Category: Cat Corrier

21May

Six years, or 2,191 days without him

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This is my week. This is “The Week.” This is the week that I allow myself to relive that night in May 2009 when my world was turned upside down; the night my husband, without any warning, took his own life. The night that would forever change not only my direction, but the direction of his entire family. This is the week that I allow myself to be enveloped with grief if I feel the need; the time to reflect on this unintentional journey; giving myself permission to cry and be sad for a bit. This indulgence might appear to negate the progress that I have made, but in reality it brings to light the everyday joy that I am now able to find in life again.

So, please, allow me to share some of my thoughts and feelings that guide me through “my week”.

It’s hard to believe that I’m in the midst of the sixth anniversary of Michael’s death. Sometimes it feels like yesterday that the police officers were knocking on my bedroom door, and other times, it feels like a lifetime ago, or even yet, someone else’s lifetime ago.  And yet no matter the perception, the reality remains that this man has been gone for six long years. You know, there’s going to come a point in time if I live long enough, that he will have been gone longer than we were together, and that will make me sad.

Even today as I rummage through old photos, I am reminded that there will never be any “new” pictures of Michael. All of our images of him stopped in 2009. And as the lives of his family have continued, and our own images have, and will continue to change, his image will remain frozen in time. As I flip through the photos, my breath is taken away when I see all the “last” images of him. The last photo of him with Lexi (the only grandchild he got to meet), his last Christmas, his last Easter, and sadly, the last picture taken with his son Brandon and daughter Heather.  I weep at these sights. And not just for me, but for Michael and all that he has missed. I weep for his children, Brandon and Heather, as well as for my children, Heather, Robin, and Shane.   I break down in sobs knowing that his grandchildren (and future grandchildren)  will never know the wonderful man that they would’ve called “Poppy”.

Michael was an incredible man. He was a giving man, a selfless man. He was one that would take on your burdens and make them his own. He was the last one to sit down at the dinner table to ensure that everyone had everything they needed. He would give a stranger the last dollar in his pocket if they needed it. He was my emotional rock and my best friend. Michael was always quick with a smile, generous with his hugs, and a kiss if you allowed him. He loved with his whole being, he gave with his whole heart. He made everyone around him feel special, important, and loved.

Michael loved life more than anyone I knew. So, the obvious question would be “Why would he take his own life?” This individual that appeared to be in charge of his own happiness, a man that portrayed strength and control. Why?  I don’t have the answers, nor will I ever. I can only speculate and to do that really serves no purpose. He made a decision, a very poor decision and it cost him his life. I have moved on from seeking an answer, as it only sends me into a spiral of sorrow, self doubt, and confusion.

There have been numerous times when I have asked the rhetorical question. “How could you do this to me Michael?” My own sister has vocalized the same question to me. Funny though, when she asks the question I feel defensive of Michael. I sat down one night and wrote these words while tears were streaming down my face and I was choking back sobs.

“I never would have done this to you,
This pain that you have put me through.
This hell called healing,
You left it all up to me to deal with.
I never would have done this to you”.

It has taken time for me to realize that Michael didn’t do this “to me”. I, along with his other family members, were merely casualties left behind in his act of desperation. I don’t blame him anymore, I only have love and sadness for him. The anger ship sailed long ago.

 Although having a loved one pass away in any other way is devastating, the nature of a death by suicide adds to the complex act of grieving. I know many individuals that have witnessed their loved one struck down with cancer and other life threatening illnesses. I have seen the heartache and the desperation of them watching their soul mate fight for their life and ultimately succumb to the illness and pass away. And I’m left thinking, “God Michael, WHY DIDN’T YOU FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE LIKE THEY DID?” That is the added ingredient in this process of grieving for a victim of suicide.

So, I’ve learned a few things about being the widow of a man that took his life – through my own experiences and those of others. I suspect these thoughts are probably universal to survivors.

  • If you’re my friend, never be afraid to talk to me about Michael. I’m always ready to hear stories of him, your memories of him. That keeps his memory alive.
  • Unless I bring up the act of suicide, I don’t want to talk about the way he died.
  • Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m pretty strong, I’ve been through hell – and in some ways I’m a better person to have gone through this.
  • Never – ever – tell me that everything happens for a reason.

My family agrees that if Michael had waited until daylight, we might’ve had a different outcome. So please, if suicide has ever crossed your mind, just wait.

