On Walking

Today was a big day — one of the first days I felt I might be making a difference while honoring Cooper. Today, our family and friends walked with us in our local AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention) Out of the Darkness walk.

Disclaimer for this next bit: I don’t mean that people don’t try to help; they do. Still, there’s only so much other people can do to help us handle what we can’t explain.

Grief is a lonely experience. Child loss is a lonely experience. Loss to suicide is a lonely experience and taboo topic. Child loss to suicide is a lonely experience and very taboo topic. How could a gathering of dozens of individuals affected by suicide be anything but sad, lonely, and possibly depressing?

Nope.

Somber? Yes. Crowded but quiet? Also yes. Safe? Immediately. Comforting? Constantly. Uplifting? More than I could’ve hoped.

We had close to 20 friends and family walking with Cooper’s Crew. More family, vacationing at the North Carolina coast, walked the beach as we walked around the square. Most of us — Illinois and North Carolina — wore our team shirts. All things in love. I met in-person Mary, a friend I’ve only known online. I could finally, finally embrace this woman who reached out to me, who has messaged back and forth on some of the most difficult days — anniversary and birthday — but also those normal sucky ambush days we know too well. We hugged long and hard, letting escape our weary sighs of heartbreak; whispering, whimpering, and nodding the secret language of grief. Our already-strong bond is sealed.

Although the connection is more intense with Mary because our stories are similar, the connection to everyone at the event is evident. There’s . . . something . . . in our eyes and our smiles. We’ve all lost someone we loved, and we lost them in a horrifying, traumatic way. We share scars from the same battle, but our presence is proof of our intention to keep fighting that fight.

I never imagined I’d be the one who keeps talking about this tragedy. About suicide. About living in the After. Frankly, I wish I weren’t. Nobody at the Walk pictured themselves involved in a community walk for awareness and prevention, but everyone there has a Before and an After.

The cleft in my life happened the afternoon of August 24, 2020, and I haven’t felt like myself since. Today, I was surrounded by others whose lives were redirected by a police officer or coroner, a knock at the door or unrecognized number on the caller ID. The craziness of my life didn’t seem quite so crazy for a while. Today, I found a community of support.

As I was walking to my car, I thanked the organizer for her work. Her response? “My heart is full today. Is yours? I hope your heart is full.”

Full might be a stretch, but my heart is more buoyant. I already know we will fundraise and walk again next year. I know I want to be more involved with AFSP. I know I desperately want something good or at least helpful to come from this loss. For years, I’ve said I truly believe we learn something from everything we experience, that there is eventual good in all things. For the past 13 months, I’ve regarded that statement as bullshit. I haven’t said it a single time since Cooper died. I’m not quite ready to say it aloud, but here I am, writing about it.