I have been writing in some form or another since the accident happened. I come here to share my experiences, but I also keep a little back to myself (I know, I know...it seemed like I told it all, even when it was too much information). My medium has changed a little, going from the lined journals to Moleskine sketchbooks, to the gigantic Moleskine watercolor that I now tote around town.
Art showed up somewhere in the middle, on a night when I was lost and scared- basically just afraid I would lose my mind if I hadn't already, or that I might just take myself out of this nightmare, once and for all. I remember googling "art journaling" out of nowhere, like maybe Cory had whispered in my ear.
A few months later, if I'm awake and not bound to some other responsibility, I am drawing or painting or both. I have found that my writing and my art take turns holding me up. When I start to get writer's block, which used to drive me absolutely bat shit crazy, I take up with my paints. There are some feelings, indeed, that have no words. These feelings demand color, texture, and images in order to be seen, heard, and felt. However it can be accomplished, these dark feelings must be released or they will eat away your insides like a particularly aggressive kind of cancer.
Alternately, when I am trying to create something, art-wise, and finding I am horribly inadequate for my endeavors, I can take solace with my laptop. Writing is something I have done for a long time, it is comfortable and easy, almost organic. I put my hands on the keyboard and the words just come shooting out. If I have a really good idea to write about, it can sit and simmer for a couple days, but at a critical point, I feel an urgency to capture it on paper, almost like some bizarre sort of mental labor pains.
Not only do these two activities keep my brain busy, and help me process, they are remarkably more affordable than all the mass shopping I did last year. This is good, not only for my credit score and bank account, but also for my self esteem. When I am writing or painting, I am making something, where once there was nothing. I am giving something. I am sharing something, and in doing so, possibly helping someone. Maybe I am not the worthless thirty nine year old woman who let her firstborn be run over in the road like a chipmunk. Just maybe.
I went through some of my older journals today, and stumbled upon a letter I wrote to Cory four months ago. This is what it said:
Dear Cory,
I miss you so much; it is hard to get my breath. You were my very best friend. No one can ever take your place. Cory, I am so very sorry I didn't go to the store myself. It was too hot and I was being lazy. I didn't think for one moment that you could get hurt. I've always thought you to be a strong and brave girl, but now I can't even believe how you kept going day after day, with that beautiful smile. I just want to kiss your face. And talk to you for five more minutes. Just five. You are my heart.
Love,
Mommy
And an entry a few days later:
"I guess I'm supposed to think of how she is no longer in pain, but instead I am typically selfish. I only want to KISS HER FACE. I am drowning! This senseless, grinding ache is pushing me into the ground."
Gosh, it's been about five months since I wrote those words, and not a lot seems to have changed. My breaths are still shallow most of the time, and I despise watching my chest rise and fall when hers is so much dust by now.
I need to paint.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
I Have Gesso On My Foot and I Don't Care
I think Cory may be a little bit irritated with me right now. No matter what hill or valley she was traversing at that time, I forced that baby in the shower daily. I remember when they came out with the dry shampoo spray for those in-between washing your hair days. You spray a little on your roots and it absorbs any oil and makes your hair smell fantastic. I just about fell over when Cory asked me if a person could just use that every day...forever.
So here I am, putting in more time finding creative ways to make it look like I've washed my hair than it would take to just wash it in the first place. Those French girls who traipse around with three day dirty hair that look like supermodels have nothing on me right now. If you really need to divert attention, just throw on some red lipstick. Done and done. So I can only imagine how aggravated Cory must be with me right now to see me steadily avoiding the shower when I forced her into it time after time. If I could hear her speak, it'd be, "Really Mom? Really? How is that fair?"
Yeah, I did feel a little guilty when I settled criss-cross applesauce into my favorite chair at the coffeeshop today and looked down to see my heel was covered in white paint. Oops.
How does one get gesso on their foot, you ask? I'm pretty sure taking your palette to bed with you will do it every time. When I can't sleep, I draw in bed. Last night, I came up with the most fabulously mournful girl, who captured exactly how I was feeling at the time. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came back to bed, I was startled to see her staring back at me. It was one of those rare moments when you are thinking, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe I made that! That's actually not half-bad." If I'd held a mirror up to my face, I'm pretty sure I'd have recognized that look of pride I remember so well from my baby girl's face...that look you only get when you've taken an image out of brain and plunked it down, whole and squirming, on a piece of paper or canvas, completely unchanged from what you saw in your mind.
As I assessed my painting with a critical eye, I could see she needed some highlights. It was after 3 a.m. I could not see myself setting up shop at the dining room table, so I crept in and squirted a little gesso on my paint splattered palette and snuck it into bed with me. I held it stealthily to one side so Tim wouldn't see as I made my way through the living room. I had just sat down with my brush in hand, when my bedroom door swung open dramatically. Tim stood in the doorway, looking at me with a half-smile on his face, "Painting in bed, honey?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.
"Umm, she just needed a little something..." I trailed off, busted, caught. I dropped my head, feeling like a child caught sneaking chocolates into bed. This poor man, used to me running the household like a well-oiled machine, was now saddled with a depressed, unwashed woman who was too lazy to paint in an upright position. Good thing he loves me...a lot. Trying to redeem myself, I turned my paper around to show him.
"Ooooh, that's a good one." he said. "Try to get some sleep, honey."
No lecture about the difficulties of paint removal on fabrics. No demanding that I do anything different than exactly what was providing me comfort at that moment. He let me just be me. He let me have what I needed.
I often complain about Tim not being more affectionate, not wanting to talk, not being interested in traveling memory lane with me. What I don't say is that Tim is always there. That is maybe more important than all the rest. He never leaves, not even when faced with a ripe smelling middle aged woman who doesn't bother with makeup anymore and has trouble finding joy in anything. Even when faced with my shopping addictions, he grins, shakes his head, and says, "You know what they say, honey...never quit quitting."
