On Surviving My Season

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything to share; I’ve been busy surviving. In the midst of this survival, a friend shared an essay written by another bereaved mother who would call this stretch of time my “season.” Cooper’s suicide August 24 and his birthday September 16 are close enough together that I can’t fully escape the darkness in that three-week span. It’s my season, and I hate it. Between those dates this year, my dad had major surgery, my nephew got married, and it’s homecoming week at school.

So yeah, busy surviving.

I know, I know. It’s been a year. Seems like a long time. It seems like a long time to me, too; I can’t believe I’m still crying most days. But while it seems like a long time, it still feels so fresh. I catch myself thinking, “Cooper will love this,” or, “I can’t wait to tell Cooper.” Sending a family text to three other people instead of four will never feel right.

Surviving.

My dad’s surgery went fine. He’s recovering like a champ, but his heart had a rough year. First Cooper, then bypass. He was determined, though, to attend my nephew’s wedding two weeks and two days after surgery, and he did. Missing the wedding was not an option he’d entertain.

Surviving.

And the wedding. Covid forced these college sweethearts to reschedule their wedding twice; the third date was the charm. This past weekend, they were finally able to marry. The ceremony was perfect for them; the venue beautiful. For many, it was a purely joyful day. For some, it was bittersweet.

Surviving.

I worked hard to separate my happiness for the bride and groom from my own dark stretch. In some ways, I guess I did okay; in others, not so much. Watching my son Logan walk down the aisle as a groomsman — so handsome, so adult, so assured — simultaneously warmed and broke my heart. He was perfect. Cooper should have, would have, walked down that same aisle, stood with pride at Nolan’s wedding. I didn’t know a heart could feel so many things at once.

Surviving.

Just as sending a family text to three other people instead of four will never feel right, taking a photo of four cousins instead of five was torture. While I white-knuckled my way through Logan walking down the aisle, the picture-taking was the breaking point. We are probably due for family pictures, but I can’t do it. Not yet. The cousin picture was the same. All weekend, I wore a locket with Cooper’s picture, a gift from a friend last fall. That locket was part of my weekend survival plan, and it helped. When it came time for pictures none of us could fathom, the locket eased the way; Nolan wore my locket for the cousin photo and Logan wore it for the groomsmen pose. In a small way, Cooper was there. Lips were trembling and eyes were pooling. Those pictures will tell the story of four cousins missing the fifth, but that’s part of the story of the day.

Surviving.

Now it’s spirit week at school. My school takes homecoming very seriously — so seriously that we have to explain our . . . unique . . . traditions to new students. Cooper couldn’t have cared less about spirit week. Logan and Cassidy were both involved, but Coop didn’t participate in dress-up days or daily games; it just wasn’t his thing. If there was a party at a friend’s cabin, that’s where he’d spend homecoming. No, my involvement with spirit week isn’t about Cooper, but it is. I’m trying. I’m dressing up, playing along, and even enjoying myself. I’m doing all those things and pushing through all day, but when I come home, I am done. Done with participating, done with costumes, done with silliness, done with people. Done. That’s where spirit week, which lands in this terribly dark time, connects to Cooper. I’m involved and showing up, and it takes every bit of energy and brain power I can muster. Progress and growth, healing and learning. Exhausting.

Surviving.

Cooper should turn 30 on Thursday. Instead, Cooper is, in the parlance of the bereaved, forever 28. On Thursday, I will not be at school, participating in the festivities. Thursday, surviving means something else. Thursday, I have to survive my way; I have to let my mind go to Cooper, let my tears fall if they wish, let that nagging ache behind my breastbone have its say. Maybe I’ll lie in bed and stare at the wall. Maybe I’ll ride my 4-wheeler or paddle around a lake. I’ll follow the lead of the day.

Surviving.

But there will be good that day. Cooper always requested homemade apple pie for his birthday. A kid after my own heart, he chose pie over cake. This year, I’ll make apple hand pies and share them with the Tinkerbells Friday night. I’ll tell these unconditionally supportive women that apple pie was Cooper’s favorite, and that he’d like it even more with vanilla ice cream. I’ll share Cooper with others. In a sweet, small way, I’ll keep him alive — a locket in a photo.

Surviving.

I don’t know when this unrequested life will ever feel real. I don’t even know that I want it to feel real. I do know talking about Cooper, wearing a locket in wedding photos, remembering a best day and a worst day, sharing birthday treats with friends — all these seemingly small, irrelevant acts — well, that’s how I keep Cooper real.

It’s how I survive.