Busking Joy

By Sherrie Cassel

There’s too much racket – here. The swamp cooler whirs. The cats meow their grand entrance on the scene, and the goddamned crows caw, interrupting my reverie.

It’s just too damn loud this morning,

In my head.

Sometimes I need the noise; it drowns out the screams of a grieving mother, not unlike the monkey my son carried on his own broken back; it’s chronic. He was tired. I’m tired. I’m always tired, and yet, the benefits of bipolar disorder, for me, are manias. I can go until I collapse into bed, sleep four hours, and get up and do it all over again. Manias are what fuel the success of my healing process.

I’ve been missing Rikki in the worst way, and I mean that, in the worst way. I miss him all the time, for sure, but there are times when I’m idle and so many memories come flooding into my spastic brain, so that I need to fill it with loud music and a meaningless beat to save me from a meltdown. I know I need meltdowns from time to time, and I allow for them, just like I allow for meals and bathroom breaks. I really don’t mean that flippantly; meltdowns, after a while, can fit neatly into chaotic life and work schedules.

In between meltdowns…I’ll take the noise.

This morning, I thought I’d cry for a while, but despite the sadness I carry with me all the time, I’m unable to cry. I’m not frustrated; tears can be anticlimactic, too. There’s an acceptance to noise when I finally have the time to actively mourn the loss of my son. There’s an acceptance that Rikki is not physically present, and on this noisy morning, I’m going to let it be okay.

I don’t feel stuck. I’m moving forward with the Ph.D. program. I’m in a stable and happy marriage. I have amazing friends and a family of choice. I have a great deal to keep me busy, and while it’s been a marvelous two months off, it’s time to hop back on the academic fast-track again. If I’m idle for too long, it is the silence that breaks me.

I walk in my life every day with Rikki beside me in some way, shape, or form. I used to think it was just the desperation of a grieving parent that made me think Rikki was all around me, but after nine and a half years of his physical absence, I’ve discovered that his Spirit, his Essence, the part of us that is forever mingled, umbilicus and soul, are ever-present. I wish I could explain it, but as Horatio found out, there are more marvelous things in this universe which we will never be able to explain, and yet, we “feel” them deep in our core, so deep in our core that it feels physical.

This morning, I wanted to commune with that Spirit that connects me forever to my son, and the cats wanted to be fed. The crows were squawking good morning before I’d had my coffee. I generally listen to music at four a.m. before anyone else is up, the cats, my husband, the crows. A neighbor has chickens that sound off at one a.m., two a.m., three a.m. –. They are confused about what time they are to rise and shine. I get it.

I speak to my son every day, not in a way that would make someone question my sanity, but in a way that keeps me connected to him. I believe if you knew someone really well in his lifetime, that you can anticipate what he would say to you about a situation you might find yourself in. I can hear Rikki saying, “Mom, um, not one of your better choices.” I had a friend who turned me on to the Akashic Records. I sat in a chair and called upon the Spirit of my son, and I had a conversation with him, and I was able to make amends to him, posthumously.

I’m feeling some resistance to tapping into the truest and deepest grief available to me today. The sun is shining. I’m feeling great. The irritation about the noise has dissipated, and I’m looking forward to a day of joy and gratitude with my husband. Rikki will accompany me in the music I’ll listen to as the music of consensus reality settles into background music…the leitmotif of busyness. I’ll take it.

My nocturnal felines have returned to slumber, satiated and spoiled. The crows have begun their scavenging. My husband is still sleeping, and in the silence is percolating the ingredients for a good day. My meltdown will have to wait for another day, another trigger, another reason to be expressed.

I love the carnival at night…the lights, the music, the distraction from reality. My reality is that I lost a child. I needed reality this morning – and I got the carnies beckoning me toward the carousel. A nice ride of homeostasis. Today is shaping into a nice day, pleasant temperature, with low emotional intensity.

Music is an emotional emetic. If I need to weep, I know what I need to do, what I need to listen to, and so, I steer clear of certain songs when I’m not willing to go there emotionally. Again, we get to a point in the grief process when we can schedule meltdowns. Triggers will always present themselves, and we never know when or what, but after a few years, we can even manage triggers.

I know, for example, to keep this light, my son loved those giant deli pickles. I haven’t eaten one since before he died. I see them and I want to weep because they brought him such joy. I can now walk past them in the deli without the experience creating a visceral reaction, but I still feel a strong tug.

Today is not the day to weep; my thoughts affect my olfactory memory, and it’s summertime, and I long to be at the beach, smelling the salt air and Coppertone, and remembering all the years my son and I walked on the pier and how he always had to buy a giant pickle, and how much joy those walks brought to us. See, I’m feeling the tug even as I type this.

I’m alone in silence now. I have things to do today. I think I’ll put on some music, happy music, dance music, and remember a time when Rikki and I danced in our kitchen together, and I’ll choose to smile instead of cry.

Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.