Grief to Gratitude

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.

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

In the high desert, where my husband and I live, the winters are cold for this San Diego girl. Yesterday we had frost, no snow – yet. I remember the first time I went out in the cold. I like to shop early before the rest of the world gets up. I went to the grocery store at 6 a.m. in sweats and a light jacket. The checker said, “What are you doing out here with only that jacket?” She was right. I was so cold I wanted to cry, but I was on a mission. Get in and get out and get home where it was nice and warm – all the while feeling productive – and like an ice cube.

The reason I begin with this event in my life, silly, sure, but not only was it a huge lesson for how to dress in the high desert in the wintertime, but because it’s also an example of how bittersweet life is. For every sunrise there is a sunset…and alternately, for every sunset there is a sunrise. This too shall pass. Bad times don’t last forever. Keep your chin up. One day at a time. You know all the platitudes that are meant to get you through a rough patch, losing your home, losing your best friend, a spouse, a child, losing a job during the holidays, getting a terminal illness. How things pass is still a bit of a mystery.

My son died and was healed from emotional and physical abuse. He was very sick from years of substance use disorder, i.e., addiction. The GOMU took him to wherever life doesn’t hurt anymore. I find comfort in this image. We each must find a way to get through those life-altering events, especially those that level us.

I love my personal Facebook page. I post silly memes, and occasionally, a heartfelt message, or a rant, but mostly, now that I’ve healed enough to not bleed all over the page, I post funny and witty things. I’ve been posting Christmas songs with glittery and celebratory videos. “Dashing through the snow….”

“Oh Christmas tree…” “Silent Night”…and of course, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman”, and so many more. I’m reminded of Christmases past with my little boy. My little boy who would have been 40 this coming August, 2023. He was my love bug and Christmas recipient every year for 32 years. I’m blessed I have those years, especially the ones in which he laughed. He had the best laugh.

I’m remembering how he never could wait until a decent hour to open his presents. He’d go to bed, but not because he wanted to. I don’t think he ever went to sleep because promptly at midnight on Christmas morning, he’d walk in my bedroom and say, “Mommy, it’s Christmas.” So, we’d get up and he’d open his presents and then he’d go back to bed satisfied and sleep until ‘noon. He was quite an amazing kid. He was an amazing adult too.

I have the blessing of remembering the good times, followed almost immediately by a heart pang and it can have me doubled over in emotional pain, or it can pass quickly if I’m not in a space where I can have a meltdown. I do still have them, maybe once a year now. I do get blue and sometimes my funks last a day, but no more than a day, and generally, not an entire day…anymore.

Even knowing my funks don’t last as long is a bittersweet feeling. Does the fact I don’t cry every day anymore mean I’m relinquishing my grief, and if that is true, does that mean I’ve moved on? How do you move on from such a tremendous loss in your life? Okay, maybe time doesn’t heal wounds. As the days and nights move forward, further, and further away from my son’s last breath, the night is fuzzy, and there’s a lot I don’t remember. That hurts too. My husband says our brains protect us by keeping the memory deeply embedded in a part of our brain where shocking and hurtful memories reside… My son will have been gone for seven years on January 22^nd, 2023 at 5:55 p.m.

This angelversary is one I’m dreading. Each passing year is a reminder of how many more angelversaries I will have – another year without my son. So, what do I do when the overwhelm is more than I can handle? I force myself to get up at 4 a.m. so I can look presentable when I hit the grocery store at 6 a.m. – and brave 14-degree weather in a light corduroy jacket. I put one foot in front of the other. I carefully run down my list and carefully put my items in the cart. I check out and hear the concern of the checker. I load my groceries into the car and drive home. I unload my groceries and then sit down in the warmth of our home with a piping hot cup of coffee.

One minute at a time in the early days of grief was about all I could handle. There was nothing I could do to pause the pain when it presented itself, and it did so with a vengeance. Since my son has been gone, I’ve had his son with us every Christmas, and this will be only the second Christmas we will not be together. I must admit, this is another bittersweet event. The knowledge that our grandson will be with his mother, in a healing relationship, is beautiful. The fact that I won’t be with him on a special day leaves a bit of a void in our holiday.

To be honest, this will be the first time in our marriage we will be alone. We’ve got it all planned, movies, junk food, each other, and our cats. “Let there be peace on earth…” Bittersweet. I’ve always planned the parties, cooked the meals, bought the keggers, hosted in our home, so — this year I’m a bit frightened of being idle. When I have nothing to do, I tend to ruminate. I would prefer to think only happy thoughts about my son. Now that I’ve been able to normalize my pain, I can redirect my ruminations from those of angst to ones that leave me with smiles through misting eyes.

