Here we are. October 8th, the one-year anniversary of Cooper’s death, is two weeks away. This has been a year in the dark wilderness, for sure.

In these last few weeks leading up to this significant mile maker in our lives, I have certainly felt it in my mind, body, and soul. Deep in my bones. The grief has come pouring back down, big wave sets, crashing over me. A new first, the anniversary of Cooper’s death, and more freezing.

I believe, the body does keep the score, the issues are in the tissues, and what fires together, wires together. I don’t even have to be conscious of it, my body just knows and it tells my mind, hey, things are not okay, I remember this date.

The cooling of the weather, the back-to-school routines, the leaves falling from the trees, the college kids back in town—yeah, this all spells trouble. Or so my body would have my mind believe.

All the biological, neurological things are happening. Through a trillion neurological connections, I am experiencing it.

After a year of navigating grief, the ground truth remains: I miss my son. I loved him so much. I still love him so much. I long for him to be here again.

Melancholy Man, big gaping hole right through center mass. Double-tapped.

I know Cooper will not be here in this life again, and this is so painful to accept. I will have to continue to navigate my life on this earth without him until it’s my time to put my angel wings on.

When I see my boy again, we are going to do a little tap dog dance on the pinheads. An angelic Irish celebration, or Australian Tap Dog hustle.

You’ve heard me say this before, and you have read it in my writing: I am 100% confident I will see my son again. This is truth. I have confidence I will be with all of my family del otro lado.

I can’t explain this to you; I just know it.

I have always shared with my children that there are three main questions we have to grapple with and come to terms with in this life. These questions, the Theological Three Sisters, are:

1. Where did we come from?

2. Why are we here?

3. Where are we going after death?

The answers to these questions, maybe even the grappling with them to figure them out, tell us a lot about a person. It’s defining. It shapes our life. Even not grappling with these questions says something.

While I have spent the last year navigating grief, striving to keep my nose above the waterline, I have also been spiritually grappling with the Theological Three Sisters’ existential questions.

Where did Cooper go? What is he doing now? And what will it be like when I see him again?

As I have wrestled with more existential questions, I have needed time and space. As such, I have been disinclined to attend traditional church and to be preached at/to. I don’t have the ears for it in this season of life.

Shall we draw theological swords and wax sanctification, justification, glorification, predestination, cosmology, eschatology, and dominion theology?

I’m out. Do your thing. I yield.

I have found a beautiful new spiritual home in a small, non-programmed Friends church. You know, the Quakers. The Meeting provides me with the spiritual space I need in this season of life to process, form, and continue my spiritual growth in a broadening-out cone. I think this small foundational piece of my life would be honoring to Cooper. Cooper loved silence and stillness. This is the essence of Quaker worship. 

For me, I have accepted that silence is a new sacrament in my life.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I continue to be grateful for my wife, my daughter, my sons, my brother, my parents, my mother-in-law, my dogs, my Friends community, my family and friends, my health, and the fact that I am still smiling, standing, and breathing, even though I hurt badly.

Family, friends, as we come to pass this one year anniversary of Cooper’s death in two weeks, my intention is to step away from writing on this blog for a few months.

I finally went back and read through all of my blog posts, and I believe I have written what I have to say for the first year of bereavement.

For the last year, I have laid myself bare for the whole world to see, and I have been vulnerable in a very public space.

Why have I done this?

I have shared deeply from my heart because I don’t want any more young men and women to take their own lives. I don’t want anyone of any age to take their own life, but especially young men and women.

I don’t want moms and dads, brothers and sisters, family and friends, communities, to have to experience this. It’s terrible; it really is.

Further, if someone will experience the loss of a child or a sibling in the future, or has more recently experienced the loss of a child or sibling, I have been hopeful my words would be helpful. I wanted to let others know they are not alone, that we understand, and that you are going to make it—but the road is tough.

People do get beat up in the dark wilderness. This is for real.

I have also been hopeful that as a man who has spent a career in a high-risk operational environment (fire service), I would be able to provide some space for grown men to grieve openly, to see that it is okay to roll with lions and grieve. Both are okay.

I have been hopeful that in some small way, my writing has helped the human condition. I am showing up, and you are hearing my voice.

I have often shared with my children, “the Creation waits in eager expectation for the sons and daughters of God to reveal themselves.”

I am revealing myself. You see me.

There are two things I want you to know.

First, Cooper’s Memorial Stone is mounted at the cemetery. It is beautiful. The granite stone is from South Dakota and is called Blue Bahama. When I learned about this stone, I knew immediately this was the stone for his memorial. We are really happy with the simple yet unique shape of this stone. I think we did good. I understand the workers who installed the stone were impressed with our design.

Secondly, I/we are doing okay. We really are. We are going to make it. Our grief is stabilized, we are functioning reasonably well, and we are reasonably happy inside and out.

