Category: children

12Oct

Starting Over; my journey to contentment

Years ago… many years ago, I found myself starting over in my life. It wasn’t the first time, and unfortunately, would not be my last time. I was fresh out of a broken marriage. The decision to end my sad, oppressed marriage was not an easy one. It took me two years to gather enough belief in myself that I could make it on my own. But when I finally did find the courage, it was like a rebirth.

I found myself raising my three children in the tiniest of a rental house that consisted of two small bedrooms and one bathroom. The house was constructed in the mid 1940’s. It had charm. The covered front porch was perfect. All it lacked was a porch swing and you would be taken back to days gone by of lazy Sunday afternoons, sipping lemonade, and watching the neighbors drive by. The screen door still had the time stamped “B” (for Beeler) in the center of it. There was a large picture window in the living room that hosted as a frame to the beautiful mature trees outside. But along with that charm also came some drawbacks. The lack of electrical outlets, the little boxes they called closets, and the spookiest dirt basement you could imagine. But it was home, right from the beginning.

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Our Freedom Home (1994)

I left my marriage with very few belongings. Not because they were refused to me, but I wanted a fresh start. Money was tight, very tight. But thanks to easy payment plans, I purchased a new (and very inexpensive) bedroom suit and a dining room table. Back in the day, painted hunter green furniture was quite the rage, and that is exactly what I purchased for both rooms. My oldest daughter, Heather, was with me when I picked out the dining room table, and no two people could have been more excited over a table and four chairs than we were. She was in her late teens, and wise beyond her years. Heather named our table, “The Freedom Table.” Eventually, our tiniest of a house became our “Freedom House.” We could breathe again. We could leave every light on in the house and no one would have harsh words (and we did, on purpose I might add). My children once again could feel the luxury of not being judged, or worse, ignored. That table, that house, represented our independence, our resurfacing into the world.

 With the inspired energy that comes from renewed strength, I set out to turn that little house into a home for me and my children. My artist friend Denae taught me how to stencil with paints.  I personalized the kitchen with stenciled chili peppers. Stenciled ivy crept along the walls in the living room. When you walked into Heather and Robin’s bedroom, you were greeted with an array of stenciled sunflowers as a border in their tiny room. As you can see by the photo above, I painted the outside shutters carnation pink. 

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Our chili pepper kitchen

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The door you see goes into that scary basement!

That's Shane "hiding" in the corner

That’s Shane “hiding” in the corner

That was early spring of 1994. My heart sang. My joy overwhelmed me. I discovered simple pleasures again; getting my hands dirty in the soil of newly planted flowers, dancing in the kitchen with my daughters, watching my son climb his first tree.

One particular joy that I encountered was going to our local Farmer’s Market every Saturday. My son Shane would generally be with his father, my daughter Robin (Miss Independence) would be doing, well, God knows what, so that would leave Heather. She was always as thrilled as I was to get that early start and see what the market had to offer that day. We loved the fresh air, we loved the time together, and we oh so loved the slow pace. Our Farmer’s Market not only had the finest of fresh fruits and vegetables, but also local artisans would be showing their wares. There was an eatery that served pinto beans and cornbread.

Heather and I found ourselves in the familiar pattern of checking out the arts and crafts first, always inspired, but sadly, money was rationed too tightly for such extravagance. Next, on to the fruits and vegetables where we carefully picked what would be cooked and served to the family. We would work our way around throughout the market where the potted plants were sold. The allure of the flats of petunias, begonias, and marigolds would reel us in. Almost always, something that needed to be planted later would end up in our cart. Because money was so very tight, I would keep our future purchases mentally calculated….$3.00 for the beans, $2.00 for bananas, $4.00 for flowers..etc. Then came the fresh cut gladiolus. There they were, long stemmed, colorful, seemingly beaming with pride. Buckets of them, calling out to us.

