This week will make six months of “after.” After coming home to an empty driveway. After the coroner at my door. After the first screams and fledgling anguish. After suicide intruded into our lives. After Cooper.
He’s been gone half a year. It doesn’t seem possible. I know he’s gone. I don’t expect to find his big, dirty boots inside the back door and his stack of dishes in the living room, but also, I do. I’m not delusional; I know he’s gone. Believe me — I know. But after 347 months with him on this earth, six months missing him is such a short time. The longest short time I’ve lived.
In those six months, and in some cases, months more, I’ve been surrounded and supported by family and friends — people who have helped me in every way they could and as much as I’d allow. I’ve cried — silently, loudly, and in between — with them. I’ve told my story, Cooper’s story, countless times, and they’ve listened patiently as I replayed the events of last summer. They’ve reassured me when I’ve wondered over and over what I missed. I’ve asked unanswerable questions, sobbed, sworn, prayed, and begged. They’ve stayed.
Not surprisingly, I’m a different version of Tonya than I was a year ago or six months ago. I have sharp edges, but also hollow spaces. I’m less present in all the ways. I am work. I’m not happy about this new, unimproved, version of Tonya, but I’m aware of the changes. The people who manage to “love me anyway” have put up with me, listened to me, talked with me every day and at all hours of the night. For them, six months is a long freaking time, but they haven’t complained and I know they won’t bail. I know they love me anyway.
Cooper’s death tested and reinforced friendships. His death also forged connections with people I’ve known, but just known. We were friends, but just friends. Now, we have a connection none of us chose; we’ve all lost a child. I’ve written about these women in the past. I’d say they help me more than they know, but maybe they do know; at some point, they, too, were new to this existence. At some point, three or eleven or twenty-five years ago, their grief was this raw. One of these lifelines sends cards, clippings, writings, from her journey. One keeps in touch on Facebook. And one I saw yesterday for the first time since I was pregnant with Cooper, almost 30 years ago.
We embrace, cry, and sit.
Decades fall away.
She reaches out, grasps my hand across the table.
Our eyes meet, lock, recognize the heartache.
She grimaces, barely; nods, slightly.
No words, only the assurance of understanding.
I know the pain that crushes your heart.
And she does. In those hours together, I saw myself in her eyes, but I also saw hope for my future. In her eyes, there’s a weariness I know too well, but still love. Her eyes overflow with tears, but also crinkle with laughter. Yes, her eyes show the pain that crushes her heart, but they’ve made room for life.
We’ve all heard or said “It takes a village to raise a child.” I’m learning the same concept applies to living this life. It takes a village of love to heal a heart. I takes a village of support to survive dark days. It takes a village of understanding to quell the isolation. It takes a village of pain to recognize the wound. It takes a village of prayer to keep the faith. It takes a village.
Woods Writes 