Wrapping it up

By Sherrie Cassel

24 days from today, I will navigate the tenth anniversary of my son’s passing: it’s a biggie. I’m not making light of it, trust me; for some reason, this one hits harder than even the first two anniversaries. I believe I was numb for the first two years, and then … I was angry, so angry, I couldn’t find a direction toward healing; I didn’t even see healing as a possibility. And here I am, ten years later, without my beautiful and tortured son, without his wit and without his zest for life, without his presence, without his infectious laughter, without my boy, and I’m thriving. How does one go from emotional paralysis to a life of quality and purpose? The amount of work I’ve done on myself as I’ve healed so I can be of service in a world whose common denominator is, “Everybody hurts sometimes.” (REM) is quantifiable and observable.

My husband was very ill this week, so ill, he was hospitalized. I thought I was going to lose him, and as is no one, I was not ready to lose someone I dearly love. I lost my son, my flesh and blood son. I carried him for nine months. I gave him life. We traveled together in the same tempest for thirty-two years. We knew each other’s secrets, some of them. My point is, I was afraid for my husband this week, as I prepared myself for the worst. But I wasn’t devastated, and I knew I’d be okay no matter what.

By the grace of the roll of the dice, my husband is on the mend, and it will be a very merry Christmas, indeed. We tend to get a bit romantic about life around this time of year, whether it is because we celebrate capitalist or religious Christmas/Xmas, or we just enjoy the buzz in the air; it’s absolutely electric. I look forward to the new year; the past two were rough. I completed four years of THE best academic experiences of my life, and of two years of an overwhelming, but richly rewarding internship.

People have entered and exited my life, each of them teachers, and whether the relationship endures or was here for only a couple of lessons, I’m so very grateful for all of them. For example, I recently joined a page of religious deconstructionists; I’m in great company, as I continue to pare away harmful untruths and build a life-enhancing theology as I travel toward a rich life here – despite our losses, even the most painful ones. Also, my spiritual awakening is personal and not universal. My hope is that through hell and high water, we each reach the apex of life experiences and transcend the veil of illusion (No, I’m not Buddhist) — , and hence, dispense with the separateness that has only hurt us since time immemorial.

This year has been rich with gifts on so many levels I can scarcely begin to leave an accounting of them as I leave it behind. How do I face another year without Rikki? I don’t know how I’ve managed the last nine; I really don’t know. I guess I booked myself solid on each anniversary/angelversary. I’m good, really good at overbooking myself so I don’t have to deal with things that hurt or that create a lot of discomfort.

Judge Dread said, “Emotions? I think there ought to be a law against them.” Perhaps hyperbole is a necessity when things become too absurd. Chance or Divine Intervention? Who knows? I don’t need to answer that question anymore. I know that each time I think I nail it, G_d, or truth, or spiritual wholeness, the dice roll as they may, and I’m forced to allow changes in my life because of lessons learned in myriad places and through myriad teachers. Those teachers help to guide me into a greater version of myself. No [wo]man is an island, entire to itself (Donne).

There’s so much to do, but I don’t care to stress myself out over busy tasks; I’m way out there on a plane of collective consciousness, and trying to solve social ills through divine inspiration in contemplative prayer; some call it G_d. I’m still working on it. Whatever it is that holds this universe together, if it’s external or is it through the collective will of humanity that agree we are here in this time space continuum, and we have the ability to singly, or collectively, change our living conditions, to optimize them for all living things, to find and to share wholeness, here, now.

Ten years ago, I could focus only on my pain; it was all consuming. I used to think I hadn’t accomplished anything during the first three and a half years of my grief process. I sobbed – and convulsively, too. The crying spells were exhausting physically. I often could not breathe and would have to put my head between my legs to come back to the present. I was lost and during that time, even in abject pain, I knew there was an answer that would satisfy my soul enough so that I could go on without my son.

So, what did I do? I educated myself through books on grief, loss, rediscovery, wonder, healing, and then…I went to seminary. Did I find the answer? No, I have not. But every day, I’ve healed a little more, all the way to the point where I’m now able to be present for someone who is in the same kind of pain I was in ten years ago. There was never calm before the storm; we were always deep in the tempest, and because of the turbulence, I now have peace. Does that make sense?