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The first time Heather and I saw them, we both fell in love. I wish that I could recall how much a dozen cost back then, I want to say maybe $6.00. Could we really afford them? Could we really afford NOT to take home such beauty and vitality? No, on both counts. Ignoring the budget, carefully, we picked out a dozen of our very first, freshly cut gladiolus. With only pennies to spare, we checked out at the register. Neither one of us could wait to get home to plant our new flowers, snap our green beans, and pull out the vase from under the kitchen sink and place our beautiful freshly cut flowers in the center of our Freedom Table.

That season Heather and I made it a point to visit the Farmer’s Market every Saturday until it closed for the winter. We filled the front porch with colorful hanging baskets in the summer, and in the fall, mums and pumpkins populated our surroundings.

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But always, no matter what the budget, a dozen of freshly cut gladiolus stood proudly on that silly little green kitchen table. That image became my symbol of hope, of new beginnings, fresh starts, and faith that everything was going to be just fine.

So, in the end, I have learned to fill your soul with what makes you happy. Be good to yourself, and always, always, keep a vase handy.

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Peace,

Cat Corrier

09Sep

Dancing in the Kitchen

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I found myself alone on Christmas Day in 1994.  As planned, my children spent Christmas morning with me, and went on to spend the rest of the holiday with their respective fathers. After they left that morning I busied myself with the task of cleaning up the crumpled wrapping paper, used bows, and empty boxes. I tried to make myself believe that it was going to be just like any other day that I would be without my children.  I thought that I had mentally prepared myself for this time alone, empty moments like this are going to happen when there is shared custody. But clearly, after the house was restored to its normal order I found myself not only alone, but lonely on Christmas Day.

After several hours of wallowing in self pity, I picked up the phone and called my brother. He, his wife, and son lived a short distance from me. I wrangled an invitation to their home.

Within minutes I drove up and parked at the curb in front of their home. It was almost dusk, that time of day when the sky begins to give way to dark, but holds on to the light as long as it can. I had the vantage point of seeing inside of my brother’s kitchen. The lights were on, the blinds not yet drawn on the sliding glass door. What I witnessed deeply touched my heart.

It was my brother John, slow dancing with his wife Sheri. Nothing fancy, no dips, no twirls, just a slow melodic dance of a couple in love. It was tender, and admittedly a side of my brother I had never seen before. As I soaked in the scene of that Christmas night dance, I thought to myself, “I want that. I want to experience that with someone.” I sat in my car for a few minutes after witnessing that simple, unpretentious dance with a yearning that I don’t recall ever feeling before. I waited for the dance to end and made my way up to the front door. Not wanting to embarrass my brother, I never admitted to the tender moment I had witnessed from my car.

I went home that night to an empty house  and thought about that dance between my brother and his wife. At that point in my life, there wasn’t a lasting relationship on the foreseeable horizon for me. So I got to thinking, which is something I do a lot. I’m a thinker. I ponder things.  I thought, “Why wait on that special man to dance with? Dance with those who are in your life – right now. Your children, and yes, you have permission to dance with just yourself.”  So that’s what I starting doing.  Heather, Robin, and Shane became my dance partners. We would crank up our “boom box” and dance until we were out of breath. Right there in our own little kitchen we mustered up some really great memories. Dancing, twirling, arms waving, singing along to the music.

*** click on music link below** you made need to adjust the volume, it’s pretty loud**

And then I began a ritual only for myself.

From my kitchen window I was able to see the moon on clear nights. I’ve always been drawn to full moons, but who isn’t? On those nights, after my children were tucked into bed, I would turn off the lights, insert a CD (much like this Enya song),  and sway to the rhythm of the music. With only moonbeams shining in from the window illuminating my presence, I would dance.  It was my own kind of interpretive dance that would not have made any sense to anyone but me. It brought me peace and a thankfulness for my solitude. I began reconnecting with myself, I embraced a new found independence. During these seemingly indulgent sessions I felt empowered to tackle the unknown.

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I made jokes to my friends that on some of those nights when the children were away, I would dance naked while  paying homage to  the heavenly bodies. In truth, I did dance naked on some of those nights. I can’t recall a time in my life when I ever felt so free, so alive.

