Jacob's kitten, Violet, has grown into a sweet young lady. I said as much to Jake the other day, and burst into laughter at his response, "I did a good job with her, didn't I?"
"You did. What's your secret?" I asked, grinning as I awaited his answer.
"Well..." Jacob said, drawing the word out as he furrowed his little brow. "I think I kept really calm even when she wasn't, so she kinda followed my lead. And every time she wanted to attack people's toes, I gave her a toy instead so she could attack that instead, and have fun playing without hurting anybody."
"Oh, I see, you gave her a replacement skill." I commented, my heart doing a happy little jig.
"Yeah, I mean she's a kitten, she's supposed to pounce and scratch and stuff...that doesn't make her a bad girl. I didn't yell at her when she wasn't doing what I wanted. I just gave her lots of love when she was using her toys the right way."
"You sure did." I said.
"We have a really close relationship." he said in closing.
Gosh, Cory, get a load of our boy...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yesterday, was a low, low day. Oliver, my orange tabby cat, and I just laid around all day, too sad to get out of bed. When Jake got home from school, he saw how it was, and gave up some kisses on my behalf. I asked him how he was doing, and he said, okay, but he misses Cory a lot.
I asked him, "How do you think Cory is doing?"
He tilted his head, and met my eyes, puzzled, "What?"
"Well, how do you think she is doing where she is?" I asked.
"I think she's sad cause she can't be with us." he answered.
"Do you think she's happy at all?" I countered.
"I think Cory is happiest when she sees us being happy." he said, and quietly exited the room.
How smart is this kid?
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Oh, Kohl's...
Cory and I were always laughing- a lot of our humor Three's Company-style, a simple misunderstanding ridden into the ground, and somehow, undeniably hilarious.
For instance, around the wind-down of the holidays, Kohl's launched a radio ad, encouraging shoppers who'd waited till the last minute, to spend their dollars with them, understanding wholeheartedly that last-minute shoppers had no idea what to get, they just needed a gift in hand to show up at family gatherings with their integrity intact. People could always return what they didn't like. Kohl's wanted to assure their potential shoppers, that returns would not be a problem at their stores. The first time I heard the ad, I thought it went something like this, "Are we assholes? Not at Kohl's! Returns and exchanges are easier than ever."
More than the words, I think it was the proud tone of voice, "Are we assholes?" and the jolly response, "Not at Kohl's!" that just cracked me up. Of course, a funny isn't nearly as enjoyable unless you share it with someone, preferably someone who shares your sense of humor.
I told it to Cory who said I was silly, and didn't fully appreciate it until we were walking down the aisles of Kohl's a few days later, and heard the spot play over the intercom. She collapsed onto a nearby shelf of sweaters, actually scraping her back, but not even feeling it because she was laughing so hard. For the rest of our Mommy/Cory day, we praised the "No Hassle" return policy of Kohl's department store, and all the joy it brought into our lives.
For instance, around the wind-down of the holidays, Kohl's launched a radio ad, encouraging shoppers who'd waited till the last minute, to spend their dollars with them, understanding wholeheartedly that last-minute shoppers had no idea what to get, they just needed a gift in hand to show up at family gatherings with their integrity intact. People could always return what they didn't like. Kohl's wanted to assure their potential shoppers, that returns would not be a problem at their stores. The first time I heard the ad, I thought it went something like this, "Are we assholes? Not at Kohl's! Returns and exchanges are easier than ever."
More than the words, I think it was the proud tone of voice, "Are we assholes?" and the jolly response, "Not at Kohl's!" that just cracked me up. Of course, a funny isn't nearly as enjoyable unless you share it with someone, preferably someone who shares your sense of humor.
I told it to Cory who said I was silly, and didn't fully appreciate it until we were walking down the aisles of Kohl's a few days later, and heard the spot play over the intercom. She collapsed onto a nearby shelf of sweaters, actually scraping her back, but not even feeling it because she was laughing so hard. For the rest of our Mommy/Cory day, we praised the "No Hassle" return policy of Kohl's department store, and all the joy it brought into our lives.
