Grief to Gratitude

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

(sic)

It’s been a minute since I’ve been able to write. Seminary kept me hopping. I took three classes; two I really loved, and one was a necessary class, but not one I enjoyed all that much. One class was about the theological perspectives on substance use disorder; it was a very enriching class. The other class was about trauma and grace; it was my favorite class. I know, I know, trauma and grace? Sounds like a barrel of laughs, right? I learned so much in the class about myself and about forgiveness. I read, wrote, practiced my interviewing skills, and was asked a lot of myself. I have found peace in seminary, in the intellectual, personal, and academic channels of consciousness. I still grieve the loss of my son; the most significant loss of my life; the loss hurts to the core of my soul.

Sometimes we grieve potential losses, losses we can see coming down the pike. We each have losses that cause grief before we’ve actually lost a person, a place, something that is meaningful to us. My mom was just diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer: she’s 81. I thought because my son was such a tremendous loss, the worst loss I could have ever imagined, that I was immune to the hardcore grief that comes with the loss of a loved one. I’m tough now, right? I can handle anything. Right. I know we will lose our parents at some point. Losing a parent is the natural order of things, not losing a child, but even so, the thought of losing my mother, the woman who gave me life, who loved me, even if imperfectly, is causing great anxiety in my psyche, in my heart.

In my heart of hearts, I know I can handle anything; I’ve managed to rebuild my life, a life without my precious and beautiful son, and so, life has gone on, despite my kicking and screaming, numbing, and then normalizing my emotional pain. I had time to say goodbye to my son; he was very ill before he died. I knew, like only a parent can, that I was going to lose him, and I began the grief process early, well before he died. Some things are inevitable, even though we fight tooth and nail in our delusions and convince ourselves that we can stop bad things from happening. Sometimes we can’t. I’m hoping and praying to the G_d of my understanding for my mom’s well-being, at least until she’s 100-years-old. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be ready to lose her. I wasn’t ready to lose my son; I’m still in shock about losing him. I have days when I’m really doing well, and then when things get rough in my current life, I long for my son, the warmth of my baby boy, to hold on to him like Linus’ blanket, to feel life as it should be, not as it is. He should be here with me. Mom should never die. I should have tranquility all the time.

 Delusional, right?

There is nothing that can be said or done by anyone else to assuage our anxiety, maybe medication, maybe meditation, but truly, only we can calm our internal storms. I’m breathing through the potential loss. I taunt myself with who will go first, my mother or myself. I think I’d rather go first than deal with another great loss. But to think this way is a type of masochism. Why do we hurt ourselves when the pain of life is overwhelming? I believe it is because we jump to hurt before there is reason to prepare ourselves.

I’ve been numb before; I’ve volitionally numbed out so I could get through the day. However, the pain was always there, waiting for me to acknowledge it and work through it. Some days it’s easier than others, but I hang on and navigate the turbulence because I’m this side of Eternity, and while I’m here, life insists on being lived, not in misery, but in its fullest expression, equal parts joy, and the inevitability of occasional sadness. After my son died, I spent money on cremation jewelry, rings, necklaces, you name it. In retrospect I see the anguish I was in trying to hold on to any little piece of my son. Beyond the trinkets and keepsakes there remains the love I will always hold for my precious son; I no longer need those things to keep my son’s memory alive; it is ever-present. My current ambivalence toward the deaths of those I cherish is, perhaps, the way I protect my heart, but can you really ever protect yourself from the pain of great losses? I used to think so. I thought because I had lost the person I love most in the universe; I could handle any subsequent losses. The truth be told, I can, but not without a fair amount of angst and an ocean of tears.

My son’s death looms over every single thing in my life. I’ve learned to shore up the grief until I’m in a safe place, a good emotional space, when and where I can have a meltdown. Do you schedule your meltdowns? I’ve learned to control what was so uncontrollable in the early days after my son’s death: my meltdowns. I know some of you might think this is impossible, especially those of you whose losses are very recent. In the beginning it is impossible. When the tears come, they come and there is scant little you can do about them. I cried inconsolably for three and a half years, and when I wasn’t sobbing, I was numb. As the years have passed, seven years and four months, I recognize the signs of complicated grief, my own and that of others. I tried to get help; however, the therapists I saw were not adept at working with those who have had a significant loss, grief issues, for example. I know they’re out there and perhaps the best place to find a qualified person is through those who are in the chaplaincy; they work with grievers all the time, in hospitals, during disasters and catastrophic events. Losing a child is a catastrophic event. Your loss may not have been the loss of a child, but your loss is every bit as devastating.

There was a point at which I knew I’d be okay, maybe not as okay as when my little family of two was whole, but I’d find another way to be whole. My psychiatrist told me she wanted me to stay with the living…rather than buying cremation jewelry and desperately trying to hold on to my son through material things. Buddhists advocate for non-attachment. Would the loss of my son have hurt less if I would have let go of him sooner? I just don’t know. The one thing I do know is that the three-and-a-half years I spent in overwhelming grief was a rite of passage for me. How does one say goodbye to one’s child? How does one let go of a piece of your heart? I don’t think one can. We learn to accept the loss and then we spend the rest of our lives adjusting to it. I wanted to call my son and talk to him about some juicy gossip I got about a family member we never liked. I knew he’d get a kick out of my reaction as he expressed his own reaction…but then I remembered, as if I ever really forget, that he is not a phone call away anymore. That realization always smarts … a lot.

So, what do we do when a potential loss is looming in the distance? I’ve found the best solution is to live in each present moment I’m given, even those that are fraught with sadness, grief, and emotional pain. Those moments last for a breath and then other emotions come flooding in, joy, wonder, and absolute love for loved ones, nature, our pets, knowledge and so much more this side of heaven. I know it’s difficult to believe this when you’re deep in the throes of early grief; I get it. I was there too. Emotions can’t be stored up for too long before they demand to be expressed. The best-case scenario is one in which we don’t hurt ourselves through substances, reclusion, self-blame, or hurtful rumination. We will hurt, not just for a singular loss, but for the many losses we will incur in our lifetime. We are human and in the human condition there is pain, but there is also pleasure.

Don’t “be positive” – be real. Hold yourself in high regard. You are worthy of joy – in spite, yes, in spite of your greatest loss. My mom’s cancer has reignited my fear of losing someone I love with all my heart; her diagnosis has initiated the flight response. Only I can return my emotional state to homeostasis. I must do so if my life is to continue to have meaning and if I’m going to fulfill my purpose in life, even as I boldly march into my golden years. I’m not ready to abandon hope for myself even though hope for my son has ridden off into Eternity. I will miss him for my lifetime. I hold on to hope for my mother, and I lightly prepare myself for when she is no longer with me knowing it will hurt and I will grieve … again…and again…and again…until my time to merge with the Infinite comes.