So here I am, putting in more time finding creative ways to make it look like I've washed my hair than it would take to just wash it in the first place. Those French girls who traipse around with three day dirty hair that look like supermodels have nothing on me right now. If you really need to divert attention, just throw on some red lipstick. Done and done. So I can only imagine how aggravated Cory must be with me right now to see me steadily avoiding the shower when I forced her into it time after time. If I could hear her speak, it'd be, "Really Mom? Really? How is that fair?"
Yeah, I did feel a little guilty when I settled criss-cross applesauce into my favorite chair at the coffeeshop today and looked down to see my heel was covered in white paint. Oops.
How does one get gesso on their foot, you ask? I'm pretty sure taking your palette to bed with you will do it every time. When I can't sleep, I draw in bed. Last night, I came up with the most fabulously mournful girl, who captured exactly how I was feeling at the time. I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came back to bed, I was startled to see her staring back at me. It was one of those rare moments when you are thinking, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe I made that! That's actually not half-bad." If I'd held a mirror up to my face, I'm pretty sure I'd have recognized that look of pride I remember so well from my baby girl's face...that look you only get when you've taken an image out of brain and plunked it down, whole and squirming, on a piece of paper or canvas, completely unchanged from what you saw in your mind.
As I assessed my painting with a critical eye, I could see she needed some highlights. It was after 3 a.m. I could not see myself setting up shop at the dining room table, so I crept in and squirted a little gesso on my paint splattered palette and snuck it into bed with me. I held it stealthily to one side so Tim wouldn't see as I made my way through the living room. I had just sat down with my brush in hand, when my bedroom door swung open dramatically. Tim stood in the doorway, looking at me with a half-smile on his face, "Painting in bed, honey?" he asked, sounding faintly amused.
"Umm, she just needed a little something..." I trailed off, busted, caught. I dropped my head, feeling like a child caught sneaking chocolates into bed. This poor man, used to me running the household like a well-oiled machine, was now saddled with a depressed, unwashed woman who was too lazy to paint in an upright position. Good thing he loves me...a lot. Trying to redeem myself, I turned my paper around to show him.
"Ooooh, that's a good one." he said. "Try to get some sleep, honey."
No lecture about the difficulties of paint removal on fabrics. No demanding that I do anything different than exactly what was providing me comfort at that moment. He let me just be me. He let me have what I needed.
I often complain about Tim not being more affectionate, not wanting to talk, not being interested in traveling memory lane with me. What I don't say is that Tim is always there. That is maybe more important than all the rest. He never leaves, not even when faced with a ripe smelling middle aged woman who doesn't bother with makeup anymore and has trouble finding joy in anything. Even when faced with my shopping addictions, he grins, shakes his head, and says, "You know what they say, honey...never quit quitting."
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
The Things We Carried
No matter what type of monotonous reading it may provide, I intend to give an accurate account of this experience. I sometimes fear that instead of reaching my goal of 100 readers as I continue to post, I will instead drive away some or all of my treasured 49 simply because I tend to repeat myself. But if I'm telling the truth about this thing I'm going through, if I'm trying to put you in my shoes for fifteen minutes a day- and encouraging you to take them off when you're finished and go kiss your child- then I have to include the intense weariness, the way you sometimes get swallowed up in the fog for days at a time, and the fear each time it happens that you won't be able to find your way out...because that's what it's really like. It's like being thrown in a dark pit with a flashlight and a package of batteries. Figure it out.
It's not a lot different, I imagine, that having a serious physical ailment- everyday things that used to be taken for granted become difficult. Yesterday -after putting it off as long as I possibly could- I went school clothes shopping for Jake with my mom. Ten steps inside Kohl's, I was pretty much done. What did it, you ask?
Maybe it was turning my head to left to see a half dozen little dresses Cory would've rocked like nobody's business. Maybe it was walking past the lingerie department, remembering how Cory insisted that sometime I buy myself a Barely There bra to experience how bra-wearing should really feel. I never got around to that until after her death, but that girl was a genius. If you are a woman, go buy a Barely There bra or three, and try them out. You won't disagree.
Cory and I always picked out Jake's clothes together- right down to the rainy Saturday afternoon that we suddenly decided Jake needed a suit. We took Jake into a dressing room and transformed him from a video game addict wearing track pants and a slightly wrinkled Angry Birds t-shirt to a slick GQ-looking gentleman who probably didn't mow in his own lawn in about three minutes. Cory provided the hair product and I chose the color palette. We sent pictures to Tim at his work, who cracked up and texted back, "God, he's handsome."
Mom waded through the complicated labyrinth of slim-straight, baggy-straight, and cargos pants on her own; I leaned against a rack of clothes and fought the ghosts that were happily cavorting through the aisles. Sometimes Jake would enlist Cory's help in talking me into buying them each a stuffed animal. They would disappear around a rack of clothes, all whispers and giggles, as I sorted through my final purchases. Cory had decided the best way to emotionally hijack me into impulse purchases was to name the stuffed animals before we hit the register...that way we'd already have a relationship established. "I know how hard it is for you to leave people." she'd say with a sideways grin. I would swat at her and we would scan those puppies, and head to the car before we were late for our movie.
That's where I wanted to be- not here buying fall clothes for one child, instead of two. I cut the trip short, and drove Mom home, keeping it together until I pulled into her driveway, at which point, I burst into exhausted tears. Alarmed, she tried to get me to let her or Dad drive me home; she said I shouldn't be driving in my condition. Dubiously, I looked up at her, "Mom, I drive like this all the time.
