They call themselves the Tuesday Tinkerbells, my mom’s Tuesday-afternoon card group. The women are all at least semi-retired and consider their weekly game therapy. They are wise and not wrong. In the summer of 2019, my mom asked if my sister, cousin, and I would like to “sub” for vacationing Tinkerbells. The three of us are teachers, so playing cards with that bunch of women once a week now and then seemed like a lark. “Subbing” turned into playing each week and becoming Tinkerbells in our own right. When summer ended, the group instituted monthly Friday night games so we three teachers could keep playing. I didn’t know it at the time, but one of my strongest support systems was woven into place and another was a seed waiting to be planted.
Fast forward to 2020. In the spring, the world shut down. By summer, we could cautiously mask up and interact with small groups. We were back to playing cards, but at home my son Cooper was in a slow, tortuous decline. That was the hardest summer of my life; Tuesday card games were an emotional respite. In August, we returned to in-person, masked, socially distanced school. The afternoon of the fourth day of school, the coroner knocked on my door and my world imploded. Cooper had driven to a rural cemetery, called 911 to inform them of his actions, and killed himself. His anguish was over, but mine was only beginning–a fresh wound that even now oozes.
That evening, within hours of his death, friends reached out. Some showed up at my house, lingering in the yard where we could spread out and speak without masks. Others messaged me with their condolences and promises of support. The condolences and kindnesses and promises continued over the next days and weeks, but the world continued to turn. Other lives went on, even as my own seemed to stop.
Meanwhile, the pandemic monopolized our contact and activities. School alternated between in-person and remote. We wore masks everywhere. None of that mattered much to me. The occasional weeks of remote learning were a needed break from the in-person learning that exhausted me; that fall and winter, I used most of my energy just trying to survive.
Remote friendship and grief don’t work well together. Any even semi-formal grief support in those Covid-plagued months came via the TCF Facebook groups. There were no in-person groups of any kind, TCF or otherwise. There, though, in those private online groups, I was safe. I could share and commiserate. The real world was another story. No close contact with friends, very few hugs, no literal crying on shoulders. No long, therapeutic lunches or solving life’s problems from opposite ends of the couch. No sunroom chats or family dinners. No Tinkerbells. Playing cards would’ve been irresponsible; the vaccine wasn’t ready.
By spring, though, things began to change. The vaccine was available and small social groups began to gather. Specifically, the Tuesday Tinkerbells were back at their card tables. In March or April of 2021, our monthly night games resumed. The first game was my first truly social group event since Cooper’s death. I was terribly nervous about being around those women I’d grown to love. By then, I’d learned to drive myself places rather than carpool; knowing I could leave if I couldn’t handle the situation helped ease my anxiety. I pulled up to the house and sat in my car for a few minutes, gathering my wits, taking my anxiety medication, trying not to cry. I was the first person there, and as soon as I entered the house, the Tinkerbell hostess pulled me into the hug I’d needed. I cried (yes, on her shoulder) then tried to get it together before the other Tinkerbells arrived. I doubt I laughed much that evening, but it was nice to spend time with friends. I survived. I was exhausted by the end of the evening, but I’d survived. We played again the next month, and there, in that beautiful safety net of friendship, I truly and thoroughly had a good time. I laughed–really laughed!
Here’s the thing with the Tinkerbells: out of a group of sixteen, four of us are “Moms-Who-Know.” I think that the percentage of child loss is surely higher than average. Somehow, I landed in a group–-was already part of a group–-of women who understand what it means to be a Mom-Who-Knows. All the “Tinks” are compassionate, loving women; four of us have lost adult children. I treasure my steadfast friends. These are the people who know me well, who know me beyond “the mom who lost a son to suicide.” These are the trusted, familiar, comfortable friends who accept who and what I’ve become and love me anyway, the people who understand that child loss and suicide aren’t contagious and that grief cooties don’t exist. They knew my baseline “Before,” and they’ve learned my baseline “After.” They continue to get me through my days with an understanding look or delightfully inappropriate comment during passing periods or an “I see you and I love you” text, with a Facebook post about Cooper or a new-to-me story about one of his adventures. They listen to my words and read my writings, sit for hours at a restaurant talking and listening and remembering. These men and women were my friends “Before” and remain my friends “After”, but they haven’t outlived their children; their worlds haven’t been wrecked by this unimaginable loss.
The very night of Cooper’s death, a high-school friend who’d lost her son not long before Cooper died reached out to me in a Facebook message. A Mom-Who-Knows. She talked me through many rough days and nights during those first months, even though we hadn’t seen each other in person for years. A couple months later, a surprisingly persistent, long-lost acquaintance reached out. When I didn’t respond, she tried again and again. Phone call, Facebook call, and finally, an online message. We spent hours talking on the phone and online. She wasn’t afraid of my tears or occasional silence in a conversation. She’d lost her son 10 years earlier. The last time I’d seen her, I was hugely pregnant with Cooper.
Near the first anniversary of Cooper’s death, one of the Tinkerbells—a sneaky angel and stellar human—connected me with a friend of hers who’d also lost a son to suicide. That friend created an entirely new network of Moms-Who-Know—suicide survivor moms.
If one can be lucky in this journey, I was. I had existing friends who had lived with child loss for decades and a growing web of new, interconnected friends who also knew my sorrow. Those friendships–those immediate, deep friendships–-allowed me to relax into my grief, to drop the pretense of being more okay than I was, to acknowledge just how difficult this new existence can be. I could just be Tonya. I had a hug-on-request, listen-as-needed, unlimited-refills prescription for friendship.
It was those friendships that led me to form a local chapter of TCF. I knew what a difference the Moms-Who-Know had made and continued to make in my journey, but I also knew not everyone had a built-in friend group. The need for support in our rural area was tremendous. The closest TCF group was over 60 miles away; the second nearest was more than 80 miles away. When we reached the first anniversary of Cooper’s death, I made my intentions known; as soon as I hit the recommended 18-month mark in February 2022, I submitted the information required to form a new chapter. We had our 12th meeting in March 2023.
Our group is the manifestation of what I know to be true: we need these people–-these compassionate friends–-in our lives. Once a month, I’m in a room where everyone understands. Once a month, my shoulders loosen themselves from my ears and my heart wanders onto my sleeve. Once a month, emotions are open and true, compassion is abundant, and stories are shared without judgment. Once a month, I visit the Vegas of grief–this room of beautiful souls, each of us surviving our incomprehensible realities, sharing stories we know won’t leave our group. Once a month, I savor the sanctity of my Compassionate Friends.
Use the chapter locator to find out information about chapters in your area. Locate a Chapter by selecting your state and zip code.