Hang in there, my heart says to yours. You’ll be okay in time. Take it from someone who knows; you’ll be okay.

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

I’m originally from San Diego, sand, beaches, sun, and pretty nice weather pretty much all year-round. My husband and I are now living in the high desert, Joshua Tree area; it’s frickin’ snowing here and even though I know other states have crazy snow, I’m not a fan. My son hated being hot, and with his sense of wonder and love of big thick blankets, he would love this weather. See, one never knows what will be an emotional trigger; it could be a song, or the snow. All I know for sure today is that the snow is cold, and I miss my son.

In his 32 years, he never got to experience the snow. So many experiences he missed out on because he died so young. This August 6^th, he would have been 40. I’m 60 and I will have a son in heaven who will be 40. What a trip – and a half.

I want to share my son’s sense of wonder in this post. This silent snowfall speaks so loudly to my heart today. I’m listening to songs he loved and I’m working hard to not weep because I am so lost today without him. I do really well most days. I finished my Associates, my Bachelor’s, working on my M.A. in Spiritually Integrated Psychotherapy, and on to my Ph.D. I’ve proceeded with my life and found purpose for the remainder of my life, the life that was supposed to end before my son’s.

Do you ever wake up and think, “My loved one is dead. How in all of God’s green earth could this be my reality now?” In the early days of grief, I wondered if I was still a mother when my only child had passed. After seven years of grief, I know I’m a mom and I always will be. My son and I shared DNA, both biological and psychological. I look in the mirror when I have no make up on and I see his face. I always get a momentary pang in my chest when I do. I still kiss his pictures whenever I see them – even after seven years. Where are you in the grief process?

Learning about grief from an academic perspective has been very enlightening and life changing. In grief, there are many gradations. I didn’t think about how three and a half years was indicative of complicated grief, but in retrospect, I see that I was a hot mess during those years. As those of you who follow my work know, there was a permanent indentation on my couch from where I sat staring into space or weeping for those three and a half years.

My son hated when I cried. When he was a baby, he used to laugh when I pretended to cry. He hated seeing me sad in his later years, just like I hated seeing him sad. He suffered so much the four years before he died. My heart is still tender when I think about how he suffered. I am often confused by the finitude of death, or are we immortal … what happened to the energy that animated my son? His laughter? His tears? His brilliant mind? His ability to love even those who hurt him. He was a giant bundle of love and the most incredible compassion. Yes, where did that energy go? Did it go into a new born baby or a plant? I know the night he died, I felt his Presence leave his body, and I felt it pass through me in an explosion of sadness and loss. I tried to hold on to it. I wasn’t ready to lose him. If I’d had a choice, I would gladly have offered up my life in exchange for my son having a long life, a life in which there would be only good relationships with people who were well-adjusted enough to not hurt him, but we don’t get to choose when our loved one passes, even if we’re left, like I was, with the decision to “let go”, and remove life support.

Yeah, pretty things make me think about my son. I’m so grateful for this phase of the eternal grief process. I used to ruminate on all the sadness in my son’s life. Maybe it served some adaptive purpose. I’m not a crier. I never have been. Perhaps ruminations help lubricate the eyes so one can purge the pain. I didn’t know it was possible to cry so much. I had no idea one could be in profound pain and still live to tell about it. I died a hundred times since my son died, until I worked through the process, and could stand up in the face of grief and grab hold of life in a new world, a world without my beloved son.

In hindsight, I thought I needed to say “goodbye” to my son; I didn’t. I don’t. My son is in the ether of my soul and still very present in my life, in the metaphor of my heart, my consciousness. He will never leave my consciousness, the part of me that is eternal. I hope against hope that one day, upon my own death, our energies will mingle and become one again. He was my only child, and I was a single mom because his loser biological POS abandoned my son when he was only eleven months old. So, it was just my son and I – the good, the bad, and the dysfunctional. We lived fully together. We cried together. We fought. We shared a wonder for the world and all that it contains…even freezing snow (from the vantage point of my picture window, from the warmth of our little love shack). He would have just loved it.

I’ve been able to normalize my pain throughout the years since he’s been gone, but I still have triggers. I’ve been bitching about the snow all day (can you imagine if I lived in Buffalo?) , but what I really want to do is share it with my son. How do we do that when our loved one has died? I suppose by keeping him or her alive in our minds is how best to keep them alive. My son is always on my mind. There is never a second that goes by when I don’t realize that my son, the love of my life, and best friend is not here with me, not physically present. I miss his hugs. He was a giant of a man, my little boy, and he gave the best hugs.

So, on this snowy day, I’m missing my boy, and I’m grateful for seminary and all the homework I have to keep me busy, to occupy my mind when my heart will not be stilled.

I’m looking forward to the spring again. California poppies are a sight to behold off the I-15. My son loved them too. I will enjoy them for him.

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

I ran across a meme on Facebook this morning that characterized healing as a “beautiful journey.” I disagree. The outcome of the journey is healing, and that truly is a beautiful thing; however, when a wound is healing, it hurts, it itches, it scabs over, the nerve endings rejoin in a painful charge of neuronal electricity, and a scar is left behind, proof that you have incurred an injury. The same can be said about the healing that occurs during the grief process. The process hurts: it is often ugly, and there will always be a trace of sorrow, a scar, if you will.

I’m deep in the throes of seminary, and have just switched up my major to spiritually integrated psychotherapy. My prof intimated that I might be getting a tad “too old” to continue climbing the academic ladder. I, of course, disagree. As a sexagenarian, I’m even more driven than I ever have been before. Yes, I want the doctorate; I always have, but without my son to be the center of my universe on earth, what else can I pour myself into, but to be a legacy my son he would be proud of?

During the process of theological and psychological studies, I’m learning and healing in great leaps and bounds. I’m deconstructing my harmful embedded theologies and creating one that brings me closer to the transcendent GOMU. I don’t need to proselytize; my spirituality doesn’t need anyone’s approval, even if you think my expression of “faith” is bullshit, I’m okay with it because my Soul is being satisfied, just as I hope yours is.

“Tragedy makes everyone a theologian.” ~Carrie Doehring~ I concur, even if you have no god, you still have an opinion about him/her/it/them. Right? I am mostly ambiguous about my faith tradition on this site and on the other sites I either maintain, or I’m a member of because my purpose to heal and not to hurt. My “religion” is also no one’s business; my relationship is with the transcendent God in the way God expresses Godself to me. I’m released from the misinterpretation of the great commission; what a load off. To think that a god would tally up the souls I’ve brought to him/her/it/them for entrance into “heaven” was a lot of pressure.