Life is bittersweet; it just is. I have a paper I’ve been lagging on, six more pages to go. I went out to check the mail in 28-degree weather in a light sweater (even though I now own a parka), and ran back inside where I warmed by our heater. My desire is to offer hope for the tough moments this holiday season.

We will have wistful moments as we watch the twinkling lights on our trees and attend holiday parties. I still have a difficult time being around infants and tiny, excited children who have Santa reflected in their great big eyes. But I’m starting to feel a bit more exultant – we have a granddaughter, Ophelia, who loves sparkly things just like her grandma. Our grandson is really excited to be with us after his family holiday. Ben and I are really looking forward to our first Christmas tradition, just the two of us.

I will go to the store at 6 a.m. and I will scurry in and scurry out, with an appropriate coat, driven with purpose. I will have time to cry this Christmas. I may watch a sad movie to get those tears flowing, or I may rent, My Cousin Vinny, and laugh with my husband for whom the movie is a favorite. What will you do? Some people place a setting on the holiday table. That, for me, is just a painful reminder that my son is not here with us. I light a candle and I say his name. I used to have everyone say one memory about him. I saw how much everyone struggled to say something that wouldn’t make me cry. I realized that asking someone to do something that stresses him or her out is unkind, so I don’t ask anymore.

Instead, I will weep openly in my husband’s arms – in my giant, fluffy blanket hoodie, and then with a chip covered in onion dip, I’ll remember how much my son loved chips and dips, and my eyes will glisten and with a lump in my throat, I’ll choke down the chip, and I’ll find a song that was meaningful to my son, and I’ll listen to it and weep, and I’ll listen to another song, maybe a happy one.

See, even though his absence is felt deeply, and the sorrow can be great, he is always a thought in my mind, a presence in my heart. I don’t want to say anything cheesy or platitudinous. We each will celebrate our holidays in the way that works for us and tears and smiles together do not mean we have lost it irredeemably and can’t still enjoy the time with our loved ones.

We can, with tears and smiles…joy and nostalgia…bittersweet.

Merry Christmas and May You Have a Peaceful and Healing 2023.         

Home

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

Holidays are upon us. I don’t count Halloween as the festivity that kicks off the holidays, from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Eve. January 22, 2023 will be the seven year anniversary of my son’s death. I get a catch in my throat and my eyes well up for a brief moment, and then like a wet hound dog, I shake the discomfort away, and I bring myself back to the present moment, with the living, the people who I love and who love me, the music, the seven-layer bean dip, the turkey, the ham, the anticipation on our grandson’s face as he opens his presents. He’s 13 now and so, he’s not as wide-eyed as when he was younger. A lot has changed, not just since my son’s death, although that experience was and will always be the most significant of my life. I miss him every day, but the holidays really bring into focus his absence from our lives, from my life, from his life. So much lost potential is a jagged pill to swallow.

But I have gotten through every holiday since my son’s death. Some holidays have been true celebrations, and some have been celebrations with a lump in my throat. Having our grandson, my son’s son, helps to keep me here, with Louie, and with my amazing husband. Yes, I did all the work to heal from my tremendous loss, but I had help along the way. My husband just loved me through the grief process. He was there when I wanted him to be, and he understood when I needed to grieve alone or with someone else. My younger brother found me a mess many times when he’d come home from work. We’re not a hugging family, but he hugged me many times in my early grief. Louie, our grandson, just knowing he’s in the world brings me joy. Yes…after seven years…joy.

I stopped attending holidays with my family of origin decades ago. I was tired of dodging lingering bullets. I was tired of watching various members of my family feel they had to defend themselves when the issue, this holiday, too, is a rehashing of something that happened eons ago, something that will never find resolution, so, I just stopped going. Who needs that on the Christ’s birthday, or the winter equinox, or whatever one celebrates throughout the year.  Heinous behavior does need to be brought to the attention of everyone. Are holidays the best time to expose family secrets? Probably not, but sometimes it’s the only time you have, and you feel as if you’ll spontaneously combust if you don’t take your opportunity (insert dramatic exit here).

Holidays bring out the best and the worst in us, and they can also drag us through our grief like the tragedy just happened – and many iterations, too, of course. Are despair and grief just reflections of each other seen in various undulating refractions of light? I wonder about those who are in such despair they make the decision to end their lives. What part does grief play in their despair? I would describe my grief as desperate, the kind of desperation that made me feel powerless, the kind that led me to despair. Before I came to terms with my son’s death, every single aspect of it, I was in despair. Until I regained my footing I was in despair, every day, wrestling with the whys and wrestling with the answers. There are adjustments to be made in grief. Everything changes. Everything.