Home Again
I dreamt about Cory all night. First she appeared out of nowhere, having been "missing" for the last year and some odd months. She just showed up on the doorstep, her hair dyed in three fluorescent colors, all vying for attention, all screaming, "Look at me! Please, somebody see me!" As I looked her over- my only thoughts: is she okay? is she okay? is she hurt?- I took in all the piercings- nose, Marilyn, snakebites. I stopped short at her eyes that had that tell-tale glassy look, the pupils enlarged so much they seemed to be eating her face up.
"Mommy, can I come in?" she mumbled, her eyes on the ground once again.
"Cory!" I shrieked, out of my mind with joy to see her in one piece, safe, and standing in front of me. My arms reached for her blindly, and clutched around her all too skinny frame as she stumbled into my eager embrace.
"I don't feel good, Mom." she said, her face deep in my hair.
I looked up when I heard the screen door shut. In walked a young man toting a baby carrier, looking most uncomfortable- his eyes darting, as if to locate the exits before he'd even finished entering the room.
He said nothing to me or to my girl, just set the baby carrier down on the floor in front of us, and fled the room.
"I'm sorry, Mom." she said, and began sobbing in earnest. "Everything is just so messed up. I've missed you so much."
I grabbed her up and held on for dear life. "Cory, everything is gonna be ok."
She was alive. She was home. What else really mattered?
"Mommy, can I come in?" she mumbled, her eyes on the ground once again.
"Cory!" I shrieked, out of my mind with joy to see her in one piece, safe, and standing in front of me. My arms reached for her blindly, and clutched around her all too skinny frame as she stumbled into my eager embrace.
"I don't feel good, Mom." she said, her face deep in my hair.
I looked up when I heard the screen door shut. In walked a young man toting a baby carrier, looking most uncomfortable- his eyes darting, as if to locate the exits before he'd even finished entering the room.
He said nothing to me or to my girl, just set the baby carrier down on the floor in front of us, and fled the room.
"I'm sorry, Mom." she said, and began sobbing in earnest. "Everything is just so messed up. I've missed you so much."
I grabbed her up and held on for dear life. "Cory, everything is gonna be ok."
She was alive. She was home. What else really mattered?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Strong
This one is for Cory. They all are, in one way or another, but this one especially.
Cory, I have always admired your strength.
Let's talk about strength. What do you think it is?
I see a lot of posts on face book with the miserable looking young woman and a quote, "Smiling on the outside when you're falling apart on the inside...that's being strong." Or, "A strong woman will tell you she's fine even when she's not." These women are always alone in the pictures.
These mottos just aren't my idea of strength or what I tried to instill in Cory.
I think real strength means having the courage to say what people don't necessarily want to hear. If Cory were here today, sitting across from me here in the studio, I think she would tell you that saying you're ok when you're not doesn't help you or anyone else. If someone that you trust asks you how you're doing, and it happens to be far from good, my advice is to sing...sing that shit like a canary. That is the only way to get the support you need and to keep your yourself in honest relationships with others.
The times that Cory did tell people what they wanted to hear- the times she wore the mask for other people's benefit, it wore her down. She had twice the pain and stress- the symptoms themselves, and the added struggle of playing a part she shouldn't have to play.
I think she would say to take the help that is offered to you, even if it is only a listening ear.
So, on that note, I'd like to share the following:
TRUTH: Some days are ugly; some days I feel ugly.
TRUTH: Some days, I don't even feel like I'm really here anymore. I am watching a much older, much weathered, pretty much broken version of myself walk and talk through my "home" set and my "work" set, smiling in the right places, and wearing the right shoes.
TRUTH: I'm really not ok.
