"In my mind, I’m still planning for parents weekend, Thanksgiving, sending
his winter clothes. ... None of this will happen."
For the most part, we are ignorant of our best days until they pass and we
are faced with illness, bad luck, or loneliness.
Now, I try to keep in mind that things might be far worse as I cope with
life's little setbacks, like a leaky kitchen roof, political arguments in my
family, or getting another parking ticket.
I think I'm happier now than I have ever been.
My spouse Chuck and I sent our eighteen-year-old son Henry off to college
in the summer of 2022. To get there, he would have to overcome several
obstacles, including anxiety, attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, and
trouble relating to other children. He developed his confidence as he grew
older by taking part in debate, theater, and cross-country running. He
talked less and listened more to his peers, building rapport. He left behind
youth organizations, summer jobs, and high school pals when he took off for
college. Academically, he was prepared and had even been awarded a merit
scholarship.
Henry came early to go hiking with the new freshman. He introduced me to
his new classmates at his orientation the next week when I saw him on
school. I assisted him with his transition, went to a parent's presentation,
and ate dinner with them in the dining hall.
When it was time for me to go on Friday, I put my hands around Henry's
belly, buried my right cheek against his chest, shut my eyes, and gave him a
squeeze. I was enjoying all that I knew and had learned about my kid at that
particular moment: chubby baby, inquisitive toddler, crazy seventh-grader
with braces, ravenous adolescent. Henry's trademark embrace was our final
one before I departed for the airport.
Chuck and I were woken up at midnight on Monday the next week by two police
officers who informed us that Henry had been slain.
Henry had spent the evening with other students following supper on the
first day of courses. Two other students were hurt and he was murdered when
an unsafe building next to him fell.
In an instant, he vanishes.
My heart begins to pound in the center, the way it does when bad things are
about to happen. Though it has already. I will never be able to wrap my arms
around my son's wide shoulders again. There is a tonne. It's
excessive.
How could this be? I assisted Henry in his dorm room packing. We tucked up
his trousers, heaps of socks, shower shoes, toiletries, Kind bars, glasses
of Dr. McDougall's Black Bean & Lime instant soup, and a book he was
eager to read called "The Nordic Theory of Everything."
All of our hopes and dreams for our family and our future vanished in an
instant.
His crooked smile and the tenderness of his farewell embraces are still
vivid in my mind.
I keep thinking about how I'm going to handle Thanksgiving, parents
weekend, shipping his winter things, and so forth. I imagine me having
family dinners with my two boys in the future.
Nothing like this will occur.
Every child is amazing, and Henry was no exception. He was an incomparable
blend of odd and awkward, intelligent and good-looking, sincere and kind.
When he was younger, he had a rock collection obsession and would always go
behind us on hikes. He would stuff his bursting pockets inside his tucked
shirt till his tummy got really big. Until we decided on the maximum amount
he could retain, we would stop and start. One summer, he came home from camp
and packed a whole duffel bag full of stones.
He frequently misplaced items throughout primary school, including his
lunchbox, jacket, bag, and violin. They would be found everywhere but in his
classroom. He seldom combed his hair and wore his clothing backwards, inside
out, or both, like a forgetful professor. Being a vegetarian, his preferred
dish was chana masala, which he would then follow with dulce de leche ice
cream. Every time he said goodbye, he would give you two hugs.
Henry developed an interest in current issues as he grew older. He enjoyed
debating the benefits of ranked choice voting and reading about political
corruption. He shared amusing jokes that I never understood on Reddit for
hours. Even when he didn't know anyone, he enjoyed being among other teens
and went to conferences and youth group gatherings. His wide smile made him
relatable to many young people in search of companionship. Henry brought
brightness and joy into other people's lives, creating his own butterfly
effect. How many will never be known.
About a year has passed since Henry's passing, and I'm still getting over
the severity of his loss.
During these months, our family has remained close-knit, going to support
groups for bereaved people, getting treatment, and spending time with one
another. I'm more sensitive to the sorrow of strangers, and acquaintances
share traumas from their pasts with me. In my support groups, I've been in
touch with more than a dozen bereaved parents, each of them sharing a
heartbreaking tale. We are the only ones who can truly sympathize with and
accept one another's losses.
Before Henry passed away, I was unaware of how pervasive sorrow is. I'm
constantly reminded of Henry's death by the background hum I hear every day.
I can wear a bright outfit, style my hair, and put on cosmetics, but it
won't make my shattered heart go away. I don't want to be told that just
because I look good, I must be recuperating.