“Every single month, there is one special evening that I keep free--no dates, no dinners out and no distractions.” For more: Full Moon Manifestation Ritual on elephantjournal.com, by Rosalie e’Silva. #mayitbeofbenefit #fullmoon #fullmooninleo

**I want to interject here and say that not every day was a great day. Not every day was a dance in the kitchen day. There were hard days. There were long days. Single parenthood. Money issues. Full time job. Exhaustion. Days when I felt like I had nothing to give to anyone. There were stressful days. There were days when all I wanted to do was to be by myself and hide under the covers **

You can continue listening to this song, and maybe get a glimpse into those special evenings of mine, imagining an almost 40 year old woman dancing (sometimes naked) to the music that lifted my spirits, soared me to a new platform in my life…. or you can hit pause and keep on reading. 🙂

Some years later I would marry the man of my dreams. I recounted to him the story of that Christmas Night dance at my brother’s house and how it had touched me.

**click on music link below **  the volume needs adjusted here too – I’m still new at this***

He and I shared many slow dances in our own kitchen, swaying to the music of Sade, Savage Garden, Celine Dion, Trisha Yearwood, or sometimes to no music at all. Out of nowhere (and for no special reason) Michael  would put one arm around my waist, pull me close, and would whisper in my ear, “Can you hear it? It’s our song.” without any music playing in the background. He would hum “Truly, Madly, Deeply” into my ear.

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Michael couldn’t sing or hum worth a damn, but the sentiment would melt my heart every time. I hear this song and it takes me back to those days. “I want to stand with you on a mountain, I want to bathe with you in the sea, I want to lay like this forever, until the sky falls down over me”.  Maybe this song sounds corny to you, but no matter where I am, and no matter what I’m doing, when I hear this song, I stop. I stop and remember those wonderful slow dances in the kitchen.

As most of you know, my husband died all too early in life.  Every hope and every dream, every slow dance, and every goal seemed to die with him.

But not for long. I am a survivor. I come from a long lineage of survivors.  Some may think it’s bad that I cherish myself. Some may see it as selfish that I want to not only survive, but to flourish.

As the years have passed I now have new dance partners in my life. My sister Terri and I dance often to  songs that empower us, make us laugh, and even feel sexy (thank you Robin Thicke).  I’ve twirled with my granddaughters, and have been “dipped” on Christmas Eve in Charleston by my friend Louise.

As of this writing I don’t have a special man in my life to share those intimate kitchen dances with, but that doesn’t stop me from cranking up my music and dancing to Enya in the kitchen by myself… just fully clothed now.

And if you’re looking for a dance partner, just look around you.  I’ll bet you there’s someone wanting to dance just a badly as you do. And if not, just look in the mirror and know that reflection that you are seeing is your own perfect partner (clothing optional).

Peace,

Cat

 

 

25Aug

A Love Story: Part 3 of 3

mytony

“YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?” 

“Fetch? Catch a frisbee? Really, why?”

Looking back on my early years with Tony, I chuckle. I really didn’t know much about dogs, my references had mostly been from television, movies, and  commercials. Aren’t dogs usually running, fetching sticks… or balls? Well, not this guy. He was happy just to sit by my side (or in my lap) and happily watch his brother do all that nonsense with Michael. What he lacked in physical motivation, he well made up for in his sweet disposition. This boy had won my heart from the very beginning. You want to be lazy sweet boy? That’s quite alright, Mama has a lap with your name on it.

Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what he’s made of.

SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE

We stayed in that cracker box of a condo for three more years after our boys moved back home.  We had to wait until we could financially make a move. We looked for a year before the right opportunity came up. The year was 2005. It was a house that was well into construction and the future homeowners had just lost their financial backing. Their loss was our gain. It was everything we had dreamed of.  We got in on the final stages of picking out the carpet, the countertops, and the paint colors. The home sat on a dead end in a small subdivision. It was perfect, 2,400 square feet of happiness! Finally, some room to spread out. Michael finally got his garage where he could work on projects… or just go and smoke a cigar. Shane and Brandon had the entire upstairs to themselves!