I left the church and the misunderstanding of the GOMU many times in my life. There were times I was asked to leave, aka, kicked out because of doctrinal disagreements, and one church just failed me as a member and as a human being so I bailed on it. So here I am, one of the millions of unchurched people who are disillusioned by how the evangelicals and fundamentalists are running our churches and trying to run our country. I love Christians, as a matter of fact, maybe ~I’m~ a hybrid one because I love the teachings of the Christ.

One thing I do know is that my spirituality has been vital for me to heal from the loss of my son and only child. Perhaps you have a spiritual tradition that has gotten you through some pretty painful times; I hope you have some healing rituals, guides, gods that help you in those dark nights of the soul.

I know I’ve changed since I lost my son. EVERYTHING has changed. I’m not the same person I was before my son died. I’m not even the same person I was before he got so sick I didn’t recognize him anymore. For one thing, I’m no longer angry at the illusion of the god with whom I was raised, a frightening, capricious, and punishing god. That god is a myth. I have a strong inclination toward meta-spirituality, one foot on the ground and the other stepping upward toward the heavens, whatever that means. The image is not lost on me.

I ached to the depths of my soul when my son died. If I sit too long with nothing to do, the pain comes swooshing back like a tidal wave, knocking the wind out of me, and leaving me breathless. I don’t sit long. I’m a perpetual student, until I die. What is a mind for, but to fill with great things? I’m forging a relationship with the God of my understanding (GOMU) in a way in which only love remains after I pare away all the lies that had fossilized around my heart and closed my mind; I release those things which have only hurt me and caused me to hurt others. I let go, let go, let go of the past and flourish into the future, even as I thrive in the present.

Back to the meme: no, healing is not pretty. You must bleed first for a scab to form, and that scab will protect us for a short time, but then comes the maintenance of hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, and Band-Aids. We also maintain our emotional healing as the tides of grief ebb and flow. I have some healing rituals I do when I’m about to reach critical mass. I engage in contemplative prayer with my Creator. I listen to music. I hang out with my amazing friends. My husband and I take trips to Joshua Tree National Park and marvel at the landscape. I read. I learn, learn, learn.

What does spirituality look like? Is it the same as religion? I don’t think so. I think spirituality is that tiny ember in our souls that gets tired sometimes and needs encouragement to become a roaring fire again. How do you accomplish this when the world is crazy and you’re in emotional pain because you’ve just lost the love of your life? You do. You just do. Or, as I’ve seen some grievers do, you don’t, and your life is never joyful again. I don’t want that for myself. My son and I laughed raucously together. We talked for hours at a time, sometimes until 4 a.m. (when I had work the next day!) We had parties over any little ol’ thing. We celebrated life together. I don’t want to stop celebrating just because I miss my son so bad it has me doubled over in pain sometimes. For the most part, I do really well.

I lost my son when he was only 32. I know how short life is. I know how important it is to love the people who are presently in your life. I still have a relationship with my son; I talk to him and I knew him so well, I can actually anticipate his responses, and they’re spot on.

Tragedy made me a theologian, for sure. I needed answers when my son died. I wrestled like Jacob with my theologies, and I’m so grateful for the outcome: that peace that surpasses all understanding. Hey, I grew up with the Hebrew and Christian Bibles, and even though many people think of them as archaic “bullshit”; I don’t. I love the literature, the language, the wisdom, the stories, even the ones that piss me off.

We each make sense of the world as best we can. We’re born. We die, and in between all the births and deaths, there is life. We each have the opportunity to have moments of joy amidst tragedy, and long after. There’s a movie called HAPPY about people from around the world who have achieved true happiness, in spite, yes, in spite of their circumstances. I’m not sure I could live in a mud hut with twelve kids and an ox to plow my fields. I’m too spoiled by American values; I’m also cursed by some of them. But that’s a political conversation I have no desire to engage in. I know where I stand and I may not be okay with where you do, but I respect your right to stand there.

At the end of the day, I have found what has healed me the most: science and spirituality through a transcendent God who is representative of love, only love, and so I must strive to be the same. Rikki, my son and I, had some serious rows; I have regrets, of course. Regrets are always part of the grieving process. Did I say what needed to be said? Did I love him or her enough? Did I make amends? Did he or she know I loved him or her? Questioning our love for someone is just part of the grief process as we adjust to our new lives without our loved one(s). If you’re like me and need answers, even if the answer is there is no answer, channel the pain for your loss and use it for the benefit of others. I’m healed. I miss  my son more than anything, but I’m one of the lucky ones to have found something that so speaks to my heart that it has chiseled away the hardness of grief and uncovered a heart that beats for others. I’m blessed. It was hell getting here, but I’m glad I’ve finally arrived.

Yep.

• [Image from http://www.jocelynesaab.com]

By Sherrie Cassel

Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. ~Buddha, Mandela, Chodron, ad infinitum

I want to write a semi-fictional story about a kid who grew up in chaos and insanity, and who grew into a self-actualized individual and who made great contributions in his social environment, and the end of the story will be this kid’s transformation from victim to victor, and in my story, he would not die an early death. He would live out his years to share his sage wisdom with his successive generations, and his children and grandchildren and great children would get to know him and glean from his wisdom. Oh, there’ll be twists and turns, scene changes, and the chaos of this kid’s life will be reflected in the spastic telling of his story. I want to write this book from a universal perspective.

Did you know that the stats in 2020 in the U.S. showed that 618,399 children were abused in one year, and those are only the cases that are reported. (Child abuse in the U.S – Statistics & Facts | Statista). If you fall into the category of adults who were abused as children, you’re not alone. If you are challenged by behavior that is no longer needed for survival purposes, get some help from clergy, counselors, educate yourself, and begin to heal enough so you can reach back from the position of a healed healer and help someone else.

With over 600K reported cases of child abuse in the U.S., that’s a lot of people who are starting from basic survival and trying to navigate in a world they perceive is as unsafe as the homes from which they came. Dysfunctional behavior follows us throughout our lives – until we realize that it no longer serves us and kind of makes us freaks out there. For example, my favorite emotion back in the day was anger/rage; it kept me safe. I learned it from my father, a raging, alcoholic and abuser. Many years in therapy helped me to climb out of the cesspool of my childhood. We really did have it rough, but life goes on. There are resources that are available to us that simply were not available when our parents were raising us in abusive homes. So…they stuck it out. My mother stayed with my father until he died, and he was quite frankly a detestable brute. I bailed on my ex-husband the second he decided to step out on the marriage and I realized I had married a loser. I learned to not take shit from anyone very early because my poor mother took a lot of it from my father. She was a victim. We all were, and maybe you were too.

