I can’t remember what it’s like to feel normal.
There are moments, narrow slips of time, that I’m distracted by something — work, pool time, a TV show, a book, my camera — but those distractions are short lived. Reality always intrudes, and each intrusion brings fresh shock. With each realization, each return to the After, my mind and heart both race as my systems prepare for the tortures of grief. If I’m lucky, the feeling passes in seconds or minutes; I’m well versed in deep, slow breathing. If I’m not lucky, well . . . fancy breathing doesn’t work. There will be tears and flashbacks and doubts and blame and so damn much sadness.
Staying busy helps, but rainy days like today, days when I don’t even leave the house, are not busy days. Today was a shamefully lazy day. A wasted day. The past few weeks have been exhausting; knowing we have over a week of school left in this Worst Year Ever wears me out ahead of time. So, today I was lazy. I colored (yes, really), played on my iPad, and read. Underlying each mindless activity was the anticipation of anxiety.
It’s not a sense of doom, really; it’s the sense of an impending meltdown. A word or phrase in my book distracts me, and I’m thrown from the fictional story back into my own story. A coroner doing a death notification in the book turns into our county coroner at my back door. Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Other times, there’s no discernible cause; I’m fine, then I’m not. Either way, I’m taking deep breaths and trying to keep myself calm. Lazy days are sometimes more tiring than busy days, but grief stages micro-attacks countless times each day, lazy or otherwise. Grief has no regard for my schedule or convenience.
The attacks aren’t always micro. Sometime mid-week, I spent a chunk of middle-of-the-night hours analyzing Cooper’s notes — one handwritten and left atop his Bible on his nightstand, another composed on his phone just minutes before he died. I marvel at his clarity. His words made perfect sense; I hear his eloquent voice as I read. How could he sound so like himself in that moment? I’ve read and re-read both notes. They are burned into my memory. Still, my mind wanders and wonders, blames and cries out.
One day this week, I thought about Cooper and his death almost constantly, even though I was at school and students were in the building. None of the usual tricks or distractions worked. That afternoon as I pulled into my driveway, a cardinal flew from the redbud tree. As always, I said, “Hey, Coop!” This time, I followed with, “I thought about you so much today. I just wondered why. I wish I had answers, I wish I’d been more perceptive. It doesn’t matter now, but might have mattered then.” Nothing new. I’ve had those exact thoughts thousands of times since Cooper died, but each time feels like the first time.
I go through my days bumping into memories and reminders of Cooper’s life and death. Absolutely nothing is normal; everything has the potential to send me into a spiral. Right now, over eight months into the After, I don’t know how to be my normal self; that person is gone. I see my entire world through Cooper-colored glasses: people he loved and who loved him, places he visited, what he was doing this time last year, what he hoped for his future. People Who Know assure me this feeling will soften over time. I trust their experience. While I wait for that softening, while I survive these days and nights, I need to let loose of normal.
Woods Writes 