Random thoughts for the day – Expectations

Too many times lately I’ve heard myself saying, “He who expects nothing is not disappointed.” I guess it’s supposed to serve as a reminder to myself not to put higher expectations or my own expectations onto someone else. Since my expectations sometimes can be a little higher than is realistic, it’s a way of lowering my expectations to meet reality.

I’m a person who sees both sides of the coin, was taught that it was better to turn the other cheek than to fight. I have a long fuse and give people way more chances than is probably healthy for me. I hang onto relationships long after they are over.

After Jason died, it wasn’t too long before nearly everyone we knew disappeared and we were left mostly alone. With our extended family thousands of miles away, we truly expected our friends to fill in those gaps. It just didn’t happen and we were alone a lot. At the time, I made excuses. I lowered my expectations. We were difficult to be around, I told myself. It wasn’t easy to know what to say to us or what to do when we really didn’t know ourselves what we needed. I tried so hard not to make people uncomfortable. I said to myself many times that my head understood but my heart just didn’t understand. My head kept trying to tell me that it was understandable, but my heart was breaking. I tried to reason myself into understanding why people acted the way they did and to try to be okay with it.

As a personal standard, I try to do what’s right. I try to do a good job at whatever I am doing. I try to notice those in need and help out without fanfare or acknowledgement. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?

But isn’t this a two way street, too? Shouldn’t we ALL treat each other the way we would want to be treated ourselves? Shouldn’t we expect people who profess to care about us to actually CARE about us…and show it by actually doing something, by following through on their words? Do actions meet words for the ones who profess to be Christians, send a card with a religious sentiment, put a hand on your shoulder to pray for you or hug you but then don’t actually do anything or don’t act with integrity? As a person who has a strong sense of fairness, this just doesn’t add up for me.

They say nice guys finish last.

They say the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

I am not a squeaky wheel kind of a person. I am not confrontational. I usually internalize things and try to deal with it myself. If I do anything at all, I would rather calmly communicate, trying to help the other person see where I’m coming from while also listening to their side of the issue to (hopefully) come to a mutually-beneficial resolution. It’s not as easy as it sounds and rarely works out that way. It takes two people equally willing to work together and actually listen to each other’s point of view…and then actually DO something to fix the problem or address the issue.

I’ve never been a person who likes other people to see me cry. The person who cries openly and more easily seems to be the one people gather around to comfort. Or do people just disappear and avoid the griever entirely? I’m not sure. Perhaps if I had been more able or willing to show my grief, to publicly grieve, we would have had more support. I don’t know. People who didn’t see me flat on the floor, crying so hard I physically didn’t have the strength to stand or even sit, would tell me that it was okay for me to grieve. No one saw that…nor would they want to…nor would I want them to. If your child dies, people call you brave. I’m not brave. I never was. I just didn’t wear my grief on my sleeve; it’s not easy for me to be open and ask for help.

One day early on I was so worried about Joe that I did something very uncharacteristic – I asked for help. I emailed people we were closest to prior to Jason’s death, asking for support. No one responded at all. Not one of our “Christian” friends, people we considered extended family, showed up in response to my cry for help. Those types of things have had a lasting impact on me. I don’t trust easily. I don’t make friendships easily. From experience, professing Christianity doesn’t mean a person is going to do the right thing or is someone I can trust. I totally realize we’re all human and make mistakes and fail miserably, but sometimes you’ve just got to show up.

I would have to say that some of the people who I remember most clearly as showing up are people who I would not even know if they professed to be Christians. Joe’s boss who flew up from California to be with us – an extremely busy guy who simply showed up for us. The doorman at the Westin who genuinely asked Joe nearly every day how he was doing. The Westin manager who offered us employee rates so we could get away for a bit at a time when we didn’t know how to carry on. The officers investigating the accident, especially the one who told me he wanted to do such a good job that it would make Jason proud. The officers who took time off work to show up at the sentencing hearing to support us. The firemen who came to Jason’s memorial service. We were not close to them and had no expectations from any of them. We haven’t seen or heard from any of these people for years, but we have never forgotten their genuine kindnesses and how they showed up.