This morning I brought Cory into conversation with the boys. If I want to hear her name in my house, I have to be the one to say it. Jake and I had woken up this morning to the screams of Oliver, our orange tabby cat. I ran into the dining room, my eyes still half crusted over to find a panicked Tim bent over Oliver, a fishing pole leaning against the wall, and a tangle of fishing line. Tim had been getting his fishing pole ready, and somehow Oliver had gotten some line wrapped around his foot and leg. As Tim and I tried to help him, he tried his best to bite and scratch us. Using my best everything-is-under-control soothing Mommy voice, I held Oliver's head down as Tim ran for some manicure scissors, and worked him loose. Boy, do I have a new respect for veterinarian assistants.
As we explained to Jake what had happened, I said it was a good thing I was home at the time. Tim waved a hand at me and said, "Jake would've stepped up." I chuckled at the thought. That boy would have ran in the other direction. He would've helped, all right- he'd have called the vet to give them fair warning. I said as much to Tim, and then a memory of Cory popped up in my mind.
It was this:
After Tim and I had separated, I threw myself into organizing the house. If things in my personal life were a little muddy at the moment, that could not be helped, but dammit, I would have order in my immediate environment. The four years Tim and I were separated were the cleanest my house has ever been. When I say this, Tim cringes and demands to be told he is not a slob. I usually back off a little...after all, he does mow my lawn.
Room by room, I went through and made things the way I had always wanted them. Those years of being mostly on my own were a strange and interesting mixture. It was probably the point in my life that I had the most freedom, and yet the most responsibility.
One particular Saturday, I decided the extra tv needed to find its way to the storage room in the basement. Cory cocked her hip and looked at me, "Mom, we can't move that."
Doth my ears deceive me? "Cory, we are two strong, beautiful, independent young women; we could do anything we set our minds to."
I was on a feminist power-mad trip, you understand. The only thing missing was my cheeky t-shirt reading, "I am woman- here me roar." That blasted, dreadfully heavy outdated tv represented to me all the responsibilities I now had, and all the bad feelings from my marriage that I wanted set to the side, for good. If I couldn't move this, how would we get by?
"I don't have a good feeling about this." she said, and reluctantly picked up her side. She hollered out that she needed to set it down after about three seconds.
Undeterred, I announced cheerily, "We'll take breaks."
"Mom, what about the stairs?"
"I'll go down first, and take the weight of it. You just follow behind." I instructed. Huffing and puffing, stopping to set it down every twenty seconds or so, we laboriously made our way through the house to the basement staircase.
We'd made it perhaps a third of the way down when Cory simply let go and walked away. In utter shock, I stood there, a bulky humungous television set teetering precariously in my skinny arms. With primal grunts and furious curses, I jerkily maneuvered it the rest of the way down the steps. Veins stood out on my neck, I'm sure, and my face had flushed a deep red, purple with my efforts. Looking back, I realize I could have seriously hurt myself. I have to wonder why I thought the preservation of an outdated television set was more important than the preservation of my spinal column. I could've just let that sucker fly. But I didn't.
When I'd finally made my way back upstairs, I found Cory and asked her between ragged breaths, my hands on my thighs as I stood bent over in a hopefully temporary stupor, "Cory, you left me! I could've died!! What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't do it anymore. It was too heavy. I was gonna hurt myself." she answered reasonably.
Between breaths, I giggled helplessly. "And what about me?"
She giggled back, meeting my eyes, "Hey, I love you, Mom, but it was every man for themselves."
At that point, we dissolved into giggles, holding on to each other, and falling into a sweaty pile on the living room floor, just inches away from the couch.
"And mom?" she added.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I had no idea you were such an expert in swearing. Were you a truck driver in a previous life?"
"Hells yeah!"
As I relayed this story to the boys, neither of which were present for that little scenario, it rang a little hollow, a little empty. This story had been told a few times before, but always Cory would walk in the room mid-way through or poke her head around the corner just in time to laugh along and add her own commentary.
Sometimes, that's the worst part of remembering. I have spent the majority of my adult life with Cory. All my stories are with her, and in her. If there is a detail I'm not sure of, there is now no one left to ask.
So why share this story today? Well, on my way to the coffee shop to write, I wondered why that memory was triggered today. Well, it's really just like the Barely There bras. I don't think people realized how wise Cory was for her age. Her life experiences had made her an old, old soul. She is still advising me from the grave. As I sit here typing in my Barely There bra (feeling strangely topless in public, I might add), I realize that at nineteen Cory knew a great many of life's truths. One of them was this:
Sometimes you will find yourself letting go of things simply because they are too heavy.
I hear you, Cory Girl. I'm working on it. I love you, baby girl. Always. Always. One hundred baker dollars.
It's not a lot different, I imagine, that having a serious physical ailment- everyday things that used to be taken for granted become difficult. Yesterday -after putting it off as long as I possibly could- I went school clothes shopping for Jake with my mom. Ten steps inside Kohl's, I was pretty much done. What did it, you ask?
Maybe it was turning my head to left to see a half dozen little dresses Cory would've rocked like nobody's business. Maybe it was walking past the lingerie department, remembering how Cory insisted that sometime I buy myself a Barely There bra to experience how bra-wearing should really feel. I never got around to that until after her death, but that girl was a genius. If you are a woman, go buy a Barely There bra or three, and try them out. You won't disagree.
Cory and I always picked out Jake's clothes together- right down to the rainy Saturday afternoon that we suddenly decided Jake needed a suit. We took Jake into a dressing room and transformed him from a video game addict wearing track pants and a slightly wrinkled Angry Birds t-shirt to a slick GQ-looking gentleman who probably didn't mow in his own lawn in about three minutes. Cory provided the hair product and I chose the color palette. We sent pictures to Tim at his work, who cracked up and texted back, "God, he's handsome."
