Most of my life has been measured in school years, whether as a student, parent, college student and parent at the same time, or teacher. In that one way, I suppose this year is no different.
We are entering 4th quarter of a year that has managed to trudge by in a blur. I’m no physicist, but that’s some tricky shit right there. I don’t know how we are in the 4th quarter, because it seems like I just returned to school after Cooper’s suicide a week to the day earlier. Here’s the real time-travel craziness, though; that wasn’t even this school year. August 24, 2020. March 13, 2022. Five hundred sixty seven days. Not one week—eighty-one weeks. Not even one school year—almost two school years.
How?
This time last year, I was looking forward to spring and summer, my favorite seasons, hopeful that I’d finally feel something good. Maybe I’d feel like myself. Instead, I hunted mushrooms through teary eyes, barely took any pictures (still), and only paddled around a lake a few times all summer.
Here I am again, telling myself the school year wraps up in predictable fashion: musical, spring/Easter break, prom, concerts, awards, graduation, done. Fourth quarter. What I’m wondering is if things will be different this spring and summer. Will those activities and hobbies I’ve loved for so long hold any appeal for me? A year ago, I told myself, “next year will be better,” but it’s next year and not noticeably better. Instead, and in some ways, noticeably worse.
This writing shouldn’t be taken as a plea for pity, but as an explanation. After all, if I expected to feel better—be better—by now, so must the people around me, right? But I’m not. I’m not better, I’m just different. I’m more and more convinced that, while I may grow more able to handle this life, I shouldn’t expect to return to my previous life. That life imploded 567 days ago. The dust and debris from that implosion will pollute the air of all my days.
Still, dusty and dirty, heartbroken and unrecognizable, I try to go forward. Some days, I make some progress. Other days, I sit and cough in the grit of my life, muddy tears streaking my face.
I’ve written several times about starting a local Compassionate Friends chapter, and have now submitted the application. I’m waiting (not overly patiently) to hear what comes next. I told someone this project is my baby. It’s the first time since Cooper’s death I feel like I could extract anything even resembling good from this loss. So, there’s that. Maybe there’s a vein of excitement—anticipation is a more apt description—running through me. This negative energy, this anxiety and tension and despair, could be harnessed and guided into something useful.
Another foray into progress . . . Last school year, I didn’t even try to teach Tuesdays With Morrie; I knew I’d be a mess. It was too soon. I love that book, though, and believe it is a valuable non-fiction addition to the classroom. Morrie’s stick with us through our lives. In my classroom, we don’t diagram sentences, but we read books that shape us into better humans. My juniors started Morrie last week, and they know the deal. My deal. Am I ready for that book? I don’t know. Can I handle it? Well . . . I will. Might I cry? I hope not, but who knows. I have students who’ve lost parents and grandparents, siblings and friends and cousins. Loss is part of our lives. Morrie is a soulful guide.
Learning to step up, to be an honest advocate and annoyingly persistent warrior in this unrequested life is a constant challenge. I want to help people, but I’d prefer to help gently and quietly (like with a book). Speaking up and out—knowing the right time—is tricky.
For instance, when the word “suicide” is spoken (by someone else) during a meeting and a roomful of backs stiffen in silence, fighting the urge to turn in their chairs and look at me, I want to shout—honest-to-God SHOUT—the true-but-untimely fact that talking about it doesn’t make it happen and ignoring it doesn’t undo what already happened.
I stayed quiet, but have worn AFSP shirts more days than not since that meeting, your friendly neighborhood elephant in the room, representing those lost to an epidemic of despair.
You’d think that 18 months might lessen the constant questions, but “WHY?” is always there, nagging and niggling. I keep a locked note on my phone, a safe place to “jot down” thoughts that sometimes work their way into writings. A few days ago, I wrote, “I’m trapped in a web of “why” today. I read articles about the perfect storm concept. I don’t know. Maybe there was a perfect storm.” All these months later, I wonder. I will wonder every day for the rest of my life. I saw Cooper at his worst, in the throes of psychosis. I picked him up after a week in a behavioral unit. I watched him take his medicine and try to fight his way back to himself for two months. Five hundred seventy-four days ago, I helped him set up for a video interview. Five hundred sixty-seven days ago, the coroner knocked on my door. Is there a perfect storm in there somewhere? Does it matter? These questions and so many more haunt me in my late night hours, are my drive-time earworms. Will I ever know these answers? Ultimately, his brain broke and so many hearts were collateral damage—damage my real Cooper would never inflict. I do know that one answer.
So, we’re coming into 4th quarter. The time changed overnight. The musical will be finished this time next week. The weather looks less hateful; brave early spring flowers are showing themselves, offering a promise of what’s to come. Today, my Facebook feed is full of new babies, gloriously pregnant moms, and long-desired pregnancy announcements. All good. Time moving forward, ripe with change and hope. Spring, spring, spring!
I don’t know what awaits (or lurks) in the next weeks and months. Last spring, I thought about a solo summer road trip, but I honestly don’t know what I did last summer. I didn’t take a road trip and I didn’t spend much time on a lake. Now, the thought of a road trip is scratching at my mind. Would there be peace on a road trip? Even though I desperately want answers to “WHY,” I know those answers aren’t on any road I will travel in this lifetime. As a friend and I discussed Friday, maybe those answers are not mine to know. Maybe, eventually, eternally, the answers I seek won’t even matter. Maybe, instead of answers, the questions will just fall away.
That’d be cool.
Woods Writes 