I consciously have been trying to let my guard down, to reach out to people, to make friends, to trust people again. It has not been easy. We have had a couple of situations recently where we specifically made the decision to step out side our comfort zone and trust someone else with decisions that have had big, lasting impacts on our lives. A couple of them have not gone well and our expectations have been lowered so much we practically had none left at all. It has cost us in the long run – money, trust, hope.

And, so, once again, I find myself telling myself, “He who expects nothing is not disappointed.”

But, shouldn’t we be able to have expectations of others, especially those who are in expected trust situations? Shouldn’t we expect people to have integrity, to keep their word? Shouldn’t we expect Christians to at least try to act like Christ? In practicality, how far does the “faith without works is dead” theology actually go? Shouldn’t we expect people who profess to care about us to show up when we need them and to do the right thing? Should we have to keep lowering out expectations until we have none at all, no trust at all in that person?

I include myself in this. Have I been dependable? Have I shown up when it was difficult? Am I a person of my word?

I consistently remind myself that I am responsible for no one’s actions but my own, just as everyone else is responsible for their own actions. This is the important thing. I am the one that will have to stand before God some day when all my actions (hidden or unhidden) are revealed for everyone to see, just as everyone else will have to. I do believe that there may be a great cloud of witnesses cheering us on as we run with endurance this race called life. At least, that’s what I was taught in church. If nothing else, I’m sure God sees and knows all.

I’m running as best I can, but I get tired. I get frustrated. I get sad and lonely.

I was thinking recently about the story of the carpenter who had worked hard all of his life building houses, making a quality product but was never able to afford a home of his own. He was tired of working and decided to retire. His boss asked him to build one more home. Reluctantly, the carpenter agreed but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t build with his typical quality of workmanship. When the house was done, the boss surprised the carpenter and gave the home to him as his own. He quit too soon. He let his integrity slip because he was weary in well-doing.

They say integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching. I suppose our “great cloud of witnesses” could be watching even if no one else is.

Jason had more integrity than any person I have ever met. I want to live my life so that I can make Jason proud. I want to keep persevering until I see my wonderful boy again. I look forward to and long for that day.

I love you so much, my boy. Oh, how I miss you.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

Moving

We have moved into our new house and are doing our best to make it feel like home. I looked at Joe the other day and said, “We are no longer storage unit dwellers!!” While unpacking boxes that have been in storage for so many years, we have found things we had forgotten we had.

As we ran across the box that had Jason’s hats in them, both Joe and I stopped to hug each other. I know they are just “things,” but when I look at them, I picture Jason wearing them. They seem so empty without him in them. Such a classy guy. We miss our boy.

It has had its glitches – completion, delivery and installation issues, things that need to be fixed by the builder or that we will do ourselves, internet not available for 4-6 weeks, realizing how many more things we need to get, etc.

One good thing about having very little of our own when we bought the house is that most everything is new. The flip side is that having to buy everything at the onset gets expensive. We will have to work at some things over time, just like we did when we first got married and started our lives together. A new beginning.

As have said previously, I have not felt “at home” anywhere since before Jason died, but we are giving this all we’ve got. I want to find a way to honor Jason in our new home, something special. I’m not quite sure what it is yet. He is always in our hearts.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

Mother’s Day 2022

It started this morning with a hug from Joe for Mother’s Day. I was holding together pretty well until then. We ended up sitting on the couch, holding each other with both of us crying. We miss our boy so much. Joe looked at me and said, “It’s just not fair.” One lesson we have learned well is that life is not fair.

It never ends. It never goes away. The grief, the reminder of broken dreams, the longing and empty arms. Most days we get up, carry on, keep on doing the best we can. We are thankful for what we have. But there are times when it hits us like a ton of bricks. And right now it hurts.

Sculpture “Melancholy” by Albert György, on display in Geneva, Switzerland

Then – Jason, Downtown Snohomish

Jason on his 17th birthday

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

Brokenhearted Mother’s Day

As Jason’s favorite classical piece, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, came up on Pandora this morning, I found tears welling up in my eyes and I started crying. I am just so brokenhearted. Another Mother’s Day without Jason. Another Mother’s Day with no family close by. I miss my boy so much. He made everything so much better.

