I don’t know if it’s because we are nearing the one year mark or if this is just another feature of grief, but lately I find myself shaking my head as if it’s a mental Etch-A-Sketch. Sometimes a quick shake, trying to dislodge a niggling thought, and sometimes a weary wobble, slogging through a foreign day. This isn’t right—shake, shake. This is too awful—SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE. My brain can’t go on this bird walk; I’ll be wrecked all day—shake. Breathe.
At the core of the head shakes is one pervasive question: How is this real? I know this life I’m living is real; I just don’t know how.
I don’t think I’m in denial; Cooper is dead. I know how and when and where he died and that he’s not coming back. Logically, I get it. I’ve said many times, grief and logic are strangers.
So I find myself closing my eyes, drawing a deep breath, and shaking my head, trying to return to a life I knew, a Tonya I recognized, an intact heart.
Seriously, how is this real?
Last week I took Cooper’s driver’s license renewal letter, along with his license and death certificate, to the Secretary of State facility. In response to the “How can I help you” greeting, I slid Coop’s letter under the plexiglass, said, “I have my son’s renewal letter, but . . . ,” and slid her the death certificate and said, “He’s dead.” I explained that I’d read I could keep his license if I filled out the appropriate paperwork. The employee couldn’t look me in the eye (predictable). I heard her whisper to her coworker that she couldn’t remember the process, but she figured it out. She never did look at me, and I stayed mostly dry-eyed. Now his last license has a hole punched in it, but I have it. An uncommon procedure for the employee, a gut-punch for me. Cooper is no more dead with his license punched than he was the day before, but there’s such finality in these formalities. I shook my head all the way back to my car.
How is this real?
Yesterday, I finally made myself disconnect Cooper’s cell phone, which was still on our plan. For almost a year I’ve continued to pay for his line because I couldn’t handle the thought of shutting it off. When I walked in to the store, I was relieved to see two familiar faces. Both employees know me, knew Coop, and know the situation, so I was able to waive round one of questions. Eventually, though, I had to speak to customer service and answer, “Why do you need to cancel?” “He is deceased.” (Fun fact: It doesn’t matter how I say it. It’s hard to say and apparently hard to hear.) The customer service rep was very kind and sympathetic. She said they will email me his voicemail greeting before completely shutting down his line. A kindness. Another final formality. I thanked her, thanked the in-store employee, left without ugly-crying, and shook my head all the way back to my car.
How the hell is this real?
Nearly every month since Cooper died, I’ve visited the cemetery where he shot himself. The 24th of each month is rough. Leaning my head against that tree, holding my hand over the scarred bark that marks the moment of his death, crying a little, speaking my love, apologizing for not being able to fix his broken mind, plucking a new sprig from the tree—somehow these small acts comfort me. That cedar tree holds his last secrets. It’s where he finally (I pray) found peace. At the end of each visit, I trudge back to my car, sprig in hand, shaking my head.
Honestly, how is this real?
Maybe my astonishment that this is, in fact, my life is the result of some of the shock wearing off. I pushed through this year, survived this year so far, with sheer will, stubbornness, and fear; if I stopped pushing, stopped showing up, took extended time off, what would happen? Might I come completely undone? Summer vacation has given me time to find out. I’ve been able to process some of what I suppressed last fall. I haven’t spent this summer doing what I’d planned, but perhaps what I needed. Some days have been completely solitary. Some days, I’ve come completely undone. If I didn’t feel I could function, I didn’t function. The world did not stop turning.
I thought summer vacation would leave me tanned, rested, and happy. If not happy, at least more at peace. I thought I’d paddle-board multiple times each week; I’ve been four times all summer. My summer has fallen in line with the rest of my year—more than slightly askew. The sadness I hoped would magically drift away on a sunset paddle has instead settled deep inside me. The unanswered questions I hoped would fade from my mind instead taunt me at all hours, leaving me awake and shaking my head yet again. The wounds I hoped would heal instead remain raw.
This is my life.
How is this real?
Woods Writes 