We’re broken, yes. But our love for Cooper will always be there, and it’s not going away. We will love and honor our boy moving forward in life the best we can. There will be ups and downs; we will hurt, we will continue to grieve, and we will continue to go on casting our shadows about. And yet, we will do our best to be grateful in this life, for our children, our pets, and for what we do have.

Third, there is a blog post coming soon from my wife, Victoria. I think it’s important you hear from her.

While this list is not exhaustive, this is what I have learned over the last year:

• If you lose a child or sibling or grandchild or good friend, your soul is going to ache like nothing you have ever experienced before. This is going to hurt so bad. I am sorry.

• Successful, loved people can and will take their own lives. I never thought this would happen to us; it was not even on my mind. And yet, here we are. There were over 50,000 suicides in 2023, and over 100,000 drug overdoses. Why? We should be talking about this.

• The loss of a loved one, like a grandpa, may be a trigger for those suffering with mental health issues, e.g., depression. A string of triggers may be harmful.

• We need to end the stigma surrounding mental health issues. There is no shame in having mental health situations arise, and if you need to go pro, go pro. Depression is a global pandemic, and the rates of depression in the US are the highest they have ever been. Fact.

• If you can see your loved one before they are buried or cremated, go see them. It made a big, positive difference for us.

• Anoint your child with oils.

• I hope you have a community that will surround you and help you during the toughest months of your life.

• The cards, the doorbell ringing, the flowers, the food, will quickly end. Supporters have a limited attention span.

• In the early days, especially, keep talking with close family and friends. You have to talk it out. Keep talking.

• People will grieve in different ways, and at different paces. There’s no right way to grieve, but we do have an obligation to grieve in a healthy manner. Society (family and friends) will want you to get over your grief quickly.

• This grief will be with you the rest of your life. You learn to cope with it; your strength grows in parallel with your grief.

• You will talk in circles, there will be way more questions than answers, and you will end up at the same dead-end in many conversations. Nonetheless, keep talking.

• Don’t be afraid to take a road trip when the dust settles a little bit. Get on the road and just breathe.

• Create an altar. Light candles (use battery-operated candles that look real; we have one lit 24×7).

• You will have trouble thinking and remembering for many months.

• You will deal with complex emotions you have never dealt with before. This emotional landscape, this traumascape, is tough.

• Stand together with family and friends. Put your feet underneath your shoulders and stand tall; get grounded.

• Anchor in, be prepared for spiritual edgework.

• Breathe. Ground. Pray.

• Rugged hope is more important than resilience. You are not going to bounce back.

• This loss will impact many people. The butterfly effect. Spiritual ripples.

• Lie to yourself and say, “The best days of my life are ahead of me.” Repeat it over and over again.

• You will grieve for the future—what you will have missed, what will never happen.

• This loss will affect every aspect of your life—your mind, body, spirit, social life, and work life.

• Writing may help. It helped me.

• Routine is important.

• Holidays are very, very difficult. The emotions will come up. This first anniversary of Cooper’s death, damn.

• You are never going to be healed, but healing will take place.

• It will be hard to breathe and stand in the early days. You won’t know what day it is.

• It will be hard to trust life again. If this can happen, then all bets are off; anything can happen. This is how it feels.

• People you least expect will come out of the woodwork to help you. And others you would expect the most from will fall flat.

• Grief comes in wave sets.

• You may freeze.

• Water, hiking, nature, and animals are healing.

• Music, art, poetry, and nature may speak the “words” you need to hear more than your religious tradition.

• You may experience a faith shift. You may lose your faith.

• You may talk to the dead. This is okay. You will pray more for and to the dead than you ever did.

• Animals, insects, and sounds (wind chimes, crows) take on new meaning.

• You may “see” spirits everywhere. You will be super close to thin spaces.

• Depression is not going to show up in a young man like society has depicted it. They may not lay in bed all day and mope. Cooper did not.

• Emotions get mixed up. Even happy, good emotions get mixed up with grief.

• Your system can get overstimulated much easier. Too many people, too much noise, too much movement. Stay away from these in the early days.

• You will not forget your child, your brother, your grandchild, your friend. This was my earliest fear. I now have confidence: I will never forget my son.

• You are never going to be the same. A demarcation line has been drawn. There was life before this loss, and now life after. You are a different person. Transformation.

• Don’t be afraid to experiment with new altars and sacraments in your life, whatever that may mean to you.

• You will now notice the small things—a ladybug on a flower is an entire universe. You will stop and consider them, both the flower and ladybug.

• You will be more compassionate toward others. You will move slower and listen more deeply.

• You will speak a special language now that only other bereaved parents and siblings will understand.

And on and on the list will go. These are the quick things that come to my mind.

Friends, I love you.

From the deep place where the coins are, thank you for picking them up with me over this last year. Look for a post from Victoria soon, and I will come back to blogging when it’s time.

Blessings,  

Kelly