A Bereaved Parent’s Christmas

Christmas…

I’ve been sitting here, listening to Christmas music, and thinking about our Christmases since Jason died.

The first Christmas when I was so numb, hurting so bad, and at a total loss on how to “do” Christmas any more without our precious boy. Finding a chair in the corner at a Christmas party and trying to figure out how not to be the “wet blanket” at the celebration…and trying to be social so people would quit avoiding me – I failed miserably at both of those attempts. Sitting all by myself in the midst of the Christmas decorations strewn all over our family room floor, crying my eyes out as I tried to figure out whether it hurt more to put up or not put up the stockings and decorations we’d collected over the years. The friend who stopped by to pick something up while I was sitting there on the floor, surrounded by decorations and grief, and who couldn’t get out the door quickly enough after she collected what she had come for. When absolutely everything about Christmas emphasized Jason’s missing presence and pierced me to the bottom of my very soul. Picturing Jason helping pick out and put up the tree. He was the one who put our angel up on top of the tree every year. I was supposed to teach him how to make my “famous” Christmas morning cinnamon rolls and I added my heartbroken tears to the dough that year. Everything about that Christmas hurt to the core of my being.

The Christmases when I tried to shop, but couldn’t figure out how to pull up any enthusiasm, and left the stores empty-handed and trying to keep my emotions and tears in check until I could get into a private place. The ones when I fought down panic as I tried to shop for presents. The one when we couldn’t travel to extended family and they couldn’t travel to us…and no one had time amidst their own holiday hustle and bustle to do anything with us. One gal told me they would have time the week after Christmas. That was a bad Christmas.

The ones when I drove by brightly-lit houses as families or friends arrived for some type of Christmas celebration, watching people hug each other with the joy of the season…while I felt like an outside observer to the warmth, welcome and celebration of the whole season in general. The warmth and glow of the season seemed like it was for others and not me. Ours used to be the home brightly lit and welcoming, so full of family, love and laughter. I used to look forward to Christmas so so much excitement. It seemed as though I “used to do” many things that no longer applied to me. I struggled for many years as I approached so many Christmases with dread…wishing I could just skip over the whole thing, knowing how acutely and painfully I would miss Jason’s presence. Some days it was more than I could bear.

Christmases are hard for bereaved parents. The memories of what “used to be” are ever present and everywhere. I miss the pure excitement of a Christmas without the shadow of loss.

Christmas doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. I wish I could say it didn’t hurt any more, but that wouldn’t be honest. It’s been a process over the years to make new traditions while not totally scrapping the old. I haven’t gotten up at 4:30 a.m. to make cinnamon rolls from scratch for years – perhaps I will sometime in the future. We have started some new traditions and have started a new collection of Christmas tree ornaments. We try to make Christmas a special and meaningful day and season as best we can for those we love. We try to notice the small things and don’t take anything for granted.

We will always miss Jason every day, and especially during the Christmas season feel his loss acutely, wishing he were celebrating Christmas with us. I’m sure every bereaved parent would say the same thing about his or her own child…

Merry Christmas to each bereaved parent who may read this. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

© 2012 Rebecca R. Carney

My Christmas Wish for Bereaved Parents

This is my sincere wish and prayer for all bereaved parents this holiday season – and all through the years that it takes to integrate such a huge loss into the fabric of our lives – that more gentleness and caring would be shared with those who have lost someone especially dear, that more gladness and warmth would be unconditionally shared, that time would be time taken amidst the daily and holiday bustle to recognize the depth of grief behind the mask and the silence of the face, and that a hand of genuine and continued friendship and love would grasp those who are hurting and who so badly need comfort. Sometimes those who deeply grieve aren’t transparent with their grief (for wide and varied reasons of their own); sometimes people around those who deeply grieve don’t take the time to notice or don’t take the time to do anything about it.

My Christmas wish is that you feel loved and cherished this holiday season.

If I Had Known
Mary Carolyn Davies (1888-1940)

If I had known what trouble you were bearing;
What griefs were in the silence of your face;
I would have been more gentle and more caring,
And tried to give you gladness for a space.
I would have brought more warmth into the place,
If I had known.
If I had known what thoughts despairing drew you;
(Why do we never try to understand?)
I would have lent a little friendship to you,
And slipped my hand within your hand,
And made your stay more pleasant in the land,
If I had known.