I guess anyone who has recently lost a child, and stumbled on this blog might be disheartened to see how things are some fourteen to fifteen months after the unexpected death of your child. Maybe they will need to find another blog with a little more hope. All I know is I promised to tell the truth.
That's what I always asked of my Cory-Girl, and that's what she expects of me. After all her Madre is strong.
Cory, I have always admired your strength.
Let's talk about strength. What do you think it is?
I see a lot of posts on face book with the miserable looking young woman and a quote, "Smiling on the outside when you're falling apart on the inside...that's being strong." Or, "A strong woman will tell you she's fine even when she's not." These women are always alone in the pictures.
These mottos just aren't my idea of strength or what I tried to instill in Cory.
I think real strength means having the courage to say what people don't necessarily want to hear. If Cory were here today, sitting across from me here in the studio, I think she would tell you that saying you're ok when you're not doesn't help you or anyone else. If someone that you trust asks you how you're doing, and it happens to be far from good, my advice is to sing...sing that shit like a canary. That is the only way to get the support you need and to keep your yourself in honest relationships with others.
The times that Cory did tell people what they wanted to hear- the times she wore the mask for other people's benefit, it wore her down. She had twice the pain and stress- the symptoms themselves, and the added struggle of playing a part she shouldn't have to play.
I think she would say to take the help that is offered to you, even if it is only a listening ear.
So, on that note, I'd like to share the following:
TRUTH: Some days are ugly; some days I feel ugly.
TRUTH: Some days, I don't even feel like I'm really here anymore. I am watching a much older, much weathered, pretty much broken version of myself walk and talk through my "home" set and my "work" set, smiling in the right places, and wearing the right shoes.
TRUTH: I'm really not ok.
I guess anyone who has recently lost a child, and stumbled on this blog might be disheartened to see how things are some fourteen to fifteen months after the unexpected death of your child. Maybe they will need to find another blog with a little more hope. All I know is I promised to tell the truth.
That's what I always asked of my Cory-Girl, and that's what she expects of me. After all her Madre is strong.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Pleasant Thoughts
There was blood in her hair. I'm pretty sure of that now. It seemed to hit me all at once one of the nights I couldn't get to sleep, having rolled the dice and lost on that all too familiar gamble called "Should I Take My Sleep Meds Tonight or Try To Wing It"? I was worried about being too groggy for work, and I had an early morning, so I left the pill in its bottle and suffered from insomnia all night. All too often when I can't sleep, the images, the sounds, and sensations of the road sneak up on my exhausted brain from behind, or wherever such intrusive memories are stored.
This night, I stumbled through the pitch black sleeping house by the light of my cellphone, and crept into the studio, hopeful to paint myself sleepy. The pieces I like the best, the ones that feel the most honest, are the ones that have no predisposed plan, just two hands working paper and paint, quite disjointed from my brain. Or so I've always thought.
I had turned on the little space heater that keeps my studio cozy in this unpredictable Michigan weather, and put on one of Cory's hoodies over my sleep shirt, feet bare and tucked up under me as I sat on my knees. I was warm, there was light, and I just floated along in the quiet of 3 a.m., putting down marks, smudging them, adding color, making a grand and beautiful mess.
I stopped at one point, and ventured to the kitchen for a drink. When I came back,, I looked at the face I'd done, upside down from my viewpoint, as I walked into the room, and nearly spilled my juice. It was one of those moments when all the hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you can actually hear the blood pounding, making the rounds, in your ears.
She had blood in her hair. Suddenly, I was certain of it. Just as I thought it to myself, my eyes returning again and again to the disheveled, dirty, almost disfigured face on my journal page, a face with hair that nearly obscured it, and was streaked with gore, the road came back full force.
Sometimes I wonder if I will spend all the rest of my life on that damn road. Just so you know, you can't just "think pleasant thoughts". These are intrusive memories that come triggered or un triggered, willy nilly little harbingers of hell. It hardly seems fair, wasn't once enough?