If you are currently, I want you to know there is hope. One day you will be a survivor, and then a little down the road, you will be a thriver, a warrior, a victor. Time does not heal all wounds, but it does give you an opportunity to deconstruct bad self-images created in hellish childhoods. Some wounds take years to heal, and I’m told by some, that some wounds never heal. After I lost my son, I was certain I’d never heal, and maybe I’ve deluded myself into believing I have, but what I do know is, I’m happy. I’m whole – transformed through the greatest loss of my life, and my behavior is no longer self-destructive and life-limiting.

I’m going to write that book and perhaps someone may pick it up some day and say, “Holy $hit! I thought I was the only one,” and he or she will find some comfort, enough to spur them on to their own healing journey. Have you ever been stuck, I mean really stuck? There are some events in our lives that are going to happen regardless of how moral or immoral we are. Tragedy isn’t punishment; shit happens. I am not discounting the tragedy of my son’s premature death because I will never be the same person I was before he died. I will compassionately tell this kid’s struggles of being fatherless, of having a mother with mental illness, and how grace follows those who have something sacred upon which to anchor themselves, a G_d, nature, reveling in the rotation of the earth, ad infinitum. Everyone has a concept of the sacred in his or her life, whatever that may be. When I was helplessly hoping (miss you, David Crosby) that my son would be healed from his addictions and have a beautiful life, but G_d doesn’t answer prayers like that, at least he didn’t for me. My son’s emotional wounds took him all the way to his grave. Don’t’ let yours.

“All God’s children wear travelin’ shoes.” I grew up in a country that thinks linearly, and that is something I’m always cognizant of, because as we see in Bronfenbrenner’s ecological model, we are constructed in concentric circles of connectedness…each perimeter of the circles vibrating in sync with that holy thing that will connect you to the Divine, in whatever way it presents itself to you. I’ve heard many different experiences from many different people about how they experience G_d, from one person who saw Jesus at the foot of her bed to a comforting gelatinous mass that passed through another person, and left her feeling exhausted but whole. Who knows? I will always have a difficult time shaking the linear thinking I was raised to formulate ideas from. I go into prayerful meditation, and I connect to the universal energy, and I assume my role in this great cosmic play. I generally refrain from using words like cosmic, transcendent, universal because they sound, unfortunately, like woo woo. But I admit, I have an infinitesimal amount of knowledge about the universe, and I am certain that while we like to think we are the cream of the specieal crop, we aren’t. We have miles to go before we sleep, miles to go before we sleep (Frost).

As a lover of G_d and science, I’m grateful to the GOMU for the scientific method. I have causation for the events I experienced in my life; that causation provides reasons, and I’m not an advocate of there are just some things we aren’t meant to know. We may not know them – yet, but I’m confident our species will before we destroy ourselves. Knowledge is not just power; it is peace, that peace that surpasses all understanding to use a Christian staple.

The kid I’ll write about will be brilliant, off the chart smart, kind of like my son, and kind of like me. Perhaps I’ll take a bit of him and a bit of me and my character will be a fusion of me and my son, as close as DNA.

Well, this fugue must come to an end. I took this day to decompress from all the reading and writing I’m required to do, and I’m listening to Tom Waits and enjoying the day. I kind of like to go over to Michael Shermer’s page and argue with him and his fans (of which I am also one). Shermer’s FB page, whether run by him or his publicist, the page has great articles, memes, and clips from his podcast. I highly recommend it…with  a shot of tequila.

Shalom.

https://www.asbestos.com/support/mesothelioma-grief-guide/

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

Tomorrow is the angelversary of the day I said goodbye to my son, my beautiful Rikki. I’ll not sit around today and ruminate about what was happening seven years ago on the day he died, but it was a beautiful day, as I recall, and we had been cruising around Chula Vista. He was very sick. I had the opportunity to tell him there was no one in the whole wide world that I would rather be with than him, and then he died a few hours later. We’d also had the opportunity to work through a lot of unresolved issues that had been looming for years: he was 32 and he had been through a lot in his short 32 years, from birth to death. He was in a tremendous amount of emotional pain, and he found a solution to stop it. May my beautiful son rest in peace. I miss you, my one true Love.

I’ve been so busy with seminary, first week of classes, and a shit ton of reading already, and assignments due, and overwhelm. My friends invited me to coffee and breakfast this Sunday, tomorrow, and I without hesitation said yes. As the week went on, I looked at the date, and realized that tomorrow is the angelversary. I got so busy, I lost track of time, and so, I never know how I’m going to be, and even after seven years, the day and night of angelversaries drops me to my knees. I beat myself up for not realizing that tomorrow I’ll be working hard to maintain, or I’ll be a weeping mess. Who knows?

I’m so controlled. I schedule my meltdowns for when I have time, when it won’t interrupt my routine, a routine I’ve kept since I began to heal in my 3rd and a ½ year. Developing a routine has helped me; it’s given me purpose, one foot in front of the other, one minute, one day, one year at a time. It’s taking me every ounce of strength to not go back to that day, and remember. He’s gone; I lost him. What possible good can rumination do? I ask myself this question and I swear I know the answer: nothing.

I kissed him on the forehead like I had for 32 years, and I walked away from his body; he was no longer in it. I have to say this, even though there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to accept the ending, but he was set free from all the suffering and shame of addiction. His body was wracked with sickness from 10 years of addiction/alcoholism/heroin, and it was wracked with pain from life experiences, from decades ago to the moment he died. The details of why no longer matter, but I need to believe that he is now free from pain. He suffered so much.

I’ll not ruminate on my ignorance about addiction. If I knew would I have shored up the desperation and expressed it differently? No. I’m not going to think about that. We live in the Joshua Tree area in Southern California. The geology alone is worth the trip; the National Park is gorgeous. I scattered some of Rikki’s ashes there. Maybe I’ll go there and feel Rikki’s presence and talk to him for a bit. Maybe I will.

I know I won’t look at the clock at 5:55 p.m. because I may be in our room with the lights turned off and my head covered waiting for the time to pass, when I can get up and resume my routine. I just know I don’t know how I’ll be, but what I do know is that I’m not going it alone; my Ben will be there if and when I need to let it go, and just fucking lose it. (Pardon my language; I’m hurting, and I’m trying not to.)

Seven years. How is it possible? I’ll be busy with homework once I get up from my cocoon of grief, and I’ll read and I’ll write, and I’ll be exhausted from all that goes into surviving an angelversary. I’ll be okay; I always am, but the days before there is such anxiety over the overwhelming emotions I’m going to navigate on January 22 @ 5:55 p.m.

I’ll get through it. I always do. Miss you my sweet Boo Bear. Happy heavenly birthday; I know you were reborn that day you left — a new body, a new mind, and joy everlasting. I hope you’re blasting Korn and dancing the hillbilly dance. Gawd, I miss you.