Mom waded through the complicated labyrinth of slim-straight, baggy-straight, and cargos pants on her own; I leaned against a rack of clothes and fought the ghosts that were happily cavorting through the aisles. Sometimes Jake would enlist Cory's help in talking me into buying them each a stuffed animal. They would disappear around a rack of clothes, all whispers and giggles, as I sorted through my final purchases. Cory had decided the best way to emotionally hijack me into impulse purchases was to name the stuffed animals before we hit the register...that way we'd already have a relationship established. "I know how hard it is for you to leave people." she'd say with a sideways grin. I would swat at her and we would scan those puppies, and head to the car before we were late for our movie.
That's where I wanted to be- not here buying fall clothes for one child, instead of two. I cut the trip short, and drove Mom home, keeping it together until I pulled into her driveway, at which point, I burst into exhausted tears. Alarmed, she tried to get me to let her or Dad drive me home; she said I shouldn't be driving in my condition. Dubiously, I looked up at her, "Mom, I drive like this all the time.
This morning I brought Cory into conversation with the boys. If I want to hear her name in my house, I have to be the one to say it. Jake and I had woken up this morning to the screams of Oliver, our orange tabby cat. I ran into the dining room, my eyes still half crusted over to find a panicked Tim bent over Oliver, a fishing pole leaning against the wall, and a tangle of fishing line. Tim had been getting his fishing pole ready, and somehow Oliver had gotten some line wrapped around his foot and leg. As Tim and I tried to help him, he tried his best to bite and scratch us. Using my best everything-is-under-control soothing Mommy voice, I held Oliver's head down as Tim ran for some manicure scissors, and worked him loose. Boy, do I have a new respect for veterinarian assistants.
As we explained to Jake what had happened, I said it was a good thing I was home at the time. Tim waved a hand at me and said, "Jake would've stepped up." I chuckled at the thought. That boy would have ran in the other direction. He would've helped, all right- he'd have called the vet to give them fair warning. I said as much to Tim, and then a memory of Cory popped up in my mind.
It was this:
After Tim and I had separated, I threw myself into organizing the house. If things in my personal life were a little muddy at the moment, that could not be helped, but dammit, I would have order in my immediate environment. The four years Tim and I were separated were the cleanest my house has ever been. When I say this, Tim cringes and demands to be told he is not a slob. I usually back off a little...after all, he does mow my lawn.
Room by room, I went through and made things the way I had always wanted them. Those years of being mostly on my own were a strange and interesting mixture. It was probably the point in my life that I had the most freedom, and yet the most responsibility.
One particular Saturday, I decided the extra tv needed to find its way to the storage room in the basement. Cory cocked her hip and looked at me, "Mom, we can't move that."
Doth my ears deceive me? "Cory, we are two strong, beautiful, independent young women; we could do anything we set our minds to."
I was on a feminist power-mad trip, you understand. The only thing missing was my cheeky t-shirt reading, "I am woman- here me roar." That blasted, dreadfully heavy outdated tv represented to me all the responsibilities I now had, and all the bad feelings from my marriage that I wanted set to the side, for good. If I couldn't move this, how would we get by?
"I don't have a good feeling about this." she said, and reluctantly picked up her side. She hollered out that she needed to set it down after about three seconds.
Undeterred, I announced cheerily, "We'll take breaks."
"Mom, what about the stairs?"
"I'll go down first, and take the weight of it. You just follow behind." I instructed. Huffing and puffing, stopping to set it down every twenty seconds or so, we laboriously made our way through the house to the basement staircase.
We'd made it perhaps a third of the way down when Cory simply let go and walked away. In utter shock, I stood there, a bulky humungous television set teetering precariously in my skinny arms. With primal grunts and furious curses, I jerkily maneuvered it the rest of the way down the steps. Veins stood out on my neck, I'm sure, and my face had flushed a deep red, purple with my efforts. Looking back, I realize I could have seriously hurt myself. I have to wonder why I thought the preservation of an outdated television set was more important than the preservation of my spinal column. I could've just let that sucker fly. But I didn't.
When I'd finally made my way back upstairs, I found Cory and asked her between ragged breaths, my hands on my thighs as I stood bent over in a hopefully temporary stupor, "Cory, you left me! I could've died!! What happened?"
"I'm sorry, Mom. I just couldn't do it anymore. It was too heavy. I was gonna hurt myself." she answered reasonably.
Between breaths, I giggled helplessly. "And what about me?"
She giggled back, meeting my eyes, "Hey, I love you, Mom, but it was every man for themselves."
At that point, we dissolved into giggles, holding on to each other, and falling into a sweaty pile on the living room floor, just inches away from the couch.
"And mom?" she added.
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I had no idea you were such an expert in swearing. Were you a truck driver in a previous life?"
"Hells yeah!"
As I relayed this story to the boys, neither of which were present for that little scenario, it rang a little hollow, a little empty. This story had been told a few times before, but always Cory would walk in the room mid-way through or poke her head around the corner just in time to laugh along and add her own commentary.
Sometimes, that's the worst part of remembering. I have spent the majority of my adult life with Cory. All my stories are with her, and in her. If there is a detail I'm not sure of, there is now no one left to ask.
So why share this story today? Well, on my way to the coffee shop to write, I wondered why that memory was triggered today. Well, it's really just like the Barely There bras. I don't think people realized how wise Cory was for her age. Her life experiences had made her an old, old soul. She is still advising me from the grave. As I sit here typing in my Barely There bra (feeling strangely topless in public, I might add), I realize that at nineteen Cory knew a great many of life's truths. One of them was this:
Sometimes you will find yourself letting go of things simply because they are too heavy.
I hear you, Cory Girl. I'm working on it. I love you, baby girl. Always. Always. One hundred baker dollars.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Shall We Pray?
I wasn't going to come to the coffeeshop today. I didn't sleep well last night again, and my plan was to find a way to carve stamps without moving from my bed without making a mess or injuring myself. Tim had other ideas. "Honey, get up and go to the coffeeshop. You'll feel better."