Wait until daylight. Wait until you see your child’s smile again. Wait until you hear a bird’s chirp, or a choir singing God’s praises. Wait until your love kisses you Good Morning. Wait for that sliver of light, because it’s there to be seen. Just wait, because life is worth living. Life is worth the heartache. Life is worth the wait.

Above all, it is my wish that Michael be remembered for how he lived his life, the legacy that he left behind; not how he chose to end it.

Love and peace to all,

Cat Corrier

07Feb

Monkey see, Monkey do, I am my Father’s daughter

For the first twelve years of my life my mother was a housewife. That’s what they were called in the 1960’s. Today, we would refer to her as homemaker or a stay at home mom, but back then, it was housewife.

I give my mother credit for the love I have for a neat and tidy home. Keeping a clean home was important to her, and as children; we were given household jobs to contribute to the maintaining of a clean and orderly home.

My mother had the good fortune of having a  dear friend Shirley that lived across the street. After her morning chores were done, my mother would put my brother John in a fresh diaper, grab her cigarettes, and head over to Shirley’s house for a time of talking, coffee drinking, smoking, and adult company.

Shirley had a daughter Lee Ann that was John’s age, which worked out great for the moms. All my life, I have chased after the hopes that one day, I could have a friend, neighbor, that I could duplicate that relationship that Shirley and my mother had.

I was around nine years old at the time and I loved to accompany my mom and my brother to Shirley’s house. I would play “teacher”, reading to the younger ones, drawing on the chalkboard, or coloring with them; basically being their boss.

Perhaps a year down the road, Shirley gave birth to a son. I remember the first time (possibly the last time) I was given permission to hold him.  Of course I had to sit squarely on the sofa, getting instructions from my mother, “support his head”, “keep him covered up”, all the things nervous adults tell children.

For the first few minutes Billy peacefully laid there in my arms while I soaked in his sweet baby smells, touching his soft newborn hands, and stroking his downy soft hair. He then began to squirm, and shortly after, he began to cry. I looked  squarely into his eyes and without any regard to my surroundings, in the company of my mother and Shirley,  and said, “Quit crying you son-of-a-bitch!” In my defense, I had NO idea what a bitch was, let alone a son-of-a-bitch. I just knew that I had heard my daddy say it PLENTY of times out of frustration for one thing or another. My mother reeled in mortified disbelief and shock while Shirley grabbed her innocent son from my cradled arms. My mom in a desperate attempt to save some sort of face said, “Cathy Rhea, where have you heard that kind of talk?” To my mother’s embarrassment, I calmly replied, “Daddy says it all the time.”

Needless to say, I learned quickly that was not an acceptable thing to call a babe in arms.

I get a laugh when I think of this story, but keep in mind, my Daddy has always said that I would laugh at a funeral. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, because to me it shows that I look for the humor in life.

What is life without a few embarrassing moments, without a few experiences you would like to sweep under the carpet? I choose to hold on to those moments if for no other reason but to keep my humility in check.

Keeping it real 24-7,

Cat

06Jan

Happy Birthday Helen Ruth

Today is my mother’s birthday. Had she lived to see 2015 she would’ve been 85 years old. She passed away from lung cancer at an all too early age of 64.

I try to imagine how my life would’ve been different had she lived this long. I think that had she had more time on this earth, I would’ve been able to gain a better perspective of her and her ways. As I have said previously, she was complicated and sometimes getting close to her was near impossible.

So, in the absence of my mother, I have to say that time and circumstance have been a teacher to me. In the gap between my mother’s death and today, time has taught me not to take this life for granted. Appreciate all that is around us, soak in the every day mundane chores and responsibilities. Be thankful for a purpose. Rejoice in pain, celebrate those tears because that means you can feel, you can hurt. Embrace joy.

My circumstances have taught me that everything can change in an instant. If we are not mentally and spiritually prepared, it can be a long and bumpy road, the lessons that we learn can be painful. I have faced this on many occasions since Helen Ruth passed away. At times I was better prepared than others. Be rest assured that life can change when we are least expecting it. It’s how we face it, how we deal with it that defines who we are… or at least who we want to become.

I have learned that happiness is a choice. Only for so long can we blame our past, point fingers at others that “made us who we are.” We are who we have chosen to be. For me, I choose happiness.