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west.” ~Robert Plant~

I was born in San Diego, in a hospital that later was used for a lockdown unit in a behavioral health facility. This historical fact still brings my mother such glee when she reminds me of my early beginning. She doesn’t seem to get that, see, Mom, I wasn’t (yet) the crazy one. Right? I was also born feet first, and I’ve been, so the joke goes, running ever since.

I’m not much, anymore, into superstition. Oh sure, what’s your sign, is a great pick-up line, and it is also a fascinating vehicle into the science or superstition discussion, and I’m the first to say, “I don’t know” – when I don’t know something. I’m a hardcore supporter of science, but I’m certain of one thing only; I’m certain I don’t know everything; no one does, and — getting deep here, if all knowledge is fleeting and morphing and adapting to its own era anyhow, then I know it only very briefly, as brief as the life cycle of a single snowflake contributing to its biosphere.

I lived in northern San Diego County for most of my life. We were close to the mountains, Julian, Palomar, and my father would take us up to the mountains to eat apple pie, see the wild turkeys, and touch the clouds. I also remember praying he wouldn’t drive us off a cliff because the stench of liquor in the car was so thick, it’s a wonder the other five of us were not also sloshed from it. Memories are always bittersweet in my mind.

God does take care of fools, and sometimes, little children. “My head is bloody but unbowed” ~Henley~.

I don’t know if I ~love~ irony, but I can appreciate ironic moments. I find them to be life lessons. We spent more time at the beach when I was a kid than we did in the mountains. Despite this fact, I’ve not yet learned to swim. I inherited some of my mother’s fears, to a lesser degree, thank God. The ocean is a living, breathing thing, both marvelous and monstruous. I have a healthy respect for it. I’ve internalized the rhythm of the Pacific Ocean, however. When I make time to get out to the beach, I’ll sit on the shore and in a way, I can only describe as a moment of synesthesia, I’ll allow myself total immersion into the present moment, the sound of the waves, the mist on my face, the sun burning through the marine layer warming my eyelids, a seagull screeching off in the distance. Some of my friends and family who have had good experiences with hallucinogenics, claim they have achieved a fusion of the senses through using them. I prefer a more natural approach to accepting the gift from the God of my understanding during a moment of transcendence after weeks and months of hard living.

No, we’re not roughing it, or I guess to some whose lives are a bit more ordered than ours, our life may look a bit chaotic. Ben and I are winding down. We’re very chill. When I’m not poring through theological research, I’m snuggled on the couch with my favorite cat and I’m watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. Ben is cataloguing music in a way that defies his mental chaos. Unbelievable.

I’m blessed with a diverse group of friends, all the yummy flavors in my banana split. Some of my friends who are younger are still juggling kids, climbing ladders, working at jobs and marriages, and sadly, some are working on divorces that don’t feel liberating quite yet. Trust me, though; liberation is within your reach. Breathe and let the anticipation fuel your creativity as you rebuild your life. Once I left the first marriage, I had no idea who I was or what I wanted from life. I had learned to type because of Mrs. Denise Plishke when I was in the seventh grade, so I had a job skill, and like Caliban in ~The Tempest~, I found letters, words, language, and with it the ability to learn so intellectually satisfying that I emerged from the intellectual savagery of ignorance self-aware and empowered to change my circumstances.

Not all girls growing up in the seventies were marriage material. 19-year-olds are certainly not marriage material. I had too much healing to do from my family of origin, and so I chose a person who had no clear direction in life and someone who had no self-knowledge, much less knowledge about the world. We were kids. When you know better you do better; I believe the poet Maya Angelou said this. But folk wisdom still has an element of kindness, whereas with science, one has to first grasp the mind of the scientist who is working exhaustively to find a cure for cancer or a treatment that will stabilize the progression of Alzheimer’s or to help an addict to kick his or her drug of enslavement. Kindness and not just fame and fortune is still a draw for some who haven’t lost their way.

I worked with a physician another lifetime ago who was a doctor of internal medicine. He was very young when he finished med school and was 28 when he started practicing. He is Latino and was raised in an area of South San Diego that is still very rough. His grandmother was challenged with Type II Diabetes, and the young man told her that when he grew up, he was going to be a doctor so he could take care of her. It’s a story that has all the feels. I heard his story 20 years ago, and it resonates with me still today.

The comedic sibling team the Wayans Brothers were asked how they develop their characters, and Damon said, “We have *six billion characters to choose from.” Everyone has a story to tell, and there is a story for everyone to hear, stories of empowerment and hope, of grit and grace, and of tumultuous pathways to victory. Yes, there are tragedies, every moment of the day, and the world gets a little bit too heavy sometimes. It’s in that exact space in time where epiphanies are born, and stories begin to germinate, including stories of hope.

In the beginning, we know what we know from our families of origin. The family culture, much of it mythological, is the primordial ooze in which we develop into sentient beings who will contribute positively or negatively to our world. “[…] every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” ~Tolstoy~. I’m taking a class on Trauma and Grace when I return to seminary next week. I’ve started reading one of the books already, and I’m always so humbled by the amazing writing that emerges from my discipline.

I’m learning to write differently. I was a behavioral science major for most of my long and winding academic career. Theology is different; it’s marvelous. This post is a purge, so, if you came here looking for something cohesive: sorry. My vacation is over, and it has been so wonderfully restful. I’m so grateful for the time I had with my husband, our grandson, friends, family, and just with myself too.

In ten days, seven years will have passed since my son died. I feel the panic rising. See, most days I rise above the pain of grief, and I live my life, nurture my relationships, with others and with myself, and most certainly with the GOMU. The clock is ticking. Despite the loss of my son, and it will forever be ~the~ greatest loss of my life, I’m grateful for where I am right now.

I have recently fallen in love with Brandi Carlile’s song “The Story” (written by Phil Hanseroth). I’m always in my head so I often arrive late to the parties. The song was written in 2007 and it is just brilliant at the gut-level. Give it a listen, and then … tell your story through whatever your medium is. My son left some artwork behind that he created in rehab. One is of a huge black hole, a stain, if you will, painted on a canvas with varying shades of orange glued to it. Another painting depicts a black heart surrounded by blotches of whimsical colors. One does not have to be Jung. He told his story. Now, I’m left to tell it: his, mine, ours.

I never meant to touch so many people with our story, but I have, and the gifts of the stories of the members of the grief sites have helped me to heal a little every day. I just need to say that the early part of my life was terrifying and lonely. I had healing to do, so much healing before I knew what my story even was. I had to shatter the mythology at the micro-level/familial level before I could see the mythology in my world, in our politics, in our ideologies, in our religions. I was sitting at a restaurant in Fallbrook, California a few weeks ago, a delightful little café, and I was being helped by the most amazing human being, my sister-in-law, K.W.G. I’ve often heard the saying, “When the student is ready the teacher will appear.” Blah, blah, blah.

