Category: relationships

15Aug

The year of “the firsts”

This month my sweet cousin Pat will commemorate the first anniversary of her husband’s death.

Growing up, even though Pat and I were cousins, and we only lived a few blocks apart, she and I were never terribly close. Nothing wrong, probably the age difference… different set of friends…

Many years have passed since those adolescent days, far faster than we could have imagined. Marriage. Babies. Divorce. True Love. Grandchildren. We’ve kept up with each other through family members, the occasional funeral…etc…

And then one day in 2009 my husband committed suicide.

And in an instant my world changed.

Words can’t describe the loss. The hurt. The devastation. Where do you turn? What do you do next? Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months and a few things begin to evolve.

A new pattern. Sometimes, a new way of doing things. Discovery.

And for me, one source of encouragement, one source of a friendly hello, was my cousin Pat. Only once did we actually get together in person, we communicated mostly through Facebook and Messenger, but I could always count on Pat to be there in my corner.

As of last August, sadly, I share a new kinship with Pat. She had to say goodbye to her companion, her confidant, her best friend of 34 years, her sweet husband Rusty.

Pat and Rusty

As I said earlier, this month Pat will commemorate the first anniversary of Rusty’s passing.

And with every passing week since she said goodbye, and with each milestone, and every holiday, Pat has been on my heart and in my prayers.

Because I remember; and I weep.

The first week without my husband.

The first time I reached for him, and he wasn’t there.

The first time I called his name with no answer.

The first time I had to tell someone that my husband died.

And all the other “firsts”.

The obvious; holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries.

But then the not so obvious.

The first time you get bad news and you need his shoulder to cry on.

The first time something joyous happens and he’s not there to share it with.

The first time someone says, “I miss him” and your heart breaks all over again.

The first time…

Oh God, there’s so many. And it’s so hard.

But there is good news; and thank God for a heart that is resilient, and determined, and willing to commit to that seemingly impossible task of becoming… becoming what…. perhaps on some days, just becoming aware and glad that it’s a sunny day. Or maybe, down the road, even becoming a better version of what we were before our lives were turned upside down.

So after a while other “firsts” begin to happen.

Like the first time you didn’t cry in 24 hours.

The first time you remembered to smile.

The first time you felt optimistic.

The first time you accomplished something entirely on your own.

The first time you thought to yourself, “I’m going to be okay.”

And for me, many years later, the first time you get yourself ready for a first date.

I’ll borrow my own words from a post I wrote years ago called, “She Believed.” It was written in honor of the women in my life that have inspired me, encouraged me, and lifted me up. Pat was included in that group of strong, inspiring women.

“We fell but we didn’t stay down, we wiped our bloodied knees and got back up.  We cried, but we wiped our tears away and pushed forward.  We doubted, but it didn’t consume us. We overcame. And that’s what I celebrate today.”

Below is the video I put together to accompany that post. That’s Pat & family @ 1:38.

I spoke with Pat last night to ask permission to tag her in this post. I mentioned that I feel like she has not only survived this past year; but thrived. She humbly denied the statement, but honestly, after losing a spouse, sometimes deciding to get out of bed the morning after a particularly lonely, tearful night – is a form of thriving. Baby steps yes, but steps forward just the same.

These last 12 months I have observed Pat take on the task of remodeling her home, quite beautifully and skillfully. She has found the courage to love again; a sweet, feisty puppy she named Miss Daisy (Doodle). -And all through this terrible, scary pandemic. Courageous? You better believe it!

This is for you Pat.

Love to you at this special time. Rusty would be so proud of you.

~ Cat ~

21May

To Brandon, with love.

Michael and son Brandon – Halloween 1991

Today marks the tenth anniversary of Michael Corrier’s death, my husband of 11 years.

I hesitate to publicly acknowledge this date out of concern and respect for my husband Charlie. But, he’s mature and understands that this day is still a day that I stop and remember a man; a great man that was in my life for many years. Just because I have had the good fortune to meet and marry Charlie, doesn’t diminish the good years I had with Michael. 

Ten years is a long time to go without seeing someone, or talking to someone. Their voice becomes distant, their presence becomes less, their name comes up less often, and sometimes, the people around you never even knew that person.

Life goes on, with or without us.