There were a million little frames of that scene that are all jumbled up in the creases of my brain. I know that two main images - her twisted arm and her impossibly blue lips- have been given top billing. Little by little, more are seeping through.
She had blood in her hair. It wasn't red, that I remember; it wasn't droplets. It was more like a thick black tar that covered so much space, so much, so much...how could anyone have that much blood in them?
I remember washing her hair, what three strands or so she had, when she was a newborn, just home from the hospital...the smell of that baby shampoo; the smell of my baby.
I remember coaxing her shiny blonde toddler strands into a "Pebbles" side pony. For some reason, I am also stuck on pouring her chubby baby self into a red plaid and denim dress she had, complete with bright red cable tights, and tiny Mary Jane black buckle shoes. She was like a living doll.
I remember how she begged to have her hair cut short like Darla's when we watched the remake of The Little Rascals. I told her when she was a little older. She waited to catch me on the toilet, and snuck a pair of scissors stealthily into the room that is now my studio. She emerged moments later, victorious, a lopsided bob of sorts no competition for the joy in her eyes to have accomplished her goal. That was pretty much the last time I tried to weigh in on Cory's hairstyle.
I watched her grow from a gawky preteen to a tiny fairy whose short hair cuts always suited her diminutive proportions. Some days, I would catch sight of her at some new angle, and think to myself, God she is beautiful. Is she really mine?
I watched her hair color span the color wheel, according to her mood. The plum purple had to have been one of my all time favorites. It played off her fair skin, and her eyes fairly leapt out of her face, so large, so luminous...as if they belonged to some fragile creature that didn't really belong to you, only gifted you with their presence as they made their way to a better place.
I piled her hair onto her head in up dos, and the like for every dance she attended. For the junior prom, I gave her a smoky eye to go along with it that she adored. She took one look in the mirror, and just beamed.
My Cory, my girl, giggling and putting away groceries with me and her brother. The next time I saw her,
she had so much blood in her hair. There was blood... everywhere.
"She's only nineteen!
Somebody do something! Why isn't anyone doing anything? Is she breathing? Oh my God, is she breathing? Somebody ANSWER ME!! IS SHE BREATHING? Oh my God, please, please...IS SHE? IS SHE BREATHING? She's only nineteen--"
This night, I stumbled through the pitch black sleeping house by the light of my cellphone, and crept into the studio, hopeful to paint myself sleepy. The pieces I like the best, the ones that feel the most honest, are the ones that have no predisposed plan, just two hands working paper and paint, quite disjointed from my brain. Or so I've always thought.
I had turned on the little space heater that keeps my studio cozy in this unpredictable Michigan weather, and put on one of Cory's hoodies over my sleep shirt, feet bare and tucked up under me as I sat on my knees. I was warm, there was light, and I just floated along in the quiet of 3 a.m., putting down marks, smudging them, adding color, making a grand and beautiful mess.
I stopped at one point, and ventured to the kitchen for a drink. When I came back,, I looked at the face I'd done, upside down from my viewpoint, as I walked into the room, and nearly spilled my juice. It was one of those moments when all the hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you can actually hear the blood pounding, making the rounds, in your ears.
She had blood in her hair. Suddenly, I was certain of it. Just as I thought it to myself, my eyes returning again and again to the disheveled, dirty, almost disfigured face on my journal page, a face with hair that nearly obscured it, and was streaked with gore, the road came back full force.
Sometimes I wonder if I will spend all the rest of my life on that damn road. Just so you know, you can't just "think pleasant thoughts". These are intrusive memories that come triggered or un triggered, willy nilly little harbingers of hell. It hardly seems fair, wasn't once enough?
There were a million little frames of that scene that are all jumbled up in the creases of my brain. I know that two main images - her twisted arm and her impossibly blue lips- have been given top billing. Little by little, more are seeping through.
She had blood in her hair. It wasn't red, that I remember; it wasn't droplets. It was more like a thick black tar that covered so much space, so much, so much...how could anyone have that much blood in them?
