With the holidays fast approaching, the mother of Cooper Roberts, an 8-year-old boy who was paralyzed in a mass shooting at the Fourth of July parade in Highland Park in 2022, shared a raw and emotional message about what it means to be a survivor of a tragic event like the one that unfolded in her family's hometown.
"Before the morning of July 4, 2022, Cooper was a typical, happy 8-year-old boy who played sports, wrestled with his twin brother, loved dancing to all music - especially country - and looked forward to starting 3rd grade," Keely Roberts wrote. "But when a mass shooting took place at his hometown parade in Highland Park, IL, his life and that of his family was changed forever. His mother was shot, Cooper sustained life-threatening wounds, and his twin brother Luke witnessed everything, spattered in shrapnel and blood from his family. After months in the hospital, then rehab, Cooper remains in a wheelchair."
Keely Roberts and her son Cooper were among the victims in the Independence Day mass shooting that left seven people dead and 46 others wounded, one of the state's two deadliest mass shootings.
Roberts offered an honest depiction of the tug-of-war between gratitude and pain that follows surviving a mass shooting. It's a feeling she described as lonely and isolating, but she shared her emotions in an attempt to be transparent about her family's journey.
Feeling out of the loop? We'll catch you up on the Chicago news you need to know. Sign up for the weekly Chicago Catch-Up newsletter here.
"As I sit here, searching for all the right words that just aren’t coming to describe the past few months with our family in the 'new normal,' I feel that familiar burning in my eyes as I fight back tears. The tears come from this internal cyclone of emotions that lives every day in my heart and soul; the constant swirling and mixing of grief and gratitude, loss and love, fear and fight, sadness and joy; the desire to curl up and cry and the need to do everything in my power to save my family, save myself from drowning in hurt; to scratch and claw to reclaim any precious moment of peace and happiness and familiarity I can find," she wrote.
"Every day is a battle; a literal fight for your life; a thousand calculated decisions to make to not just be a survivor, but to actually survive," she continued. "Yes, we lived through a mass shooting, and I am unfathomably grateful for that outcome that many people don’t get. But the residual 'shrapnel' of our lives – the broken pieces we will be fixing forever, the severed spine of my 8-year-old, the massive trauma for his twin – cut far deeper than I ever thought. In a mass shooting, we rightly grieve for the dead, the gone. I’m not sure I’ve thought enough about those who survive and at what cost."
When it comes to the holiday season, those emotions are heightened, Roberts said, noting that same tug-of-war, but in a new way.
Local
"I used to love these magical weeks of the winter holiday season," she said. "It always felt like the world was just a little lighter, everyone a little happier, there was a glow. I still feel that way some days. There are times when I feel 'normal' again, when I can feel that holiday happiness and excitement. I say with more than a little shame, though, that there are also days that I don’t. The pain and heartache come on at random moments: driving by and seeing kids playing an activity that my boys no longer can, parking my car and seeing how quickly and easily other families can get in and out of their vehicle -- no worrying about whether the limited handicap parking spots will be available and whether the van’s ramp will work, no having to help their child transfer from the seat in the car to his wheelchair."
Since 2016, thousands of Americans have been wounded in mass shootings, and tens of thousands by gun violence, with that number continuing to grow, according to the Gun Violence Archive. Beyond the colossal medical bills and the weight of trauma and grief, mass shooting survivors and family members contend with scores of other changes that upend their lives.
Roberts' sentiments mirror those shared by other shooting survivors across the U.S.
Over the summer, just before the Highland Park shooting's anniversary, survivors talked to The Associated Press about the mental and physical wounds that endure in the aftermath of shootings such as ones in Uvalde; Las Vegas; Colorado Springs, Colorado; Highland Park and more.
They described staggering medical bills, abandoning careers, uprooting families and struggling to hold down a job, walk pets or even leave the house.
Read Roberts' full letter below:
Before the morning of July 4, 2022, Cooper was a typical, happy 8-year-old boy who played sports, wrestled with his twin brother, loved dancing to all music - especially country - and looked forward to starting 3rd grade. But when a mass shooting took place at his hometown parade in Highland Park, IL, his life and that of his family was changed forever. His mother was shot, Cooper sustained life-threatening wounds, and his twin brother Luke witnessed everything, spattered in shrapnel and blood from his family. After months in the hospital, then rehab, Cooper remains in a wheelchair.
As I sit here, searching for all the right words that just aren’t coming to describe the past few months with our family in the “new normal,” I feel that familiar burning in my eyes as I fight back tears. The tears come from this internal cyclone of emotions that lives every day in my heart and soul; the constant swirling and mixing of grief and gratitude, loss and love, fear and fight, sadness and joy; the desire to curl up and cry and the need to do everything in my power to save my family, save myself from drowning in hurt; to scratch and claw to reclaim any precious moment of peace and happiness and familiarity I can find.
