An Alternate Life

fullsizeoutput_c607My husband and I recently celebrated our 41st anniversary. It hardly seems possible we have been married that long. We look so young, in love, and full of hope in this picture. In our wildest dreams or our worst nightmares, we never could have imaged the journey we have have been required walk these past fifteen years.

As our daughter and I were recently discussing our upcoming anniversary,  I told her that I feel like I should be in my 40’s instead of celebrating our 41st anniversary. The fact of the matter is that, in some ways, I feel that the world stopped and has been somewhat frozen in time since Jason died. I feel like I should be around 46 years old, the age I as when Jason died. It seems like Jenna should be around 17 and Eric in his 20’s. It feels like Jason should be coming home. It feels like Michael should be just little guy,  sitting at my kitchen table playing with homemade play doh. It feels like I should be looking forward to our kids getting married, to the birth of our grandchildren, to being involved in our grandkids’ lives, showering them with love as only a grandma can, taking them on wonderful adventures and making awesome crafts with them. It feels like there are things that are supposed to happen that never will. It feels like the hope I had for the future has changed so much I can’t see it, I don’t feel it. It feels like I am living the wrong life.

Have you ever watched one of those movies or TV shows where the characters somehow get trapped in another dimension or parallel world? Things are similar, but nothing is the same. The trajectory of their lives has changed. The characters know that they are not supposed to be in this alternate world; they know they have to get back to their real, true lives. Throughout the whole movie or TV show, the characters are trying to figure out a way to go back to the lives they are supposed to be living. They just want to go home.

At times, that’s what it feels like to me. I want to go home, one where all is right with the world, where my kids are all happy and healthy. There is an alternate life I should be living, one where Jason is alive and doing all the things he was supposed to do – hanging out with us, graduating from college, getting married, having kids.

It feels like I should be living a life where Jason is alive. It feels like I should be living in a home I love, one that truly feels like home, a home where our children and grandchildren can walk in the door at any time for any reason to a home full of love and laughter. It is a life where a wonderful young lady marries into our family and is so happy to be a part of our family, a young lady who is a wife to our son and mother to our grandchildren, one who appreciates and cultivates a loving and caring relationship between the family of his childhood and the family of his adulthood.

It is a life where I am connected, one full of family and friends, instead of a life of aloneness. It is a life full of joy and happiness, instead of one always with a shadow of grief. It is a life where I feel truly alive, instead of where part of me is missing. It is a life of hope for better things ahead, instead of one with intimate knowledge that none of us are immune from pain and disaster.

I am living the life I now have to the best of my abilities, this life left to me after the death of our precious son. I live and love and work, but it still doesn’t seem like this is really, truly my life. It is a paler shade of world than the vibrant one that used to be before Jason died. I am a paler version of the person I used to be.

After Jason died, someone gave me a note that said the world was a little less bright now that he was gone. Jason was pure sunshine – loving, caring, kind; an awesome son, brother, friend, person. How could this world be anything else but a pale version of the one that used to be?

You read about or hear bereaved parents say that, after a child dies, they feel like they should wake up from this nightmare. The horror of that nightmare fades some as time goes by, but it never truly goes away. It softens into a recognition that this alternate reality is now the one we have to live. The world we previously knew is gone. We can never go back to the life that once was, the world that once was. I miss that world. I miss my life. I miss my boy.

© 2017 Rebecca R. Carney

This entry was posted in Death of a child, Grief, Jason David Carney and tagged , , , by Rebecca Carney - One Woman's Perspective. Bookmark the permalink.

About Rebecca Carney - One Woman's Perspective

My name is Becky Carney. My husband, Joe, and I have been married for 44 years. We have two living children, Eric (41) and Jenna (36). We lost a baby in utero at 19 weeks in 1987. In 2002, our middle son, Jason (19), and his best friend, Alina (20), were broadsided by a drunk driver who was going at least twice the speed limit. They both died instantly. This blog is written from my perspective as a bereaved parent. I don't claim to know what it's like to walk in anyone else's shoes. Each situation is different; each person is different. Everyone handles grief differently. But if I can create any degree of understanding of what it's like to be a parent who has lost a child, then I have succeeded in my reason for writing this blog.

11 thoughts on “An Alternate Life

  1. Hello Becky, Your words are so true and you put it beautifully “living in the shadow of grief”. I feel I can only be my authentic self with other parents who have lost children. It has been 12 years since losing Danielle, and it still seems likes yesterday. I have made a new friend in the last two years and she has lost her only child. We share good and bad times together. I love your posts and your wedding photo is truely beautiful. Lots of love, Janice xx

  2. Sending prayers, love and hugs to you and Joe as you celebrate your wedding anniversary. I wish the life of your dreams had come true. Thank you for sharing your story and for showing the world how to persevere through the “for worse” part of the wedding vows. God bless you.

  3. Life is indeed a paler version of our others lives. Like a piece has been amputated. The pain of our missing “limb” is always there. Take care. Not the life you or I envisioned when we were young, but light and laughter still can bloom in the darkness.

  4. That is such a sweet picture, Becky. I’m going to share your post on Indescribable Journey. It is so raw and aching.
    Grief doesn’t “go away,” but it can ease and transform into something else. I remember during the first decade of my loss – I gave up hope that I would ever feel whole again. It took such a long time, but now I am grateful, because I am not in that aching place I was for so many years. I pray that will happen for you someday. I say this to give you hope that it is possible not to feel like life is a bad dream to wake up from.
    I have a line in one of my songs: “Everything that I have gone through, led me to this place…”
    I am not bitter about the years swallowed by grief because now I am in a very elevated place of healing. It is beautiful and I appreciate every moment of my life. That is a miracle because I remember hating to wake up each day to face the loss of my child.

  5. I just finished reading this.. on my own parents’ 49th wedding anniversary. Happy Anniversary to you and your husband..
    I am so sorry for your loss of Jason. I have not been in your shoes; I have far too many friends and relatives who have lost one or more children.
    (I have.. hopefully temporarily.. lost my oldest son due to estrangement, which is obviously nowhere near the same as losing a child to death. Definitely a loss to be be grieved, wutha strange open-endedness to it.. Forcing some kind of acceptance of the Present just as it is).
    Sending out lots love and wishes for peace & comfort for your broken hearts.
    Thank you for sharing your experience, thoughts, and feelings with the “general public.
    I do believe we are all connected in some way, shape, or form.. And that one of the very positive things about the Internet is being able to share so much more easily with our fellow human beings, and feel/see our connections with one another. 💞💞💞

  6. Thank you for your beautiful post. How in love you both look in your photo. I agree with a lot of your words it just feels life is just not the same anymore since my Órla passed over and I don’t feel it ever will again. I’m glad you and your husband are still together and celebrating your 41st anniversary xxx

  7. Pingback: “A Date Which Will Live in Infamy” | Grief: One Woman's Perspective

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