As I was waiting for my dear, sweet, long deliberating husband to choose something on the freakin’ menu, I was eavesdropping on a large family’s conversation. They were from the UK, and they were making comparisons about American children’s behavior vs. British children’s behavior. I was blushing and tried to tune out what I chose to not be a part of that particular morning: reality. Some days you just want a cup of coffee and some eggs, nothing deeper, maybe oatmeal if the morning was really rough. When I returned from my reverie, I heard one of the gentlemen say, “Things don’t change unless they’re challenged.” Now I’m sure it’s been said in many ways throughout the history of humanity because we’ve managed to have survived prehistoric social management on up through current day management. Who’s to say which is more primitive?

I think of all the things I’ve not challenged in my life, and as my life is winding down, what will I challenge now? What do chaplains challenge? Is the ability to challenge something the goal after all? Someone told me recently that he is not willing to concede that there are life events that will render one forever unhappy, not miserable, but challenged by chronic and functional unhappiness. I agree with him. I’ve lost a person with whom I shared the most intimate relationship one can have, and after some grueling and lengthy grief work, I’m truly happy. Right, but it didn’t happen overnight.

I’m so grateful for the people who share their stories with me. I read today on a grief site about a woman who feels completely alone. That’s why I created After the Storm and Grief to Gratitude, preliminarily for selfish reasons, because I felt alone. Since the creation of the sites, I have not felt alone a single day. Peer-to-peer communication is essential when healing from a loss, no matter what the loss: person, place, or thing. We tell our stories to one another, of joy, of sadness, of incredible loss, and hard-earned victory.

Tell your story; start at the beginning. Challenge the mythology that inhibits your personal development but keep the jewels that brought you here to this moment in time. We are meant to shine.

Shine.

One thing I’ve learned, and am constantly relearning, is that life happens; it is neither fair nor unfair when bad shit happens.  I’m not a victim because of the experiences that have hurt me, and neither are you. Once I fully grasped that nothing is personal, my story became remarkable, person powered. How do you dig yourself out of an existential hole? Find what you love and pour yourself into it, and then share your life research methods with those who will most benefit from them.

We’re out here eager to learn, and eager to heal.

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

Today the world reopens into a brand-new year. Stores, banks, and post offices resume their routines, and we get back onto our roads and freeways to rejoin them after a time of celebration, rest, or grief over something loved and lost forever. The holidays are a rainbow of many shades of joy and sorrow. I, for one, am glad the holidays are over. I now have time to prepare my heart for my son’s angelversary on January 22nd. This one scares me, year seven. I don’t know why. I’m a great intellectualizer. I answer my own questions by going deep within and pulling from all the tiny bits of data I’ve collected throughout my 60 years and asking my understanding of the Holy Spirit, the Divine, G_d, my Higher Consciousness, to help me make good and loving decisions about my life and about the part I play in the lives of others. I’ll figure it out. I have for six years and 11 months, so, I’ll ache; I always do. I’ll cry; I always do. And then, I’ll recover and get back to my life, a life where I’m daily adjusting to every single life experience without my son. My universe has been rocked, and even as I’m healed completely in some areas since my loss, I still am very tender in others. I’m careful to protect those areas that are not healed. Maybe they will never be healed. I know I will never get over the loss of my precious son.

I have a wonderful life now. Oh sure, there are little things that are annoyances or frustrations, but nothing big, nothing like losing one’s only child. No, everything now is small potatoes in comparison. I like the adage, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” The saying is good advice. We each have been given a measure of faith in ourselves and/or in the G_d of our understanding, and so, determining what is “small stuff” is relative, I presume. I love the “Most Embarrassing Moment” games played at house parties with close friends and family. As I’m blushing a million times over someone’s human foible, I’m thinking, “Oh my God, I’d die a million deaths if that happened to me.” But here he or she is just spilling the facts of his or her most (allegedly) mortifying moment. I tell mine, and everyone is like, “What? That’s not even a blip on the radar of humiliating.” Maybe so. We each handle life with the kinds of tools we were given. Some were given shiny and useful tools, and some were given old, worn, degrading, and broken tools, and lots of shades of gray in between. We’re all survivors in one way or another. The true trick is to thrive in the flames and the fallout. Can you do that?

Yes, you can.

I almost posted something political this morning because I was upset about something I saw on MSN news. I’ve been on a news fast for several months now. Life is too short to allow myself to get caught up in the idiocy from both major parties. Boo. I love feeling happy and charged toward the greatest productivity I am capable. Happiness is within our ability to create in our lives. Like everything worth having, happiness takes work. Seems a might unfair that we, little gods and goddesses, should have to work for happiness. Right? I look back over the past when my mind was unsophisticated and uneducated, not based in reality and deeply entrenched in my family’s mythology. I got stuck in the “reality” of my dysfunctional childhood home, and the tools of survival were always defensive – because they had to be. They don’t need to be anymore. I’ve been able to lay down my sword (still have a bit of a rapier carefully concealed however, wink, wink).  We live in a world of huge numbers now and so the numbers of emotionally well people and emotionally unwell people are pretty high – and we live together on this pale blue dot. A bit of self-protection from head to heart is not out of the question. Toxic people are everywhere; you may have even been one at some point in your life. Maybe you are now. I was once upon a time when I relished being the wicked witch with the steely sharp tongue – mean and untouchable. I don’t anymore. We’re all coming from somewhere – heaven — or hell – on earth. The hell of abuse, at the micro (relational) to the macro (global) levels, ripples throughout history and far into the future.

Insert acoustic guitar here strumming, “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

I’ve made two resolutions after not making any for decades. Silly, but very challenging things for me. I’m optimistic about my future, my relationship with my husband, and our grandson. I’m thrilled beyond all comprehension to be in seminary doing research that provides answers to questions I’ve had my entire life thus far. I hope wherever you are today as you enter into another year ripe with challenges and victories, is also a place ripe with possibilities. Life is short. I cannot emphasize this enough. My son was 32. Some infants never get to take their first breath or live only minutes or months to their parents’ utter heartbreak.

Fill your head with beneficial knowledge, knowledge that will make you a contributing member of society. Fill your heart with love from whatever your Source is. Refuse to allow toxicity into your life – no matter where it comes from. Family can be the worst repositories of toxicity, so, figure it out quickly, and remember, the clock is ticking, and some people will never change. That is stark reality. I’m sixty now and I’ve seen some shit. My mom is 81 and imagine what she’s seen. Imagine the liberative feeling when you can let go of the weight of a toxic person. Do it. We each deserve unlimited happiness, but that doesn’t mean we won’t also have an occasional and sometimes devastating event in our lives.

Hey look, it’s me, a grieving mother — !