Once again, a back yard fence had to immediately be erected,  doggie doors were installed, and a ramp had to be built for the boys to go down into the yard from the garage.  We were amazed at how quickly Mickey and Tony adapted to their new surroundings. One of their new favorite things was that they were allowed to be with us in the front yard (and garage area) under our supervision without leashes. They quickly learned their boundaries and rarely went beyond them. Oh how they loved to go explore with their super keen  olfactory senses!

Tony became more active, more inquisitive than I had seen in years. He and Mickey would chase one another in the yard. It was comical watching one chase the other, and then just as quickly, the tables would turn and the chaser would become the chasee. We hadn’t been in our new home for just a few months when I noticed that Tony looked thinner. I attributed it to his increased activity and was grateful that this had been a good move for him. I knew that dachshunds were predisposed to hip dysplasia and disc disease due to their torso, so I was glad to see Tony lose some weight to help ward off any potential problems in that area.

Sit. Stay. Relax. Enjoy these days.

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS (WE DIDN’T WANT TO ASK)

Not long after I noticed that Tony had lost weight, I observed he was drinking more water. What did that mean? I had no idea. Then one night, in the middle of the night, he began throwing up. Then he would go drink water. Then he would throw up again. I was up with him the entire night, worried, confused. Was it something he ate? Do dogs get viruses? Whatever it was, this baby was sick, really sick. The next morning I had him at the veterinarian’s office. It was just Tony and I, Michael had gone on to work.  It wasn’t long before I was given the diagnosis. Tony was diabetic. His sugar level was dangerously high. Words were being thrown at me; insulin, injections, diet, blindness, no cure; my head was swimming. I was in disbelief, in denial that my boy could be so sick. We were at the vet’s office most of the day. Their goal was to stabilize him with insulin injections, monitor his levels,  and educate me on how to care for a diabetic canine. I learned how to give Tony his injections.  I left that day with syringes, a vial of insulin, special diet food, and a heavy heart. Could I do this? It was going to be almost solely my responsibility to care for Tony. Michael had just changed jobs that required him to be gone at least 10 hours a day. The answer to my question, yes, of course, because we do what it takes to care for our loved ones. I quickly learned the best time to inject Tony was while he ate his breakfast.  It broke my heart that he most likely began to equate something he loved (to eat) with something that caused him distress. And yet, not once did he ever growl at me, he took it in stride.

We spent the next few months trying to get his blood sugar levels where they should be. That required weekly trips to the vet’s office. It became evident that in order to get his levels where they needed to be, Tony would now require two injections a day. Personally, of course, I struggled with that. It was hard enough to subject my boy to one injection a day, but now two, was going to make it even tougher on both of us. I also struggled with the guilt that had I not been as indulgent with the food that he consumed, my sweet boy would not have been faced with his illness. I even got a few “I told you so’s”, which added to my guilt.

Weeks turned into months, Tony was stable, we continued in maintenance mode. His diabetes was under control with his strict diet and insulin.  His weight had steadily decreased (in a healthy way). I remained optimistic that his condition wasn’t necessarily a death sentence. I was diligent with his treatment. I took him and Mickey on more walks, trying to keep his weight off. I began noticing however that his steps seemed to lack confidence, he starting lagging behind. What was wrong? It’s not as if Mickey hadn’t slowed down too in his senior years, but yet, Tony didn’t keep up with us.

We don’t see what we don’t want to see.

I’M GOING TO LOVE YOU (EVEN IF MY HEART WOULD BREAK)

I will never forget the moment that I made myself look into Tony’s eyes. He had become more reliant on being picked up and placed on the places he wanted to sit (or lie down);  on the sofa, on a chair, on the bed (even though he had a ramp). I picked him up and placed him on the chair that he was whining to be placed on. And then I looked directly into his eyes, his cloudy eyes. Michael was standing behind me at the time. I turned around with tears streaming down my face. I said, “He’s blind, isn’t he?” He said, “Yes love.” Michael had known it for a while but didn’t have the heart to tell me.

