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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03Aug

A Love Story: Part 2

HE PICKED ME

Our first week together was a combination of total chaos and bonding. Michael and I would walk in the door after a long day of work and find the kitchen a puppy disaster.  They thought the newspaper down for them was to shred, and the bowl of water was there to tip over and play in. I won’t even get started on the bodily function messes. The weekend couldn’t get there quick enough for us. But oh how we loved our time in the evening with them.

It was time to name them, but how do you go about doing that? I didn’t have a strong opinion of names, so I gave my sweet husband the honor of naming them.  To this day, I don’t recall how he came up with the name Mickey, maybe because it was a form of his own name, maybe it was after the famous mouse.  But that’s what he decided on the smaller of the two. And for the bigger boy? The name Tony stuck. He thought it a tribute to my good friend Toni, although through the years she would argue that it was because their “behinds” were both a little on the broad side. Either way, they now had names. Mickey and Tony, our boys.

Given that there were two humans and two dogs, Michael and I wondered which one we would gravitate to. Which one would we each favor? We never got a chance to come to a conclusion, because in time, Mickey chose Michael, and Tony, well, he picked me. This boy followed me everywhere I went (even to the bathroom).  Sometimes I felt like a mother goose with my gosling following behind.

The next few months proved to be the most challenging of all. Housebreaking one dog can be difficult for any new pet owner, but two? Only after a fence and a doggie door was installed did we begin to make progress in that department. Regardless, if there wasn’t an eye witness,  only DNA testing could determine just whose missed potty that was on the carpet. Slowly, very slowly, they caught on. Finally, we were able to really enjoy these pups without the strenuous , exhausting task of potty training.

     After adversity, comes rewards.

THE WONDER YEARS

What fun it was for us to learn about these boys. Their own likes, dislikes, who loved to chew (Mickey), who was the chill guy (Tony), who loved bath time (Tony), and who would hide under the bed to try to avoid bath time (Mickey). Both loved to cuddle, both loved attention, and boy did they love bedtime. From the first night on they slept with us, wrapped in their own blanket at the foot of our bed, sleeping soundly until daylight.

As they begin to mature, we introduced leashes so they could take walks with us. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be,  but eventually they not only caught on, but would bark in excitement when we got the leashes out. Neighbors got to know  them as ” The boys”, and they soon became neighborhood regulars.

These little guys had become a part of our family that I never knew could be filled. Yes, they were dogs, but they were so much more than that. They filled a void for Michael and I, they brought life into our quiet home. If you are not a lover of animals, you may not understand what I’m saying. If you are a lover of animals, then I’ve said too much. I spoiled them like children. Almost every morning I would prepare scrambled eggs for them. Yes, we gave them table scraps, and clearly Tony was the one that loved to eat. It was evident that not only did Tony and Mickey not share the same desire for food, but it became clearly evident that they did not share the same metabolism either.  Mickey remained slim and weenie dog proportionate, while Tony became more barrel shaped.

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Tony & Mickey

While writing this story, and rolling ideas around in my head, this is the part I get stuck, trying to convey why I called this section, “The Wonder Years.” I even shared my writer’s block with Shane and he said, “I get it, they were dogs, how much is there to tell?” So I won’t bore you trying to recount stories of Mickey and Tony. Just let it be said that these odd looking, little black and tan beings helped to fill my life with the joy only a creature with unconditional love can.

Great things come in small packages.

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Michael and “The Boys”

FILLED TO CAPACITY

We turned our heads and almost four years had gone by.

Although it was still difficult for Michael and I to accept not being full- time parents, through the years we adjusted. No, actually, the truth is, I never fully accepted not being a full- time parent. It pained me, it ate at me, it was wrong and I knew in my heart it was not in the best interest of my son to live with his father. However, there was nothing I could do but wait, and hope, and pray, yes pray. It had taken me a long time to make peace with God about Shane moving away, but it became my belief that sometimes the devil has his day, and that day happened when the judge ruled for my son to live with his father. Good had to prevail someday, truth would emerge, and wrongs would be righted.