---

[From The Sabbath Recorder: Volume 82. American Sabbath Tract Society, 1917]

For all the hurting hearts this holiday season

Memories of past Christmases have been on my mind lately. This time of year is still hard for me. I miss Jason so much at Christmas. I miss the way things were. I miss the “used to be.”

As I walked this morning and then watched the sunrise, I noticed a heart shape in the clouds and it made me smile. I looked up toward heaven and said, “I love you, Jason.”

Those of you who are hurting are in my thoughts and prayers today. Sending love and hope for a holiday season filled with good memories (both old and new), family, friends, and peace and comfort for your heart. May the God of all comfort hold you close in a very real way.

© 2011 Rebecca R. Carney

Caution! Rough sea ahead!

I can feel it starting – that restless feeling, that vague agitation that seems to rise from the depths about this time every year.

This is a hard time of year for me. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years. They march toward me in rapid, unrelenting succession. Jason loved doing fun things on Halloween. Carving pumpkins. Christmas surprises. Thanksgiving and Christmas were fun, family holidays. Traditions. Hearth, home, family. So much has changed.

All holidays and “event” days (such as birthdays, March 3rd, etc.), to some degree,  can trouble the water on which my boat of life sails and rock my boat in ways I may not expect. I used to feel like the waves of emotion and longing would capsize or sink my fragile little boat out there on the huge sea of grief. The waves aren’t as high and scary as they used to be, and I’ve learned to recognize why my boat is rocking and try to roll with the waves until smoother seas prevail. I’ve learned, however, that the potential for rough seas continues to lurk not too far below the surface.

When I was in junior high, our school had a living biology lab (pond included) out in back of the school that was surrounded by brand-new barbed wire. The site had a stile over the fence on the far right-hand side that we were supposed to use for access. Most kids, though, would separate the two rows of barbed wire and climb through at the most convenient location. The first time I climbed through the fence, as someone held the two rows apart for me, I didn’t get my left leg quite high enough and a barb on the lower wire sliced my left knee open diagonally from one side to the other. I ended up having nine stitches and still have a large, prominent scar on my knee cap. I also ended up being used as an example to the entire school of why we are supposed to obey school rules.

It surprises me that, even thirty-something years later, my left knee is still much more sensitive than my other one. When I bump it a good one, I cringe from the pain. It hurts! People notice the ugly scar; little kids ask what happened.

That’s similar to what happens the first time I see the Christmas displays go up in stores each year. I feel like someone just walked up and thumped me in the chest right where my broken heart resides. It hurts! It brings tears to my eyes. It brings front and center – smacks me right in my face – how much I miss Jason, all the things that were, and the things that might have been. All the things that could have been, should have been.

I take a deep breath and take a minute to recognize where my reaction is coming from. Sometimes just the recognition of why I hurt helps. Sometimes I have to leave the store and come back another time. Sometimes I just miss Jason too much to keep on shopping or going on like nothing happened. I need to stop, recognize what’s going on, and take time to think about Jason. Sometimes I need to cry. I need to take time to pay attention and carefully navigate the rough sea I’m on.

The impending approach of the ten year anniversary of Jason’s and Alina’s deaths, in addition to the approaching holidays, seems to be making me more reflective and emotional than usual. It looks huge to me. Ten years. How can it have been ten years? How can I have lived ten years without my precious boy? Have I lived them well? Have I made a difference? Have people forgotten him? Have I honored his memory adequately? Would he be proud of me? What can I do that’s meaningful to signify the loss that day represents? What can I do to bring something good and meaningful out of this terrible tragedy?

All I can do is the best that I can do. I’m taking the time now to realize there might be rough seas ahead and to think about how to navigate them to the best of my ability with the resources I have.

© 2011 Rebecca R. Carney

I Don’t Understand!

From my journal dated January 1, 2003:

Jenna said two gals [friends from homeschool days] stopped by while she was working yesterday. They’ve been home from college for a week and a half. Since no one had asked her to do anything on New Year’s Eve, Jenna decided be bold and ask if they wanted to hang out with her last night – watch movies or do something. They used to hang out all the time together, along with other friends. She just wanted to do something fun.