When I put up a half-hearted protest, he shooed me out of bed, saying, "Get your butt out of bed, and get to work, woman."
Okay, okay. Coffee didn't sound half-bad. As I toted all my supplies out to the car: laptop, art supplies, purse, headphones, and journals, I felt myself transported back in time to that little fifth grader whose anxiety demanded she cart a half dozen bags loaded with paper goods to school each day. The more things change, they more they stay the same?
I set up my little workstation at my usual table, second from the couch, and got plugged in. I was ready to work- how I wish this were my job. A couple of hours passed as I played around in my journal, and listened to music that had me swaying in my seat like a loon. God only knows what people think of this behavior, probably that I am deeply unwell...which would be dead on, come to think of it.
Over the last couple of months, I've gotten past my shyness of drawing or painting in public. Often people are just curious about what you're up to, and will take a peek. Sometimes, they stop and talk to you, others times, not. It's okay. Halfway through my second cup of coffee, a gentlemen in his late forties with kind eyes stopped at my table on his way out the door, to-go-cup in hand, and gestured for me to take off my headphones. When I did, he asked me if I was an artist.
"Umm, not exactly. But my daughter was." I answered. When I shared about Cory, handing him a picture of the handful I carry with me at all times, his eyes widened.
"I lost a daughter, too. She was seven." he said, his eyes meeting mine, and pain slowly rising to the surface, out of sync with the pleasant smile he was still wearing. "What was your name?" he asked.
I told him, and he responded, "Well, Nicole, I don't think it's a coincidence that we met here today. Would you mind if I prayed with you?"
And I, who have not personally called God's name since the fifth of July last year, nodded without hesitation. This man, in the middle of Brownstone Coffeehouse, bowed his head, and began a beautiful prayer, a plea for God to bring me comfort and peace, this day, and all the days of my life. He intoned, "God, you give us only 'this day' and on 'this day' Nicole is here living her life and enjoying her art, a talent given to her by you to help her through these difficult times. Let her continue to find joy in it. Let her remember what you told me years ago when I lost my girl in '98...that it is a huge gain for the one that is now in heaven who now has everything they have ever wanted and needed, and a smaller loss for us. Bring her the peace that she so desperately needs. In Jesus' name. Amen."
I opened my eyes, flooded with tears, and asked for his name. Mike was in town for a men's church retreat, and would keep me in his prayers.
Yes, people are put in our lives for a reason.
When I put up a half-hearted protest, he shooed me out of bed, saying, "Get your butt out of bed, and get to work, woman."
Okay, okay. Coffee didn't sound half-bad. As I toted all my supplies out to the car: laptop, art supplies, purse, headphones, and journals, I felt myself transported back in time to that little fifth grader whose anxiety demanded she cart a half dozen bags loaded with paper goods to school each day. The more things change, they more they stay the same?
I set up my little workstation at my usual table, second from the couch, and got plugged in. I was ready to work- how I wish this were my job. A couple of hours passed as I played around in my journal, and listened to music that had me swaying in my seat like a loon. God only knows what people think of this behavior, probably that I am deeply unwell...which would be dead on, come to think of it.
Over the last couple of months, I've gotten past my shyness of drawing or painting in public. Often people are just curious about what you're up to, and will take a peek. Sometimes, they stop and talk to you, others times, not. It's okay. Halfway through my second cup of coffee, a gentlemen in his late forties with kind eyes stopped at my table on his way out the door, to-go-cup in hand, and gestured for me to take off my headphones. When I did, he asked me if I was an artist.
"Umm, not exactly. But my daughter was." I answered. When I shared about Cory, handing him a picture of the handful I carry with me at all times, his eyes widened.
"I lost a daughter, too. She was seven." he said, his eyes meeting mine, and pain slowly rising to the surface, out of sync with the pleasant smile he was still wearing. "What was your name?" he asked.
I told him, and he responded, "Well, Nicole, I don't think it's a coincidence that we met here today. Would you mind if I prayed with you?"
And I, who have not personally called God's name since the fifth of July last year, nodded without hesitation. This man, in the middle of Brownstone Coffeehouse, bowed his head, and began a beautiful prayer, a plea for God to bring me comfort and peace, this day, and all the days of my life. He intoned, "God, you give us only 'this day' and on 'this day' Nicole is here living her life and enjoying her art, a talent given to her by you to help her through these difficult times. Let her continue to find joy in it. Let her remember what you told me years ago when I lost my girl in '98...that it is a huge gain for the one that is now in heaven who now has everything they have ever wanted and needed, and a smaller loss for us. Bring her the peace that she so desperately needs. In Jesus' name. Amen."
I opened my eyes, flooded with tears, and asked for his name. Mike was in town for a men's church retreat, and would keep me in his prayers.
Yes, people are put in our lives for a reason.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Flashbacks
Yesterday, I took Tim for another back procedure. On the ride home, he asked me if I'd minded waiting so long or if I'd been happy to have so much uninterrupted time to do my art. I smiled sheepishly. Oops, my secret is out- drawing and painting lately is my only joy. He then told me he thought some of my art was really good. He caught me a little off guard with the compliment; I didn't really think he paid attention, other than the hard to miss runs to Hobby Lobby and Michael's for supplies.
"You know I've started putting pearls on all the girls I draw, and sometimes a little Cory-heart on their necks." I offered.
"Really? That's nice." he commented.
Driving down the highway, I decided to share a little of my logic with him. "Don't you think it's amazing that her pearls were the only thing that stayed intact?"
He turned to me, shocked, why "You mean she was wearing them the day of the accident?"
Arrow to the heart, here. How could he not know that? "Yeah, you didn't know that?"
"How would I know?" he responded.
"Umm, she was wearing them the first time we went to see her at the funeral home. Those, and all her bracelets. They left them all on her. Remember?" I asked.