Every day is a battle; a literal fight for your life; a thousand calculated decisions to make to not just be a survivor, but to actually survive. Yes, we lived through a mass shooting, and I am unfathomably grateful for that outcome that many people don’t get. But the residual “shrapnel” of our lives – the broken pieces we will be fixing forever, the severed spine of my 8-year-old, the massive trauma for his twin – cut far deeper than I ever thought. In a mass shooting, we rightly grieve for the dead, the gone. I’m not sure I’ve thought enough about those who survive and at what cost.
I remind myself that this is a long war, one that requires me to summon everything I have to meet the demands of the depth and breadth of commitment required every day, knowing that there is no finish line in this race, no end to the battles we have to fight. This is our “after-the shooting” life, filled with daily obstacles to overcome. And, if I am being totally honest, the emotional challenges that come with the holidays -- like the heartbreaking ghosts of holidays past that seem to linger around us, always reminding me of the family we were before July 4, 2022, that day we walked straight into Evil and destruction … it is draining. And sad. And I am tired.
I used to love these magical weeks of the winter holiday season. It always felt like the world was just a little lighter, everyone a little happier, there was a glow. I still feel that way some days. There are times when I feel “normal” again, when I can feel that holiday happiness and excitement. I say with more than a little shame, though, that there are also days that I don’t. The pain and heartache come on at random moments: driving by and seeing kids playing an activity that my boys no longer can, parking my car and seeing how quickly and easily other families can get in and out of their vehicle -- no worrying about whether the limited handicap parking spots will be available and whether the van’s ramp will work, no having to help their child transfer from the seat in the car to his wheelchair.
Survivorship is lonely and isolating. Yet, I know we are not alone in this struggle. And I know that there are so many people – directly impacted or not by the shooting– who continue to go out of their way to show their support for Cooper, Luke and our family; people who dedicate themselves to extending care and support in whatever ways are needed to help us heal. For that, I am so eternally grateful. Your love, prayers and support sustain and inspire me. Thank you just isn’t enough.
So, in my pledge to always be fully transparent and vulnerable about what this experience of surviving is like, I must admit these are hard, hard days. No days off, no weekends or holiday breaks to be able to walk away – even for just a little bit – from this new life we have been forced into, no vacations from reality. Each day is filled with reminders of exactly what Evil did to us that day. Our bodies are different now, our home, my career, the vehicles we drive, the activities the boys can access … you name it, every corner of our life has been hit by this. We cannot escape it, so we are trying our hardest to live with it.
We work hard every day even on the hardest days, to lean into the Light and to not get pulled under by the Dark. For example, while we work towards having an accessible home that meets all of Cooper’s daily living needs, we are living in a home that presents lots of daily obstacles. Sadly, our family home is no longer a comfort, but a challenge. No longer do we have the joy of experiencing those magical little moments we took for granted before, like the boys just running through the back door after school and jumping onto the couch. They can’t race downstairs to the basement playroom, nor can they go play soccer anymore in the narrow, grassy backyard. The aspects of the home that we loved when we bought it shortly before the shooting - the “charming & full of character” features that come with an almost 100-year-old home -- now betray us … narrow halls and doorways, steep stairs, no first-floor master bedroom or full bath, a narrow backyard, a galley-style kitchen, etc. Our home simply cannot meet the needs we now have – a constant reminder of the staggering changes in our lives.
This home is filled with special, now sacred, memories for me. It was the last home Cooper walked in, the backyard was the last place the boys practiced soccer, the basement playroom is filled with memories of the boys playing, having sleepovers, the memories of baking cookies in the kitchen, walking to the lake and to downtown. This home has been filled with so much love and joy.
Something as simple as holiday cooking and baking with the boys is fraught with constant reminders of what Cooper CAN’T do. What was a familiar, fun and comforting experience can bring tears. The kitchen isn’t accessible, and it makes it very hard – if not impossible – for Cooper to engage in cooking and baking (or even just getting his own snacks) the way he did before. The counter-top heights and cupboards aren’t friendly to him; the galley-style kitchen is hard for a wheelchair to maneuver through -- things that “before” were not even on the radar now require all sorts of intentional planning, moving, preparing, organizing, adjusting. Home should always be the place you feel most comfortable in, where you are able to relax and enjoy family. Home should not be hard; should not be a place filled with obstacles and barriers.
And I can’t even talk about the financials around a fully accessible home, accessible vehicles, constant medical bills, adaptive equipment, and much, much more.
I am tired. Tired of crying, tired of being sad, tired of picking up pieces and agonizing over decisions we should never be making. I am tired of looking at pictures of a family that no longer exists, tired of watching the news every day and seeing how violence continues to plague our country and world; destroying families and children like mine, tired of wasting countless hours fighting – begging – insurance companies to cover what my children need, tired of making countless pleas seeking access to medical trials that Cooper needs and deserves as they may be his best chance to regain any ambulation and being rejected – soundly – because he is a minor. I am tired of the PTSD that follows you everywhere like a shadow and I am tired of our loss of spontaneity. I miss being able to just call the boys into the kitchen to cook with me, I miss naturally responding to an unseasonably warm day with a quick walk to the lake, or going for a picnic and letting the boys play at the park, or deciding at the last minute to go catch one of the major sports teams play because they are in town. Now, we need to check for availability of what are always a very limited number of handicap accessible seats at major arenas, or we need to ensure handicap accessible parking options. And most parks are not fully accessible and do not have handicap accessible playground equipment.