I’ve been trying to make sense of everything since I was first sentient and verbal. I have a voracious appetite for knowledge, and books are my addiction, well, and clothes. Trying to make sense of grief and trying to figure out what adaptive benefit it holds for us has been of great interest to me since I began to heal. Honestly, as I close out this year, I’m certainly going to grieve the loss of some amazing people who traveled 2025 with me. I release them to their own trajectories, and if we intersect at some point again, I’ll celebrate; if we don’t, I’ll celebrate because they did at one time, and I’m forever changed because of them.

My son changed my life. Both his birth and his death and all the days in between and all the days since he left us. I am not the same person I was before he passed and not since. I’ve grieved for the person who got me through so much of my life, and I welcome the new person who dances me into the next phase of my life.

I’ll be sixty-four in June, and I want to hear the chorus loudly, “Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I’m sixty-four.” My husband made me swear we wouldn’t sing it at his 64^th. I will be starting a doctoral program in Fall 2026. I took a year off after seminary, and most especially, after a tough two-year internship. My “sabbatical” has been used researching my areas of interest, vegging, growing, getting in shape intellectually, spiritually, and physically.

Ten years ago, I was so focused on getting a handle on grief, I couldn’t see past my own pain. All the while, people were hurting all around me. People were angry. People were confused. And the hits just keep on comin’. I never had the clarity of mind to see past the illusion before my son died; I was very much a part of it. When you lose a child, well, I don’t know how much more reality one can cram in your face; things happen, terrible things, and there you have it.

How we handle them will determine their duration and their outcome.

As I think of Christmases past with my tiny boy, with tape and tinsel in his hair, and as I think about times when I got everything right, I am a bit wistful for Christmases – the ones I never had. As I wrap up another year of posttraumatic growth, I’m grateful for the chaos I grew through. I’m grateful for the polished and the inept teachers who graced (or dis-d) the last 365 days. I’m grateful for the gems found on the journey, even those I had to bleed for.

I have a caravan of loved ones cruising through on their way to other places. I’m grateful my holidays are no longer spent in the fetal position in our darkened bedroom. I’m also not ashamed there was a time when I found that position necessary; it’s the position of supreme pain; ask anyone. Even roly-polies curl up when threatened; it’s a great strategy for actual or emotional danger.

Anyhow, this word soup is my way of saying goodbye to a year filled with joy and frustration. I feel nothing but gratitude today, as I go into the new year, spiritually in the black, and for me, finding my peace through the pain I’ve navigated for too many years is the one package under the tree that I’ve waited for my entire life thus far.

I may, for the sake of nostalgia, find a Christmas Eve candlelight service to attend, or I may watch It’s a Charlie Brown Christmas, and reminisce about a handful of tender moments from my childhood, few and far between, but I’ll find some, if it’s the last damn thing I do.

I pray, yes, I really do, to the great whatever that holds us together in this great big universe, that your holidays are merry and bright, and that your Christmases are light. (I live in the desert; snow is a rarity).

Merry Holidays! As I await the brightest star in the sky, the one that speaks to me about the arrival of my own son, forty-two years ago, I’ll travel the pathway Mary rode along on her donkey only to find there was no place where she might give birth to the king of the universe — with dignity. I may interpret the story more deeply than before, but I’ve been there before, as have we all.

I remember my mother’s knack for wrapping presents and for making things pretty. My packages were wrapped up pretty much like this blogpost, bulky, and leaving the recipient with his head tilted asking, “What the hell could it be?” That’s okay, I’ve learned that I can’t have order all the time, and once I allow myself permission to just say, “fuck it” and move forward with the wonder of and in the universe in all its imperfection, I can breathe again.

Just like when Rikki died…I learned to navigate in messiness. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that life is messy and I can either deal with it or lapse into chronic neuroses and dysregulation.

I choose the former. I choose to feel every single emotion – even the really shitty ones. 2025 was messy, but oh so wonderful. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.