On Darkness

I’m lying here, listening to a weather front move through, waiting for that moment when everything changes. I love when this type of front passes; I know the heat will break. I know the wind may be fierce, but that it will pass quickly and a reprieve from the heat and humidity will follow. Knowing there was an end in sight made recent hot and humid days more bearable. Not pleasant, but tolerable. Things will change.

I keep waiting for this front of grief and disbelief to pass, for a lasting reprieve from this unwelcome reality. I want to open my windows, welcome a cool breeze and warm sunlight. Instead, this front has stalled out, a dark cloud that travels with me through my days, weeks, months. Just as I can’t control the weather, I haven’t figured out how to control this weight of sadness.

The year of firsts has passed; the mythology of grief would have me feeling better, moving on (ha), becoming myself. Smiling. Instead, I spend hours replaying conversations, dissecting notes, searching for clues, questioning decisions. Cooper’s 30th birthday was last week and I cried more that day than I did on the anniversary of his death. This was his second birthday After, and so much harder than last year, when I was still in shock. Last year, I did things he would enjoy, things that connected me to him. This year, I missed him with a vengeance. I missed his presence and his future. I missed for him all the things we hope our children can experience. I made his favorite supper for his birthday, then tried, failed, and tried again to eat. I made a variation of birthday apple pie and shared it. I should’ve heard, “It’s damn good, Mom,” but I heard my own choked sobs and my “Feel Better” playlist.

Instead of sharing a birthday meal with Cooper, I find myself fundraising for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention and I don’t know how this is my life. His people, my people, our people, will walk with us Saturday. We will be faces of reality, of Humpty-Dumpty-ed lives, broken but trying to go on. We will walk with friends, acquaintances, and strangers, all connected by tragedy. I will finally meet in person someone I’ve only talked to—but extensively—online. She lost her son to suicide six years ago, and a mutual friend connected us. She knows this unshakable cloud of questions, what-ifs, guilt, and doubt. She’s helped me navigate my dark cloud as she navigates her own. She understands.

I observe this friend and other Moms Who Know; their lives reassure me that, while my cloud may not fully lift, I’ll learn to live with the darkness. I’ll find some light to balance the darkness and find my way, just as they have, but it takes time—years and years of time—and even years or decades later, there will be dark, cloudy days. I have to face those days. As one Mom Who Knows told me last week, “There is no getting around grief.” She’s been surviving for almost 30 years; I trust her word.

Walking Saturday, putting yet another face with the word “suicide,” helping raise awareness and funds—is some light in the darkness. Maybe our transparency, our story, our reality can help another person or family. Maybe it will only help us. I don’t know. These AFSP walks are called “Out of the Darkness” for a reason.