resting somewhere behind the base of my spine, an active and harmful virus, lurking in wait for my next particularly vulnerable time. 


Do they sound like shingles, these questions that keep me up at night?  Pretty much the same thing.  You learn to live with them until they recede.


---to be continued