The blindness, of course, was irreversible. Tony didn’t adapt well to his loss of sight. He no longer enjoyed our walks. He lost what little adventurous spirit he ever had. Although I know that dogs don’t necessarily rely on sight as the main part of their senses, I think it’s different once their sight is lost as adult dogs.  Although faced with the knowledge that my boy was diabetic and blind, I still had him with me. We could go on for some time, right?

Our next dirty word was glaucoma. Once again, I was thrust into another disease that I knew nothing about. Glaucoma is a condition that increases pressure behind the eye causing pain, much like humans have migraines.  We tried medication, without success, to hopefully lessen the pressure. The veterinarian gave me two options to relieve Tony’s pain: removal of his eyes, or euthanasia. I was devastated. I left the office with Tony in my arms, yet again, trying to choke back sobs, with a decision to be made.

For the first time I felt hopeless. I felt like Tony’s  fate was in my hands. Michael told me it was ultimately up to me to decide what to do since I was his caregiver. Is it right to pray for guidance in this situation when there are so many more pressing problems in the world? Regardless, I did. I prayed that I would make the right decision and do what was right by Tony. I prayed, “Guide me Lord, what should I do?” The images of the last 18 months flashed backed through my mind. The endless injections that Tony had endured (and would continue to endure for the rest of his life).  The countless blood draws. The loss of dignity when his eyesight failed. But that still wasn’t enough to make my decision. I still prayed for a definitive sign. And then, that night when we had all settled into bed, Tony nudged up next to me. Not with his nose, but with his head, his eyes pressed against my shoulder. He was hurting, he was trying to alleviate the pressure in his eyes. I knew then that he was trying to tell me that he was ready to go. He was in pain, he was tired, his spirit had been compromised. I cried. I cried because I felt like I had failed Tony. I cried at the thought of what the next few days would bring.  I cried at the very thought of not having him in my life.

The next morning I made the call to the veterinarian’s office.  Although I knew it was the right thing to do, the selfless thing to do, somehow I still felt like the executioner. They put me in touch with  the veterinarian that had overseen Tony’s care since day one of his diagnosis,   and we made the appointment. She told me as hard it was for her, she wanted to be the one to help Tony not hurt anymore, to relieve him of his pain. Three days. I had three more days with him. One would think that those three extra days would have been a blessing, but they weren’t.  Just being with him, knowing that his days, his hours were numbered, was heartbreaking.

The morning of his final day had come. It was Thursday, November   1st, 2006. This brave boy had fought this fight for 18 months. I gave him pizza for breakfast. No injection, in truth, I had not given him an injection in 24 hours. We sat on the sofa for a good hour waiting on my good friend and neighbor Mandy to pick us up. Michael couldn’t miss work, so she agreed to be my ride, my support. In that short hour my eyes were almost swollen shut from crying so hard.

This was my first experience with euthanasia. I was surprised when the veterinarian asked me if I wanted to be present during the procedure. It never occurred to me to not be there for Tony’s last moments. I held and cradled him while the sedation helped to relax his body. I whispered in his ear how much I loved him. Tears rolled down my face and onto his body.  As the drugs took effect, Tony was given the final injection. All I knew to do was the same thing I did on his first night in our home… just as if I was back on that paper lined bathroom floor. I held his head against my chest so he could feel the beating heart of the one that he had picked so many years earlier – me.  As he drew his final breath I knew that there would always be a small part of my heart missing forever.

After that, for a good six months, I cried every day on my way home from work. It was my time to grieve. I did my best to hide my pain, mostly because I wasn’t sure that anyone would really understand how much of a loss I felt.

MY FINAL GOODBYE

I chose to have Tony cremated so I could always have a part of him with me.  Within a year, Mickey developed debilitating arthritis. When his pain and discomfort could not be eliminated, Michael made the decision to not allow Mickey to suffer.  At Mickey’s burial as I was saying my final goodbye, as the dirt was being placed on his shroud, I asked Michael to wait. I suddenly knew what was right, what would complete this final chapter. I ran inside and gathered the container of Tony’s ashes. While standing over Mickey’s grave, I reunited him with his brother. It was the right thing to do.

