Last week, some jackwagon(s) helped themselves to the contents of my car, specifically my purse and wallet as well as two cameras, several lenses, flashes, and other accessories. While the thieves were probably after money or things that could be turned into money, their actions have affected me in ways they can’t comprehend.
The most heartbreaking loss was a scrap of paper covered in blue crayon gibberish. At least, that’s what the thieves saw, if they even noticed the paper tucked behind my license. That piece of paper has been in my wallet since June 21, 2020, when Cooper was transported to a behavioral unit across the state. The “gibberish” made sense to him and, since I watched him write it and listened to him talk it through, also made sense to me. He had plans to meet up with friends in Southern Illinois, to camp, to move, to have a life. He was in the midst of a psychotic break (hence the blue crayon instead of a pen or pencil), but he had plans. Written along one edge of the paper is “McLean County very safe LC.” Gibberish, right? No. While I can’t remember why we talked about McLean County, I do know the “very safe” was a reassurance; his cousin “LC” is a deputy in that county. Coop had just survived ten days in the wild—the wild of a national forest and the wild of his mind—and was spiraling into a stranger before my eyes during that longest night. Reassurance of safety mattered.
Maybe it seems strange that I’ve clung to that note. After all, it’s a reminder of horrible days and nights—the beginning of the end. For more than a week, we didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but he came home. Broken and battered, he came home. When he wrote that note, we’d already lost him but wouldn’t fully realize our loss for another two months. Why would I want such a reminder? Well, as a fellow Mom Who Knows recently said, at two years out, some memories start to fade. When memories are all we have, we hold tightly to both the good and the bad. The idea of forgetting anything terrifies me. I know it will happen, but I’m going to cling to all I can.
Are you happy, thieves? Did you get what you wanted from my wallet? You don’t even realize what you’ve taken.
A few years ago, I would’ve scoffed at the idea that a piece of scratch paper would matter more than my cameras and two bags full of lenses and flashes that I’d carefully and slowly acquired over many years, but here I am, sad about crayon scribbles and borderline-indifferent about thousands of dollars in photography equipment.
There’s a connection, though.
Tonya of Before always carried a camera. Always. I saw photos and their stories everywhere. I thought about photos—the composition, the timing, everything. Photography was my thing. Then my world fell apart, one day, ten days, one week, two months, one sharp knock at the door at a time. Cooper’s brain broke in the most tragic way possible; my soul, my mind, my photographer’s eye were collateral damage. This dramatic shift in interests and abilities—either long- or short-term—isn’t unusual. Grief is all-consuming. Is that shift disheartening? Quite. All through these two years, I’ve thought, hoped, prayed I’d find my way back to my camera.
Maybe I will. The fact that my cameras were in my car at all is a sign of progress. Slow, slow, slow progress, but progress nonetheless. I haven’t yet returned to my habit of driving around the countryside with my camera on my lap and camera bag riding shotgun—those riding-around-the-countryside memories are laden with flashes of Cooper’s last summer—but I did have the cameras in my car.
Progress is such a tricky concept. Tonya of Before‘s idea of progress would’ve involved a return to normal. Tonya of Soon After might’ve expected the same.
Nope.
Progress, two years in, is a scrap of paper folded behind my license, but it’s also photography gear on the floor of the backseat. It’s both. I hadn’t unfolded the paper for a couple months, but I’d felt behind my license to be sure the paper was still there. I hadn’t taken photos for the sake of expressing myself for who knows how long, but I was tiptoeing up to that option.
I’m learning progress is a living swirl of actions and emotions, of wounds and scars, of vulnerability and ferocity. It’s respecting my current state of being. It’s a shattered mind in blue crayon and a hibernating more-than-hobby behind the driver’s seat. It’s the before, and it’s the after.
I have photos of Cooper’s note and I have replacement-cost insurance. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever hold that scrap of paper in my hands and the pain of that loss is impossible to explain. I’ve lost another part of my son. Irrational? Perhaps, but our perception is our reality. As for the cameras, I’ll replace the gear and keep tiptoeing toward the viewfinder.
Progress, I guess.
Woods Writes 