June 9, 2020. Cooper left home for an extended camping trip in the Shawnee. He needed to clear his mind, figure out some things. Make a plan. He and I both knew he wasn’t himself that morning, but we also both knew he had to make this journey. Had I suspected that he would never again truly be himself, I would’ve fought him, begged him to stay home. Instead, I wished him safe travels and absorbed every second of his bear hug. No hug like a Cooper hug.
That was the last genuine Cooper hug I’d ever have. He didn’t die until August 24, but normalcy was gone. Affection was gone. The son I knew was gone.
A year later, I feel trapped in a countdown, a tortuous remembering of my most terrifying days. Tomorrow will be the day of the bizarre text, then nothing from Coop until June 19.
Looking back a year, initially, I was frustrated. Was he punishing me? I’d been honest in my concern for his physical and mental health in the days before he left. He didn’t want to hear what I needed to say. Had I wounded him emotionally? Honest words can hurt. As the days slogged by, my annoyance and defensiveness gave way to abject fear. His last message made no sense. None. No response to my pleadingly apologetic messages. Nothing. I wondered if he was gone forever. In a way, he was.
And now I’m replaying those days in my mind. Some memories over the past nine months have buoyed me, but these June memories threaten to drown me.
On the surface, I had a good week. I spent Monday with Cass, celebrating her birthday. Tuesday the Tinkerbells fed my soul. I spent time with friends and family every day this week. That’s all good. I’m grateful for those hours of reprieve.
On the surface, I had a good week. Below the surface, though, I’m strapped with weights. My memories grab at my ankles, twist themselves around my legs, cling to my waist. Below the surface, I’m thrashing about, battling to keep my head above water.
In my early teens I took the swimming class that preceded lifeguard training. We had to jump into the deep end fully clothed—long pants, long sleeves, shoes—and tread water for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps that class was a physical pre-test for what would eventually be an emotional test.
All I know is these memories won’t loosen their grip on my mind. It’s easy to say it’s just another day but I’m finding it impossible to escape the gloom of these days. I can’t not think about last June. When I look in the mirror this week, my August eyes are looking back. My smile has retreated. For now, for these days of reliving, that’s just my face.
Will this awful feeling last forever? No. Will this be the last time I feel this pain? Also no. I’ve learned some things about grief since August. Grief comes in waves. It also subsides. These days, the waves are high and the water is rough. These days, I have to focus on keeping my head above water, passing another test, surviving another first.
One of the earliest and most important swimming skills taught is to flip onto your back and float if you’re in trouble. How I wish “back float” were an option in grief.
Woods Writes 