I learned that life is too short to take shit from anyone, or to not ask for what you need. Relationships that are energized by love expressed through kindness become more important because we are aware of how quickly life unfolds. One day…I was 60. I learned that if there is shit doled out, I will walk away, and if, and maybe even especially if, those who dole it out are family.

My son was the only grandchild, so he scored big at all the holidays, even the most obscure ones, or made-up ones. I chose to not go to family holidays, but I never prevented him from going. I would stay home with the gifts I got from work, family, and friends, mostly music and books, and I would break out the blender, make a margarita, listen to a new CD and read a new book. I created my own peace, just like I find myself doing now, through the holidays, and through the tears.

My son is gone. No matter how irrational my thoughts have been, “Oh, Lazarus, come forth!”, he is gone and he is not coming back to me in this lifetime. I get it – now. Any chance for a childhood that was not rife with trauma and drama has been grieved many times as an impossibility over and over again, and now I embrace my life with gusto. I’m looking forward to the holidays, with new people, new traditions, good food, laughter, and no danger of being verbally assaulted because of wounds that have never been tended to. Dodging bullets is not my idea of a friendly Yuletide. Nope, ain’t gonna happen.

I suppose it’s progress that I’m not solely focused on my son’s absence through sweet holiday moments. I can let go of the dread of family holidays; I have for decades. I believe the last holiday I spent with my family of origin was so long ago I can’t remember when it was. Somebody said something. Somebody got hurt. Somebody got angry. Somebody stormed out. My son and I left and went home shaking our heads thinking, “What the hell else is new?” He stopped going after a while. Who needs to deal with ancient nonsense.

It’s progress that I recognize the dread of potential meltdowns as we celebrate without my son, and because I recognize it, I can change its trajectory. I can bring it home in a way that rains nostalgia, a bittersweet wistfulness, and a lightning bolt of angst on my world, with sparkling lights, Christmas globes, turkey, pumpkin pie, and memories of Christmases past.

Holidays are here, whether we want them to be or not. I miss my son. I grieve the possibility that my family of origin will ever be completely healed in each other’s presences. I grieve over my son’s death. I grieve and I grieve and I grieve – and then – I get up and wash my face, dust off my boots and I get back out there again…every morning, after every defeat, and in spite of life’s random hits.

I’m  wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’ that wherever you are on your emotional spectrum, the ride is navigable, and you end up where you need to be in order to heal. If you are in a bad place, I’ve included the Suicide Hotline. Holidays can be tough, but they are a flash in the pan, over and done with before we know what hit us. Please hang in there.

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline | Federal Communications Commission (fcc.gov)

By Sherrie Cassel

Grief is odd; it can invoke tremendous rage and then just when the rage subsides, it is replaced with intense sorrow, deep in the viscera. Sometimes grief is existential, and sometimes, it is surface, and your skin feels raw, and your heart skips that beat meant uniquely for the loved one you have lost. Your entire being feels the absence, and yet, you get up in the morning, brush your teeth, shower, put on your best face, find something to wear, engage in a lively discussion with your spouse, and face the world, alive; there will always be an absence of the presence of your loved one, even as you move forward in your life, even as you rediscover joy, and reassemble yourself with the broken pieces of the parts of yourself you want to keep, all put in the order of their healing. In my experience, the head must heal before the heart does. The answers to the questions who and why will become more and more satisfying and then they will liberate you. Maybe we need a little bit of sadness because the sadness keeps us connected to our loved one. As a mother whose blood I shared with my son, whose blood runs through me still, and which now runs through his son’s, losing my son will always be the most significant loss of my life. The grief process has been intense, and there were days I wasn’t sure I was going to get through it without losing my mind, or … cashing it in. As grievers know, grief is physical, and it is metaphysical. The pain from a loss can be systemic; it is an emotionally catastrophic disruption in one’s life, and in us, mind, body, spirit.

Everything makes me remember my son, how he loved my cooking and how he bragged about it to his friends. How we laid under the stars one night in the driveway waiting for a meteor shower that never happened is a memory that brings tears of joy followed by a moment of utter sorrow. I’m grateful that, after seven years, the sorrow is no longer chronic. If you’re newly grieving, take the time you need to mourn your loss, and there are no timetables or guidelines for how or for how long it is appropriate to mourn. Grief is forever, even as we love, live, and celebrate life. Ah, I miss my son every second of every day, and I’ve worked extremely hard to create a life of purpose and to celebrate the blessings, miracles, or, if you will, the benevolent anomalies in my life. Any of us could sit around and stagnate in our grief, but we’re meant to push forward and grab that brass ring every time we have opportunities to do so.