Mother’s Day is another stark reminder of his absence, a reminder that I wish I had treasured every single moment so much more than I did, a reminder of all we have lost. We take for granted our kids will be around for the rest of our lives. We take for granted we will have another chance to make more memories, to share more hugs and celebrate holidays. Even after 20 years, there are days when I just don’t know how to do this life without my boy. Mother’s Day is one of them.

I guess Mother’s Day exposes those cracks in the facade I try so carefully to maintain and to hide, allowing a bunch of feelings to flood to the surface. Mother’s Day just really gets to me. We’ll be alone again this Mother’s Day. I know that I am still a mother even though Jason died, but I feel so incomplete and empty. I wish I could skip Mother’s Day entirely and wake up on the other side.

I miss you, my beautiful precious boy. My Mr. Sunshine. You made me happy when skies were grey. I love you with all my heart.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

We see you. We care.

As many of you may have seen recently, a young girl in a bomb shelter in Ukraine has caught the attention of millions of people around the world for singing a song from the Disney movie “Frozen.” What an amazing thing to watch. It really puts a face to the Ukraine people and what they are going through. My heart just aches for them.

Young girl singing Disney “Let It Go” in Ukraine bomb shelter

The writer of the song, Kristen Anderson-Lopez, and the actress who sang the song in the original movie, Idina Menzel, responded to the young singer. Kristen Anderson-Lopez wrote, “My husband and I wrote this song as part of a story about healing a family in pain. The way you sing it is like a magic trick that spreads the light in your heart and heals everyone who hears it. Keep singing! We are listening!” Idina Menzel wrote, “We see you. We really, really see you.” This just really struck a chord with me.

Now, I’m not equating the loss of a child with what the people are going through in Ukraine. Not by a long, long shot. They are entirely very different situations. But, it crossed my mind that there is a lesson that can be learned from this particular exchange that can apply to the loss of a child and many more traumatic situations in everyday life. It’s about acknowledging that person and their loss or the circumstances of the trauma. It’s saying in some way, “I see you and I care what you are going through.”

A bereaved parent doesn’t want advice. It’s not about the words you say. They want someone to see them, someone to acknowledge what they are going through, they want someone to care. They want someone to remember, to acknowledge the tough days without prompting, to see the unspoken pain and unshed tears.

They want someone – either by their presence or spoke words – to say, “I see you. I really, really see you. I care.”

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

20 Years

“And can it be that in a world so full and busy the loss of one creature makes a void so wide and deep that nothing but the width and depth of eternity can fill it up!”

— Charles Dickens

Jason David Carney

7/29/1982 – 3/3/2002

I feel like I should be able to write something really profound about walking this difficult path of grief for twenty years. I’m not sure I know what to say.

As the ten year anniversary of Jason’s death approached, I wrote a couple of blog posts about the things I felt like I had learned in those ten years. In re-reading them, I feel like they are still good suggestions:

A Few Things I’ve Learned in the 10 Years since Jason Died

and

A Few More Things I’ve Learned in the Ten Years Since Jason Died

Perhaps a few more…

Grief never ends. Very early in this journey (just a couple of weeks after Jason died), I went to a Compassionate Friends meeting for mothers whose children had died. Although they were not particularly helpful to me, one thing has really stuck with me over the years.

As the meeting began, one gal started sobbing, saying it was the one year anniversary of her daughter’s death. Most other people surrounded her and comforted her, seeming to understand what she was going through. In my lack of grief experience, my thoughts were, “It’s been a year. Isn’t she over it yet? Shouldn’t she be doing better?” As I look back, I’m ashamed of my reaction. My goodness, did I have a lot to learn!! I was starting on a similar path to the one she was on, but I had no idea how long and hard it would be.