"I guess I didn't." he admitted.
"She hadn't worn them in months. When I got home with the stuff for the tacos, she came out to help me bring the groceries in and I saw she was wearing them. I said, 'Cory-Girl, you're wearing you pearls! I thought you'd forgotten them.' She said, 'Mom, I could never forget my pearls.' So I said, 'Well, they look beautiful. You look so cute today.' And she said, 'Thanks, Mom.' and smiled.
Remember how her and I traded necklaces at the service- I kept her pearls and she kept my dragonfly pendant?"
"She really liked that dragonfly pendant?" he asked.
"Yeah, she loved it. She wanted one so bad, and I was planning to surprise her with one after I went back to work. There just wasn't time."
"So those pearls, for them to stay strung and intact when all her other jewelry was in pieces...they were really strong. My girls that I draw...they can be sad, but I want them to be strong." I said.
"That's cool, honey." he offered.
And just like that, the conversation was over. But in my mind, I had unwittingly triggered myself back to the road. The chain of thoughts went something like this: pearls intact, on her neck, her neck was broken, and her arm, her twisted arm, two broken hips, my baby broke her hips, I let her get hurt, oh my God, her lips were blue, they were so blue, her hair covered her face, she was face down, why isn't anyone doing anything??
In a few seconds, the images had stopped becoming memories and started to become real time. Still driving down the highway, a sedate 70 miles per hour, I could see a shuffle of still frames that clicked by faster and faster (ambulance lights flashing, bystanders gently, but firmly, holding me back, rescue workers firing questions at me as I screamed Is she breathing? between every answer that my rattled brain struggled to find, dirt on her legs, her eyes closed, the horrible fear that swallowed up my heart as they finally turned her over, revealing her too still face bare tortuous degrees at a time) until they became a moving picture, and I could have easily just run up on the scene in my red t-shirt and shorts, my heart galloping out of control in my chest, looking, desperately looking, unable to see her at first until I saw bystanders who were busily trying to find a way to shield the mess from the rubberneckers that were driving by. Was it a wading pool or a piece of tarp that someone held up? That part was fuzzy.
Tim looked up with alarm as I casually whapped myself on the head a few times. Stop, just stop, for the love of God...wasn't once enough?
"Hey, hey...honey, don't do that." he grabbed for my free hand.
"Talk! Talk! Please talk about something! Anything!" I begged, breathing hard and the tears welling. Broken neck...skull fractures, front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures- front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures...
"I wonder if Jake and Jackson at that barbeque pork we left for them or if they just filled up on donuts. What do you think?" he asked.
"Umm..." I tried to answer, but was lost to the sight of my mom getting out of her car as fast as her legs could carry her and making it only a few feet before I had screamed out the awful truth, causing her knees to buckle. "Noooooooo! Oh my God!!!!!! Noooooo!" she screamed, her face which had been a map of worry seconds before becoming a portrait of horror as she discovered that sometimes nightmares are real.
"You know I've started putting pearls on all the girls I draw, and sometimes a little Cory-heart on their necks." I offered.
"Really? That's nice." he commented.
Driving down the highway, I decided to share a little of my logic with him. "Don't you think it's amazing that her pearls were the only thing that stayed intact?"
He turned to me, shocked, why "You mean she was wearing them the day of the accident?"
Arrow to the heart, here. How could he not know that? "Yeah, you didn't know that?"
"How would I know?" he responded.
"Umm, she was wearing them the first time we went to see her at the funeral home. Those, and all her bracelets. They left them all on her. Remember?" I asked.
"I guess I didn't." he admitted.
"She hadn't worn them in months. When I got home with the stuff for the tacos, she came out to help me bring the groceries in and I saw she was wearing them. I said, 'Cory-Girl, you're wearing you pearls! I thought you'd forgotten them.' She said, 'Mom, I could never forget my pearls.' So I said, 'Well, they look beautiful. You look so cute today.' And she said, 'Thanks, Mom.' and smiled.
Remember how her and I traded necklaces at the service- I kept her pearls and she kept my dragonfly pendant?"
"She really liked that dragonfly pendant?" he asked.
"Yeah, she loved it. She wanted one so bad, and I was planning to surprise her with one after I went back to work. There just wasn't time."
"So those pearls, for them to stay strung and intact when all her other jewelry was in pieces...they were really strong. My girls that I draw...they can be sad, but I want them to be strong." I said.
"That's cool, honey." he offered.
And just like that, the conversation was over. But in my mind, I had unwittingly triggered myself back to the road. The chain of thoughts went something like this: pearls intact, on her neck, her neck was broken, and her arm, her twisted arm, two broken hips, my baby broke her hips, I let her get hurt, oh my God, her lips were blue, they were so blue, her hair covered her face, she was face down, why isn't anyone doing anything??
In a few seconds, the images had stopped becoming memories and started to become real time. Still driving down the highway, a sedate 70 miles per hour, I could see a shuffle of still frames that clicked by faster and faster (ambulance lights flashing, bystanders gently, but firmly, holding me back, rescue workers firing questions at me as I screamed Is she breathing? between every answer that my rattled brain struggled to find, dirt on her legs, her eyes closed, the horrible fear that swallowed up my heart as they finally turned her over, revealing her too still face bare tortuous degrees at a time) until they became a moving picture, and I could have easily just run up on the scene in my red t-shirt and shorts, my heart galloping out of control in my chest, looking, desperately looking, unable to see her at first until I saw bystanders who were busily trying to find a way to shield the mess from the rubberneckers that were driving by. Was it a wading pool or a piece of tarp that someone held up? That part was fuzzy.
Tim looked up with alarm as I casually whapped myself on the head a few times. Stop, just stop, for the love of God...wasn't once enough?
"Hey, hey...honey, don't do that." he grabbed for my free hand.