There is a period of mourning, the crying must be ritualized for a time, every day, every time you hear a song, or get a scent of his or her favorite meal, or it’s the holiday time of your culture, and you remember all the celebrations you had with your loved one, and that they are no more. Even the sweet memories are bittersweet. Grief, at some point, can be regenerative, an awakening to an acuity that makes you one with the God of your understanding and with all humanity. Grief can catapult you into a Maslovian trip to self-actualization that you never dreamed possible. Grief can be transformative – after the mourning phase. Trust me, I know. I remember the despair and the disillusionment with the God of my understanding; the loss of my son was a true existential crisis. Nothing made sense. I was so fortunate to have had my son in my life for 32 years; some people get less time with their loved one(s) before tragedy befalls them.

American consumption is about to skyrocket through the holidays as we celebrate. The economic zeitgeist urges us to buy, buy, buy. My son was the most thoughtful gift giver. His gifts said, “I know you.” He paid attention to people and loved everyone, even his crazy mom. Yes, holidays bring up memories from his birth to his death and all the holidays I will ever have, making memories – without him. Holidays can be really rough on grievers. The importance of self-care during the holidays cannot be emphasized enough. My third Christmas without my son I was sitting on the floor wrapping my materialist booty, and I burst into tears. The dawning of a meltdown is not directable in early grief. When the overflow spills, it gushes, and I suggest, if you’re in a safe place, let the sobs overtake you and sob until a calm comes over you, the calm that is proof that you can lose it and come through it whole. I don’t have a number of days and nights that were spent doubled over holding the chest that encased my broken heart, or curled up in the fetal position, or sleeping my life away, but it was a considerable number. I remember being angry with veteran grievers (that would be me now) telling me I would get through it and one day discover a life of purpose. I would never get over my son’s death I stated defiantly.

Well now it’s my turn to piss off some grievers, to affirm for others, and to encourage grievers by telling them they will find lives of purpose and joy through arduous work, self-work, relationship work, activism, and self-actualizing daily, both strengthened and softened by our loss.

I’m currently experiencing recent grief. I lost eighteen people in a matter of a few minutes. I’m grieving the loss of my former co-workers who I left behind when I resigned from a job I loved, and which will always be a pinnacle work experience. I will grieve for a bit, and then I will move forward with my research in seminary. School is the priority. Seminary is what provides me with purpose. Knowing I can talk about spiritual matters with the grieving is what drives me; comfort and hope, they are what I can offer as a chaplain. In my former position I was restricted by pragmatism and policy. I no longer have the energy or the desire to climb a ladder or champion for change. If it ain’t broken … and if I don’t like it, leave. But the grief process is dynamic and I’m feeling the loss. Because I have lost the love of my life, I’m no longer afraid of grief; at some point, it became navigable, and I now command the when and where of grief. The why has been sufficiently answered for me; I have moved on.

I keep busy, less so since I left the job, but I keep busy. If I find myself sitting for too long and if I begin ruminating on the profound loss to a lack of productivity, I find something to do, and sometimes, if I’m in a safe place, I will allow the tears to flow – for a bit. I will always miss my son. There is a piece of my heart and head that will always feel the loss; my son’s death has altered my reality and I had to start from scratch to rebuild myself in that new reality, a reality in which my son is not. The loss was a seismic event and radical readjustment has been a significant part of my process.

Our lives go on despite our losses, whether it be a child, a spouse, a sibling, or a job, et al; life is meant to be lived – fully. First the tears – then the fear that you will never get back up again begins to lessen and you pick yourself up by the bootstraps and you march or you two-step into a new life, one in which you are keenly aware of the bitter and the sweet, and you choose the sweetness every time it presents itself – even through the bitter. I’ve heard it said, during a time when I could not appreciate the meaning, that happiness is a choice. In my life today, I agree with this statement. All my physical needs are being met, so I have choices, two of which are to be happy or to stay in the hard part of grief, to grow, or to stagnate. I choose growth. When life pulls the rug out from under our equilibrium, we also have choices. The biggest choice for me was to lie down and ache forever, or to rise from the slivers of my former self, and thrive, in the face of my tremendous grief.

