Six Years

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

Tomorrow is the six-year anniversary of my son’s death. I choose to mourn today. I’ve been listening to music and sharing my heart on my Facebook page, and I woke my husband (sick with COVID – fully vaccinated) and told him that my heart hurts today. Through the tears I’m revving up to get through tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll be all cried out by tomorrow and I’ll be able to celebrate his life – and not focus on the chaos, frenzy, anger, love, and fear that accompany the life of an addict. I will go to Joshua Tree National Park, climb up on a boulder, and reach up to the sky and try to touch him the way he touched me. But today, I will allow the tears to be gentle reminders of my tremendous loss.

In the earlier years of grief, I would ruminate on all the moments leading up to the last kiss I was ever able to place on his forehead, and I would either buck up and not feel anything on the angelversary, or I would sob until I couldn’t breathe. One year I bought cigars for my family, and we all took a couple of puffs in his honor; he loved his cigars, and then I went to bed while it was still light outside, and I cried myself to sleep.

Angelversaries are simply hard. I’m an optimist. I’m Pollyanna in too many ways, and in ways that sometimes drive my realist husband to the brink of madness (litote). But pain can reach deep inside even the most nauseatingly and chronically chipper person. I know. Glitter and sparkle, awe and wonder, laughter and joy, love from others, love for others, self-love, aren’t those the goals of humanity? But for suffering, life might just be perfect even in its imperfections. Life experiences can change our gait from a frenetic one to a waltz in the blink of an eye. Who knows on what day those dances will take place? When we are aware of our emotions we know they are navigable. I feel the heartstrings being plucked with increasing intensity, and then I breathe. Grief is a curious experience; it hurts, like a motherfucker (I’m sorry, but no other word will do). I remember when I was deep in hand-wringing mourning, my eyes were puffy until I was no longer recognizable as Sherrie, the perpetual Pollyanna. I didn’t know it was possible to hurt that badly and still live and breathe. I hyperventilated many times. I went to the hospital thinking I was having a heart attack on two angelversaries. The few days leading up to the angelversary can bring on panic attacks as the day and time approach. My son died at 5:55 p.m. on Friday, January 22^nd. I will cover my clocks and I will stay off the computer and my phone tomorrow as this time approaches.

What will I do? I wish I could tell you that I will proceed with my plans, but I feel the thickening of the air and I’m feeling more serious than I like. My gait is slowing, and I may be running out of steam, the steam fueled by optimism; it’s waning. Angelversaries are like that.

Rikki loved tacos, turkey tacos. They were always a celebratory meal, when we had our many parties with our amazing friends over the years. I raised Rikki to celebrate life. I raised him to have wonder and to be in awe over this amazing world, which he did until the moment he died. I kissed him and covered him with a warm blanket, and he said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this; it feels so good.” And then he closed his eyes and he died. He loved life. We loved it together, in spite of some really tough years.

Freud wrote copious notes, books, over his lifetime. Upon his own languishing life, he wrote his observations about what was going on in his mind as he lay dying. I’m doing the same thing. I may not be dying in a mortal way yet, but I am dying today in a human way. It’s the metamorphosis I go through every year since my son’s death. I will writhe in my heart today, the anniversary of the day before he died; there was so much to be thankful for that day. There was so much hope.

I’ve learned to be hopeful in life, more realistic, but hopeful. I’ve learned that hope is manufactured in a heart with the desire to heal from all wounds, past and present. Life is just so remarkably short, in the blink of an eye, on a day none of us knows, random chance is no respecter of persons. My goal and my recommendation are to live your life to its absolute fullest, every day. I’m going to take this day to mourn, but tomorrow…I hope…my steam will be replenished with the optimism of a brand-new day.

If you have a current or upcoming angelversary, I recommend drafting up an itinerary. I have one for tomorrow. I wrote it out yesterday, and I’m going to do my level best to check off every item on it. See, no matter how much pain we carry, the world doesn’t wait for us to be through with our painful experiences. Mourning is absolutely essential in the grieving process, however; it will lessen, and you will heal.

Healing is not an impossible task. Trust me on this.

Rikki loved the soundtrack to Guardians of the Galaxy. I’m listening to it now through tears and smiles; it’s so hopeful.