Working through it

By Sherrie Cassel

The earth is soaking up the rain, appropriate for today. In California, there has been a drought for many years. I’m not too embarrassed to say; I haven’t followed the information concerning the drought. I don’t know if we’re out of the drought yet, but the rain is like God crying with me on this day, the angelversary of my son’s death. I’m trying to not think about all the moments leading up to his death on January 22, 2016, at 5:55 p.m. He would love the repetition of five and he would create some beautiful meaning from it. He was good that way. Funny. Vivacious. Effusive most of the time. He was, in fact, a chip off the old block.

I have a candle lit, a beautiful, sparkly candle that a friend made. I light a candle every year. I just want to remember my son out loud – even if no one else knows why I do it. Even if I don’t understand it. My husband, at my request, is playing DARK SIDE OF THE MOON by Pink Floyd, and I’ve decided that my grief, in its acuteness today, must seek expression. I’m bleeding myself. I’m purging. I’m apprehensive about what the day’s emotional load will yield, or…will I just hold my breath through it. Who knows?

I’ve left tasks for me to do, busy paperwork, a Zoom conference. I’ve carved out this time to mourn. I got up at 4:30 a.m., lit the candles, turned on the light above our Buddha, turned off the rest of the lights, and I sat in the ambient light behind the Buddha, and I cried. Like during a walking meditation, trying to clear my mind, the thoughts, the hard memories keep creeping in, and I shake my head, and they flee for a few moments, long enough for me to catch my breath. Sometimes I double over in pain, and I let the feeling pass, and I stand up straight, shake it off, take a deep breath, and start again.

I know it’s irrational to think that I wouldn’t have a difficult time today. Every year for eight years I’ve tried to feel joyful for the day my son was freed from addiction and the pain he felt that led him to use substances to numb it. I wish he were here for Momma to make it all better. I’d do it differently; I’d do it better. I’m trying to not think about when he was so sick that every breath was labored. He was so beautiful. He was so brilliant. He was kind. He was generous. He was long-suffering with people who hurt him.

I’m not going to force on myself my own personal blend of Pollyannism today; I’m going to cry intermittently, and I’m going to laugh bittersweetly about the good memories. There’s cognitive dissonance on angelversaries. I want to smile, and I do, through tears from longing for my son to sit with me and talk with me and hug me with his great big arms. I’m jealous of those who, with all their hearts, believe in psychic conversations with their sons and daughters through a medium. I’m jealous of those who believe heaven is a real place and it awaits their return to the Garden of Eden, so to speak. I believe on days when I’m not hurting.

Is Rikki in a heaven? Will he send me a sign? Does his energy flow through the universe in a bliss of non-existence? Where did he go? Yeah, I always give myself part of the day to mourn, and then I go into our bedroom, turn off the lights, cover my head, and in the protective fetal position, I sleep. My husband wakes me up at 6:30, after the TOD has passed, and I get back on the Soul Train.

Rikki loved smoking cigars and his favorite every day cigar was a wood tipped cherry flavored one. I bought some for those who were living with us, and I asked family members to light their own at 5:55 p.m. and they sent me pictures of themselves with their cigars. I was so touched. I know they did it for my grieving heart that first year, and I will always love and appreciate them for it. I don’t plan things like that anymore. We, in my family, each grieve differently for my son. His son loved him and grieves him. His grandmother also grieved him. I grieve him. I light a candle and put something he made on the shelf where the candle is…a type of altar in memory of my son.

I want to be a good example to all who grieve. I want to midwife their victory stories as they push and do the work for that victory. We can heal. I used to think we could heal completely, and I dicker back and forth about it. I know I’m enjoying life, complete with its stressors and challenges, and I do have some of those. I’d be disingenuous if I said I didn’t have any; however, even with the greatest loss of my life, life is amazing. Some of you know about my strenuous and checkered climb up the academic ladder; it’s taken me all my adult life so far to get here. I could not be more grateful or prouder of myself. I did it through the addiction years with my son, and I continue even after his death.

I’m going to give myself the credit for the hard work, and I’m also going to thank the GOMU for placing in humans the will to survive and the will to thrive. Even though we tame our hedonia to a socially acceptable level, we desire to enjoy our lives. We work and … we play. I’ve worked the grief process until I thought I had no tears left to cry (tear ducts can always produce more).

My purpose here is to revive a sense of joy because it’s summonable. The possibilities for creation from a place of pain are endless. The opportunity to share what has healed or is healing you with those who are hurting is that which we must grab hold of. I’m trying. I feel like Spock from the original Star Trek (one-hundred years ago), the episode where he got a virus that made his humanity take over. His Vulcan side fought to keep his humanity restrained. I feel a little like Spock did. My heart is hurting. My head is sifting through different emotions, as my heart, the place where we hurt and experience joy, does somersaults and plummets down the rabbit hole of grief. I take the fluctuations as a sign I’m still alive, and since I am, I want to live it to the hilt.

I’ll get through the day just as I have for the past eight years.  My husband is DJing for me. So far, we’ve listened to The Grateful Dead, Traffic, Pink Floyd and now we’re listening to the Allman Brothers. A nice mix that makes sense, music my son wouldn’t like. That fact helps more than you know. One year we took a drive out to Joshua Tree National Park, and it was so silent I could hear the flapping of a raven’s wings overhead. There was not a cloud in the sky. I enjoyed the beauty despite the ache in my soul. This is the day. This is the day. This is the day my son died.

There are two memories I have of the day Rikki died. The first one was when we were cruising around a small suburb of San Diego; I was taking him to a doctor’s appointment. I had originally intended to go visit my mother, and Rikki said, “I’m so sorry I ruined your day, Momma.” I said, “No way, Boo; there is no one in the entire world I’d rather be with than you.” Truth. When we finally got him into the ER and he had a bed, he was cold, and I asked the nurse for a warm blanket for him. When she brought it to him, I tucked it around him like I did when he was sick or ready for bed. He said, “Oh Momma, I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but it feels so good.” Those were the last words he ever spoke to me.

I’m so grateful the last thing I ever did for him made him happy. I take comfort in that.

I made sure I had something to do today. I’ve got paperwork for work; I’ve got a Zoom Conference at 7 p.m. I’ve got to get ready for my two traffic days and try to get enough sleep. As my heart prepared for today, the sheer will to not give into a twenty-four-hour slump has been monumental; it’s also exhausting.

There’s a drizzly haze outside, but I’m snugly in the house, warm, surrounded by things I love, pictures of my beloved on the walls, shelves, and desks. He is everywhere, in spirit, as a brain secretion, in a memory, he is forever seared into my soul. I miss him. Like a body memory from an assault, the angelversary hits hard when there is a trigger: a scent, a song, a symbol. He loved those giant dill pickles and every time we went to the beach, he just had to have one. Maybe I should have bought one for the day — to remember my son. Maybe.

Sorry, this was so personal today. It’s a tough day…but there’s hope for healing…always.