And as true as those statements are, I stand firm in the belief that Michael Corrier is a man that will be missed and thought of for as long as some of us have a breath left in us.

In less than two weeks Michael’s son Brandon will be getting married to an absolutely wonderful woman named Kelsey. The Save the Date magnet has been stuck proudly front and center on my refrigerator for months now; only to be replaced recently  with the wedding invitation.

Brandon and Kelsey have been making preparations for months. The dress. The venue. The non traditional wedding cake. All the fun things (and some not so fun things) that it takes to host such an event.

And as happy and excited as I am for them, I’m so sad that his Dad will not be there to witness his son getting married. That moment of pride when a father looks over at his son standing at the alter, most likely remembering the day his son was born, his first steps, and so many other milestones that we are privileged to witness as parents. Mike won’t be there for that moment when Brandon watches his beautiful bride walk down the aisle. Standing in for Michael as best man will be Shane, my son, Brandon’s step brother. 

So let me tell you about this man named Brandon.

He came into my life in 1998 when his dad and I married. I thought step-parenting of two young kids would be a breeze. Boy was I wrong.

Just because I was ready to be a stepmother, didn’t mean that Michael’s children were ready to be stepchildren. I was met with reluctance and resentment. When Brandon and his younger sister Heather were with us, they missed their mom, and quite frankly, they didn’t want to be there with us.

Much of our first year of marriage was spent trying to adjust to being part time parents. (Shane had recently moved in with his own Dad).

Even though things weren’t ideal, we all got into a pattern, a routine. It made it easier that Brandon and Heather made friends with some of our neighborhood children. Summers were spent at the pool, cookouts, sleepovers; life as a stepmother, and life as a stepchild became easier, less stressful – and yes, eventually, actually enjoyable.

Michael always looked forward to seeing his children.  He would make it a point to stock up on groceries, look for movies to watch with them, anything to be able to spend time with them. I loved watching him interact with his kids; conversations that would take place over dinner, tucking them into bed at night; he loved being their dad.

I watched Brandon go from a little boy to an awkward adolescent (as most adolescents are). When he turned 13 or so he asked to come live with us. Thankfully, his mother agreed –  and that’s when I became his full time stepmother. Coincidentally, around the same time, Shane came back home to live with us.

Boy was my plate suddenly full! And awesome!

Those few years that Brandon lived with us is when I came to know him much better. Every morning I would take him to school. We had about a 25 minute commute – and don’t judge – but we bonded over listening to Mancow’s Morning Madhouse on the radio. In case you don’t who that his – Mancow is the name of a radio host that was loud, opinionated, irreverent, and sometimes inappropriate. It was mine and Brandon’s guilty pleasure.

As teenagers almost all of us go through a time when our dress or our hair (or both), drive our parents crazy. And Brandon was no exception.

All of his clothes were black. From his hat down to his shoes. With the exception of his gold chain that kept his wallet attached to his jeans. Goth, I guess… but it drove us crazy!

Thankfully, he grew out of that phase.

High school. Rugby team. Good grades. First job. First car. Graduation.

And then one weekend Brandon went out of town with some friends. And his stepfather had to make the impossible call in the middle of the night to Brandon.

“You need to come home. Your dad died tonight.”

Shocked.

We were all shocked by what happened. Suicide. Oh my God, why?

I believe that night Brandon became a man.

At the funeral service he bravely got up in front of everyone; steadily, without hesitation, never faltering.  He talked to this group of friends and family about his dad. About Michael’s  never ending love of family. Of friends. And his children.  Brandon talked about how his dad was always the last one to sit down for dinner, making sure everyone had everything they needed. He spoke of his love for his father. His generosity. The way he hugged, the way he loved.

I have never been more proud of Brandon than I was that night.

That was 10 years ago.

I have watched Brandon grow into one of the finest human beings on this planet. He could’ve used his dad’s death as a crutch, or an excuse not to succeed in life. Any lesser person would have. But he didn’t.

Brandon stayed by my side in the darkest of times, even while dealing with his own grief; when there were no answers to the questions. No rhyme, no reason. And even though we were “technically” not related any longer, he has never not been my son, and I have never not been his stepmother. He made the choice to stay in our lives after his father passed away, and for that I am eternally grateful.