That day came in the summer of 2002. Shane announced to Michael and I that he wanted to move back home! And he did just that, only a few weeks later. And just a short time after that, Brandon, Michael’s son, told us he wanted to live with us full time as well. Within a year we went from no children in the house to two teenage boys living full time in our home. Our small condominium was busting at the seams, our front door turned into a revolving door of an endless stream of our son’s friends coming and going. Our vehicles turned into taxis, our grocery bill skyrocketed, music blared throughout our home at all hours, and yet, our lives had become complete again.

Life was good. Life was full. It was as it should be.

….. to be continued..

Cat

26Jul

A love story: Part 1

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Naivety can sometimes get us to a point where knowledge and experience can not carry us. This is where the story of my beloved dachshund Tony begins.

MICHAEL AND CATHY SITTING IN A TREE

     Michael and I were newlyweds in May of 1998. He was as freshly divorced as he was freshly faced. My handsome new husband was young, energetic, adventurous, and oh yes, 33 years old. His son was eight and his daughter was almost seven. That would make me, “the older woman”. In 1998, I was 9 years his senior with two almost adult daughters (both out of the nest), and an 11 year old son. I had two divorces under my belt and had been on my own for the last four years.

     Michael and I were co-workers at the local utility company where we had known one another for many years. As time went by, our paths crossed intermittently and in to the last year before our first date, the attraction was something that could no longer be denied. Shortly thereafter, I guess you could say, the rest is history .

     We dove into marriage and lost ourselves in the blissful state of new love. After four years of being a single parent, I relished having another adult in the house. We cooked together, me chopping onions, him chopping green peppers, we cleaned together (yes, a man can clean toilets). We laughed, and yes, we cried. Sometimes we cried because we felt so blessed to have found one another, and sometimes it was the heartbreak of one of his children crying on the other end of the telephone for him. In those many times of comforting my husband over missing his children, never in a million years did I realize that soon he would be holding me while I mourned over my son moving in with his father.

     It hit me like a ton of bricks, knocking the breath out of me , no, knocking the life out of me. My son Shane, only 11 years old, had decided that he would prefer to live with his father. Only after a court hearing, was it official. Shane moved out in November 1998 and my world collapsed. Michael was at a loss of how to help me. My children had been my world, and suddenly, my motherhood was taken away. I prayed, “Dear God, was it too much to have my child AND a good husband? Was that too much to ask for?” Never in my life until now had I been angry with my Maker.

     For the next several months, going home to an empty nest was just too much to take. We would stop for dinner after work, we joined a gym, we got to know our neighbors, and yet, in the end, we would come home and the house would be empty. No signs of life except for whatever we had left in the  morning, maybe an empty glass, a towel on the floor, but that’s about all. So, Michael and I grew together, out of love, and out of sorrow for our absent children.

    Out of sorrow, comes rebirth. After denial, comes acceptance.

GOTTA GETCHA SOME

     It was slow, it was an evolution, but eventually, Michael and I began to function as a couple that had a full time marriage and part time children. We arranged it where our children stayed with us on the same weekends and we began to look forward to not only the on weekends, but the off weekends as well. Still, during the week, it was really difficult coming home to an empty house. We had always been caretakers of children, and that’s a hard habit to break.

     On Easter morning of 1999, while sitting out on our back patio, the conversation turned to pets, dogs specifically. Michael had grown up with pets in the home. He felt like dogs filled up a home with warmth, energy, and companionship. When he moved from his children’s home, he left behind a beloved dog named Mollie. He missed her. He never toyed with the idea of bringing her with him, because his children loved her too. So, we decided on that Easter morning that we would get a dog. Watching my husband talk about having a four legged addition to our family made his eyes light up. His excitement was contagious and I found myself wanting my own arms filled with a puppy. We opened the Sunday newspaper and fervently began scavenging the wants ads for puppies. I can’t recall how or why, but we got it in our minds that we wanted a dachshund (or as we Southerners say, a weenie dog). Toby Keith, a country artist, had a song out called, “Getcha Some”. Michael and I came up with our own verse, “Gotta Getcha Some…. weenie dog”. It made us both laugh, and it became an inside joke for years.

