When it’s time

By Sherrie Cassel

I begin a new decade; the last one was the most difficult of my life. As those of you who follow this blog know, I lost my son and only child six and a half years ago. Those years were spent groveling before a god I wasn’t sure I believed in anymore. Those years were spent in the fetal position in excruciating pain. Those years were spent either numb or in the deepest grief. Those years were spent in a darkened room sleeping my days and nights away. They were some rough years. The second year was more difficult than the first. I believe I was still in shock the first year, intervals of sobbing uncontrollably or forcing myself to be numb so I could get through the day. By the third year I was exhausted from the grieving process; I wanted relief. I wanted a “normal” life, one in which grief was not my focal point. Every day before that epiphany had been spent trying not to go under, some days barely treading water, some days I wanted to drown; but then one day, I was ready to swim back to shore where the living were scurrying around, busy, living “normal” lives, lives in which grief did not reign supreme, living lives yearning to be vibrant, energetic, mostly pain-free, and purposeful.

I’ve achieved this, on most days. I still have days during which I’m overcome by the magnitude of my loss and of the gaping, still inconceivable hole, where my son should be. I’m no longer at the event horizon though. I dove into the black hole of grief, and to my great surprise and delight, there is another side, and it’s spectacular. Perhaps a death analogy is apropos here, because I was reborn through the grief process. I will never be the person I was before my son’s illness and death. I had to refashion myself in light of the greatest loss of my life. My brain helped me rationalize my loss and then my brain helped me to soften the loss so I could allow the metaphor of my heart to beat life into me again.

In the first two years I needed to purge – as often as the overwhelm occurred. I also read everything I could get my hands on about grief and healing. I tried therapy but found the ones to whom I was referred had only one semester of grief training. At the time, I didn’t know about licensed clinical social workers (LCSWs), nor did I know what chaplains do. Both work with grieving people all the time. This is one of the reasons I have chosen to enter the chaplaincy (at 60!).

Not everyone can sit in the dark with someone. Those of us who have worked the grief process and come through to the other side bruised, battered, but victorious are in the best position to be present for someone in her or his darkness. We learn. We heal. We know – for a time. We share what we know. We grow. We thrive. Healing is a process; it’s an act of self-love. Healing is within your grasp. Reach for it as soon as you can find the inner strength.

There is no universal formula for getting through grief. Grief is as unique as one’s fingerprint. Sometimes we relate more to one person’s experience than we do to another. Find what works for you. Listen to a voice that touches you, that speaks to you, and that ultimately heals you. If you believe in God or have a Higher Power, lean on it, speak to it, allow it to comfort and then to transform you.

I’ve been working the grief process for six and a half years, and if I’m being honest, I began the grief process while my son was still struggling in this life, dying before my eyes, and the pain intensified exponentially after he died. Those of us who may have been in a relationship that was challenging may have some guilt and some regret. Make your amends – even posthumously and let guilt and regret go. Oh sure, when you’re Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired (HALT), you may reach for them again; I have, and sometimes I still do, but then I gather my bearings and return to a balance of manageable grief and marveling at the wonders of life.

I think about those three and a half years when I was underwater, comfortable by that time of being submerged, not hearing any sound at all, stubbornly, but adaptively holding my breath, refusing to surface. Living was so difficult back then I just refused to do it. I ached in a way that led me to emotional paralysis. After my husband went back to work, I was alone to scream, to yowl, to double over out of breath from sobbing so forcefully. In retrospect, I was glad to have had that time. I’m not a public griever. I prefer to have meltdowns in the company of my husband, but mostly … alone. Doing so is my M.O.; it just works for me. Find what works for you. I have a friend who doesn’t like using the noun journey after grief because it’s not a journey she says. I respect that. I call it the grief experience, and I know that even those of us who share a common grief, experience grief differently.

None of us has a choice in the matter about when or whom we lose. I’ve learned to cling tightly enough to enjoy and repurpose my life, but never again so tightly that the God of my heart has to pry it from my bleeding fingers. I’m not a Buddhist, but I’ve learned its practice of non-attachment. The year my son died my family lost several others within a matter of months: a brother, a friend, my husband’s mother, a former student to suicide, and a close friend of the family. Some days are diamonds; some days are stone. Sometimes the hard times won’t leave me alone (Dick Feller) – and sometimes it’s a year or so more. We just never know. Even though I saw it coming, one cannot prepare oneself for the death of a child.

I could barely make it through the day in the early years of grief. I was exhausted from weeping, aching, weeping, and aching. I knew there was something more to life even after a life-altering tragedy. I knew because other veteran grievers who found their way to the other side of the black hole where transcendence lay, and they shared their process with me. I was angry at first when someone told me I’d get to a place where the intensity would lessen. I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe him. As long as the pain was intense, I was still connected to my son; but I got to a point where I knew I couldn’t carry it anymore and still have a productive and purposeful life.

 Are you there yet?

If you are and maintaining and thriving in your life, congratulations. If you’re not, keep working your process. Read everything you can get your hands on about grief. Write. Sing. Dance. Keep on weeping until your brain says, “It’s time to move forward.” Life really is wonderful despite our losses and despite the pain that will vein everything in it for the rest of our days and nights.

I didn’t cry at my birthday party, even though I missed my son on a milestone day. His dear childhood friend was there. Seeing him without my son was mind blowing. I didn’t cry. I celebrated a new decade. I crawled on my knees begging for relief until I could stand and walk toward a life that is healing and now I’m reaching for the sun.

Grief is a tangled mess, and again, one will heal in proportion to the wounds he or she has healed from already. Self-examination is among the greatest gifts that come from deep grief. If one needs a latent benefit, self-examination is one. The ability to heal yourself through self-examination is truly a gift from the Divine.

I stopped making resolutions for each new year ushered in; I seldom achieved my goal anyhow. But I will say this: I’m going to do my absolute best to make my 60s a good decade, and if and when catastrophe next strikes, I know at some point I will handle it, accept it, adapt to it, and then move on, in a time comparable to the loss.

P.S. I miss you, Rikki, oh so much.