I’m sure there are people who look at me and think, “It’s been twenty years! Isn’t she over it yet? Shouldn’t she be doing better?” To them I now would say, “Deep grief is the price you pay for deep love. You don’t just ‘get over it.’ Grief never ends.” As you walk the path of grief, the burden lessens somewhat over time, but you also get stronger and more adept at handling the weight of grief. (I hesitate to use the word “stronger,” as it may give the wrong impression of bereaved person being stronger than normal when all we do is try to find a way to survive.) But it never goes away.

Their friends and other people move on. The world doesn’t stop. Kids the ages of our kids who died keep on growing and their lives change. They grow up, go to college, get married, have kids of their own. No matter how much we wish the world would stop while we grieve, it doesn’t.

I’m not gonna lie. It’s a little difficult at times to hear other people talk about their grown children’s accomplishments, the most recent grandbaby, the blessings for which they are so grateful. Please, please, please don’t misunderstand me. I’m truly, honestly, genuinely happy for them, but I get a twinge of wishing it could be me, too. I wish Jason had lived to experience those things, too. Jason was a great student and would have gone a long ways. He would have made a terrific employee. He had a wonderful, loving heart that would have made a great husband and father. I was so much looking forward to seeing what he would accomplish, to seeing him married to the girl he loved, to having his kids run around our house.

Both Joe and I absolutely adore little kids and we were so looking forward to being grandparents. Yes, we have three grandchildren, but through circumstances beyond our control, those relationships have not developed into what we would wish. Most days it doesn’t seem like we have a relationship at all. It breaks my heart. It takes effort, encouragement and a desire for a relationship by all parties, especially when long-distance relationships are involved. I really tried to keep/establish connections when we left, sending “care boxes” for nearly every holiday and stuff like that. It’s hard to do. We wanted to be connected to our grandkids, even though we were not close any more. What do you do when so many of your dreams turn to ashes? I have no answer to that one.

You’ll still have sad days and you’ll still cry. I guess this goes along with the whole grief never ends thing, but I’m talking about days – particularly around “event days” such as birthdays, holidays, etc. – when you are just really sad. I’m talking about times when you just have to cry – not the silent tears running down your face, but sobs that come from the heart.

People who have not lost a child will have a hard time understanding. People will always say dumb things or tell you things like they understand your grief because their dog or great-aunt or whoever died recently. They will be thoughtless, like my boss did this afternoon when he proceeded to tell a client who was standing at my desk about his friend who recently almost died in a car crash. Yes, today of all days. He did apologize later, but it was difficult to listen to him at the time.

You’ll look at things differently. Both Joe and I have a really hard time listening to parents who crab at their children for something or other. It’s usually a small thing, like the kid isn’t listening to the parent in a store and the parent gets frustrated and starts ragging on the kid, yanking them down the aisle. It’s particularly awful to hear some parents berate their kids over something small. I would just like to say, “Stop and think a minute. If your child dies, is this – your actions or reactions at this moment – something you’ll regret?”

I wish I could go back and change so many things. It’s easy to be frustrated when you’re running late and trying to get three kids out the door to someplace or trying to get them to do their chores or whatever it might be. But, if I had it to do over again, I’d let some of the things I thought were important go. Because, looking back now, a lot of what I thought was so important at the time just isn’t. I’d play that extra game instead of rushing around to get dinner ready. I’d read that extra book at bedtime. I’d cherish every minute. I didn’t know I’d run out of time to make those moments count. I didn’t know I’d run out of the opportunity to make memories that included Jason.

Easy, carefree moments unshadowed by grief are not the norm any more. Yes, there are moments of fun and joy. I have found, however, that Jason’s absence and the cloud of grief are not too far away, especially on holidays and special occasions.

One other thing that I have struggled with – and still do – is the concern that something is going to happen to another family member. Once you have lost a child, there is a deep understanding that no one is immune from the death of a child. Never in my wildest nightmares did I ever imagine that a drunk driver going more than double the posted speed limit would broadside my son, killing him instantly.