Healing and moving forward into a bright and purposeful future are doable. Work your process; get the help you need, professionally or spiritually, and work those emotional muscles toward the ability to lift yourselves out of the deep well of chronic grief.

Sprint toward your new sunrise; your life awaits you.

By Sherrie Cassel

I got up this morning, day two of a three-day weekend, for me, and turned on my computer and perused Facebook (I’m still on a news fast). I was listening to Led Zeppelin and thought about my son. He always told me he hated Zeppelin, but when he moved out, the first time, he took about half of my CD collection. I influenced him in all the ways that mattered, the good, the bad, and through the exponential challenges toward the end of his life. He told me to put on some music at his first little place of his own. He had a stack of CDs, and I went to find something to put on, and there, wouldn’t you know it was my Zeppelin set. I teased him and said, “Oh, I thought you ‘hated’ Zeppelin.” He shot back, “Hey, how did that get here?” I sure miss him, every single thing about him.” Yes, I’ve grown. Yes, I’ve healed (on most days), and yes, life is moving forward, but there will always be a giant hole in the fabric of my personal universe. The life I’ve been gifted with has one flaw, and while, I’ve learned to navigate around it, it is there and will be there for the rest of my life. The absence of my son’s presence is a chronic reality for me, and for those who have lost loved ones with whom they were very close.

We move forward, and if we’re very fortunate to have a supportive network of professionals, clergy, friends and family, we heal and we reclaim joy and are able to transcend our sorrow. It’s true; joy comes in the mourning…yes, in and through the mourning phase. I laughed really heartily on my way home from my son’s celebration of life because our grandson said something funny, and I burst into uncontrollable laughter. One would think this would have been a hint that healing would be possible, even early in my grief, but it would take three and a half years before I allowed myself to lean into joy when it presented itself in my life.

I allow for joyful moments now; I create them and even co-create them with friends, family, nature, and the God of my understanding. There will always be a wistfulness in every experience from now until I move away from the physical. I miss my son. I miss him every moment. I miss him in every life experience. Bittersweetness is my dance partner now. Sometimes he twirls me on the dance floor, and other times I lean into him and let him lead me to a place where I can recover.

I taught my son to love music. I taught him how to allow music to wash over him in times of joy and in times of sorrow. He would play his jams in his room or on the family stereo and allow the music to heal his own life wounds or celebrate good moods and perfect days. He loved music, and his collection was as eclectic as mine. He turned me on to some great music, and I turned him on to some classics from my youth. There are days when I’m strong enough to listen to a song that touched my son. Baby steps into grief. I remember what it was like when I first began the grief process. I’ve mentioned here that I was a hot mess, understandably so, of course. I hurt in a way that I didn’t know it was possible to hurt and still live. I prayed for death every day. I just didn’t want to wake up every day, and life was so heavy I could barely navigate day to day activities. My husband took over many of my responsibilities. I slept – A LOT….and then I had insomnia for about four years. I don’t ever want to be that emotionally paralyzed again.

I know my son is gone. I know he won’t reappear in this lifetime. I know our spiritual connection together, however, will never end. He is in my DNA, and he is in the DNA of my heart and soul. I carry him with me into every minute of my life. Once you’re a parent, you’re always a parent, even if the God of your understanding now has custody of your child, or whatever analogy you employ to comfort yourself. Even though I was raised in a challenging family, my mother gave me the sense of gratitude for small things and my father demonstrated wonder, and I’m a twirler under the night sky, with gratitude for my life and for the wonder with the stars and all the things in the universe. I miss my son in every experience; however, the God of my understanding has comforted me in my dark night of the soul and brought me back to life. I wrestled with God, life, pain, sorrow, and found joy at the final ring of the round. Life is hard work; a good one is even more difficult.

I tell those who are suffering from life circumstances that joy will come in the morning after the toughest work they will ever do. I did, for a while, sit around hoping to not be in pain anymore, while not lifting a finger to work through it. There is a time of significant mourning, and it doesn’t matter whether or not suffering is optional; suffering is inevitable. Grief is painful; and it is with gratitude that I say its intensity is reducible. The pain from grief lessens the more we address its presence and don’t try to run from it or stifle it. Speaking our pain exposes it and gives it expression, expression that is cathartic and healing. I strongly encourage speaking through the arts. Find your medium and run with it. You will get to a place where you’re healed enough to have a surplus of emotional resources to share with others. For me, this was a huge turning point in my process, the ability to reach out to others who are in pain opened me up to greater healing. I found purpose beyond that of a mother, beyond that of a grieving mother, beyond even family of origin issues. The discovery of your purpose is transcendent.