I remember washing her hair, what three strands or so she had, when she was a newborn, just home from the hospital...the smell of that baby shampoo; the smell of my baby.
I remember coaxing her shiny blonde toddler strands into a "Pebbles" side pony. For some reason, I am also stuck on pouring her chubby baby self into a red plaid and denim dress she had, complete with bright red cable tights, and tiny Mary Jane black buckle shoes. She was like a living doll.
I remember how she begged to have her hair cut short like Darla's when we watched the remake of The Little Rascals. I told her when she was a little older. She waited to catch me on the toilet, and snuck a pair of scissors stealthily into the room that is now my studio. She emerged moments later, victorious, a lopsided bob of sorts no competition for the joy in her eyes to have accomplished her goal. That was pretty much the last time I tried to weigh in on Cory's hairstyle.
I watched her grow from a gawky preteen to a tiny fairy whose short hair cuts always suited her diminutive proportions. Some days, I would catch sight of her at some new angle, and think to myself, God she is beautiful. Is she really mine?
I watched her hair color span the color wheel, according to her mood. The plum purple had to have been one of my all time favorites. It played off her fair skin, and her eyes fairly leapt out of her face, so large, so luminous...as if they belonged to some fragile creature that didn't really belong to you, only gifted you with their presence as they made their way to a better place.
I piled her hair onto her head in up dos, and the like for every dance she attended. For the junior prom, I gave her a smoky eye to go along with it that she adored. She took one look in the mirror, and just beamed.
My Cory, my girl, giggling and putting away groceries with me and her brother. The next time I saw her,
she had so much blood in her hair. There was blood... everywhere.
"She's only nineteen!
Somebody do something! Why isn't anyone doing anything? Is she breathing? Oh my God, is she breathing? Somebody ANSWER ME!! IS SHE BREATHING? Oh my God, please, please...IS SHE? IS SHE BREATHING? She's only nineteen--"
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Endure
After being down for two days, I am out of bed, and at the coffee shop, back on the blog. I am wearing my Venice earrings for peace, a skull scarf Cory would've loved, and what Cory labeled my "tough" boots. I may not be wearing makeup and my hair is a piled up mess on top of my head, but I am vertical, and that's what really matters.
I've been trying to use "laughter" as my guideword these last few months. While certainly positive, it isn't always honest. Sometimes you just can't get there. So I am going with "endure". That's what Cory did.
We had to make our goals for her illness realistic. While we certainly hoped she would turn out to be one of the blessed souls whose symptoms simply abate once they hit their early twenties, we weren't hanging our hat on it to only be bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Instead our goal working with Dr. Z was something concrete, measurable, and probable- for her episodes to become shorter and farther apart. In other words, for her to have more good days than bad days. And for those bad days, to outfit her with a plethora of coping skills and support.
I think my goal should be the same. This will never go away. I need to be committed to enduring, having more good days than bad, and building my coping skills and support circle. It's okay to fall in the ditch every so often, but I don't want to spend months there. I want to follow Cory's strong example, and get up and walk on, over and over again. I want to make her proud.
I've found that the busier I stay, the fewer flashbacks I have. Since I've been back to work, using my brain to solve problems that have nothing to do with my loss, they have decreased a lot. As soon as I noticed that, I jumped on it. I have few different things I'm working on: the blog, my art journal, my goal of drawing 100 faces, making the moody girl stickers and magnets, adding finishing touches to my little studio, and painting 100 canvases. Add to that, trying to cook at least 4-5 times a week and getting Jake outside, even if it means putting his beloved kitten in a harness, and walking her right along with the dog.
Does that sound like a to-do list? It is. And I am sharing it because I want to be held accountable.
I've been trying to use "laughter" as my guideword these last few months. While certainly positive, it isn't always honest. Sometimes you just can't get there. So I am going with "endure". That's what Cory did.
