Well, we passed the 40-day mark. Beyond the spiritual significance of 40 days, this marker provided an opportunity to assess how we are doing in our healing process.

How are we doing?

This continues to be an interesting question to me because I don’t have a mental scaffolding to anchor it to. I don’t have a basis of comparison in my mind or heart. That said, I’m going to stick to the narrative I’ve been sharing: “I think we are doing okay.” True story.

We’re functioning reasonably well. We have our moments, for sure. We are eating, drinking, bathing, sleeping, talking to others, and getting out of the house more frequently. Are we back to our normal routines? Not really. In fairness, I don’t imagine our routines will ever be the same. We are developing new routines.

One of the most important concepts I learned early on in this tragedy is that everyone grieves differently and at different paces. My good neighbors shared this with me. It sounds simple, and it is, but understanding this concept helps take the edge off what grieving is “supposed” to look like. There is no pressure to meet an arbitrary expectation of how we are supposed to be doing at any given point in time.

There’s no right way to grieve, and it takes the time it takes.

I met with a licensed counselor last week. It was an unofficial, official visit. Let me explain. This counselor is a former coworker, and he met with me as a professional courtesy and because he’s a nice man. I am not directly under his care long-term. I will, however, continue to check in and meet with him periodically over the next couple of months to see how things are going. If I need long-term care, he will help point me in the right direction. I think, for now, this is all I need. Or maybe this is all I want right now. This is more in line with the peer support model used in the fire service, a model I have familiarity and comfort with.

He did say he was happy with the “array” of things I was doing. The array of things I am doing includes writing (such as this blog), meaning-making (creating a timeline), a morning routine honoring Cooper (candles, prayers), frequently talking to my wife and mom about this event, and staying connected to my children and helping them process their emotions.

Meanwhile, my wife does not work this week; she’s off for Thanksgiving break. She has a second appointment with her therapist this week. She continues to do well.

In addition to counseling, I met with my priest last week for a spiritual check-in. Meeting with Father Michael has been an important component of my grieving process. Father Michael is a married Orthodox priest with five children and a background in chaplaincy. He’s been very helpful to me.

In processing and talking to my wife, my mom, my brother, my kids, Fr. Michael, and a counselor, I am doing what I can to share my story and my emotions. It does help.

I have accepted that I am never going to be “healed.” I do believe, however, I will heal better than today. I’m always going to have a big, raw, tender scar. I’m always going to have a shadow. I’m always going to have a small, black hole in my soul. I’m always going to have an empty feeling in my chest. I’m always going to have dreams of Cooper. I’m always going to wake up, take a deep breath, and realize yet again this is real.

This is better than the first week when I would wake up from a dead sleep with tears streaming from my eyes. Even in my sleep, I was crying.

Last Friday, Day 40, I took my jar of holy water and went into Cooper’s living space in the house, and I blessed it in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Over and over, I sprinkled holy water with my right hand. On the doors, the halls, the rooms, the living spaces, the kitchen, the walls, the ceiling—all of it. It turned into a meditation as I chanted, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit… in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit… in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit…”

After that, I took what was left of the holy water, grabbed one of the dogs, Bear Bear, and we went for a drive. We drove out to the place where Cooper took his life. I don’t know exactly where he was, but I have a general idea. Again, I prayed, poured the remaining holy water on the ground, and prayed for peace with the place, with nature.

Then I walked around with Bear Bear, took it all in, and prayed more. It was a nice morning. Sun up, clear skies, no wind, crisp. The birds were chattering their songs. Perhaps they knew. It is a beautiful, peaceful place, and I have a greater understanding of why Cooper chose this particular space in seeking peace for his soul.

It was hard being there, so we didn’t stay long.

I had to stop at Home Depot on the way home to get a few things to fix a leaking toilet at the house. I got my parts, checked out, and as I was walking out with Bear Bear on his leash, a nice man, my age, stopped me to talk about dogs. He had had a Shih Tzu for 13 years before he died, and he was telling me how distraught he was when his dog died. He says, “I couldn’t function, I couldn’t sleep, it was the worst thing…”

I keep saying, grief is not a measuring contest. But if I am being fair, as I stood there and listened, I was feeling an emotional response on the inside. I was feeling like, “Dude, you have no idea…” I was not angry; it was more like I was perplexed. I was thinking, Why am I standing here in Home Depot listening to this man tell me about his dog when my son died 40 days ago? It was surreal, the experience felt like slow motion.

I kept smiling, listened, and I wished him a good day and moved on with my day. He meant no harm, but I thought it was interesting—we never know what people are carrying, do we?

Events like this make me more compassionate toward fellow travelers on this earth. I know we all suffer. This is part of the human condition. I wonder more about the people I meet these days. Are they suffering in this moment? Am I the smile, the kind heart, the listening third ear that buoys them for another day?

Perhaps it’s all psychological, perhaps genuinely spiritual, but something did change on Day 40. Cooper’s living area feels different to me now, more peaceful. I don’t have the sense that his soul is hanging out, lingering, waiting for me to make him breakfast.

Yes, I was definitely more at peace Friday, especially toward the end of the day, as sundown came, 5:05 pm. And so ended Day 40.

Did Cooper find his way home? Yes, I think he did. As I was saying my morning prayers, calling upon God and the host of heaven to guide Cooper home, I genuinely had a sense of peace, that Cooper was in heaven. Then the wind chime, given as a gift in memory of Cooper and hanging on our front porch, chimed. My heart felt warm, and though my eyes were closed, things got brighter.

There were many people praying for Cooper’s soul. They still are. It’s incredible to me. I know the prayers helped, and I accept the grace offered. Why does it take tragedy to renew my belief in the kindness of people? Am I just seeing it all more clearly now, as my life moves in slower motion?

Just over 40 days ago was the last time we saw Cooper. We were at a tailgate party. My wife will never go to another tailgate party again during her lifetime. Period.

I made the decision yesterday to get back on the horse. I went to a tailgate party with many of the same people who were there the last time we saw Cooper. Though it was difficult, there was healing involved. A few people, Cooper’s age, who were with him that last night, came over to me and shared their story, their pain, their grief. They, too, hurt. We hugged it out, talked it out, and shared some fun stories. It dawned on me as I was listening: they needed to vent and share with me. I was there for them.

It felt good being at the tailgate, but when I came home last night, I could tell I had overextended my emotional self.

I didn’t sleep well.

The last time I went to a tailgate party, I came home, went to bed, and woke up to a different world. Scorched earth. Going to the tailgate party was fine, but I overlooked and forgot about the coming home and going to bed part. I slept in a different bed in the house last night and held a small cross necklace given to me by a former student; it was her grandmother’s, and she gifted it to me.

I dreamed of being in a bookstore last night, and four dogs came in and came over to me. They were friendly toward me. There were three little white dogs, short-haired, Jack Russell Terriers, and one much smaller little brown Yorkshire Terrier. I was trying to read their dog tags and find their owner to return them. I couldn’t read the tags, but I could read the prescription medicine tags the dogs had with them (I don’t know why the dogs had prescription medicine receipts with them), and the phone number read, MAINE. Not a number, but just MAINE. Like that, in capitals.

You tell me.

I woke up this morning not feeling as good as I have been feeling over the last two weeks. Truth be told, it could be the emotions of last night, and/or the four Oktoberfest beers I consumed; just saying. Yes, I had a designated driver—my wife dropped me off and picked me up.

All of the kids are doing well. We are talking it out and staying in touch, and everyone is in the process of lining up counseling.

Friends and family, thank you for your prayers. We love you. You lift Cooper up, and you lift us up.

Many blessings.