     Our newspaper search led us to only one possible lead. Michael called the seller of the litter of dachshunds and agreed to meet her in North Carolina that afternoon. We had decided to get a male. I stayed behind to get ready for the work week ahead. I was excited that in a few short hours, Michael would be walking back through our door with a puppy! I anxiously awaited a phone call that he had gotten there safely and had picked out the new member of our family. When the call finally came, it wasn’t what I had expected. He explained to me that upon his arrival only two puppies were left, both males. He couldn’t  decide which one to get. To my surprise, I blurted out, “Get them both, they need to stay together”.  And that’s exactly what he did. A few hours later, Michael walked through the door with not one, but two black and tan puppies.

     Love comes in all shapes, sizes, and lengths.

IGNORANCE IS BLISS, OR IS IT? 

        Two people could not have been more unprepared to bring puppies into their home than the two of us were. An infant could had as easily been left in a basket on our doorstep. Our excitement about the thought of having a puppy clearly outweighed the reality that not only did we not have a fence to put them in while we were at work, but when did we plan on housebreaking these pups? For the time being, we quickly decided that they would stay in the kitchen during the day, and then in the spare bathroom at night. The following weekend, Michael would construct a pen for them in the back yard before permantley installing a privacy fence. We, however, had to get through the first night. Our first few hours with them were fun. We played on the floor. We got puppy kisses. We took them outside and watched them pounce on the fresh new grass of the season. We did our best to get “potties” out of them before coming in for the night. The Sunday newspaper which ironically is where we found these new loves, was placed on the bathroom floor, a blanket from our bed was carefully placed in the corner for them to sleep. Michael felt sure that the scent of us would help them find comfort and they would settle in for the night. We placed them into their impromptu bed, closed the bathroom door, and naively, if not smugly, retired for the evening.

     It had been a full day for the two of us, and we were admittedly exhausted. Minutes after crawling into bed, the sound of scratching on the bathroom door and the whimpering of two scared little puppies, carried throughout the house. We tried our best to ignore it. Michael reassured me that they would soon go to sleep. He was wrong, so wrong. We tossed, we turned, we tried to tune it out. Just as if they were infants left crying in a crib, I could not ignore it. Against my husband’s advice, I went in and checked on these unnamed creatures. And there they were, those big eyes looking up at me, so helpless. I walked in and closed the door behind me. All I knew to do was to lie down with them on that paper lined bathroom floor and try to comfort them. They quickly nestled into that blanket with me, cradled themselves next to my heart, and went to sleep. That’s all they wanted, human comfort, human touch. Thoroughly exhausted, I found myself slipping into sleep. Yes, on that bathroom floor, yes with these two silly little pups that I had only known for a few short hours.

     The bathroom door opened, it was Michael. He caught the sight that later he would say endeared me to him even more. He scooped up the boys and said, “Love, lets go to bed, all of us”.  He placed the boys on our bed, and wrapped them in that same blanket. We all slept until daybreak when Michael and I were awakened with kisses to the face, reminding us that we would never again be alone in our home.

Let not your hear be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

….. to be continued.

Cat

19Jul

A Sister’s Gift

This is my outrageously beautiful sister Terri Lee.

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My hero, my rock, my person.

We were not especially close growing up,  but as we grew into adulthood, we formed not only a friendship, but a bond that sealed our status as best friends. It hasn’t always been easy. We had children, we went through bad marriages that ultimately ended in divorces.  Sometimes we simply didn’t have the time to devote to one another. But even in those sparse times, I never doubted the depth of our devotion to one another.

