Memorial Day. Another day when my “UGH” t-shirt would’ve been appropriate.
Traditionally, Memorial Day was for remembering military sacrifice. Cooper wasn’t a veteran, although he had great respect for military men and women; many of his closest college friends served. Still, I probably should have done something special today — that seems to be what people do — but I didn’t know what. He would have scoffed at flowers, possibly even rolled his eyes. And where would I put those flowers? Where we scattered his ashes? Where he died? No.
Three months ago, a friend asked how I planned to honor Cooper. This friend, a Mom Who Knows, asks me tough questions. I still don’t know the answer to that one — not on a day-to-day basis and certainly not on Memorial Day. How do I honor my son? Today, I guess I honored him by allowing myself to feel glum, then doing something difficult. Today, Memorial Day, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I miss Cooper every minute of every day, but today carried extra weight. I don’t know how to do Memorial Day, but Memorial Day seems to represent this new life; I don’t know how to do it, either.
I don’t know how to do life? Stupid, but true. Nothing is the same; I’m learning how to be and accept this version of myself. I’m learning how to live in my world.
I don’t feel guilty when I laugh, but I rarely laugh. Is that the right way to be, nine months into this After? I know Coop wouldn’t want me — or any of us — to be perpetually sad. I try to find happiness, but it’s elusive these days. When I do stumble across happiness — whether with friends or family or alone — I treasure it. Turtles and bald eagles and rambunctious deer make me happy. Videos of a Florida cousin playing piano make me happy. Sunshine on my face and a tan line from my watch make me happy. Visits from Logan and Cassidy make me happy. My “Wild Man” son was all about treasuring good and fun times. Finding joy in the everyday. I assume that’s how he earned that nickname among his forestry friends. I’m a little afraid to ask.
Large, unpredictable groups make my stomach hurt, so I often avoid such settings. Is that the right way to be, nine months into this After? I’ve never been a fan of large groups, but it wasn’t an issue of anxiety; I just didn’t care for large groups. Now, large, noisy, unpredictable groups are too much. Union meetings, graduations, dinner with a large group? Nope. Probably not happening. The deciding factor seems to be the expectation of chit-chat. As crazy as it makes me sound, I spend a great deal of time and energy being functional. Chit-chat is a step too far. So, I’m embracing my hermit tendencies.
Hermit tendencies may backfire.
I’ve looked forward to summer vacation since August, but the thought of weeks of free time makes me nervous. Is that the right way to be, nine months into this After? My mind never stops, and now I don’t have school to draw my focus for a chunk of each day. Always an overthinker, my brain is gorging itself on Cooper’s death and the months leading up to his suicide. My brain’s new favorite game is One Year Ago . . . , and as games go, this one sucks. One year ago, the Cooper I knew was fighting demons I’d barely met. We know how the fight ended.
Find distractions.
I think I need to keep busy, so I have a list of projects. The problem is making myself stick with a project — just do the work. Is that the right way to be, nine months into this After? Of course not, but it’s the way I am, nine months into this After. I need to stay busy; I know that. But I can spend mindless hours curled in the corner of the couch, watching TV, staring at the wall, trying to read. I can spend hours stalling, intentionally or unintentionally, before I accomplish anything. I hate that about myself. Just writing this paragraph has curled my lip in disgust at myself. I’m not proud.
No, I don’t know how to do Memorial Day. Yes, I’m positive I’m making up this life, one moment at a time. I need to keep going but also start over, an impossible task worthy of Greek mythology. There was no way to prepare for this adjustment to my reality, to imagine the unimaginable. If someone had told me I’d barely recognize myself in the mirror, if they’d told me a broken heart can physically hurt, if they’d told me I could care so little and so much at the same time, I wouldn’t have believed them. I had no idea the marks — visible and not — grief would leave. I just had no idea.
Right now, each day is its own Memorial Day and I honor Coop with every laugh and every step forward. Maybe that’s the best I can do.
Woods Writes 