Bravery or Life

This blog is separate from my usual blog. This semester, I have a brand new class for seniors--a blogging class. To help them along, I'm writing to some of the prompts I assign them. Anything posted here is a result of this class. Because my grief is such a part of me, it will surface in these writings but is not the focus of this blog.

What is the bravest thing I’ve ever done? 

I’m not a soldier or firefighter or police officer. I do not bravely put my life on the line for others. I’m not a mountain climber; I’m not even a rock climber. I don’t join in protest marches or shout my truths and terrors for all to hear. I haven’t faced and survived serious illness.  

I’m just . . . me.

Eleanor Roosevelt advised doing one thing every day that scares us. If I do, am I brave? 

Because some days, just facing the world terrifies me. Some days, I want nothing more than to lie in bed and stare at the wall, to weep and wail, to bury my face in Cooper’s pillow--one of the few items that still holds his scent--and wait for the darkness to pass. If I get up and face the day and  the job, the students and adults and strangers, am I brave? 

Maybe, but I’m not sure that’s what my girl Eleanor meant. I don’t think she meant I need to rush into battle, leap tall buildings, or charge into a burning building. I think Eleanor meant exactly what she said--something that scares me. 

Okay. Well . . .

Sometimes reality scares the shit out of me because my reality has a gaping mountain-man sized hole, a hole that has no filler, a hole time cannot touch. To know the rest of my life will wear the scar of Cooper’s death is daunting. To wonder when (if?) the good of my life--family and friends, old memories new experiences, hope for the future--will outweigh the heavy sorrow of losing a child is tiring. Right now, on the cusp of four and a half years, I feel the loss in everything I do. I carry Cooper with me in my actions and thoughts, in my words left unsaid, and in a tiny urn worn around my neck.

But--and here’s the thing--I DO. With my worn face and tiny urn, with my anxiety-stiffened neck shoulders, with my easy, silent, frequent tears, I do.

I get out of bed and into the shower. I go to school and rehearsal and church. I enjoy lunch and cards and food and fun, vacations and adventures and hobbies with friends and family. I make things (often poorly, but still . . . ). I love my people. I do life. Thrown in with all that, I speak out about mental health and suicide. I don’t back down from the reality of life--my life and big-picture life. I show up.

I’m just . . . me.

Does that make me brave, or just alive?