I’m 60 and 4 months and I should be looking toward retirement, but I’m rarin’ to go until I know it’s time to plant a Sartrean garden in the sunset of my life. Entering the chaplaincy feeds two birds with one seed, the bird that desires to find a relationship with the God of my understanding, and the one out of which flies the bird that places in me the desire to be of service to a world that is hurting. I now know grief intimately. I believe grief and I have worked ourselves toward an increasingly symbiotic relationship. I race through life, less so since Rikki’s death, but I’m driven, through the flame and through the eye of the storm. As some of you may know, I do things in no particular order, or perhaps in the order that random chance calls us into when we only perceive the chaos.

The first part of my life was survival, with brief moments of relief and some time to wonder. The second part of my life was as a mother and that phase lasted until my son drew his last breath. The third part of my life, where I am now, provides me with a tertiary purpose. I hope this phase lasts until I draw my own last breath. Seeing human beings thrive, through their own storms, is the greatest privilege of my life. I know a thing or two about being a thriver.

Today I’m listening to Tom Petty, a CD my son and I shared a love for. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m off today. I have some mind-blowing reading to do for my systematic theology class. I’m planning in my head (not yet on paper) our holiday schedule, the grandkid, our new son, his new girlfriend, menus, gifts, and feeling the deficiency in my festivities. Bittersweet.

I hear people’s stories every day. When I am a certified licensed chaplain with an M.Div., I will sit in solidarity with those who grieve intensely, in hospitals, in natural disasters, in quiet moments on bus stop benches, or when one of my friends loses a loved one. I know a thing or two about grief and wrestling it to the ground until it blesses me with a good life. I’m grateful today. The holidays will come and go, and I’ll celebrate, and…I’ll mourn. We all feel his absence. Our grandson mentions his dad from time to time and I’m always grateful that he still remembers him. I know I will never forget him. I was blessed and challenged to have him for thirty-two beautiful and (some) turbulent years.

I don’t like being told to be grateful; that’s an outcome I achieve in my own way in my own time, as we all must. But today, during this rotation of the earth, I’m grateful and life is a perfect fit even as my heart skips a beat when I think about my son.

I love you, Rikki.

by Sherrie Ann Cassel

I hope you’re all healing a little every day, and for those of you who are making leaps and bounds in your process, please share here or with others your Light in the face of supreme grief over the loss of your loved one(s). Rumi said, “If everything around seems dark, look again, you may be the light.” Even in our darkest nights and tear-stained days, we have something to offer others who are just starting on a grief phase of their own. I hope you all are reaching out for professional help or help from a trusted clergyperson if you find the grief is just too overwhelming to bear.

I’ve been navigating the grief process for nearly seven years now. I’ve had dips of depression during which there was no light, in my grief, that I could see. Things have certainly changed in those awful/wonderful years. The loss of my son has dragged my heart on ragged roads and left me with road rash on my heart, and on my soul. The wounds have healed over the years, but I have scars, not scars that are visible, but scars, nonetheless. There are so many private compartments we can escape to when one compartment’s information content becomes too heavy, dark, or intense to deal with. Reality, in small doses, please.

Early in my process, I felt irrationally guilty if I smiled or laughed, or had a fun time of any kind. I thought, how can I participate joyfully in life when I just lost my son, three years ago? Yes, it took me that long to reintegrate myself into life, one that could still be lived purposefully. I had no idea where the experience would take me once I awakened, three years after my son’s death. I’ve spoken with other grievers and those who love grievers about “how long?” is too long to shroud oneself in the bleak despair of grief. Is there an appropriate amount of time? Some cultures have a specific number of days, and/or years, one must mourn the loss of his or her loved one. I know, bureaucratically, one has an allowable time, usually three days, to grieve. In a pluralistic society, there are many ways to celebrate the life of someone we’ve lost who was a necessary bone in your body. I will, like Jacob, always have a limp, something noticeable, but not identifiable, an aura of something significant, like a near death experience, and grief.

I smile and laugh a lot. In seven years, my life has changed so much. I’ve had seven years to adjust to the loss. I understand so much more about his life and death since I’ve had the time to do my mourning, collectively, and publicly. I thank those of you who message me with words of encouragement on those days when a trigger has me in a temporary funk. I’m grateful those days are few and far between now. I hope they are becoming less so for you too.