This fine young man has completed college (he and Shane graduated on the same day). He has continued to advance in his career. And now, he will be marrying the love of his life.

We miss Michael. Some of us always will.

But I have been blessed to have a part of him continue to be with me through his son.

Michael’s legacy.  Brandon Michael Corrier.

So, next Saturday, as champagne filled glasses are raised and toasts are made, I will raise my glass and silently toast to Michael and the son he left behind.

Cheers to father and son. Cheers to your legacy Michael. You would be so proud of him, I know I am.

Wish you were here to see it all.

14May

Turn the page

A few weeks ago a piece of my heart backed out of my driveway headed south to New Orleans. A new car. A new job. A new life. Adventures out there for the taking.

Shane. My son.

This boy, this wonderment, this blessing was born to me 31 years ago. I was the ripe old age of 30 when I became pregnant, 31 when he was born. Years earlier I thought I was finished having children. My former husband and I had two daughters, and that was enough for me. My life was full, it was complete.

Then divorce happened.

I remarried a few years later, and found myself yearning for “Just one more.” That’s how I approached Shane’s dad, a man that had formerly been a self proclaimed bachelor. Although it took some coaxing out of this reluctant forty year old Irishman, I won him over to the idea of having a child of his own.

Each one of my children has a special place in my heart. I remember when my first child was born I could never imagine how I could possibly love another human being as much as I loved Heather. And then Robin was born two years later. And whoa! I loved her in her own unique way. By the time Shane was born, I knew how much love my heart could hold for a child – but I was still a little amazed that he had me from his first heartbeat.

Sadly, when Shane was 5 years old, his father and I divorced.

This kid took it all in stride. I always said that he was my “happy medium” child…. not too head strong, but not passive either. He was always a happy guy, fun to be with, a jokester, always a smile on his face. Shane is an easy person to to like, to love.

The older I get, the more I seem to say, “Where has the time gone?” And nothing makes me say that more than when I see my children.

When Shane first started preschool he had a tough time saying goodbye in the mornings. There were a lot of tears, and lots of hugging at our morning drop off. His little voice pleading, “Please don’t go Mommy.” I can’t count how many mornings I spent the remainder of my commute choking back tears, feeling like I had broken my son’s heart. It took several weeks, but it got easier as Shane & I got into our routine. High five. Kiss on the cheek. Tell Quack to have a good day (Quack was his teddy bear that rarely left his side). And then one day there were no tears. No “one more hug Mommy”. No looking back for a last glance at Mom. Just a little boy learning independence.

Turn the page and he’s walking into high school. Then he’s driving. First girlfriend. First job. Graduation.

Turn the page and he’s off to college. Then graduation. Then nursing school. Another graduation. Then his first job as an RN.

Then later talks of setting out and seeing the world. Serious talks of travel nursing.

And just a few months later, Shane gets the call he’s been waiting for. A job is his for the taking in New Orleans.

And suddenly I’m the one wanting to hold on. I’m the one with the lump in my throat silently begging for one more hug, one more high five. Where’s Quack when you need him?

Time to empty his apartment. Pack his essentials. Store away memories. Countdown to his new life.

And on that last day as Shane drove away, as a new chapter in his life opened, a chapter in my life closed.

The chapter when all of my children lived in the same city. A time when a “family night” was sanctioned and all would arrive. The times that Shane would call and say, “Hey, are y’all home? I thought I would drop in”.

But that’s okay. For everything there is a season.

I wish you well son. Go see the world. Be happy. Be resourceful. Be adventurous. I’ll leave the light on for you.

All my love,

Mom

01Feb

Vera’s Candy Jar

From the time that I was very young, up to the time that I turned 13 or so, every Sunday after church, without fail, my family and I would go to my grandparent’s house for Sunday lunch. These were my Mom’s parents.  Joining us would be my Mom’s sisters (my aunts of course), uncles, and cousins.  My two older brothers Mike & Rocky ( from my mom’s first marriage) lived there with my grandparents. [How odd that I didn’t think that was odd] – but that’s another story for another day.

My grandmother’s name was Vera but we called her Verie, pronounced “Vur-ee”. Why did we call her that? I have no idea.