To this day, eight years later, I still miss my boy. He was everything that was good and pure about this world. He loved me, and I loved him. I have to admit though, I didn’t spill all of his ashes in the grave that day. I saved a few for myself; just because.

Cat

14Aug

My last starry night

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My Last Starry Night
Written by Cat Corrier; December 2010

It was May 20, 2009, a regular workday, a Wednesday. I would love to remember every detail of that day, because it was the last day that I would ever recall as normal. It was the last day that I would have with Michael, my husband of eleven years. It was the last day I would ever feel whole again.

Michael and I had met in 1991 where we both worked for the local utility company. During the course of our work we had spoken on the phone on many occasions. I always enjoyed talking with him. His voice resonated confidence, intelligence, and compassion with an innocent touch of sexy.

It took a year before we met in person. He came to our downtown location for a meeting. It was a Friday, and I had planned to take half of a day off to spend with my best friend. Our plans were to take off to the mountains, find a stream, step over a few rocks with a cooler of beer, and plant ourselves on a rock in the middle of the stream and solve the problems of the world, well, at least our problems. So when Michael walked into my office for the first time, I had already changed into my hiking gear and had mentally checked out, picturing myself sitting on that rock. We were briefly introduced by a coworker of mine. To my recollection it went something like this, “Fahey (that was my last name at the time), this is Corrier (his last name)”. We may have shaken hands, I don’t recall. The preoccupation of the mountains prevented me from fully appreciating the first time we met. Years later Michael would tell the story in great detail, from what I was wearing, the length of my hair, down to the color of my eyes. But most importantly, he would end the story by saying he met the love of his life that day. He would say that God planted a seed of love in his heart for me, right there in that little room. I, on the other hand, called it a serendipitous event. Once again, if I had known the importance of that day, if I had known that this was the man I would eventually marry, be certain that I would have paid better attention to every detail of that momentous introduction.

For the sake of brevity, I will tell you that seven years after that first introduction, Michael and I were married, in every sense of the word. Our children blended, our finances melded, we changed my home into our home. We painted, well, he painted. We purchased a new bed that I still sleep in today. All around our home, almost in every corner, both of our personalities popped up. Happy, that’s the word. We were happy.

Michael Joseph Corrier

Michael Joseph Corrier

Michael became the first man in many years I trusted. Not just trusted to stay faithful –that’s a given in any marriage, but just as importantly, trust him with my heart, with my feelings. I knew it would be okay if I got mad at him. I knew that he would not withhold affection because I had spoken my mind, and he knew the same of me. It is very difficult for me to articulate the extreme bond that Michael and I shared. We had the rare combination, the blessed combination, of being each other’s best friend, lover, and companion.

We had the most incredible eleven years together. I would be lying to myself if I said that they were not without challenges, it is impossible to go through life without them. But where I felt like our relationship was unique is that we went through them together. We faced adversity as a couple. Never was our love in question, nor our commitment to one another. When one of us laughed, the other laughed along. When one cried, the other was there to offer solace. We lived together as a conscious unit, watching out for one another, never a secret kept. Truth was as necessary as air, as food, as water.

One of our biggest challenges came in the form of finances. There never seemed to be enough money to go around. Without going into detail, suffice it to say that it became a burden that stayed with us.

Michael’s last day on earth was a
Thursday, 12:30am.

We had spent the evening crunching numbers. We were in jeopardy of losing our home. I recall Michael at the computer for several hours trying to come up with a plan to keep our home. We had not yet missed a mortgage payment, but the writing on the wall was becoming evident that something was going to have to give. And then, when we both came to the realization that once again we were going to be faced with a life changing experience, we were okay. We started making plans to find a smaller home, or maybe even an apartment that accepted pets, dachshunds to be exact.

