Present-Perfect Tense

By Sherrie Cassel

The past month was a difficult one. No reason, other than the fact that I lost the most significant person in my life: my son and only child. Three and one-half years have passed, and, holistically, I am doing well, which is to say, the visceral breakdowns are fewer and farther between. When I feel an overwhelm coming on, I choose to be alone, and allow the tears to fall as they are intended to do.

Tears help clear out debris; they promote growth, spiritual and physical.

Spring has arrived and everything is in full bloom. My roses are abundant and beautiful and aromatic. I have finished the coursework for my B.S. in psychology, and I am making plans for my next academic journey. Yes, I am moving on. I didn’t think I ever could and I thought I never should. Missing my son and not letting go was how I thought grief was supposed to be navigated. Hold tight to the memories. Hold tight to his Spirit. Hold tight so the world knows you are in grief, just as assuredly as if you were wearing a shroud.

I think about perpetual grief, the kind of grief that buries you alive. I don’t want to live in such a way that bodily functions and basic hygiene are all that’s left of me. Early in my grief process, I wept and wailed and slept and couldn’t eat, and then I developed terrible insomnia, and those sleepless nights were spent trying to not ruminate on the worst day of my life.

You, no doubt, understand, those of you who grieve in the present tense.

I have said the sentence more than enough times, “I loved my son more than life itself.” “He was….” beautiful, generous, forgiving, loving, ad infinitum. I shudder when I come face to face with his physical absence. “I loved?” “He was…?” No, death did not take my love away; it did not suddenly and eternally quash all of the lovely things about him.

Saying, “I love him” — does not mean denial. Saying “I love him” — denotes the infinitude of parenthood. My faith tradition, compels me to believe he is alive in a place of complete and utter bliss. I sleep better now. I hope.

Hope was gone the minute my son became so ill there was no reason to hold on any longer. Hope was gone when I became so angry with the God of my understanding, I could not conceive of forever; it was an impossibility. Hope was gone when my son took his last breath. But hope, like leafless and lifeless winter trees, springs buds.

When I speak about my son, I speak in the present perfect tense, the present tense extending into the future. Sometimes people look at me strangely when I say, “Rikki is amazing!”, “Rikki is beautiful!”, “Rikki is alive in a heaven I cannot fathom.” They look a little less confused when I say, “I love my son”, not I lovED him, because I love him even in his absence, even though I can’t see him or touch him or laugh with him or talk endlessly with him.

I talk to him still. He can’t hear me, of course. In heaven, I believe, there is no sadness, no pretension, no anger, and no sickness. I know that if he saw me on some of the days when my eyelids are heavy and my make-up is smeared across my face, he would be sad, and he suffered enough sadness while he was here; there is nothing more that I want for my son than to have absolute peace and joy — even if I cannot be with him — just yet. He is whole now, and that’s all I ever want for him — wholeness, peace, and joy.

The rest of my life is mine to choose its trajectory. I want to live in the present, and I want to muster all the courage I can to live in between the past and the present tenses.

Grief can consume me if I allow it to, or it can guide me to an earth-shaking transformation. I choose the latter and daily work at releasing the former. After you lose someone you love mightily, life becomes starkly short, too short to choose to stay in sadness longer than is absolutely necessary.

Today I am wearing yellow, and — I love my son.