Jenna said both of them stood there like deer in the headlights, hemming and hawing.  Obviously, they were doing something else, but didn’t want to include her. Or didn’t know if Jenna should be invited or would be welcome. I don’t know. It would have been better if they had just told her they had other plans and made arrangements to see her another day. They just got their coffees and left.

My poor girl. She’s just hurting so much. She’s so lonely.

When Jenna told me about it this morning, she was so upset. She said that everyone she knows has either deserted her or treats her like crap. And she said she expects it any more! She’s surprised when anyone is actually nice to her, wants to be around her, compliments her on something.

My heart breaks for my precious daughter. How can they treat her like this?? She’s a wonderful, kind, caring, giving, beautiful young woman. She deserves so much better. She did nothing to cause this. How sad! I don’t understand how people can treat her like this. She did nothing wrong!!

© 2011 Rebecca R. Carney

New Year’s Day

From my journal dated January 1, 2003:

New Year’s Day. A new year. A new day. The days all just run together for me. For me right now, they’re just another day without Jason.

My sister went home yesterday. I hope she had a good time. Joe and Doris always have such a good time together, and I’m very glad. They’ve been friends since I first met Joe. I told Jenna the other day how Joe used to call her Dorie Dew Drop and she’d call him Joey Baby. Seems like such a long time ago.

I know that she’s been really frustrated with me. I don’t know what she expected – probably that we would connect or relate as we once used to. Doris said something along the line that she missed Jason, but she felt like she was losing me, too. I don’t know what more I can do. Honestly, I just don’t have the energy.

I can see where she’s coming from. She really wanted to make sure I was okay. She wanted me to open up and talk to her. But I just can’t right now. I love her so much – but she can be such a poker and prodder. She always has a solution she wants to share. She wants to tinker around and “fix” me, fix things. Some things just can’t be fixed.

I don’t want anyone to poke or prod me or try to fix me. I feel like I need to guard my broken heart. I don’t want to fall apart. I’m afraid I can’t pull it back together again. I’m just weary. I don’t really want to feel very much; it hurts too much. I don’t want to go back and talk about everything we’ve walked through this past year; it takes too much energy. I just want her to accept me where I am, how I am. I can’t live up to someone else’s expectations. All I can do right now is one step at a time, one day at a time.

I’m just dreading life now that Doris is gone, though. It was good to have someone who really cared about us for a change, someone who wanted to be with us and do things with us. We don’t have anyone now. I am not looking forward to this empty year, this empty life. I feel like I don’t have anything to look forward to. What do I look forward to? March 3rd? The trial? An empty summer? Jason’s 21st birthday? It just looks like a very black year to me.

© 2011 Rebecca R. Carney

Too Much Reality

From my journal December 27, 2002:

My sister is here. She came for Christmas, and I am very glad for it. But I’m not very good company. I’m so much more silent and withdrawn than I used to be. So much more subdued. I feel like I just observe, like I’m on the outside looking in.

Both Jenna and Eric were working yesterday, so Doris, Joe and I went shopping at the mall. On the way home, we drove by the cemetery so Doris could see Jason’s headstone. She hadn’t see it yet.

I felt like I had done Jason an injustice by not going by there on Christmas Day. It just felt so wrong to have celebrated Christmas without him. I hadn’t felt wrong about all we had done to celebrate Christmas up until that point. Then it seemed like we should have skipped the whole thing since he wasn’t here.

I know we need to do things. Our lives don’t stop – can’t stop – even though sometimes it feels like they should. Like they have.

I mostly followed Joe’s lead – getting a Christmas tree, getting presents, the whole Christmas Day thing. I really tried. But, as I stood there yesterday, I felt like we had cheated Jason by celebrating at all. He wouldn’t have wanted us not to celebrate Christmas, though. I know that. But how can we “celebrate” without him? How do we “celebrate” without him?

Doris had a difficult time at the cemetery. It’s really hard to see Jason’s name on a headstone. It’s too much reality, reality your mind doesn’t want to accept. It shouldn’t be him! He’s too young – so much life ahead of him; so much he could accomplish; so many lives to touch with his amazing heart. Such a good heart. Such a good guy.

© 2011 Rebecca R. Carney