Finding something to do has been a joy. My job is a dream job. I’m finding purpose there and love and kindness. After working in academia for most of my life, I can honestly say, no one ever said, “I love you, Sherrie” – after a staff meeting. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to do what I love and to work for an organization whose purpose is to help the spiritually disadvantaged, and it’s a collective dream that has come to fruition. I’m having so many theological questions answered in seminary that I’m finding to be healing beyond belief, as I plumb the depths of the theodicy question. I’m being fed and nurtured emotionally and spiritually in a way that I’d not experienced before.

Find your purpose, no matter your age. I just had my 60^th birthday party, the best one yet, and I enjoyed the hell out of myself. Rikki was there, in my heart, and in the hearts of the people who knew him and attended his celebration of life. I’m 60 and just started a new job when I thought my working life was over. Competition with the very qualified younger population who can guarantee a long career with one company. I get it, and so, I’m eternally grateful for the job, in more ways than I can express.

Life is very good right now, in spite, yes, in spite of everything. Among all my losses have also been victories. My life is a living testament to reclaiming one’s joy and finding purpose in one’s life, from the depths of a consciousness that is healed, and a heart and soul that want the best for you, well, if you’ll pardon the anthropomorphization of two ancient metaphors/similes.I’m a believer in the Creator of the Universe. I’m learning to have a more rational relationship with the God of my understanding, and in the depths of my pain, I cried out to God, and whether it was God who healed me or if I was healed by the painstaking work I did to immerse myself back into the living; perhaps, it was a little of both, I stand here to tell you, joy does come through the mourning.

Find that one thing, or many things that will drive your flow, and put you in a mindset that enables you to appreciate joy when it blesses you — without guilt; we deserve to be happy too. I blame myself for my son’s death in more ways than you can imagine. I still have days when I beat myself up and ask the why? Why? Why? Rationally I know the answers, but irrationally, I want something that will take away the intermittent pain I have when a trigger occurs and all I can do is weep or retreat into myself. Even people who have been grieving longer than I have moments of utter sadness when we think about our loved one(s). I also know people who have grieved longer than I who have never healed, or who are still struggling with the pain associated with the greatest losses of their lives.

Relatively speaking, three years, my own journey, was a long time in comparison to others, but no comparisons are needed. We heal in our own time and in our own way. I wish my son hadn’t died; of course, this goes without saying. But I’m grateful for the time and the people who were with me during a time of painful transformation. At the end of the day, I’m grateful for where I am today…mourning into dancing (Nouwen)…or more distantly, Psalm 30:11. There will always be a bittersweetness in life in response to a loss of great magnitude. My good juju and/or my prayer is for those who grieve to find relief, and then to find joy.

 

And so it goes (Vonnegut)…

By Sherrie Ann Cassel

There was a time when grief was the singular focus for me. I pored through books about grief and how to survive it. I pored through sacred texts trying to find the answer that would pivot me back into the living. I read about how deep emotional pain can feel physical, and I learned that a broken heart is not just a convenient metaphor because there are truly no words to express the abysmal hole that is wrought in your personal cosmos after the loss of someone significant in your life.

I remember early in the grief process, a woman at a grief site I joined told me that one day it wouldn’t hurt so intensely, and I’d be able to go on with my life and even experience joy. My rage should have been my first clue that I would not be in grief forever. I truly thought I’d never survive. I prayed for relief from the chronic and pounding pain that was systemic. I felt it 24/7, every second, every minute, every hour.

On January 22^nd, 2023, it will be seven years since my beautiful son died, leaving a gaping hole in the collective of our family, shattering my life, and breaking my heart. Seven years. I thought I’d never make it out alive. I still don’t know how a person can be in that much pain and still be living. I look back and I cry for that person, including the person I was, and … to be honest, I still get triggers that bring tears to my eyes and put me in a funk for a few hours; I work really hard to not allow my grief to rob me of an entire day, but early in grief, I grieved long, and I grieved hard. My funk lasted for three and a half years. I dropped out of my psych program. I gained 40 lbs. I cried every single day, and I’m talking the sobs that make it difficult to breathe, the kind of sobs that immobilizes you. My world had stopped spinning and I was caught in a grief cycle that seemed infinite.

In retrospect, I did the same thing that all people do when they lose someone who was an integral part of them; we buck and then we break. After the brokenness is felt less profoundly, we spend the rest of our lives healing from our loss(es). The rest of our lives is adjusting to a world without our loved one. The rest of our lives is for creating whatever amount of joy we can by weaving and bobbing in the arena of random chance. Sometimes we take punches – despite our mad skills at navigating life. Sometimes we win the belt.