"Talk! Talk! Please talk about something! Anything!" I begged, breathing hard and the tears welling. Broken neck...skull fractures, front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures- front and back, a broken arm, and two broken hips...broken neck...multiple skull fractures...
"I wonder if Jake and Jackson at that barbeque pork we left for them or if they just filled up on donuts. What do you think?" he asked.
"Umm..." I tried to answer, but was lost to the sight of my mom getting out of her car as fast as her legs could carry her and making it only a few feet before I had screamed out the awful truth, causing her knees to buckle. "Noooooooo! Oh my God!!!!!! Noooooo!" she screamed, her face which had been a map of worry seconds before becoming a portrait of horror as she discovered that sometimes nightmares are real.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Die, You Stupid Paper
Tim let himself in after work last night to find me sitting at the dining room table, bent over my art journal, working at a furious pace. I say furious because about an hour earlier, the slow burn that had been sitting in my chest all day had caught fire. I was so pissed I couldn't see straight. Looking back, I don't know why in the world I didn't head right for my cleaning supplies- my house could certainly use it. Instead, I took up with my art supplies, so caught up, I didn't even light Cory's candle or listen to music. It was me and my anger, party of two.
Why was I angry? The same reason as always- Cory is dead. What sparked it? I'm not really sure. Was it all the back-to-school hoopla- the ads on tv, the letters from Battle Creek Public Schools, the pics of people's kids on facebook being dropped off at college, safe and sound? Probably. Was it running into my niece and my nephew's girlfriend earlier in the day, one filling out job apps, while the other ran errands to start her college semester, both of them looking healthy and normal, going about life as it should be gone about? Probably. They looked so young, their eyes so bright; they were alive. Why not my girl?
Not fair, not fair, not fair.
So there I was at the table, attacking a piece of watercolor paper as if it had personally wronged me, and must pay. Tim made his way inside, and did his daily check in. He seemed encouraged to see I had showered; the purple bra had been passed off for yellow...always a good sign. Had I eaten? Yes, I maintained stubbornly, I had. Coffee and a granola bar count for something, don't they?
Gingerly, he sat down beside me, watching me spread my feelings across the page. He tried to engage me in conversation, which for Tim generally means interview-style: lots of questions. After about the second one, I cut him off, apologizing as I did so, but unable to stop myself. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to smell his Reuben sandwich, the odor of which was making my stomach roll. What did I want? What do I ever want?
I swallowed past the huge lump in my throat and turned back to my page. Tim finished eating, and moved to the living room. Alone again at last, I grabbed an old credit card and began scraping gesso across the face I'd just made, obliterating it for all of time. I scraped it so hard, my fury could be heard over the tv and my knuckles in my right hand would be sore in the morning. Tim simply turned the tv up and kept his distance, only calling out once when he heard a frustrated scream from my direction. "Honey, you ok?"
"I just want to break stuff!!" I screamed back.
"Oh dear, let's not do that. We just got new plates." he said, and returned to his show.
Determined not to cry, I swiped my hands across my eyes impatiently, smearing paint and gesso all over my face. I could not get this painting to turn out right no matter how hard I tried. How do you capture feelings this big? Disgusted with myself and my less than mediocre art skills, I left it lie, and went to splash water on my face.
In the bathroom mirror, I looked up to find my face streaked with paint, so reminiscent of war stripes. My eyes looked shell-shocked, still; my face was white and gaunt; my hair stuck out in every direction. That was the picture I'd been trying to make- too bad I didn't think to grab my camera.
Why was I angry? The same reason as always- Cory is dead. What sparked it? I'm not really sure. Was it all the back-to-school hoopla- the ads on tv, the letters from Battle Creek Public Schools, the pics of people's kids on facebook being dropped off at college, safe and sound? Probably. Was it running into my niece and my nephew's girlfriend earlier in the day, one filling out job apps, while the other ran errands to start her college semester, both of them looking healthy and normal, going about life as it should be gone about? Probably. They looked so young, their eyes so bright; they were alive. Why not my girl?
Not fair, not fair, not fair.
So there I was at the table, attacking a piece of watercolor paper as if it had personally wronged me, and must pay. Tim made his way inside, and did his daily check in. He seemed encouraged to see I had showered; the purple bra had been passed off for yellow...always a good sign. Had I eaten? Yes, I maintained stubbornly, I had. Coffee and a granola bar count for something, don't they?
Gingerly, he sat down beside me, watching me spread my feelings across the page. He tried to engage me in conversation, which for Tim generally means interview-style: lots of questions. After about the second one, I cut him off, apologizing as I did so, but unable to stop myself. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to smell his Reuben sandwich, the odor of which was making my stomach roll. What did I want? What do I ever want?
I swallowed past the huge lump in my throat and turned back to my page. Tim finished eating, and moved to the living room. Alone again at last, I grabbed an old credit card and began scraping gesso across the face I'd just made, obliterating it for all of time. I scraped it so hard, my fury could be heard over the tv and my knuckles in my right hand would be sore in the morning. Tim simply turned the tv up and kept his distance, only calling out once when he heard a frustrated scream from my direction. "Honey, you ok?"
"I just want to break stuff!!" I screamed back.
"Oh dear, let's not do that. We just got new plates." he said, and returned to his show.
Determined not to cry, I swiped my hands across my eyes impatiently, smearing paint and gesso all over my face. I could not get this painting to turn out right no matter how hard I tried. How do you capture feelings this big? Disgusted with myself and my less than mediocre art skills, I left it lie, and went to splash water on my face.