Michael and I were no strangers to starting over. We had done it before, and now, we would do it again. Home, after all, is where the heart is, is where your love is. We both seemed to have a peace about it. But of course, now that I look back, now that I know what I know, maybe on Michael’s part it wasn’t acceptance, maybe it was resignation.

I had a habit of watching television in our bedroom after dinner. I loved our bedroom; it was a haven for me. I felt enveloped there, warm there. And as always, my two constant companions, Heidi and Gretchen were never far away, one at my feet, one on my lap. They were our dachshunds, our little friends. Every dog Michael and I ever had, slept with us, and they were no exception. Heidi would usually saddle up next to Michael somewhere, and Gretchen liked to lay on one part of my body or another. It was11:30 pm on that Wednesday when Michael came to bed. I turned off the television and Michael turned out the lights. We had just settled in when Michael made the all too familiar remark that Heidi was licking him. We never knew why she did it, but she would… all the time. Sometimes it was cute, other times it was annoying. I laughed a little and made the all too familiar comeback, “it’s easier to just let her finish”. It’s an old line from one of our favorite movies. So, when I rolled over that night and went to sleep, I never knew that would be the last words I ever spoke to my husband. Strange how that happens, it should’ve been, “Michael I love you with all of my heart. We will be fine. Please don’t worry.” Something profound, something meaningful, something that would make him want to live through the night. But no, it was, “it’s easier to just let her finish.”

At 12:45am I was startled awake by a loud, insistent knocking at our bedroom door. I woke to discover that Michael was not there in the room with me, only the dogs, which were doing their “on guard” barking. While trying to collect my thoughts, the voice on the other side of the door announced that he was with the police department.

I knew. Oh my God in heaven I knew. In just a few seconds, coming out of my hazy sleep, I knew. This could not be good. On the other side of the door was going to be the words that would change me forever. Oh God no. I’m not ready for this.

I was informed by the officer that my husband was in the front yard and had hurt himself, (it’s serious, I think he added). Michael had called the 911 dispatcher to inform the police of his intentions. I was not given any details and was ordered to stay in the bedroom while the paramedics were trying to help him. I recall crumbling to the floor and begging for my 21 year old son Shane, who was upstairs sleeping. The officer awoke Shane and brought him to me. And on that bedroom floor we huddled, we cried, we panicked, we prayed that everything was going to be okay. The officer stood watch at the doorway ensuring that we didn’t rush out into the front yard. Within just a few minutes another officer came in my bedroom and informed me that my husband died at the scene.

The best that I can piece together is that sometime after I had rolled over and had gone to sleep, Michael had made up his mind to end his life that night. He planned it so that I would not wake up to it alone.  I would like to think that before exiting our bedroom with the gun in his hand, that he might have leaned over and told me he loved me. Or, maybe prayed for himself; and for his family that he would be leaving devastated. I hope that I got a last kiss; that would be a comfort. Perhaps a tear of his may have landed in my hair, and perhaps he touched my cheek with his hands and told me that he was sorry… and how great we had been together.

Michael left our bedroom with the gun in his hand and his cell phone on his clip. He walked out of our home for the last time and closed the door behind him.  He sat down in our front yard in one of our camping chairs. Michael was always so proud of our manicured lawn, and that spring our flowers were blooming so spectacularly. Maybe he reminisced of the many family gatherings we had spent in that yard; perhaps he was reminded of the Easter Egg hunt that had just taken place a few weeks earlier. The one where Lexi tirelessly hunted eggs, so much in fact that we all took turns hiding them so that she could hunt over and over.  I’m sure that he looked up into that cloudless, starry night and knew that he would soon be in heaven, where he could finally put all of his burdens to rest. And there, on that lawn, the one that he had resigned to that fact we would surely lose, he picked up the phone and dialed 911. It was only an informational call to let them know his intentions and where he was located. He left specific instructions to not ring the doorbell when they came into the house. He left the front door unlocked. He informed them that I was sleeping, and where our bedroom was located, and even that the dogs would go “ape shit” and start barking… (he knew those dogs).  His call was not to be talked out of suicide, but merely a way to make it as easy on me as possible. Had he not done that, I would’ve been the one waking up and looking for him. After hearing of Michael’s intentions the dispatcher quickly tried to change the conversation in an attempt to keep him on the phone a little longer, asking him his age…his address again… why he would want to kill himself. But when Michael figured out that she was just trying to keep him alive until the police officers could get there, he hung up on her. I suspect only seconds after that call was released, Michael placed the gun to his heart and pulled the trigger. It may as well have been my heart too, because part of me died that night as well. In fact, in the beginning, I had wished he had taken my life along with his because I really wasn’t prepared to go through the rest of my life without this man.