When my husband Michael took his life in 2009, Terri and I had not been communicating much. In truth, I was wrapped up in my marriage, my children.  Although Terri had gone through a very difficult break up, I had not really been there for her. It wasn’t intentional, but a failure on my part to be there for her just the same.

When Terri got the call in the middle of the night from my son Shane that something terrible had happened with Michael,  it took her a bit in those foggy moments to realize that it was Shane and that I needed her. Her sister instincts kicked in, and this woman, this amazing woman, hardly left my side for one solid year after that tragic night. Forget the fact that I had failed her during her difficult time, she never hesitated to be there for me.

During that year my sister witnessed my pain, my broken heart, my anger, my self doubt. She endured my tears, my questions that had no answers. She put her life on hold to be there for me.  Even though you could call it the worst of times, in its bittersweet truth, it was the best of times. We took trips;  summer at the beach, Christmas in Charleston.  Terri introduced me the into the world of photography (she has that photographer’s eye). She taught me to see beauty and quirky and oddity through a camera lens. We took trips just to shoot, her with the finest equipment, me with my simple point and shoot. In truth, I don’t know what would have become of me had it not been for that time with my sister. There was healing that was taking place that I couldn’t see in the making.

And for reasons that I will not disclose, our relationship became fractured. We were both hurt. We hurt each other. We said things that I never dreamed we would ever heal from.

We held our distance for six long months.

During that time, I became roommates with a long time friend. I became active in painting classes, I forged new friendships. That was when I decided that along with these new beginnings, to change from being Cathy to simply, Cat. I’ve always had a few people in my life that would call me Cat, and it always evoked a sense of closeness, like an inner circle. So why not at this new time in my life to simply begin introducing myself as Cat. And so it began. I even changed my name on Facebook to Cat Corrier. I knew that it was possible for change to happen. Many years ago the friend I had known as Martha for as long as I had known her, decided after her mother passed away that she wanted to be called Martie. I never thought I would get used to it… but I did. Now I can’t hardly recall a time when she was known as Martha.  So I knew it could be done, change could happen.

Those six months without my sister in my life were tough, but I held on to my anger like a life preserver. I held on to my resentment as pain relief. I was stubborn. I knew that Terri was going through some life changing events of her own, but I refused to be the first one to appear weak, to be the vulnerable one to make the first act of reconciliation.  Terri made the first move, and in reality, made her the strong one, made her the brave one.

It was a birthday card from her. Simple. But I crumbled, and I cried from relief that this void in my life was over. We spent my birthday unpacking her belongings into her new apartment. We really didn’t want to talk about that thing that kept us apart for six months, so we didn’t.

The next time we were in a social situation together (we had discovered a local sports bar in her area), I introduced myself to the gentleman next to me as Cat. Terri quickly intervened, dispelled the notion that my name was Cat…. and that was the end of that. She would have nothing to do with this so called name change. The sister had spoken. And although in my writings, and in my signature on my silly little paintings, I am Cat Corrier, I had  resigned myself to the fact that I am stuck with Cathy.

This year (2014) marks the third year of my reconciliation with my sister. We have had an incredible three years. Lazy days at the pool, grilling at The Bistro (it’s the grill pad at her apartment that Terri marked as her territory), nights at “The Dog” (our local hangout) and countless hours on FaceTime. Not a day goes by that we don’t communicate in one form or another.

So, this year when my birthday rolled around and I opened my gift from her, it was an embroidered beach towel especially made for me:

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Years ago I was asked if I would rather be accepted or understood. My instinctual answer was I would rather be understood. But the more I thought about it, the more I leaned toward accepted. Because to be accepted goes beyond the reach of being understood. It means, “I may not understand you (or your reasonings, or your way of thinking, or your choices), but I accept you regardless.”  And that’s what that embroidered towel meant to me.

Of course, in my sister’s eye I will always be Cathy.. and that’s ok. But if someone else calls me Cat in front of her, she will respect it.. or at least suck it up and let me have my moment.

Cat