Verie was a hard nut to crack – and I’m not sure anyone ever did. She didn’t smile very much. She always seemed to have a worried look on her face. I was never close to her.  Even in my early years I can’t recall any special times with her. She seemed distant. And tired.

But that’s just from a young girl’s recollection. Who knows what the story was behind her faded smile and the worn facade.

While Verie prepared Sunday lunch, the adults would sit around the kitchen table and talk. The chatter of women and the low tones of men could be heard throughout the house. The aroma of food cooking on the stove, steaming cups of coffee, and the spiral of cigarette smoke billowing over the kitchen table stays with me.

And in that kitchen was a hutch. And on that hutch was a candy jar. A white candy jar. The contents were never known until the lid was taken off. Sometimes it was hard candy, other times, butter mints. Gumdrops were a frequent occupant, while at Christmas, horehound candy might be there (never a favorite of mine).

My sister Terri and I always looked forward to our weekly visits because our cousins (Barry, Lisa, and Tracy) would always be there. They were close in age to us – and so much fun!

Our cousins were everything we weren’t. They were daring, adventurous, bold, and, well, truth be told, we thought they were a bit on the wild side.

Growing up, their parents opted to let our cousins have far more freedom than Terri and I were allowed. They played freely outside without supervision. They owned pocket knives, climbed trees, and rode bicycles on the street. There was a creek behind their house where they were allowed to explore without the omnipresence of their mom.

Terri and I, on the other hand, had a Mother that worried a lot – about everything. My Daddy used to tell her that she would worry if she didn’t have something to worry about. Her mind worked overtime finding things to worry about. This spilled over into her parenting.

Were we going to get hurt? Lost? Sick?

In turn, in our early years, Terri and I were kept on a pretty short leash. We weren’t given carte blanche of the neighborhood. Our adventures stayed within the confines of a few doors down. Our rural road didn’t permit riding a bicycle safely. And forget about us getting near anything that resembled a sharp knife.

And comes the candy jar.

On one particular Sunday, one of the cousins decided that we should go in the kitchen one by one and sneak a pre-lunch piece of candy.  I couldn’t imagine being so bold as to attempt to smuggle candy right in front of the adults! I played by the rules after all. Or was I just chicken?

Barry, the eldest of the cousins was the first to make the attempt. The rest of us huddled behind a doorway and anxiously watched as he nonchalantly walked past the adults, to the hutch, went straight for the candy jar, opened the lid and pulled out a piece of candy! Not an adult in the room seemed to notice.

Barry came back proudly with his prize and dared the next one in.

One by one each cousin and then my sister came back with a piece of candy without fanfare. What?

And then it was my turn. The last man standing…. without a piece of candy.

Doing my best to stay calm and look as nonchalant as my predecessors, I walked into the kitchen and slowly made my way to the candy jar. And just as my hand touched the lid, one of the adults (I can’t remember which one), called me out.

“Now that’s enough! No candy before lunch!”

Oh my God, I was busted! And oh so embarrassed! As I was turning around to face the adults, Verie chimed in.

“No”, she says, “All of the other kids have gotten a piece of candy. Y’all know that. It’s not going to stop with Cathy.”

Wow! 

So the adults had seen it all. One by one as each kid made their way to and from the candy jar. Hmmm. 

But why call me out?

I think I must’ve been someone’s breaking point, when the infractions had to stop. As a parent now, I kind of see how it could happen. 

But Verie came to my defense and rectified the situation.

I walked away with my piece of candy, just as everyone else had.

Verie  became my hero of the day. 

                                                ˜˜˜˜        

Years came and went.  My brothers grew up and moved away. The cousins relocated to Florida. On those Sundays following, my grandparent’s house became oddly and uncomfortably quiet. Almost sad.

Eventually, my visits dwindled to almost nothing. Tradition had run its course, and time marched on.

But I never forgot the lesson that Verie taught me that day.

What’s good for one, is good for everybody. So be careful what you allow to happen the first time – you very well may have set a precedence that you might have a hard time undoing.

Also, don’t be the last one going for that piece of candy.

Stay sweet,

Cat

The tall guy – that’s my big brother Mike, holding my baby brother John. From left to right, Lisa, Tracy, Terri, and the kid holding the doll and the really bad Toni perm – that’s me.