On A Year

Yesterday after school, a good friend who happens to be the school photographer started hauling her photography equipment into my classroom, location of school pictures. It was the first Monday of the school year, just like last year. Last year, I visited with her and her student-assistants as they set up their equipment. We’d dismissed at 2:05, but I was there until our contract time of 3:25. It was great to see her and catch up a bit while she worked. When I left, I went straight home, turned on the washer, and started tossing in clothes, including the shirt I’d worn that day. Within five minutes, I was standing at the back door, still in my cami, answering the coroner’s knock.

A year ago, I became someone none of us ever wants to be — a bereaved mother.

So yesterday’s setup of photography gear was an overdose of déjà vu. Logically, realistically, it was unlikely that the rest of the day would repeat, but the heart knows little logic and I know firsthand that unlikely, unbelievable things can and do happen. At 3:25, I trudged to my car. Trudged. I could barely lift my feet and propel myself forward. My energy had slowly seeped out over the course of the day. By 3:25, I was empty. The buildup to today, the dread and worry and stress of impending day 366, had drained me. I came home and took a nap, still wearing my “Keep Go;ng” T-shirt that I’d worn in memory of Coop, who could not keep going.

Honestly, I could’ve just stayed in bed from Monday afternoon until Wednesday morning, but I didn’t, at least not entirely. Eventually, I got up and made supper, but returned to bed and the freedom to curl into a ball — into myself — and stare at the wall. I spent the next twelve hours awake, asleep, and in between, feeling thoroughly dragged down by the day. The anniversary. Our remembrance day. Not just another day. The. Day. Cooper is no more gone today than he was yesterday or a month or six months ago, but somehow, today has the attitude of a jailer locking us into this permanent reality.

Still, Logan and Cass were both here. We planned to go to the farm, Cooper’s favorite place, and that’s what we did. I hadn’t really thought about a countdown, but the nearer we drew to 2:12 p.m., the heavier my heart. I watched the clock all the way to the farm. I saw 1:52, the time of our final text. At 2:04, the timestamp on Cooper’s last note, the note he titled “The Last One,” we went around the curve at the top of the hill, dropping down into the peace of the timber. At 2:06, the time of his 911 call, I was stepping out of my car, tears streaming. By 2:12, his official time of death, I was sitting on the deck, visiting. Somehow, at 2:13, the tension began to abate. The sadness stayed — maybe it’s just part of me for now — but the day’s tension wasn’t so bad. I didn’t want to crawl back into bed. I could handle visiting. I don’t think I laughed all day, even at silly cats, but I was finally functional.

We didn’t do anything extravagant today–no balloons (bad for the environment and silly, per Coop) or celebrations or big gatherings–but we were together. We did today our way. We didn’t even talk much about Cooper; I don’t think any of us could really handle it. He came up in conversation as usual, but we didn’t tell “Cooper stories.” We were just together, outside, heartbroken and sweating in the oppressive heat, just like 08.24.2020. When we left the farm, I took a scenic route, traveling paths Cooper and I covered last summer on our evening road trips. Instead of music or an audiobook, those conversations played in my mind.

An entire year without Cooper. The beginning of the rest of our lives without Cooper. Now, a year later, we are different people. Somber. Exhausted. Broken. Weaker. Stronger. We are learning how to be, how to function as a family with a big redheaded gap. I imagine we will be learning how to live without him the rest of our days, because there’s no way this could ever feel right.

So many friends and family have reached out today, thinking of Cooper and the people who loved him and love him still. One reminded me that Cooper found his peace; I can find mine. One likened Cooper’s humor to my own. One, a Mom Who Knows, told me time would be my best friend. Twenty years down this road, she knows. The other Moms Who Know reached out with prayers and gentle words, assurances and love. Support. They continue to show me what can be — not perfection or constant joy, but a life. A full and fulfilling life. They are still standing. I am still standing. I wobble and tremble and remember. I stumble and lurch and cry. I falter, but I am still standing.

I’m not delusional — I don’t expect life to right itself tomorrow. I stopped believing in life’s easy magic a year ago. Still, there’s something to be said for surviving. Many days, all I’ve done is survive (and barely), but I’ve survived. I suppose I’ll keep on that path — still standing, still surviving.

Still heartbroken.