My dear mother, I miss you. I miss the time that we have lost. I’m sorry that you weren’t here to enjoy all of your grandchildren and yes, your great grandchildren. Love to you on your birthday,

Cat

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My wedding day – 1974

02Jan

For Trish; In Memory of Wayne

Wayne & Trish Wolfenbarger

Wayne & Trish Wolfenbarger

Wayne and Trish Wolfenbarger (along with their three doppelgänger children, Ashley, Brooke, and Gunnar),  came into our   lives in the late 1990’s. There was only one condo that separated our large families (apologies to Mr. & Mrs Casey.) Michael and I were still practically newlyweds and adjusting to our blended family when our families were introduced.

I remember when they moved in. Truck after truck, load after load kept being delivered and unloaded.  I watched with curiosity. Just how many people  and just how much stuff can fit and live in this small three bedroom condominium?

Michael, being the social butterfly that he was,  just had to make a beeline over to meet the new neighbors while all of the unloading and unpacking was taking place.  I, on the other hand, wanted to leave them in peace and allow them to move in, get settled, and perhaps one day, get acquainted. But that was always a difference between Michael and I. He was more “in your face” – I was more.. well, not. And in true Michael fashion, everyone seemed to appreciate his approach.

I am proud to say that Wayne & Trish and three of the most adorable children you ever laid your eyes on became our dear friends.  Our children became fast friends. Our homes became hubs to children going in and out,  laughing, screaming, seemingly always hungry for snacks. There was always a child spending the night with another child. It was busy, it was chaotic, but looking back, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Shane, Brandon, Gunner, Heather & Brooken1998.

Shane, Brandon, Gunnar, Heather & Brooke – 1998 (Where was Ashley?)

 

Ashley, Brooke, and Hannah (Grigsby) performing the Macarena. The parents were constantly being treated to performances)

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If you don’t mind, stop and listen to this song. I believe with all of my heart if Wayne ever had a song for his loving wife Trish, it would be this song.

Let me tell you about this amazing couple.  When I met them, honestly I can’t tell you how long they had been married. At that point in time when we first met, they had already fused together as one. I don’t mean that didn’t have separate personalities, they did – clearly, they did. Wayne was soft spoken. His style was slow, it was easy, it was well thought out. And Trish, well, Trish was more like me. She felt things stronger, more powerful, and in truth (for both of us), more exaggerated. But they conducted themselves as one unit. They ebbed, they flowed. One didn’t make a move without the other. And oh, how they loved one another! I can close my eyes and remember the many, many times I caught them gazing into each other’s eyes – the love, the devotion, the respect, and the commitment was clearly evident.  Theirs was a love to pattern a relationship over.

And one more thing, all of “that stuff” that went into that small condominium – well, Trish turned it into a home for their family. Everywhere you looked, it was home. It was comfortable, it was lived in. She loved Americana, and those touches she added to their home made it more special than any professional decorator could’ve done.

We spent several years in that community. We watched our children mature. We experienced great times, and we endured troubling times. But through it all, we managed to raise up some really great kids and still have strong marriages to show for it.

I can’t recall now if Michael and I moved away first or if Wayne and Trish moved away first, but in the end, each family went their own way. We got busy, we lost touch.

You all know that Michael unexpectedly took his life in 2009. Not long after that (through Facebook) I was reacquainted with Trish and her children. We swapped stories, we caught up, promising to visit soon. Time has a way of getting away from us. We have good intentions, really we do. It seems the next thing I know I hear that Wayne is sick – with cancer.

Personally, of all the words in the dictionary, I hate the “C” word almost as much as any other word I know. And when I heard how serious this monster had attacked Wayne’s body, it made me sick. Although no one “deserves” to have cancer, no one “deserved” it less than Wayne. By the time I got over to the Wolfenbarger’s house to bring a meal, I had waited too late to see Wayne. He was too sick for visitors. However, I did get to visit Trish and her amazing children. They were just as I had remembered (although the children were grown adults now). They were the family Musketeers – all for one, and one for all. This family has never wavered in their devotion to one another.

One year ago tomorrow will be the first anniversary of Wayne Wolfenbarger’s passage into heaven. I have in some ways dreaded this for Trish and her family as it will conjure up the memories of the loss of this wonderful man. Quite frankly, these kind of anniversaries  suck – I can’t think of a more poignant way of expressing it.

But what I hope, and what I pray, is that this anniversary will highlight for this family all the love, and all the warmth, and all  the special times that Wayne brought to this world and our lives. He loved his wife beyond measure, he treasured his children beyond compare. What greater legacy could a man leave behind? Nothing…  nothing.

Wayne Wolfenbarger you are a man to be remembered. A man to be respected, and a man that we will never forget.

Send Michael my love.

Missing you,

Cat Corrier