On Grief & Logic

One year ago today, Cooper was halfway through his hospitalization in an OSF behavioral unit. Ten months ago today, Cooper died. These are dark days for me, and no matter what I try, no matter how many times I tell myself it does no good to dwell, I can’t shake the darkness. I’ve learned much in ten months, from the exquisite, jagged pain of losing a son to suicide to the truths of a sorrow that will not end. One frustrating lesson — logic has no place in grief.

If logic affected grief, my heart might listen when my brain points out that 10 months is a long time. Healing can happen in 10 months. I grew tiny humans in under 10 months. A school year lasts less than 10 months. Logically, maybe I should be “better” by now. Able to laugh. Able to really smile, to concentrate and contribute. Logically. Heart truth is untouched by logic. I’m not better. I’m different than I was 10 months ago, the pain a deep and constant weight more often than a stabbing, sobbing pain, but I am not better. “Better,” whatever that means, seems an impossibility. When I try to convince myself I can get it together, that I can be okay, that I can manage my life and get happy, it just doesn’t work. This is awful. Losing Cooper, and losing him the way we did, is unimaginable. There’s no way I can or should be “better” or “okay” right now. The anguish is more powerful than logic. Heart truth 1, Logic 0.

If logic affected grief, I wouldn’t be trapped in a rerun countdown to August; I wouldn’t be wondering if this was the night Cooper tried to leave the locked ward of the hospital and ended up sedated, or if this was maybe the night that he seemed to be clawing his way out of psychosis. Logically, remembering — rehashing that week — will do no good. Nothing will change. The heart truth of the matter is, I can’t stop thinking about June 2020. The bedroom we worked to prepare for Cooper’s homecoming holds a lonely staleness; the blackout curtains we bought hoping to help him sleep still hang over the windows. The days drag by, leaving a trail of reminders. My overthinking, constant companion to heartache, knows no bounds. Heart truth 2, Logic 0.

If logic affected grief, I would be excited — only excited — for our upcoming family vacation to Lake of the Ozarks. I love that vacation. I love that week of swimming and floating and paddle boarding, of card playing and eating together. Logically, it’s all good. The heart truth, though, is that I’m both dreading and looking forward to our trip. Last year’s trip was the last time our family would all be together. My three kids will never again share a cabin or anything else. The five cousins won’t hang out, go for a ride or a swim, sit on the dock with a beer and just visit. Heart truth 3, Logic 0.

If logic affected grief, I’d focus on the fact that Cooper survived his ordeal in the Shawnee, severe dehydration, physical injuries, psychosis, and a week-long hospitalization. I’d focus on the fact that we had that lake time together. I’m eternally grateful for that time. but I can’t see only good. Last year, Cooper was released from the hospital on Sunday, June 28, and we left for vacation Saturday, July 4. The heart truth is, photos of that week remind me he was far from himself, and I now know he’d never again be himself. Not completely. His eyes were not the gentle twinkling eyes I knew. His body was still weak, his bruises still visible, but we were all so damned relieved to have him with us, alive. This year, as I purchase vacation-specific items, my list is shorter — no pistachios or dill pickle sunflower seeds, no dill relish or beer. These reminders and differences are impossible to ignore. So, this build-up to vacation is another reminder, another slew of memories taking swings at my stability. Heart truth 4, Logic 0.

I’m not completely lacking logic. Logan doesn’t get to go with us this year; he lives eight hours away from home, would have to miss work when he really shouldn’t, and would have to board his dog. I’m not buying Cooper-specific treats, but I’m not buying Logan-specific treats this year, either. Cass gets to join us for a few days — long enough to grow some freckles, play cards, eat good food, and decompress a bit — so there will be Cass-specific treats. Heart truth 4, Logic 1.

Of course there is good in my life; I’m not sure I would have survived this long without the good. I’m thrilled to be heading to Michigan to visit Logan tomorrow morning. I’m grateful Cass will be able to meet us at the lake for a few days. I’ve spent many hours with family and friends this week. These are blessings in my life. I’m aware and thankful. No, my life isn’t all heartbreak, but right now, there’s heartbreak in everything I do. Logic tells me to focus on the good. The heart truth is, grief has tainted everything, even the good. Heartbreak is loud. Grief is massive, oozing into all the available space in my life, washing over space already occupied. Heart truth 5, Logic 1.

Might be best if I stop keeping score.