And then my husband and I decide to jam to our tunes while our grandson sleeps, tired from Nerf wars with his Gramps.

In the time it’s taken me to write this little blurb…we’ve traversed Tchaikovsky to the Dead … seems appropriate.

Happy New Year!

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

Christmas, the Yuletide, Black Fridays at Walmart, or whatever you celebrate this time of year, thank heavens it’s over for another year. I made it through as did all who were grieving the loss of a loved one, a very recent loss, or the loss of a child from seven years ago that still has a parent’s heart tender around this time of year. We got through it; we always do. We’re tougher than we think we are. In my worst nightmares, I could not have imagined I would lose my only child. In my most rational moments, in those moments when I stopped to catch my breath after torrents of tears, I couldn’t see even the tiniest speck of hope for a new day – a day in which I would not ache to the marrow of my soul. I was mad with grief. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t sleep. I ached viscerally; the pain was a total revolution of pain and, later, victory. I was completely enveloped in the hopelessness of loss. I’m a seven-year veteran of the grief process, and while I wear the badge of honor for a parent wounded in the war on addiction, a parent who has lost a piece of herself, and through being a witness to the savage way addiction rips away a person’s ability to fight back, to save herself, I have days when I fail and give in to the overwhelm.

Each of us has incurred losses of seismic proportions; we’re human and so, tragedies occur just as moments of joy occur, and with those tragedies, come opportunities for transformation and transcendence – after a few rounds with acute grief. I wanted desperately for someone to say the abracadabra that would heal me and take my pain away. One person did offer me hope and I rejected it at the time. I wasn’t ready to let go of my pain yet. I needed it to grieve the loss of the most important person in my lifetime, my beautiful and tortured son.

We each have moments of self-blame and regret for what we said or didn’t say, for when we were there for him or her, or when we neglected the relationship because life got too busy. Self-blame and regret rob us of the present moment, and as cliched as it is, tomorrow is never a certainty. I say live it up each day. Absolutely we must feel the loss before we can move forward. I have always intellectualized life’s surprises, including tragedies, but when I lost my son, all bets were off for how I would get through it, or if I would get through it. I did get through it, and I continue to heal a little bit each day.

I’m on winter break from seminary and so, I’m reading books that I don’t get to read during the semester. I’m listening to music and taking much needed naps. Seminary is exhausting, spiritually fulfilling, but a lot of work. Working during the grief process, when you’re ready, or if you’re forced to go back to work because of finances, can be helpful by giving you the opportunity to focus on something other than grief. I mean it, and there is no other way to say it, but I was a fucking mess. My heart hurts for the woman who was so broken after her son died, the world was only darkness. I want to reach back in time and assure her she was always going to be okay.

It’s beyond difficult to comfort someone who has lost a loved one. One must go through the painful adjustment period as one redefines one’s life after a loss of great magnitude. I know the saying, “Pain is a given; suffering is optional.” I call bullshit. Suffering is part of the human condition; a time of suffering is necessary in grief, but that time must not be for a lifetime.

We are far more resilient than we give ourselves credit for. We’ve had our hearts broken once or twice. We’ve loved and lost. We’ve said goodbye to someone with whom we had a relationship of sacred magnitude.

Call me crazy, no, seriously, I would have if I had not come to know loss at the most intimate level, but I talk to my son often. I kiss his picture. I get misty-eyed sometimes when I remember something good, bad, or indifferent. We had a full life together. I would have loved a few more years with him, but as they say, when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. Perhaps I will see my son in another plane, or I will have to satisfy my longing for my son, by keeping his memory alive by the way I live my life.  As you who follow me know I cut my teeth on the sacred texts of the Hebrew and Christian Bibles. There is a verse that I have only recently found dynamic and hopeful as I develop my theology, a fusion of science and a G_d. The verse says, “He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.’”

I live in the Joshua Tree National Park area, one of the most beautiful geological landscapes in the world. When my husband and I go out to the park, there is unbelievable silence, the kind that accompanies the warmth of the sun on my face. An occasional hawk will fly over, and I can actually hear the flapping of its wings. Marvelous.

I lost my faith for a very long time. My faith today, after an arduous grief experience, is more mature. I actually feel whole for the first time in my entire life. Seminary has a lot to do with the spiritual transformation, a return to the G_d of my understanding. I hear those rocks crying out the sound of G_d’s glory, or however you define your experience of the Divine. I’ve heard many experiences of those who have had a transcendent rebirth into the whole of humanity and emerged with the desire to be a healer.

I know some of you have no Theos but find transcendence through the wonder you have for life, all of it, and the history of our planet. We each find things that will heal us, and then when we’re ready, we can get out there and help others to heal too. I know it’s tough to not feel those grief pangs, especially during the commercial holidays or religious traditions; it can be dizzying until we’re able to normalize the overwhelm. Normalization is within our control. We just must remind ourselves that there is a time and a place for everything. A Christmas party full of joyful people is not the place to lose it. I’ve learned to acclimate to whatever environment I happen to be in.

I’ve also learned to say no when I’m not up to chilling with joyful people. I know how much I can handle. I think grief brings us face-to-face with our truest self, the self that is incapable of pretenses during the acute phase of grief.  I didn’t leave the house for months after my son died; it was just too painful to drive by or go into places where he and I spent a lot of time. I cried in the parking lot of a grocery store for 20 minutes because I went into the store and someone asked me how my son was and I ran out of the store, leaving my cart, and I was in full-blown panic. Seven years ago, I was fully immersed in the suffering part of grief. Life has changed for me, for my family, for my son’s son, and for his friends. Life has gone on without my son. The world has continued to spin, and for the time being, I wake up every morning with the realization that I lost a son, and then I wash my face, brush my teeth, and prepare for the day, a day my son was denied. I want to spend the day wisely, living, and loving.

Our grandson will be here tomorrow for a week. I’m looking forward to spending time with him. I have one month to spend with my husband reconnecting after a tough semester. I look forward to getting out to the National Park and going for long drives with my husband, soaking up the wonders of our world. I will stop for a few moments at a time to feel the ache from not being able to share the beauty of the world with my son. I wonder if he feels the same way, not being able to share his piece of nirvana with me. I wonder for a moment and then I hear the flapping of the hawk’s wings, and I’m back in the present moment, in the desert, with the sun’s warmth of my face, and I say, “I love you, Son.”

I heal a little at a time. Like the Erikson developmental model of a person from birth to death, I’m in the generative phase, on most days, after three and a half years of hardcore grieving, and a total of seven years as a grieving parent. On January 22^nd, it will be seven years since my son transitioned. I hope to celebrate his life on that day, and not his death. I can’t say for sure if I’ll be successful, but my intention is to remember how beautiful he was, not the last moments of his life. I spent three and a half years in painful rumination; life has not waited for me to heal enough to get back out there. Babies were born, people got married, divorced, some died, friendships ended, ad infinitum, and I was in mourning trying to get back to solid land where the pathways toward healing or painful stagnation were waiting for me.

