On 17 Months

Tomorrow, January 24, 2022, will be 17 months.

Seventeen months since the world tilted. Seventeen months since our family came undone. Seventeen months since I last believed everything could be alright. Seventeen months since I felt joy untainted by sadness. Seventeen months since I could hug all of my children.

Seventeen months.

That’s a good chunk of time—coming up on a year and a half. At first, I could tell you how many days (518), then how many weeks (74), then, gradually, how many months (already told you). Progress, right? At this point, I stand amazed that it’s been so long. How? Cooper’s death feels recent, the grief still raw, but this perpetual recovery seems to have existed for a lifetime. Tonya of After‘s lifetime, I guess. If someone asks me later this week how long it’s been, I’d probably just say, “almost a year and a half.” Close enough? Long enough to learn more than I ever wanted to know about loss and unanswered questions, stigma and scorn, guilt and blame. Long enough to know that I’ll survive (at least I have so far) but that I won’t be my same old self. Long enough to figure out I must tend to my own heart and health, and that tending may not be what I or others expect.

What’s it like at 17 months? Well, it still sucks but here I am, showing up and doing the things anyway. There are days I think showing up should earn me a sticker, but nobody’s passing out stickers to sad middle-aged women. Maybe I’ll buy my own damn stickers.

Anyway.

A year ago, I still needed occasional days off to regroup. Days when I could stay home, lie in bed, stare at the wall, cry until I was dry. I probably did that once a month for the first six or eight months; I had to have those days. This year, the only “Cooper” days I’ve taken are the anniversary 8/24 and his birthday 9/16 (I don’t see myself teaching on those two days anytime soon), and I’ve done okay. Progress? Maybe. Some days I am really pushing to get through my school hours and I’m always ready to be home at the end of the day, but I’m surviving.

Most days, I’m okay or at least okay-ish. I teach and go to rehearsal, buy groceries and cook meals, do laundry and actually fold it and put it away. Progress. I show up. I do the things. Sticker, please.

But there are moments. Last weekend, in the middle of a perfectly fine football-with-a-friend (who happens to me a Mom Who Knows) afternoon, in the middle of a nice visit mixed with yelling at the TV, wedged in my corner of the couch, I absolutely did cry my mascara right off my face. I don’t know how or why it happened, but I went from fine to messy in a hurry. She didn’t freak out or try to make it stop, shush me or fix me. Eventually, we laughed again. It happens and it passes. I don’t come undone in front of people too often anymore, but I’ve stopped fighting it in safe settings. That’s what it’s like, 17 months into the After.

Today in Sunday school (one of the best hours of each week), it almost happened again. I kept it together and I still don’t know what set me off. Sunday school is a safe and understanding group; it wouldn’t have been the first time I cried around them—not even close. I’ve known several of the other class members most of my life; they knew and loved Cooper. So, if I cry, I cry. It happens. Today was just weird. It wasn’t anything we read or said, but I found myself tearing up, sniffling, shaking my head to chase away a meltdown. It passed, mostly. I’ve been “off” today, but I’ve also been worse.

I guess that’s what it’s like, 17 months in.

I am not really a Rams fan, but lately I find myself cheering for the Rams. Why? Well, they have a player named Cooper. It’s silly—I know—but I cheered for them last weekend and today, and I’ll cheer for them again next weekend. I don’t hear my son’s name often these days, but football Cooper is a playmaker and the announcers love him. That translates into the announcers saying his name over and over. A year ago, I wasn’t even paying attention to football and hearing Cooper’s name on TV might’ve made me cry. This year, I just like to hear his name. Progress? Pitiful? Possibly both.

This is 17 months of grief and growth.

My mom said my last post described something akin to a metamorphosis, and she’s right. I can feel myself growing and changing, shards and all. I’m morphing into my new self, this Tonya of After. I always viewed tears, especially my own, as a sign of weakness. I was wrong. Now, my tears are part of my life. I could find some inspirational phrase describing tears, but . . . no. My son died, tragically and violently. I miss him. I miss the future he should’ve had and I wish with every cell in my body that I could have helped him. My heart has been cleft into pieces; the brokenness is irreparable. I keep going, keep trying for forward progress, but I have earned my tears. If they fall, they fall.

Beyond the tears, maybe I can help others. If nothing else, I have boundless empathy for their pain and I can listen to their stories. Does that mean I’m done needing other people? God, no. Friday night I saw one of my Moms Who Know, a mom who is much further along this path than I am. I hadn’t seen her since August, 51 weeks into this festival of hell. Friday night was an infusion of empathy, from her fierce and healing hugs to her whispered words of encouragement and support. From hello to goodbye, the evening was a balm for my soul. So no, I’m not done needing other people. Are we ever done needing other people? Nope. I know that about myself. Progress.

In these 17 months, I’ve learned I don’t want people to watch what they say around me. I can’t live my life knowing people are afraid of setting me off. That’s not fair to them or to me, and it’s not realistic. Some words or phrases, scriptures or songs, so many seemingly-innocuous parts of life may always poke me with the needle of grief, but I’m learning to handle my reactions. And honestly, if I cry, I cry. It’ll pass. Those tears and reactions, the ever-present weight of loss? Part of me. I’m learning to live with it (without apologizing); maybe others will, too.

Maybe 17 months matters to me because my sons were born 17 months apart. So much can happen in 17 months. Then, two babies in 17 months. Now, devastation, obliteration, and growth in 17 months.

Sometimes, progress is brutal. I might cry. It happens.