My husband and I visited Charleston for the past few days. Charleston is where our daughter and son-in-law live, and we are considering Charleston as a possibility for a place to live. We need to be near family, near people who care about us.
It’s different visiting a location when you are just on vacation, as opposed to when you are thinking about living there. Joe wants to buy a house. He’s tired of renting. So am I. If we do buy a house, this will probably be the last one we ever buy. We have to decide if Charleston – or any place, for that matter – is a place we really want to spend the rest of our lives.
We miss our family. We miss our daughter. But we can’t decide on a place based solely on a city she now lives. If they decide to move some place else based on jobs or whatever, will that place stand independently as a place we want to live?
Charleston is expensive. I don’t know if we can afford to buy a house there, one that’s close enough to our daughter to warrant moving, leaving my current job, trying to find another one. My boss’s “business restructure” gives me questions about my job security, but at least I have a job for now. Is it wise to move and try to find a new job in the midst of a pandemic? We have no choice but to move. We just don’t know where. I long for a place to call home. I haven’t really had one for a very long time. I’m not sure there is such a place for us any more, at least not here on this earth.
It’s a scary world to me right now, one with no certainties. The world looks unkind, one where we have been betrayed by people we thought we could trust and who cared about us. The world was such a more beautiful, kind place before Jason died. He made it that way for all of us.
While visiting our daughter, the conversation one morning somehow rambled around to discussing the time after Jason died and the people who were in our lives then, people we trusted and who disappeared or were not kind. We don’t talk about that time much. It’s just too painful. When we do talk about it, we still shake our heads in wonder at how we were treated at that time. People probably think I exaggerate about it, but I don’t. I – we – have kept much of it to ourselves entirely.
I had a meltdown last night. After unloading the car following our trip back from Charleston, my husband stubbed his toe hard. It was like the tipping-point pain that put us both in tears. Pent-up frustration and wounded-ness came pouring out. We just stood in the living room, hugging each other and sobbing. I worry so much about the stress this is putting on my husband’s heart. He is such a good, kind man. He deserves to be treated better than this.
As I walked in the bedroom, my Nixplay had somehow automatically started to play while we were gone. Photos of Jason played, one right after the other. I bent down with my elbows on my desk and watched the photos go by. “I miss you, my precious boy,” I said as tears streamed down my face. The world was so much a better place before Jason died. I miss that world. Our world changed so much the minute he died. It has never been the same. I have never been the same. My husband and our daughter have never been the same.
We have no answers to our questions. Today is another day and we rise to keep on trying – trying to keep our heads up, trying to figure out where to live, trying to keep a good attitude, trying to take care of ourselves as best we can. I am off to work to try to do the best job I can do. That’s all we can do.
© 2020 Rebecca R. Carney