Grief to Gratitude

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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.

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.         

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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.