On her fifth birthday, dripping wet from playing in the sprinkler, my always-running daughter slipped and fell, bounced her head off the kitchen floor, knocked herself out, and had a seizure. It was terrifying.
Cass is the youngest of three kids; by the time she turned five, everyone had been stitched up by our beloved pediatrician or a suspicious ER doctor. Plenty of blood. No concussions. I was completely freaked out. She slept right beside me for several nights and during the days, I wanted to cocoon her in bubble wrap.
At that point in my life, I was providing in-home daycare for several families. One of those families lost their young son in a tragic accident when I was newly pregnant with Cass. I distinctly remember calling D—the mom—at work to let her know I needed to cancel for the next day, then apologizing when I told her why. After all, my daughter had fallen and hit her head; D’s son was dead. I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to upset her. I didn’t want to remind her.
As if she’d forgotten. As if she could ever forget.
Now here I am all these years later, trying to figure out how to put people at ease in my presence. Their discomfort and awkwardness, their pussyfooting and apologizing, their fear of the red-headed elephant in the room all stem from concern—I know. Oddly, as time passes and life lives on, the discomfort seems to grow, a phenomenon that surprises me. I guess I thought friends and acquaintances would become more at ease in time, but I was wrong.
I think (and that’s all this is—my mind wandering through life) a few things are at play here.
Obviously, people are afraid of upsetting someone dealing with loss; I only write from my experience, but I know I’m not alone. Here’s the thing: unless you are going to tell me another child of mine is dead, no words of yours—of anyone’s—can hurt me beyond the wounds I already bear. Nothing else can exist on this level. Is it possible I’ll be temporarily upset, maybe even cry? Yup. That’s kind of what I do in this After. The tears pass. I recover. I go back to class, back to rehearsal, back to church, back to the table, back to cards, back to the woods. My life involves crying.
My world is well-stocked with kind souls who worry they’ll remind me of Cooper so they watch what they say around me, but Cooper is never far from my thoughts, even two-plus years later. I want to talk about him. I need to talk about him. He remains as much a part of me as Logan and Cass. Please—remind me of Cooper. Please remember him with me.
And, just as I tried to protect D from Cassidy’s relatively minor injury, people try to protect me from . . . talk of mental illness, suicide, death, their own struggles, and all the ugly bits of life.
We MUST talk about the hard subjects. I don’t know a better way to honor Cooper than to try to prevent another tragedy. I can’t shy away from the stigma of mental illness and suicide. I. Will. Not. So if a student or a friend or even a stranger is struggling and I can help, I will. Is helping easy? Nope. I might be done for the day, but that’s on me. I am a master at removing myself from a situation when I’m emotionally maxed out. I’m the only one who can know what’s too much, and sometimes I misjudge. Again, it’s on me.
My reality is my reality. My son lived at home. He killed himself. He did not gently pass away. He died, suddenly and violently. His last months were a confusing tangle of hope, despair, fear, and more hope. I will forever carry the guilt that is weaponized with the clarity of hindsight. This is my reality. I work every day to live with that reality, or at least coexist. I am a changed person—somehow diminished and strengthened—by my reality.
These protective, sheltering actions stem from kindness, from love and concern—of that much I’m certain. Love and concern don’t make me mad. Honestly, I have neither the time nor the space for “mad.” But let me help you help me. Let me help you help the community of broken hearts. I’m surviving. I’m finding my way. I’m frequently a hot mess. I cry. Please don’t be afraid of my tears and my reality; I’m not contagious. I’m sad. I have three kids. One of them is dead. I am sad, but I’m working on it.
Yes, I’m a different person than I was the day Cass wiped out in the kitchen. Lots of life has happened since that day. My everything’s-relative-o-meter has been fine-tuned; I can look back with new understanding. Watching my daughter pass out and seize was legitimately frightening. Was it the same as D losing her son? Absolutely not, but this life is not a competition. On that day, at that point in my life, Cass’s concussion was a big deal. D—already made wise by grief—understood, I just didn’t give her enough credit. I tried to protect her.
Woods Writes 