On Life Moving Along

Life will move along.

I’ve always loved spring, but the past two springs were brutal. 2020 brought Covid shutdowns and the beginning of Cooper’s descent. Last spring, 2021, the first spring since Cooper’s death, mushrooming was an exercise in heartbreak. I walked the timber paths, my eyes blurry with tears, and missed him with each plodding step. I was miserable. Finding mushrooms was a task to be completed; there was no joy in the timber. The sadness of not enjoying an activity I’d loved only added to my baseline sorrow.

Life moves along.

This year, I still miss him with each step; I always will. But I can pass the spot where he tested my mushrooming skill (I might have failed on the first pass) and smile at the memory of his scoffing chuckle. This year, I can ride my four-wheeler and remember resting my forehead and hands on his strong back as he drove, his long red hair tickling my face. I can feel the safety of his presence on those rides. This year, I feel less haunted and more comforted by my memories of Cooper. I carry him with me—in my heart, in my tiny urn pendant, in my mind.

Life moves along . . . slowly.

Is it still hard, doing these things he loved? Yes. Of course. Coop had a connection with the land, with nature, with the place. I call him my mountain man for a reason. But, life moves along. The missing him doesn’t go away, but maybe I’ve formed emotional scabs. I don’t know. And, as scabs are wont to do, they crack and bleed. Scabs itch. Life picks at them and reopens the wound, morphing from okay to an absolute wreck in minutes, and those minutes can stretch into hours and days.

Sometimes life moves backward.

Then, the ache behind my breastbone drives my thoughts and actions. A couple weeks ago, I had a stretch that was horrid. If lying in bed staring at the wall were an option, I might’ve done just that. I cried for hours off and on; I cried for days. I was angry and bitter and mean and although I tried to keep the full-body snarl under control around people, I wasn’t terribly successful. It was one of those emotional dips that presents two options: don’t try to explain and let everyone assume I’m just a moody bitch, or do try to explain and let everyone think I’m a hateful monster. Kind of a lose/lose situation. Eventually, the nasty darkness lifted. I verbalized to one person, and the clouds broke. Those days pass. I haven’t figured out how to keep the really bad days at bay, but I do know they pass. For now, those hooligan days will just have to continue to clobber me when they hijack my mind.

Still, life moves along.

One day last week, I was on the front porch putting in my green May-is-mental-health-awareness-month light bulb. I could NOT get the tiny screws to line up and was getting frustrated. I looked over my right shoulder at the dogwood tree, and there, at eye level and making eye contact, was a perfectly still, perfectly timed red cardinal. I feel silly, looking for cardinals, making them mean more than nature intended, but that cardinal in that moment? Well, I needed that Cardinal. I greeted it, “Oh! Hi. Oh, Coop. Dammit.” It hung around for a while. I got the shade back on the porch light, which has been glowing green ever since. The cardinal flew away.

Life does move along.

Last night was our second Compassionate Friends meeting, and I think it went better than the first. We were a dozen moms still reeling from Mother’s Day, but we reeled together. We reeled safely, free from the worry of hurting others with our pain, free from judgment, free from trying to explain. We told our stories and their stories. We talked about our lost sons and daughters. That conversation was a salve to our wounds. Maybe our bleeding slowed to a trickle, began to scab. Maybe, but we all know the fickle nature of scabs.

Life moves along, and we have band-aids.

Spring with all its Cooper connotations may never be easy. It may be one thing I’ll never love quite the same as Before. Time will tell. Still, last spring I was barely functional, debilitated with the acute pain of yet another first. One more thing I’d shared with Cooper all his life. This year, I’ve tried to find a way to share spring and mushrooming with him, because life is moving along; all my springs—all my seasons—will carry this withoutness. It’s not the same—it’ll never be the same—but as life moves along, I’m trying to find my way. My way involves wringing some good from the tragedy of Cooper’s suicide, bringing together compassionate friends, and putting band-aids on oozing scabs—sometimes my own and sometimes others’.

Life will move along.