Corrie’s Last Walk

I’ve experienced more life in 35 years than maybe some people want to feel.

On Monday, pictures will pop up on social media of children on the first day of school in an unprecedented school year. And they should. Life keeps going in that way.

I will share a picture of Corrie I have never shared of her in front of the school where she would’ve attended on Monday. It is my last ever “first day of school” picture I will be able to share of her even though I have many I have never shared after I reached a stage where I chose to just share one or two pictures of an event. I took it in March when I registered her for Kindergarten.

Kids will walk into school six feet apart. My last year’s eighth graders will become ninth graders, and God knows, I am so proud of them. The first group as ever taught as a full-time teacher will become tenth graders along with my two year group. My son will go to fourth grade, and a play set will arrive for him on Monday. These children … your children will go on and do great things. And they should.

No parent should walk where I walk.

No child should ever be buried.

I know people are there to support my family and me. I am aware of the prayers, the thoughts, and I am thankful. I am so thankful to be around people who understand I will never stop talking about my daughter.  There are so many people who have brought us meals and shown us love. 

We know and we are so grateful.

I still have a walk through grief. Days when it seems winter is really here and no leaves will ever grow on the trees.  No one can rescue me from my nightmares, or talk me out of my worries over my mother and her shaking hands. I will have to wake from them in the middle of the night when they come and write through them. 

In fact, Mom and I speak a same language now. Of all the beautiful and handsome faces in our lives and of all the beautiful and gracious souls, there are days when the only face I want to see is my mother’s.  She wakes up in the middle of the night, too.  Her heart pounds like the heaviest hand beating on a door. She looks at me and knows. I look at her and know. Never have we been able to look at each other and sit in the silence understanding the other.

Kids and teens will walk into the schools on Monday.  

I feel a different type of footstep upon the part of my heart I have left. I feel the heavy footsteps of the other mother’s who have lost part or their whole world. I feel them.

But my daughter, Corrie, had an incredible strength some adults lacked. She packed so much wisdom, strength, intelligence, and laughter into those five and a half years.  I am ready to talk about her last walk.

I took her to the doctor on a Wednesday believing she had a stomach virus. Corrie was normally upbeat, walking around and into everything with a curious interest. I wanted to take her earlier, but her 103 temperature had decreased.

It was raining and gray clouds everywhere.  She did not feel like walking. She was moaning some, and said she did not want to walk. I did not know at the time how much pain she was in, and yet she communicated with me. My daughter did not cry out of fear. She talked in a calm voice as if she was an adult.

I carried Corrie across the parking lot in the rain. I did everything to keep her dry as I hurried.

She wanted to lay down on the sofa and not sit up because it hurt. I put my purse beside her, so I could sign in for her appointment. She did not feel like walking when we went down the hall. I’d carried her so much, and she felt like she’d become heavier.

It was not because Corrie had grown, but because she had an extremely rare cyst in her abdomen. Only 870 something people have died of this cyst, since the year 1500.  She walked down the hall to be weighed like a normal appointment and to the room. 

She walked down the hall one more time.

Because I could not carry her.

I should have.

What I hope is remembered is the fact my five year old daughter walked down that hall.