So often since Cooper’s death, and more frequently in recent months, I’ve felt I should do something–anything–to eke some good from our tragedy. Nothing will make his death good; that’s an absurd thought. But can I use his death for good?
Working on it.
An overwhelming number of people donated to memorials, either to our Industry United Methodist Church or to the Southern Illinois University Forestry Club, the place where he found his people. The SIU money will help purchase tools, maybe pay travel expenses for members of the team. It took longer to know what to do with the church memorial, but one day our pastor asked if I thought an external defibrillator would be a good use of the money.
Yes!
Aside from Cooper’s instinct to help others, my dad, Cooper’s peas-in-a-pod Papa, was having some heart issues that necessitated wearing an external defibrillator. Thanks for the hint, God; I got it.
Tonight, we have a training and certification course at our church. Several members have signed up; all of us hope we never have to use the AED or our knowledge, but both will be there if needed. I think Coop would approve. Those left to make Cooper-related decisions definitely approve. A bonus? Each time I pass the AED on my way to the fellowship hall, I’m reminded of Cooper and the compassion that lived inside him, even on his darkest days. He would do something.
So there’s that.
Tomorrow morning, another survivor mom and I will board the train to Chicago to participate in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s (AFSP) volunteer gathering. My friend has previously attended, but this is my first time. I’ll be able to attend a volunteer training session and move toward helping others in suicide’s path. Suicide is a wrecking ball, a cruel pendulum that destroys us all along its arc. I want to soften that swing. I need to do something.
Am I nervous? Yup. I don’t really know what to expect, and since Cooper’s death, unknown situations bother me in a way I can’t explain. Maybe I’ve had all the surprises I need. Maybe I’m just wackadoodle. It could go either way.
No, I don’t know what to expect, but I know my friend does and I trust her. She’s been leveled by the suicide wrecking ball and has spent the years since her own son’s death trying to make a difference. Attending this gathering is part of the process. So, I’m nervous, but attending feels right. I can handle being nervous; I can see beyond the nerves. I can do something.
I’m still working on a local support group, because we need a parent group in our area. The Compassionate Friends organization, a godsend for bereaved parents, is slow to respond to my application (and calls and emails), but I decided overnight that I just need to move on, start the group, name it later. Do I want to form a TCF chapter? Yes. Still the plan. I spent a long time last night messaging back and forth with yet another survivor mom who joined a TCF Facebook group. Our sons have similar stories, right down to the call to 911 to inform law enforcement of their intentions. We have the same unanswered questions and perpetual regrets. I’ve never met this woman; I wouldn’t recognize her on the street and I have no idea where she lives. Her name is not mine to share. Even so, our bond was immediate, our conversation intimate, our support genuine. We understand each other. We can do something.
If a sure bond can form–silently and across hundreds of miles–imagine the difference we can make face-to-face. So, I’m going to get people together. We’ll talk and share and see what happens. It’s another unknown, but somehow this emotional mystery doesn’t make me anxious; I know how much my beloved Moms Who Know have helped me. I know firsthand the difference this support can make. The right support makes survival feel possible, the future feel real. I may not be the person to offer the support, but I can be the person to bring us together. I’m doing something.
It’s so hard, looking for good in Cooper’s death. I’m not sure that’s even the best way to phrase what I’m doing–looking for good in Cooper’s death. Maybe I’m moving forward, clutching (forever) my parcel of love and grief and missing. I don’t know. What do I know? I’ve slept in Cooper’s room for at least three nights in a row because it was the only way to find solace. I “talked” with a complete stranger I was meant to know and we both felt better. I know I’ll attend a training for a device purchased with Coop’s memorial money and a gathering I know about because of his manner of death. I know I need, but I also know I care, and I know both qualities can be put to use in a support group. I know I can do something.
This is a crazy existence, this unrequested life of mine, but I know I have to do something–anything–to eke some good from Cooper’s death.
Woods Writes 