In the bathroom mirror, I looked up to find my face streaked with paint, so reminiscent of war stripes. My eyes looked shell-shocked, still; my face was white and gaunt; my hair stuck out in every direction. That was the picture I'd been trying to make- too bad I didn't think to grab my camera.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Enter Violet
After Sassy died, I didn't think I would ever get another cat; what would be the point? When my friend, Jenni, sent me a picture of a diminutive feline princess, I was surprised to feel a little tug on my heartstrings. There was no replacing Sassy, of course, but as I watched Jacob moping about the house, never laughing and seldom smiling, I wondered if a kitten might help him feel better. He had never had a pet to raise from a baby and watch grow. Could this experience engage him?
I googled "children in mourning" and saw that, sure enough, a pet can help a child, giving them something to care about when they often don't care about anything or anyone. Animals for those grieving can provide unspoken, but desperately needed touch and comfort.
The most surprising was Tim's reaction, who I had presumed would be the hard sell. I had all my research ready to lay out like a well shuffled deck of cards. Imagine my surprise when he was all for it. He saw the picture and fell in love, asking if he could name her since his parents had never let him name a pet when he was little. I tilted my head and looked at Tim again...who was this man standing in my kitchen?
So just like that, Violet was named and loved before we ever met her.
Gizmo, our elderly dog, and Oliver, our orange tabby cat, were not quite sure what to think of this tiny creature that invaded their homeland. Gizmo was frightened out of his mind, whining and scrambling onto my lap. I soothed him between my giggles; he was easily ten times her size.
I looked on as Jacob cradled Violet in his arms and looked down at her with a tenderness that made my throat tighten. In the next few days, I watched him attend to her every need, talking to her, explaining things to her, showing her around, and decided he was going to make a wonderful father someday. He had my father's patience and my silliness- a recipe for sure success with little ones.
I was baffled at Tim's behavior. Every night when he came in from work, he searched the house for his little fur covered princess and took her to watch tv with him. Sometimes I could hear him talking to her in the tone of voice he'd used only during Jacob's babyhood. Any small indiscretion typical of kittens getting to know a new environment was glossed over with a defensive, "Well, she's just little." I watched him lavishing over the top affection on her, doting on her at every turn, and slowly realized what he was doing.
Tim was giving Violet every bit of love he'd held back from Cory over the years. And maybe, if he'd known Cory from birth, it would have come just as naturally as it did to this tiny kitten. But without that early bond, their relationship was a lot more complicated. I wondered if he felt bad about the hugs he hadn't given or the weekends he hadn't invited her to visit while we were separated. I had a feeling he did, and was working out these feelings as he lavished affection upon this little squirt who streaked about the house, looking up at him with innocent eyes.
As Violet grew, so did her attitude. Within a month or two, she'd gone from the quiet little fluff ball who mainly ate and slept to a spitfire daredevil whose favorite pastimes were climbing curtains and trying to ride Oliver piggyback. It got so bad, we had to institute a household Bully Prevention Program for the pets. We counted down the days until she could be declawed. Jacob summed it up best with this statement as he viewed a picture I'd snapped of them in a rare moment of calm:
"That's the closest she's ever gotten to me without trying to harm me."
Through all the growing pains, Tim's dedication to Violet remained steadfast- he could be irritated as all get out with her, then smile helplessly, and start pointing out her good points to anyone who would listen- this is much how I remember his last days with Cory.
Violet in repose.
I googled "children in mourning" and saw that, sure enough, a pet can help a child, giving them something to care about when they often don't care about anything or anyone. Animals for those grieving can provide unspoken, but desperately needed touch and comfort.
The most surprising was Tim's reaction, who I had presumed would be the hard sell. I had all my research ready to lay out like a well shuffled deck of cards. Imagine my surprise when he was all for it. He saw the picture and fell in love, asking if he could name her since his parents had never let him name a pet when he was little. I tilted my head and looked at Tim again...who was this man standing in my kitchen?
So just like that, Violet was named and loved before we ever met her.
Gizmo, our elderly dog, and Oliver, our orange tabby cat, were not quite sure what to think of this tiny creature that invaded their homeland. Gizmo was frightened out of his mind, whining and scrambling onto my lap. I soothed him between my giggles; he was easily ten times her size.
I looked on as Jacob cradled Violet in his arms and looked down at her with a tenderness that made my throat tighten. In the next few days, I watched him attend to her every need, talking to her, explaining things to her, showing her around, and decided he was going to make a wonderful father someday. He had my father's patience and my silliness- a recipe for sure success with little ones.
I was baffled at Tim's behavior. Every night when he came in from work, he searched the house for his little fur covered princess and took her to watch tv with him. Sometimes I could hear him talking to her in the tone of voice he'd used only during Jacob's babyhood. Any small indiscretion typical of kittens getting to know a new environment was glossed over with a defensive, "Well, she's just little." I watched him lavishing over the top affection on her, doting on her at every turn, and slowly realized what he was doing.
Tim was giving Violet every bit of love he'd held back from Cory over the years. And maybe, if he'd known Cory from birth, it would have come just as naturally as it did to this tiny kitten. But without that early bond, their relationship was a lot more complicated. I wondered if he felt bad about the hugs he hadn't given or the weekends he hadn't invited her to visit while we were separated. I had a feeling he did, and was working out these feelings as he lavished affection upon this little squirt who streaked about the house, looking up at him with innocent eyes.
As Violet grew, so did her attitude. Within a month or two, she'd gone from the quiet little fluff ball who mainly ate and slept to a spitfire daredevil whose favorite pastimes were climbing curtains and trying to ride Oliver piggyback. It got so bad, we had to institute a household Bully Prevention Program for the pets. We counted down the days until she could be declawed. Jacob summed it up best with this statement as he viewed a picture I'd snapped of them in a rare moment of calm:
"That's the closest she's ever gotten to me without trying to harm me."
Through all the growing pains, Tim's dedication to Violet remained steadfast- he could be irritated as all get out with her, then smile helplessly, and start pointing out her good points to anyone who would listen- this is much how I remember his last days with Cory.
Violet in repose.
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