On the brighter side, sports continue to be a big part of Cooper’s fight to recover. He has started to play hockey and he LOVES it! It has been a blessing to see Cooper find a team sport that has given him this sense of competition, athleticism and most importantly, community. I dare to say there isn’t a sport Cooper wouldn’t enjoy; he is such a natural athlete. He misses soccer every day. It was his first true love. He is a little boy who loves being on a team so much! For as athletic as he is, he loves cheering his teammates on as much as he loves playing any sport. He is the consummate team player. He has been so happy playing hockey; just the practices thrill him…it reminds me of how Cooper was with soccer -- as excited to go to practice as he was to go to a game. It brings tears to my eyes as I type this, thinking about the smile on his face and the excitement in his voice when he talks about his team and about sport in general. I see real joy in him again, and not with an asterisk. I see Cooper at his very happiest…filled with love for his team, love for his sport, and I see the spark in him as he pushes himself physically to become the best sled hockey player he can possibly be. I have missed seeing Cooper happy like that, getting to be a child again.
Luke is adamant about going to Cooper’s practices, even after a long day of school and his own appointments. He wants to – no, needs to be there, to cheer him, to see for himself that Cooper is ok.
We are also seeking opportunities for Cooper to learn adaptive ski and snowboard—with Luke---now that winter is almost here. They are so excited whenever there is a chance for them to do a sport together. We also are excited to find opportunities for Cooper to play wheelchair basketball; he loves watching the Chicago Bulls and Milwaukee Bucks play, and we are working to find the right wheelchair basketball team for him to join.
Luke continues to love to draw. He finds such refuge in art, like I do in music, I guess. I know that when he is at his desk, drawing, he feels settled. We are committed to trying to find Luke as many opportunities as possible to experience and explore art; he is interested in all mediums and continues to be excited about any chance he can get to engage in “doing art”. He also loves all things related to plants; he is a natural botanist! He is so fascinated by plant types, crossbreeding, and growing plants. I wish I had a greenhouse for him to spend his days in so he could care for his plants and have a light-filled space to draw.
This Thanksgiving, the boys joined their youngest sisters in the Highland Park Turkey Trot. I am so proud of this. This felt like a big step in “taking back” what Evil stole from us. PTSD is hell; there is no other way I can describe it. The physical and emotional toll it takes on you is just awful – including feeling like control of all aspects of your life has been stripped from you. The damage Evil did to my sweet little boys is so much more than just physical. The Turkey Trot was about taking control back. They accomplished more than racing three miles, Luke running beside Cooper on his hand cycle. This was about facing their fears and finishing the race, despite scary-large crowds, abrupt and loud sounds, huge amounts of unpredictability, being willing to expose themselves to something new and unknown. Those medals at the end didn’t represent what they had just finished, they represented surviving.
As I think about gift-giving this season, what Cooper really wants, I cannot give him. I cannot fix this spinal cord injury and give him back his ability to walk. What Luke really wants, a sense of true peace, and for Cooper to walk again, I do not know how to give him. I can only tell them that I want those things, too, with all my heart. I would do literally anything for Cooper and Luke to have some respite from their suffering. I know that there are days they are tired, too. And frustrated. And just plain ‘ol sad. They are just little boys and they do not deserve this burden, this suffering. The impact of the mass shooting lives with us every single second of our lives.
I want to wish you all a very happy, healthy and blessed holiday season. Whatever it is that you may be surviving, please know that I wish you strength and courage on your journey. When you face obstacles, my wish for you is that you remember that you are not alone in your efforts to overcome them. I have learned so much this past year and half, lessons I wish I had not had to learn in this way. Yet, I am immensely grateful for the lessons I have learned; including how the world is filled with wonderful, amazing people. That isn’t just flowery language; it is truth. When we are willing to take a scary step forward and open ourselves and our hearts to others, I have come to learn that you become open to seeing the goodness that is everywhere; people truly are incredible, caring and kind. I have learned first-hand that love is so much stronger than hate; the Light is so much brighter than the blackness of the Dark. I head into these holidays believing our best days are still ahead: my family’s best days, our country’s best days…the best days for all of us. I believe in the power of hope. I believe in Cooper and Luke. I believe in this family. I believe – I know it like truth - that one day, somehow, someway, Cooper will walk again.
All of you have been a blessing in my life. Thank you for your continued love, prayers, support, and generous donations. I cannot possibly put into words how much all of your kindness means to me. The love and care you all give to me and my family is what has allowed us to keep on going on this journey. I am so grateful to all of you for being so dedicated to ensuring that my boys and my family can heal. I am sending you all my best wishes and love this holiday season.
With Lots of Love and Appreciation,
Keely
