Year Seven

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

Tomorrow is the angelversary of the day I said goodbye to my son, my beautiful Rikki. I’ll not sit around today and ruminate about what was happening seven years ago on the day he died, but it was a beautiful day, as I recall, and we had been cruising around Chula Vista. He was very sick. I had the opportunity to tell him there was no one in the whole wide world that I would rather be with than him, and then he died a few hours later. We’d also had the opportunity to work through a lot of unresolved issues that had been looming for years: he was 32 and he had been through a lot in his short 32 years, from birth to death. He was in a tremendous amount of emotional pain, and he found a solution to stop it. May my beautiful son rest in peace. I miss you, my one true Love.

I’ve been so busy with seminary, first week of classes, and a shit ton of reading already, and assignments due, and overwhelm. My friends invited me to coffee and breakfast this Sunday, tomorrow, and I without hesitation said yes. As the week went on, I looked at the date, and realized that tomorrow is the angelversary. I got so busy, I lost track of time, and so, I never know how I’m going to be, and even after seven years, the day and night of angelversaries drops me to my knees. I beat myself up for not realizing that tomorrow I’ll be working hard to maintain, or I’ll be a weeping mess. Who knows?

I’m so controlled. I schedule my meltdowns for when I have time, when it won’t interrupt my routine, a routine I’ve kept since I began to heal in my 3rd and a ½ year. Developing a routine has helped me; it’s given me purpose, one foot in front of the other, one minute, one day, one year at a time. It’s taking me every ounce of strength to not go back to that day, and remember. He’s gone; I lost him. What possible good can rumination do? I ask myself this question and I swear I know the answer: nothing.

I kissed him on the forehead like I had for 32 years, and I walked away from his body; he was no longer in it. I have to say this, even though there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to accept the ending, but he was set free from all the suffering and shame of addiction. His body was wracked with sickness from 10 years of addiction/alcoholism/heroin, and it was wracked with pain from life experiences, from decades ago to the moment he died. The details of why no longer matter, but I need to believe that he is now free from pain. He suffered so much.

I’ll not ruminate on my ignorance about addiction. If I knew would I have shored up the desperation and expressed it differently? No. I’m not going to think about that. We live in the Joshua Tree area in Southern California. The geology alone is worth the trip; the National Park is gorgeous. I scattered some of Rikki’s ashes there. Maybe I’ll go there and feel Rikki’s presence and talk to him for a bit. Maybe I will.

I know I won’t look at the clock at 5:55 p.m. because I may be in our room with the lights turned off and my head covered waiting for the time to pass, when I can get up and resume my routine. I just know I don’t know how I’ll be, but what I do know is that I’m not going it alone; my Ben will be there if and when I need to let it go, and just fucking lose it. (Pardon my language; I’m hurting, and I’m trying not to.)

Seven years. How is it possible? I’ll be busy with homework once I get up from my cocoon of grief, and I’ll read and I’ll write, and I’ll be exhausted from all that goes into surviving an angelversary. I’ll be okay; I always am, but the days before there is such anxiety over the overwhelming emotions I’m going to navigate on January 22 @ 5:55 p.m.

I’ll get through it. I always do. Miss you my sweet Boo Bear. Happy heavenly birthday; I know you were reborn that day you left — a new body, a new mind, and joy everlasting. I hope you’re blasting Korn and dancing the hillbilly dance. Gawd, I miss you.