Christmas morning more than 20 years ago: Cooper is trying out his new hunting/wilderness PlayStation game when he begins shouting, “Polar bear, polar bear, POLAR BEAR!” at the TV and belly crawling backward across the living room floor. He keeps playing the game until he reaches the limit of the controller’s cord. From that moment on, “Polar bear, polar bear, POLAR BEAR!” has been a family joke. Coop’s yearly ornament was often a polar bear, as were his annual pajama pants. He tolerated the teasing, didn’t care about the ornaments, and wore the flannel pants threadbare.
Fast forward (only in this story—never in real life) to December 21, 2022’s fast and furious shopping trip. I was in Kohl’s picking out this year’s pajamas for Logan and Cass—something pretty but not too warm for Cass, something funny and warm for Logan—when I saw them. Polar bear pajama pants.
Damn.
There I stood in a swarm of shoppers, thrown back in time and raw grief, my hand resting on the soft fleece of what would’ve—should’ve!—been Coop’s Christmas pajamas. I picked them up, set them back down, talked myself through the craziness of a grief ambush, talked myself out of buying a gift for my dead son. Right there in the middle of the crowded last-minute-gift aisle, I had a silent, trembling, dry-eyed, internal meltdown.
Fabulous.
After a few minutes, I convinced myself to snap out of it, whatever that means. I distracted myself. I moved to a different department. I didn’t buy the polar bear, polar bear, POLAR BEAR pants.
I regretted my perfectly logical, albeit heartbreaking, decision for weeks. I told absolutely no one, knowing this story would have screamed “CRAZY” to the blissfully uninitiated.
Yes, I realize I’m now telling the world.
Then came the January Compassionate Friends meeting. We go into each meeting with a topic, but everything is fair game. We are there to help each other through this messed up, unfair, sometimes-cruel existence. So, I told my compassionate friends about the polar bear pants and was showered with . . . not “crazy lady,” but encouragement and understanding. With permission to feel what I feel and do what I need to survive.
When I settled in at home after the meeting, I got on the Kohl’s website and searched “men’s pajamas.” There. They. Were. One pair left in my size. Cooper’s size. Clearly a sign, right? The soft fleecy pants arrived by the end of the week. I don’t even like fleece—I run too hot—but I love these polar bear pants. Most nights (including tonight), when I get home from work I feed the insistent cats, shed the day’s clothes, and pull on a loose t-shirt and these goofy, sentimental, cozy pants. And you know what? I don’t overheat. I just feel better.
I’m almost two and a half years into this unrequested life. The spiny grief of those very early days and weeks and months has slowly morphed into a heaviness I can’t escape, a heaviness that sometimes stabs me with a still-sharp spine. I think it’s here to stay; I don’t believe I have days enough to completely smooth every sharp edge. My Moms (and a few Dads) Who Know wish they could tell me the heaviness will eventually go away, but instead they tell me the truth—the daunting truth that is our shared reality.
So I remind myself this grief—this always-heavy, sometimes-stabby grief—is part of me, just as my love for Logan and Cassidy is part of me. My love for Cooper didn’t die with him, but shows itself differently these days.
My Polar bear Cuddl Duds are so much more than comfy pants for winter nights. They are a warm hug and a gentle reminder that it’s okay to do what I need to do, even if it seems crazy, to survive my life.
Polar bear, polar bear, POLAR BEAR.
Love you forever.
Woods Writes 