When a person encounters a stressful or tough situation, I think there are three responses available: fight, flee, or freeze.

As a Generation X’er, I grew up with my fair share of fighting. The bigger the party, the bigger the fights. Some of my readers will remember those fights well. We were not malicious; we just ran hard, and fighting seemed normal when I was in high school.

Of course, I then spent a career in the fire service “fighting” fires.

Fighting—a fight response—is not new to me. I have neural pathways for this response.

Many years ago, while living in Southern Arizona, my wife and I were walking with our golden retriever, Winky, to the bus stop to pick up one of the kids. It was a sunny, marginally cloudy day, and there had been a little bit of lightning, but nothing significant. As we were getting close to the bus stop, a bolt of lightning flashed down and struck a street pole about 50 yards away from us. Without even thinking, the dog and I ran 100 yards down the road, leaving my wife standing there alone. She froze, and I fled with the dog.

We laughed about it later. It’s still funny to me. My wife learned she should never count on me to save her in a thunderstorm with lightning bolting down. She’s clearly on her own.

The point is, I fled. My system kicked in, and I ran, with my dog, 100 yards down the road without thinking.

There are many instances in my past where I’ve fled. Again, not a new response for me. Thinking back on my professional life, particularly in administrative settings, I can recall “fleeing” uncomfortable situations.

What’s new for me today, in my grief after the loss of Cooper, is freezing. 

Cooper’s birthday was in early June, and I froze as the day came and went. I think I froze on Thanksgiving and Christmas, too.

When these significant dates come—the “firsts”—I have difficulty figuring out how to respond, what to do, and how to best honor my son, who is no longer here.

There’s nothing to fight, nothing to flee, so I just clam up and don’t do anything monumental. I freeze.

I have read in the grief literature that the best way to tackle firsts, like the first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, birthdays, etc., without your child is to plan ahead for what you’re going to do. They say you need to get ahead of the curve.

This sounds nice in theory, but for me, I freeze and then let a grief wave wash over me for a day. I do get emotional on these days. These emotions are not as complex or as strong as they once were, but they’re still challenging to work through, even if only for a day.

For Cooper’s birthday, we got burritos and Mexican beer. I turned my hat backward, the way Cooper always wore his. I turned my hat around, ate a burrito, and drank a Dos Equis lager. I toasted Cooper.

As I said, frozen. That’s as far as I could get.

There’s a question I am asked a lot, and it’s a question I would have been in the habit of asking others before, and the question is, “How many children do you have?”

This question initially causes me to freeze. I am getting better at answering it, but it takes me a minute to calibrate, to breathe. This question has made me realize how direct it is, and perhaps unsettling. It’s a question I no longer ask others. I would love to hear about someone’s children, but I will let them tell me about their children without me asking how many they have.

When asked, I always answer, “I have four children.” Because I do. It just so happens that one of them is dancing on pinheads with the angels these days.

Months ago, I couldn’t think, remember, or organize very well. Today, I am better. Maybe not 100%, but I am cognitively functioning much better. Approaching normal, on most days.

Months ago, the complexity of emotions within me and washing over me was so tough and challenging to deal with. Today, my emotions and feelings have calmed, and I have much more emotional balance in day-to-day life.

Physically, I’m okay, but I’m probably drinking more than I normally would. I’m okay with this, for now. I’m not drinking nearly as much coffee as I was eight months ago.

Spiritually, something is awakening. I am wrestling with questions, and I no longer want to throat punch God. I am in the arena; I am praying and I am meditating.

And yet, I still freeze on those special days, the “firsts,” when I simply don’t know what else to do, when the reality—the full weight—of losing my son lands on me, for a day.

Fighting is easy. Fleeing is easy.

Freezing, caught between fighting and fleeing in the nervous system, is new space for me, and it’s difficult.

As Father’s Day approaches, I have a plan—freeze. Just numb up and let the wave crash down…