The next couple of weeks were all just a blur to me. I remained in a cloudy state of confusion, enveloping grief,but no anger; not yet. My family and friends stepped in to be my voice, to be my advisors, to be anything they needed to be for me. I was lost. I had become a woman without direction, and yes, even meaning. But there was something deep inside of me that would not, could not, for sanity’s sake, let me slip into an abyss that I would surely not be able to get out of. That fear kept me on the precipice of reality. That same fear got me back to work within 10 days after Michael’s death.

I had a few well meaning friends ask me in the beginning about going to grief counseling. I remember feeling then that it just didn’t seem the right time. I wasn’t able to put into simple sentences of how I was feeling, much less articulate in a reasonable fashion my innermost thoughts. The best description of myself at the time was that I was just a big heap of unknown emotions that communicated with sobs. So how was I to convey that in a counseling session? It was many months later while I was talking with my very wise nephew David about the early counseling issue. He said, “You know, it’s kind of like if you had been around a very loud explosion, or even a loud concert and after leaving, you try to hear. You can’t because the noise is still in your head; the ringing in your ears takes a while to subside. If the noise is still there, you can’t hear your counsel, you can’t absorb truths that you need to hear. It is just now that that I might perhaps be prepared to hear the counsel of professionals.

It has been eighteen months since Michael’s death. In that time my daughter Robin has given birth to a baby girl named Luna Summer. We have observed two Father’s Days without him. His birthday has come and gone, and twice we have gathered for Thanksgiving without his presence. In just a couple of weeks, our family will celebrate the birth of Christ. We will gather around the dinner table, basking in the happiness of our family. But as always, in every family gathering that we have held since Michael’s death, we each think of him, we each miss him in our own way. His absence, though rarely spoken, is much louder at times than the celebration at hand. I can see it in the eyes of my children, his children, and I know they can see it in mine. His memory shines bright in each of us, while all of us moving on as best we can.

I have had so many people ask me the question, “Why?” “Why did he do it?”  And the sad truth is that I will not know until I see him in heaven. The ones left behind were not given an explanation, a simple note that might have answered the most basic of questions. In some ways it may have helped temporarily, but really, it’s the same ending that we are left with. Michael chose to take his life and leave those he loved so dearly behind.

Michael left behind his mother and father, Ralph and Lola Corrier. He has two brothers, Niel and George Corrier. Michael fathered two children, Brandon Michael and Heather Lynn. He stepped in as a part time father to my three children, Heather Denise, Robin Marie, and Shane Patrick. He left behind two nieces, Kristen and Megan, and a nephew Colton. When he died our granddaughter Alexis Rhea was just about to turn 2 years old. And since his death, we have a new granddaughter, Luna Summer.

I know that each of these loved ones that I have mentioned have truly suffered in their own way. As a parent, as a son or daughter, as a brother, they each have their own story. But I only know one, and that is mine, the widow of Michael Joseph Corrier.

My prayer is that someday I will find my way through this labyrinth of grief, of loneliness, and heartbreak. At times I feel like great strides have been made, only to run into a wall in this maze I am trapped in, but I have faith that I will get through this. I may not come out the same person that went in, but maybe a better person. One that will never take for granted the warmth of family, the gift of life, the treasure of laughter, and the smile of a child. And maybe, someday, God willing, the love for another man.

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