Significant time passed before I chose the former. I’m here … to hear the rocks cry out the names of my G_d, and to allow that immense love to be shared with others. Everyone. Find your purpose, regardless of your age or your circumstances. We each have something to give. I tell my younger friends who say they’re too old to go back to college, “Hello. Your friend here is 60. You have time to have three or four careers. Do it. I know you can.”

I know you can heal from your pain. There is a debate among those who grieve, one over which I straddle the fence: can one heal entirely from the loss of a loved one? I don’t know if we do or if we don’t . I feel healed in many ways, but in other ways and at certain times, the rush of pain comes with a vengeance. I breathe through it, and I find an alternative way to be in the moment. In tears sometimes, I’ll scrub the bathroom sink, or some such task that helps me to refocus on being here, now.

Thank you for reading. Sometimes, well, often I write to purge the pain. But right now, I’ve got socks to reconcile and put away; yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

I’ve loved, although I didn’t know it for much of my young life, formulaic stories, i.e., the messiah story, the hero, the anti-hero, from Bathsheba to Bukowski. I like walking in the parameters a writer works within. I’ve never read much fiction, unless it was deep, dark, and depressing. I loved Poe far past his shelf life, but after years of struggle and victory, I have crawled to the sunny side of the street, where there is light, and where I’m free to bask in it, and feel its warmth on my face.

Those of us who have had significant losses of an intimate relationship, to death or to breakup, have spent some time lost in our dark nights of the soul. One can get lost in the darkness. I stayed in mine for three and a half years. I wanted there to be light, but I couldn’t see it through my swollen eyes from months and years of crying. I only slightly mean this metaphorically.

In 30 days, I will be focused on my son’s angelversary. In 30 days, my beautiful son will have been gone seven years, seven years, seven fucking years. The holidays are upon us. I’m a really good actor. I can be smiling and delightful and despite all this talk about authenticity, I find it easier to flit in public, but in private moments, I do my healthy ruminations. I remember milestones, and if a difficult and self-destructive memory comes up for me, I chase it away by breathing and remembering where I am in the present moment – then I replace the hurtful thoughts with something that I find most endearing about my son, and while the feeling is still bittersweet, it hurts less, and I acknowledge that we were a pair, mother and son, friend and foe, mentor and mentee. He was my best friend and the one person who knew me wholly, warts and all.

As January looms closer, I wonder how I will handle this year’s angelversary. Will I hole up in our bedroom, draw the drapes, and cry into my pillow? Will I be numb and stare vacantly into the air without seeing anything? I’ve done everything from smoke one of his favorite cigars to sleeping the day away until it’s post-angelversary. I don’t look at clocks, and I wait for the day to end, mercifully, and for the past seven years of angelversaries, the day does end.

One year I gave everyone in my family a cigar and had friends and other kin buy cigars and smoke them right at 5:55 p.m., the time my son died. I’ve finally stopped ruminating on the day he died and started focusing on his life, all the things that made him amazing, and how my son became my teacher after his death. I’ve had seven years to work through the heartbreak, but not without grueling work, work that takes place deep in the viscera of your soul. Down deep.

This year will be only the second Christmas we will not have our grandson with us; he’s thirteen now. I’m so happy he will be with his mom this year, but I will miss him sleeping in ‘til  noon, while my husband and I are anxiously waiting for him to wake up so he can open his presents, and how grateful he always is for everything. My son left a piece of himself for us. Our grandson is our warrior, just like his father.

My husband and I have actually never had a holiday when it has been just the two of us. This will be a first, in 17 years. We usually have our grandson during holidays, and so, to give him lovely holidays, I suck it up, and smile and laugh and yes, it’s mostly genuine, but there’s a void; I suppose there always will be. To be honest, it’s nearly impossible to be sad when you’ve got a grandchild around, especially ours; what a brilliant kid. He is so much like his father. Our grandson got the best of both of his parents – thank the gods.

So, I don’t know why the number seven is significant, other than that it is embedded in my spiritual psyche as significant among the ancient Jews. It’s a prime number. The G_d of the ancient Jews believed the universe was created in six days, and then rested on the seventh: a complete creation. How have I been able to survive these past seven years without the love of my life, my precious baby boy, my heart, my soul, my Rikki? One minute at a time. Holidays are rough enough without painful, runaway ruminations.

In seminary this semester, I took a class called the Spiritual and Theological Dimensions of Suffering; it was an amazing class. As a chaplain I will be charged with helping a new griever normalize his or her thoughts. We really do have more control over our thoughts than science previously thought. Rumination is not a bad thing; it matters what we ruminate about. If something hurts us and it is in our control to stop, we must be strong enough to stop the behavior of ourselves and of those in our circle.

I’m not ashamed to say, because it was my personal grief experience/process, that my acute grief lasted for about 3.5 years. I was basically a weeping mess, and I just couldn’t stop the pain because I didn’t know how. Emotional pain can be debilitating, and if we’re not very careful, emotional pain can last a lifetime. I didn’t want that for my life. I’m no longer in chronic pain. I have my moments when I tap into the cavernous pit of sorrow, and sometimes I need to be there. I can’t ever put out of my mind that my son is no longer with me; he’s always on my mind. I will always be the mother who lost a child; that’s who I am. However, a grieving mother is not my sole purpose with my remaining years.

Those of us who are grieving this holiday season, please know that however you grieve is okay, as long as it is not self-destructive. Some people stop eating (I had an alternate response). Some people sleep all day. Some people can’t sleep. Some people cry every day and some people never shed a tear. We are our own spiritual guides as we navigate a life of adjustment to a world where our loved one is not. I know it hurts. I know it hurts when you least expect it. Anything can be a trigger.

My son was a big, strapping, and super physically strong guy. He used to open all my jars for me when he was a teenager and then on through the rest of his life. After he died, I was trying to open a jar of pickles and no matter how hard I tried, the lid would not budge. I burst into tears and my brother got home from work and found me a hot mess. Such a silly thing, right? It’s my thing. I weep and sometimes I laugh over memories, 32 years of memories. I’m blessed I had that many years with him; some people have such a short time with their loved ones, truly tragic.

However you each celebrate the holidays, or even if you don’t, the festive mood in the United States is inescapable unless you’re a hermit. So, I’m revving up for some mighty triggers. I think of my 32-year-old son as a child and all the Christmases we had together. Yes, I miss him, of course I do. I know you each miss your loved one with every fiber of your being. How will you get through the glitter and sparkle of the holiday season?

Please be kind to yourself. This is a tough time for so many. Peace.