Sometimes we sink into despair; I believe this is part of the process. We feel intensely. The pain is seemingly insurmountable, endless, hard hitting as a contraction without an epidural. I still have momentary pangs of the deepest sadness because I cannot see or hear or touch my son.

But seven years later, I’m a staunch supporter of staying with the living. If you’re new at grieving, yeah, it hurts in a way for which there is no apt description. Unfortunately, we will experience great emotional and physical pain. Unfortunately, acute grief lasts as long as it lasts. The time in between your initial loss and your first inkling that having a full life is possible takes as long as you need it to. Hindsight is 20/20, and I wish I’d had the self-awareness to have my moment of clarity and allow it to lead me to transcendent healing sooner, but it wasn’t how my emotional constitution was created, so it took me a little longer (or a lot longer) because I needed to weep and to wail until I couldn’t cry anymore. It’s just the way it is — for some of us.

My therapist was the first one who gave me the recipe for a happy life, although I’ve read it other places since he first shared it with me. To have a happy life, one must:

1. Have something to love;
2. Have something to do; and
3. Have something to look forward to.

I didn’t have the second two, but I have family, friends, an amazing husband, and two cats I adore. I cannot emphasize enough how emotionally and so, physically, paralyzed I was. I have always wanted an advanced degree because I love learning and I want it to stand for something, and because I want my knowledge to be purposeful. My husband is a nearly 40-year veteran of teaching. He has made a difference in hundreds of kids lives, many who keep in touch with him, and one of his amazing former students is going to be our adopted adult son. We’re thrilled. So, something or someone to love was not an issue, although I was scarcely present for anyone during the early time of grief.

I finally received my bachelor’s degree in psychology in May of 2019, and I’m currently back in school, in seminary, for my Master of Divinity, an M.Div., to be a chaplain. I’m accomplishing a lot in school, and I’m loving it. I’m having lifelong questions answered for me. I’m co-creating my own theology. I’m honing some skills we all inherently have, but forget because of trauma, and random chance’s assaults on our homeostasis, our equilibrium, our peaceful balance.

So, something to do can be checked off the list. Seminary keeps me hopping.

And finally, something to look forward to, I look forward to each and every day of my life; after losing my son when he was only 32, I hold no illusions about the brevity of life. Grab joy where it can be found, your joy or someone else’s. Get caught up in the wonders of the world and pull people into your life who are as amazing as you are. Tap into grief when you need to or when you have a trigger but pull yourself out of the funk as soon as it is possible for you to do so and celebrate your life and the lives of your living loved ones.

I look forward to going to my new job every day. I’m 60 now, so I’m not interested in climbing any ladders, but I want the last few years of the work I do to be purposeful, hence, becoming an interfaith chaplain, and working with those for whom grief has become too heavy. I love the R.E.M. song, “Everybody hurts.” We all do, and at some point, grief will cross our paths, and after the initial shock of the loss, the cosmic tear in the fabric of your universe, the detonation of your former self, we finally remember that we have choices; it takes time to get there, so be patient with yourself, and if you’re a supporter of a person in grief, thank you.

I thought I’d never move past the chronic pain that grief bequeaths to us, but I have. The pain is still here, but not omnipresent and not omnipotent. Grief no longer fuels my days; it still can claim a portion of my nights, but not for the duration. I bounce back pretty quickly now. Something to look forward to.

Sit down and start writing a list of the things you’ve always wanted to do, no matter how absolutely ridiculous it sounds, and you’ll start to feel better. Here’s a ridiculous experience I always thought I wanted to have: the life of train-hoppin’ hobos. But I guess when one’s childhood is fraught with trauma, freedom, even if it’s just bare bones survival looks pretty good. Other things I’d like to do, I’m already doing.

I promise you the intensity of your pain in your brand-new grief is temporary. We’ll always miss our loved one(s). There will be times when the pain overrides our reason and all we’ve learned by educating ourselves about grief will fly out the window. But a nice breeze can send it back to you and you’ll have the opportunity to repurpose the wisdom and use it to share with others who may need it.

I honestly did not think I’d survive the loss of my son. But here I am seven years later, booking through a really charmed life, and missing my son. Life can really hurt sometimes, but it can also be magnificent. I wish you magnificence in your lives. As the Nike ad says, “Do it.” Think about how your loved one(s) loved you. Why did they love you? Who is the person they loved? Be that person again. It’s possible.

I close with this verse from “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel – because we are:

“In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him, ’til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
‘I am leaving, I am leaving
But the fighter still remains
Mm-mm-mm…still remains.’”

You’ve got this; you really do.

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