Recognizing that his passing is a tragedy and that those who knew and loved
him will never be the same is helpful. My favorite times are when someone
remembers my kid fondly and I know they still think about him.
****
I'm still here, just not as loudly.
I go ahead every day with the knowledge that Henry won't. I steer clear of
big parties, go on walks with friends, organize intimate family breakfasts,
and bring up my favorite moments.
I think primarily about my younger son, who is my sole surviving kid. I
made sure he had access to academic help, bereavement counseling, and
support groups so he could finish high school from home this past year. He
visited cousins and friends, experimented in the kitchen, and tended to our
garden. He composed and gave a moving speech at Henry's springtime
"celebration of life" event.
Surprisingly, he will be attending college in Washington, D.C. this autumn,
which is over 2,000 miles away from our home and will begin precisely one
year after Henry did.
He can't wait to live like a college student and study, tour the city, and
live in the dorms.
Chuck and I are feeling nothing but fear.
We had trouble accepting his choice. At home, is he safer? Not only may
anything horrible occur anywhere, at any time, but it could also occur in
Washington, D.C.
We are unable to stop calamity.
We came to the conclusion that moving with him would be the only way for us
to fully adjust to his move. We offered him the option to decline. Though
he's not too fond of the concept, he did agree—as long as we stay apart. He
could understand how crucial this is to maintaining our mental health.
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I gave my son a final hug before he started his first week of college. I
never saw him again after that.
"In my mind, I’m still planning for parents weekend, Thanksgiving, sending
his winter clothes. ... None of this will happen."
In 2022, the author with her son Henry.
Elizabeth Kopple, the author, with her son Henry in 2022
For the most part, we are ignorant of our best days until they pass and we
are faced with illness, bad luck, or loneliness.
Now, I try to keep in mind that things might be far worse as I cope with
life's little setbacks, like a leaky kitchen roof, political arguments in my
family, or getting another parking ticket.
I think I'm happier now than I have ever been.
****
My spouse Chuck and I sent our eighteen-year-old son Henry off to college
in the summer of 2022. To get there, he would have to overcome several
obstacles, including anxiety, attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, and
trouble relating to other children. He developed his confidence as he grew
older by taking part in debate, theater, and cross-country running. He
talked less and listened more to his peers, building rapport. He left behind
youth organizations, summer jobs, and high school pals when he took off for
college. Academically, he was prepared and had even been awarded a merit
scholarship.
Henry came early to go hiking with the new freshman. He introduced me to
his new classmates at his orientation the next week when I saw him on
school. I assisted him with his transition, went to a parent's presentation,
and ate dinner with them in the dining hall.
When it was time for me to go on Friday, I put my hands around Henry's
belly, buried my right cheek against his chest, shut my eyes, and gave him a
squeeze. I was enjoying all that I knew and had learned about my kid at that
particular moment: chubby baby, inquisitive toddler, crazy seventh-grader
with braces, ravenous adolescent. Henry's trademark embrace was our final
one before I departed for the airport.
****
Chuck and I were woken up at midnight on Monday the next week by two police
officers who informed us that Henry had been slain.
Henry had spent the evening with other students following supper on the
first day of courses. Two other students were hurt and he was murdered when
an unsafe building next to him fell.
In an instant, he vanishes.
The writer with nine-year-old Henry.
The writer with Henry, nine years old. CREDIT TO ELIZABETH KOPPLE
****
My heart begins to pound in the center, the way it does when bad things are
about to happen. Though it has already. I will never be able to wrap my arms
around my son's wide shoulders again. There is a tonne. It's
excessive.
How could this be? I assisted Henry in his dorm room packing. We tucked up
his trousers, heaps of socks, shower shoes, toiletries, Kind bars, glasses
of Dr. McDougall's Black Bean & Lime instant soup, and a book he was
eager to read called "The Nordic Theory of Everything."
All of our hopes and dreams for our family and our future vanished in an
instant.
His crooked smile and the tenderness of his farewell embraces are still
vivid in my mind.
I keep thinking about how I'm going to handle Thanksgiving, parents
weekend, shipping his winter things, and so forth. I imagine me having
family dinners with my two boys in the future.
Nothing like this will occur.
****
Every child is amazing, and Henry was no exception. He was an incomparable
blend of odd and awkward, intelligent and good-looking, sincere and kind.