I try not to worry when our daughter drives the four hour journey from her home to ours and back again. I try not to worry that my husband will have another heart attack. I try not to worry about our son and his family with all of the violence and shootings that seem to be pervasive close to where they live in the Seattle area. I pray for their safety, but, then, I prayed and prayed for the safety of my family before Jason died, too. I don’t think I’ll every solve my crisis of faith here on earth. I’ll always have questions about why God didn’t protect Jason. I don’t pray for as many people as I used to. I don’t tell people, “I’m praying for you,” unless I really mean it. I don’t have that absolute confidence any more that He hears me. It’s more like a wish or a hope that He does.

You will always miss and love your child. I miss Jason. I wish he were here. I miss his smile, his hugs, his beautiful giving spirit. It’s not easy.

I miss you, my precious boy. I can’t believe you’ve been gone twenty years. I am heartbroken and can’t stop crying today. You are missed. You are remembered. You are loved.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

Trepidation

March 3, 2022 is just around the corner, really only a couple of days away – the 20th anniversary of Jason’s sudden departure from this world. I can tell the day is getting close, as I can every year. It’s like I have an internal clock that reminds me, even though I don’t intentionally remind myself. I don’t need a calendar. I feel it in every fiber of my body.

All of a sudden I feel like I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe. I want to escape somewhere or to run to some place, but I have nowhere to go. There is no place without the pain of grief. Or a song comes on and tears spring to my eyes. This is generally not uncommon for me, but it happens more so this time of year. My emotions are much closer to the surface – not only grief, but all kinds of emotions. My patience is short, I am more easily frustrated or on edge. Out of the blue, I find myself incredibly sad. Situations that occurred during that time in our lives come to mind more often, even in dreams.

I dreamed the other night that two people – a gal in our homeschool group that I considered to be a friend and her daughter who was a friend of our daughter – had decided that they needed to write letters to me to apologize for the way they had acted when Jason died. They kept trying to give me their letters, but I was still so hurt by their actions (or lack thereof) that I was unwilling to read them. At the same time (in my dream), our landlord – the one who so unceremoniously kicked us out – drove by. His vehicle was full of other homeschool people we knew. With our landlord being the loudest, they were all leaning out the windows and yelling over and over, “I’m sorry!!!! I’m sorry!!! I’m sorry!!!” And then I woke up.

Over the years, I have worked hard on forgiveness, even though with one or two exceptions there have been no apologies, no acknowledgement of anything. At the lowest and most vulnerable place in our lives, we were left so alone for a lot of the time. I have written about some of what we all went through, but I am not at liberty to share all. I have to keep my mind from going to certain places. If I want to (and even sometimes when I don’t really try to), I see things that happened during that time so clearly in my mind and can step back into that time so easily. I don’t want to be a bitter person. I’ve read other bloggers who talk about incredible support. I’m happy to hear about bereaved individuals who have support, but, as you know if you’ve read any of my writings here, that necessarily wasn’t our case. It’s been a long, rough journey. There have been some kindnesses, to be sure, but a lot of loneliness and a lot of residual secondary losses/grief.

We watched a movie the other day called “Free Guy.” It’s a comedy starring Ryan Reynolds, who plays a character in a video game. It took a little while to get into the movie and decide whether we liked it or not, but, in the end, we enjoyed it. As we were watching it, I kept thinking, “Jason would really like this movie.”

Jason liked playing video games, even learning to play his favorite game of chess on an Atari game console when he was little. In college, he took a video game programming class. His professor wrote to me several years ago, saying he still had a copy of the game Jason developed and got it out once in a while to play it. It’s nice when people remember…and tell us about it. They say moms – family members, too – are the keepers of the memories.

I’m looking forward to getting our things out of storage when we move into our new house. We don’t have much left. About half of what we have in storage are photographs and momentos. My goal is to put together a scrapbook in memory of Jason – things that I saved from his time here on earth. Swimming awards, Awana Bible memory awards, things he’s written, pictures he drew, photographs, little everyday things that represent who he was. They are poor substitutes for Jason himself, but they are what I have, along with my memories.

Oh, my precious boy. I can’t believe you have been gone twenty years. I’m so incredibly sad you aren’t here. I miss you so much and I love you without end.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney