Hungover

By Sherrie Cassel

I feel like I’ve been in a car accident and the next day being black and blue, but … still alive on a brand new day – granted, without my son, but a brand new day regardless of the part of me that is irrational wishing for my son to be resurrected, even nearly ten years later. I was not a parent who got to have the miracle of a child who survived his drug/alcohol years. The only victory in Rikki’s story is that he is no longer suffering, and he suffered a great deal. He lost his beautiful mind before he passed, and that kills me. His last words to me, though, will forever be a comfort to me. As I covered him with the heated blanket before the medical staff had me step out so they could attend to him, he said, “Oh Momma, I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but it feels so good.” The last thing I ever did for him was tuck him in. I did the same thing the night he died. Gratefully, I don’t have very many images of the night Rikki died. I think that’s my brain’s way of protecting me from chronic ruminations. I truly am grateful my memories of that night are scarce.

Yesterday, it was a quiet day. I had solicited the opportunity to get together with anyone available so I could keep occupied on Rikki’s birthday, and I had several people who offered to keep me busy, but it didn’t work out with any of them, so Ben spent the day waiting for a meltdown, but that never happened. I got busy and the time, 3:15 p.m., of his birth passed before I noticed the time. I looked at the clock and it was 3:30 p.m., and I said, “Happy birthday, Boo. I miss you. I love you” and then I went about my night. I took several naps when the emotions began to reach critical mass, and so one of my coping mechanisms yesterday was distancing myself from the emotions so I could function when I felt an overwhelm coming on. To be honest, I don’t know why I chose to stay home and keep my mind busy, because my heart was on overload.

The GOMU gave me the opportunity and the emotional fortitude to mete out my sadness in tolerable amounts and still find the time to laugh and watch the baseball game with my husband, who kindly kept asking me if I was okay. We were both waiting for the deluge; it never came. I guess, maybe because the day of his birth was anxiously anticipated, and the day of his birth was a celebration. His life was a celebration in my soul. His death has been life altering. I am not the same person who existed prior to Rikki’s death. I’ve grown and changed, and I continue to do so on this wild ride; grief is just that, a series of seemingly nonsensical forks in the road. Which one to take? See, the point here is that forks in the road offer us choices, which put us in control of our reaction to our triggers, you know, those things that bring the loss of our loved one’s right smack into our faces, which typically leads to a meltdown.

Yesterday was an atypical birthday. For eight years, I’ve kept myself so busy on his birthday that I could only collapse from the exhaustion of holding in unexpressed emotions all day. When I got up in the morning, I had a message from a dear friend, who very lovingly reminded me she remembered my son’s birthday. Throughout the day, I received messages from my wonderful friends; it helps.

Our beautiful grandson had a wonderful birthday. His mother really outdid herself. I’m very proud of her and so grateful that she’ll always be in my life. She texted me yesterday to remember Rikki and to thank him for our Louie. By evening time, I just wanted to go to bed; the tears never came, but sleep did.

So, that’s how my son’s 42^nd birthday was remembered. Numbing, longing, sleeping, hot dogs, baseball, apple pie and Chevrolet. And … it was successful. The day passed as it always does. I remembered fondly the birth of my sweet, red-haired baby boy. That’s not bad to remember; it’s also not bad to fall apart completely. We get up again and another new day full of promise is in our hands. There is not a singular fork, and no singular road. I know we improvise grief as each moment transpires, triggers are always just seconds away — all the time.

Once I was in the drive-thru at Starbucks, and I was aching — just because I missed my son especially hard that day, and on a Bird of Paradise flower was a hummingbird sitting just about one foot away from where I was stopped. He didn’t seem to be afraid. He tilted his head and looked at me and I said, “Hi Rikki. Thank you.”

Now, I don’t know if that was a sign from the other side. I’m not sure there can be communication between the living and the dead; some people are absolutely certain. I’ve never had that kind of faith. I took the hummingbird on my son’s favorite flower as a sign early in my grief experience because I desperately needed to feel a physical connection to my son; there’s that irrational thinking again. I knew he was gone but the ache was physical and I needed a pretty moment between myself and something my son would have found absolutely magical, and I was able to pull myself together for the day. Grief recovery, like those who struggle with addiction, is a lifelong process.

I’ve learned over the past nearly ten years that I will take those godwinks when I get them. I don’t have answers to the mysteries of the universe, but I do know that it is we who must heal ourselves. No one can talk us through impending meltdowns, and to be honest, if they happen, they happen. We have not failed if we lose it, stay buried deep in our blankets for the day, dance, sing, remember. Rumination about a beautiful moment is okay too. See, however you handle your tough days is okay, as long as you’re not hurting yourself. Grief is powerful enough to take someone through a time of madness. Most of the time we come out of it and learn to reframe and restructure our lives so we can live in a much different world than the one we lived in when our kids were still alive. Our entire existence changes when someone we love dies.

The next day after navigating a loved one’s birthday or angelversary, is a lot like a hangover; I’m exhausted today. There was absolutely no reason to repress my feelings, but I did. His angelversary is far more challenging than his birthday.

No one who hasn’t “been there” can judge the rightness or wrongness of how we handle our grief process on significant days. How I managed yesterday was a success. I’m here again on a brand-new day. I will always miss my son, and as I promise my fellow grievers, especially those who are newly grieving, the intensity of our feelings does decrease over the years. Nine years and eight months ago I was an absolute wreck. I was so lost, I could barely manage basic functions. Since Rikki’s death, I’ve poured myself into academia, getting degrees so I can help someone else who is in pain to navigate safely to the other side where healing takes place, and where we can finally rest in the reality that we have choices, even when we are experiencing heartbreak.

I want to encourage those of you who have birthdays, angelversaries, or other significant days coming up, they’re bittersweet; they just are. Weep, eat, sleep, write, or do whatever emotionally sound activity you can engage in. The day will hurt you and it will make you smile, and then, it will make you cry – in no particular order.

I survived another birthday; this year with nothing to do, I used the non-destructive coping skills I have developed over the years through education and therapy to help me navigate a bittersweet day.

And you know what? My process was okay. And so is yours.