We had to make our goals for her illness realistic. While we certainly hoped she would turn out to be one of the blessed souls whose symptoms simply abate once they hit their early twenties, we weren't hanging our hat on it to only be bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Instead our goal working with Dr. Z was something concrete, measurable, and probable- for her episodes to become shorter and farther apart. In other words, for her to have more good days than bad days. And for those bad days, to outfit her with a plethora of coping skills and support.
I think my goal should be the same. This will never go away. I need to be committed to enduring, having more good days than bad, and building my coping skills and support circle. It's okay to fall in the ditch every so often, but I don't want to spend months there. I want to follow Cory's strong example, and get up and walk on, over and over again. I want to make her proud.
I've found that the busier I stay, the fewer flashbacks I have. Since I've been back to work, using my brain to solve problems that have nothing to do with my loss, they have decreased a lot. As soon as I noticed that, I jumped on it. I have few different things I'm working on: the blog, my art journal, my goal of drawing 100 faces, making the moody girl stickers and magnets, adding finishing touches to my little studio, and painting 100 canvases. Add to that, trying to cook at least 4-5 times a week and getting Jake outside, even if it means putting his beloved kitten in a harness, and walking her right along with the dog.
Does that sound like a to-do list? It is. And I am sharing it because I want to be held accountable.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Be Careful Who You Invite In
Even in the midst of joy, there is a palpable sense of despair...it bleeds relentlessly into every other emotion. It is sneaky, this fellow, pushing down your shoulders as you walk along, busily pressing creases into your face as you sleep, and gleefully patting some grays into your tousled bedhead. He is always with you, like a houseguest who won't leave, and you have frankly become a little afraid to ask to leave. What would happen then? What might your newfound friend be capable of when shown the door? So instead of confronting him, you uncomfortably soldier along, just enduring.
I think he and I crossed paths today at the window of the Dairy Queen. As I opened my mouth to order, gleeful to be procuring some chocolate frozen goodness, I slipped in my super cute -but admittedly not practical- high heels, and nearly bit it. Nervous laughter bubbled up on autopilot. Once my brain had secured my safety to its satisfaction, my first thought was to remember to share this giggle with Cory when I got home...how she would cackle! "Sure, Mom, high heels aren't scary at all!"
How is possible to still have these kind of thoughts, being honestly caught by surprise when my brain corrects itself seconds later? Are Despair and my brain in cahoots together? How is that fair? That bastard should be forced to work alone.
I have done remarkably well all work week, giving myself pats on the back as I went along...right up until that moment when the smile felt stale on my face- just a Mrs. Potato Head with a big lipstick grin pasted on, that's me.
I ate my ice cream, my taste buds singing hallelujah, while my heart burned, just burned. What little light had been behind my eyes snuffed out that quickly, that completely. Despair looked at me, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head, "Lost, lost, lost..."
I think he and I crossed paths today at the window of the Dairy Queen. As I opened my mouth to order, gleeful to be procuring some chocolate frozen goodness, I slipped in my super cute -but admittedly not practical- high heels, and nearly bit it. Nervous laughter bubbled up on autopilot. Once my brain had secured my safety to its satisfaction, my first thought was to remember to share this giggle with Cory when I got home...how she would cackle! "Sure, Mom, high heels aren't scary at all!"
How is possible to still have these kind of thoughts, being honestly caught by surprise when my brain corrects itself seconds later? Are Despair and my brain in cahoots together? How is that fair? That bastard should be forced to work alone.
I have done remarkably well all work week, giving myself pats on the back as I went along...right up until that moment when the smile felt stale on my face- just a Mrs. Potato Head with a big lipstick grin pasted on, that's me.
I ate my ice cream, my taste buds singing hallelujah, while my heart burned, just burned. What little light had been behind my eyes snuffed out that quickly, that completely. Despair looked at me, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head, "Lost, lost, lost..."
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