By Sherrie Cassel
for Rikki
It’s been a minute since I’ve had time to write my grief. I feel it every second of the day. It’s like a soft, aching minor chord; it runs through everything I think, say, do, and feel. Even good moments remind me of his absence – and I always get a catch in my throat, and it takes me actually and physically shaking it off. I’m always aware. I will always be the mother who lost a child – and if that wasn’t devastating enough, I also watched him struggle, blood, sweat, and tears as addiction ravaged his soul and destroyed his beautiful mind and his thirty-two-year-old body, once cut and toned because he loved going to the gym. I watched him die a very slow and heartbreaking death. I know many of you know how it feels. There have been some people who have told me, “Well, my son died a ‘normal’ death.” I always take offense because my son died honorably, even if he was broken. He was a son, a father, a grandson, a nephew, a friend, a human being. He was the love of my life.
Life has been moving quickly for me. COVID kept us isolated for three years, and my social skills began to atrophy. Seriously. And my seminary classes were all taught via distance learning online. I had my first in person class last April. I’m currently in a class now and an internship, seeing clients, navigating traffic and personalities, some challenging, and some, easy peasy (lemon squeezy – Louie, our grandson, used to say that). I’m softer in some ways since losing my son, but I’ve also gained strength of which I had no idea I was capable. Like Persephone, I spent a few years in Hades, and then I reintegrated back into social life. I don’t find myself in Hades anymore – well, maybe on his birthday and the anniversary of his death. I summon Demeter, the mother within me and I come up for springtime air.
I have moments when the memories are just too much. What do I do? On most days like when I’m feeling a meltdown coming on, I book myself solid so I can just firmly hold on to the present moment(s) I’m blessed to have. My son, your loved ones were not that fortunate. I miss my son every minute of the day, and I have reclaimed, or truly claimed for the first time, a life rich with possibilities. I now have a heart that is tough and soft in all the right places. I’m not merely surviving anymore.
I’m alive. I’ve worked hard to be where I am. I thought I’d die when Rikki died, in fact, I wished often that I would fall asleep and never awaken. The pain was deep within my soul, and I will have a bruised heart, deep into its core for the rest of my life. My heart beats now for his son. I owe my son that.
In the beginning of my grief cycle, I was barely surviving each day as I worked strenuously to put the pieces of my life back together. My purpose for this site was to open up a safe place to share my grief and my gratitude. Sometimes I work through my shit – not always about grief. I’m grateful that grief is no longer my singular focal point; it was for nearly four years – a time when my life was one giant ball of angst and sorrow. I try to never forget the woman who temporarily lost her mind from grief, remembering her keeps me soft and empathetic toward those who are at different stages of the rocky path of grief. I have figuratively clawed my way toward wholeness. My entire being ached.
My words are weak in conveying my grief; they will never be sufficient.
I’m finally, nearly nine years later, able to speak to my grief without a meltdown. I find it funny (amusing) – which is progress – that when I bring up when I’m missing my son, people just don’t know how to respond. I get if someone is in a hurry because they must be somewhere; I don’t get staring at her feet because she’s suddenly gone mute and insensitive. I know it’s hard to know what to say about something that may scare the hell out of you, either that you will lose someone with whom you have an intimate relationship, or that I’m going to lose it. No one is equipped to handle someone else’s grief. Certainly, you can create a compassionate and loving space for her, but there will never be words except the ones that grievers find to heal ourselves.
See, I tried therapists; none of the four I saw were trained in grief. I went to fundamentalist churches looking for answers. Why my son? Why didn’t G_d heal him and bring him back to me? I learned the story of Lazarus is cruel. I prayed for my son to awaken from death, and he did not. As a griever, you’re off the hook for descending into unreality. Of course, my son would not awaken, no matter how much I begged the god of my very limited understanding at the time.
I chose to go back to college and complete my B.S. in psychology, and since I did that, I figured I may as well go back and get my associate degree in social and behavioral sciences. I’m now in seminary in a master’s program. If I didn’t have something to pour myself into, I’d lapse into utter grief – like in the early months following my son’s death. My experience has shown me it is best to find a channel for your pain. Create something beautiful from the debris in your shattered heart.
My grief took longer to manage because I did not have people in my life who knew how to sit in the dark with me. After the Storm has given me the greatest gift throughout this nine-year journey. The members at our site have lost as much, and some, even more, and they are courageous in how they share and in how they assist others, from the depths of their own pain. I have healed through their beautiful sharing. My heart has felt heard and understood at the site. I’m grateful for the parents who have touched me so profoundly as I navigate the horrible/wonderful grief cycle. “Some days are diamonds; some days are coal.”
Grief to Gratitude is something I want to do for others who may be struggling with regaining their footing in a new world without your loved one(s). Healing is not an easy task, and I’ve known some who may never get there; however, healing is also a journey. You’ll be battered and bruised, for sure, but after the convulsive sobs and doubling over in pain, there will be times of respite, times in which you can catch your breath, times when your head will clear and you can think and plan and move forward, not away from, but toward the reclamation of your life. We’re learning about time in my Science and Religion from a Process Perspective class. I swear, it’s as difficult as algebra was for me, and I don’t claim to understand any of it, except from a metaphorical perspective. The one thing I do understand is that life moves so quickly, the next thing we know we’re in our sixties. We’ve loved and we’ve lost.
We will always miss and ache for our loved ones who’ve passed away, died, transitioned. But time waits for no one, and the constant of grief expands and constricts our heart – and we must go on. I wish I could tell you the recipe for healing a broken heart, a shattered spirit, but I only know what has worked for me: hard work, both inner and with relationships I’ve neglected, helping others, filling my brain with information that provides clarity for me, and turning my grief into gold in others’ lives.
I was the only one who could comfort my heart. I had to find the internal strength to create a new lexicon for my experiences: posttraumatic growth, grit, and grace – and even a new conception of the G_d of my understanding. Seminary has healed me in several ways. I’m learning a great deal about myself and humanity in my internship. I have the wherewithal to grab hold of the brass ring and pull myself out of the darkness of chronic grief. I’m walking in the light of a full life now. I thought I’d die a little every day for the rest of my life.
I don’t know when it will happen for you if you’re currently in the early stages of grief, but it’s possible. I have now met parents who have been working their process for double digit years. I’m now a veteran griever. Nine years, soon it will be ten, and each year takes me further and further away from the night my son died – a seismic event in my soul. I make the choice everyday to think about our happy times together; it helps, but I will always have a dull ache in my heart…but it must keep beating. I have living people I love. I have goals and dreams – even at sixty-two. I carry my son lightly these days – I give his spirit respect. He had to go; it was his time, and I had to let go of him.
The Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS has been in the sky but will leave our sight soon and won’t return for another eighty-thousand years. I’ll be watching it with my son. I’m counting on it.
Grief to Gratitude 