When he was younger, he had a rock collection obsession and would always go
behind us on hikes. He would stuff his bursting pockets inside his tucked
shirt till his tummy got really big. Until we decided on the maximum amount
he could retain, we would stop and start. One summer, he came home from camp
and packed a whole duffel bag full of stones.
He frequently misplaced items throughout primary school, including his
lunchbox, jacket, bag, and violin. They would be found everywhere but in his
classroom. He seldom combed his hair and wore his clothing backwards, inside
out, or both, like a forgetful professor. Being a vegetarian, his preferred
dish was chana masala, which he would then follow with dulce de leche ice
cream. Every time he said goodbye, he would give you two hugs.
Henry developed an interest in current issues as he grew older. He enjoyed
debating the benefits of ranked choice voting and reading about political
corruption. He shared amusing jokes that I never understood on Reddit for
hours. Even when he didn't know anyone, he enjoyed being among other teens
and went to conferences and youth group gatherings. His wide smile made him
relatable to many young people in search of companionship. Henry brought
brightness and joy into other people's lives, creating his own butterfly
effect. How many will never be known.
Henry at the age of eighteen.
Henry at the age of eighteen. PHOTOGRAPHY BY ELIZABETH KOPPLE
****
About a year has passed since Henry's passing, and I'm still getting over
the severity of his loss.
During these months, our family has remained close-knit, going to support
groups for bereaved people, getting treatment, and spending time with one
another. I'm more sensitive to the sorrow of strangers, and acquaintances
share traumas from their pasts with me. In my support groups, I've been in
touch with more than a dozen bereaved parents, each of them sharing a
heartbreaking tale. We are the only ones who can truly sympathize with and
accept one another's losses.
Before Henry passed away, I was unaware of how pervasive sorrow is. I'm
constantly reminded of Henry's death by the background hum I hear every day.
I can wear a bright outfit, style my hair, and put on cosmetics, but it
won't make my shattered heart go away. I don't want to be told that just
because I look good, I must be recuperating.
Recognizing that his passing is a tragedy and that those who knew and loved
him will never be the same is helpful. My favorite times are when someone
remembers my kid fondly and I know they still think about him.
****
I'm still here, just not as loudly.
I go ahead every day with the knowledge that Henry won't. I steer clear of
big parties, go on walks with friends, organize intimate family breakfasts,
and bring up my favorite moments.
I think primarily about my younger son, who is my sole surviving kid. I
made sure he had access to academic help, bereavement counseling, and
support groups so he could finish high school from home this past year. He
visited cousins and friends, experimented in the kitchen, and tended to our
garden. He composed and gave a moving speech at Henry's springtime
"celebration of life" event.
Surprisingly, he will be attending college in Washington, D.C. this autumn,
which is over 2,000 miles away from our home and will begin precisely one
year after Henry did.
He can't wait to live like a college student and study, tour the city, and
live in the dorms.
Chuck and I are feeling nothing but fear.
We had trouble accepting his choice. At home, is he safer? Not only may
anything horrible occur anywhere, at any time, but it could also occur in
Washington, D.C.
We are unable to stop calamity.
Henry at move-in, in his dorm room.
During move-in, Henry was in his dorm room. PHOTOGRAPHY BY ELIZABETH
KOPPLE
We came to the conclusion that moving with him would be the only way for us
to fully adjust to his move. We offered him the option to decline. Though
he's not too fond of the concept, he did agree—as long as we stay apart. He
could understand how crucial this is to maintaining our mental health.
We sublease a professor's house while he's on leave. My spouse and I are
able to work from home together. After finishing things at home, my son and
I packed many duffel bags with clothes and supplies for our dorm room and
took out for the east. Chuck loaded up the vehicle and he and our dog,
Ramona, traveled across the nation.
Now that our kid is established into the dormitories, we are gradually
acclimating to our new area.
Although things aren't ideal, this arrangement allows our family to go
on.
Perhaps there are other approaches—everyone handles sorrow differently—but
for the time being, this feels appropriate.
I have no idea what will occur at the end of this year. I'm not sure who I
will be or how I'll feel in that situation. In the past year, a lot has
changed. I can only hope for bright days ahead and always remember to
appreciate life.
I think I'm happier now than I have ever been.
Creative nonfiction author Elizabeth Kopple examines life from the
perspective of a bereaved mother. Her experiences with her late son Henry
serve as an inspiration to those who have also suffered the death of a
child. Elizabeth supports financial inclusion for fintechs as a competent
B2B marketer. She lives with her spouse in Santa Monica, California, and
their youngest son attends college in Washington, D.C.
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