Happy New Year 2023

Another year in the books. As a parent whose child has died, I think I look at the year ahead differently than most people. Since Jason died, I feel like I always have somewhere in the back of my mind a dread, a feeling like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something else to go wrong. I used to be naive and believe I was protected or immune from such disaster and trauma. Now I know the most horrible thing I could think about can happen.

The last year has been difficult, much more difficult than I ever could have anticipated. We started off the year with my husband coming down with COVID on New Year’s Eve. Having had a heart attack, he was considered one of the high risk groups and I was really worried when that COVID test came back positive. Thankfully, he recovered very quickly and, after having one day of fever, was out sweeping the patio the following day.

The year proceeded with me losing one of my jobs and accompanying financial adjustments, Joe being required at his job to work outside in really hot weather and getting really sick from being overheated, watching difficult relationship struggles that broke our hearts and feeling unable to help, ongoing health issues. We still haven’t seen our son and his family in nearly four years. Our grandchildren continue to treat us as irrelevant and we are lucky to get a grunt “hello” when we talk to them.

In recent months, I have lost my older half brother and two cousins. Although I wasn’t really close to any of them, it’s still sobering to have those family connections gone. Death brings such a finality to relationships, no matter how close or not you are. The similarities between the death of my brother and the death of my mom were eery and mind boggling. It made me realize that, having died in the shadow of Jason’s death and the deep, traumatic grief I was experiencing, I really have not dealt with Mom’s death. On and on it goes.

As the year proceeded, we were so excited and looking forward to finally having a home of our own. It represented hope, something to look forward to, a place to settle and put down roots for now. It’s been a mixed bag of good and frustration, a process that has been super glitchy and a punch list – six months in – that still is not completed with no end in sight and words/concerns mostly falling on deaf ears. My expectations were not realistic. I guess needed this to be easy and it hasn’t been. I think I wanted someone to be able to see the great pain inside of us of the things we have walked through and help create a place where I can sort through the physical mementos I have had in storage from Jason’s life and put together some things to honor him, a haven where we could possibly heal a bit. No one can actually do that for another person. No one can heal your grief for you. Life doesn’t work like that.

I am thankful for what we have. I like our house and I am thankful for it. I know that there are people struggling and hurting so much more than we are. Although I struggle at times with feeling hopeful, I know there are those who feel like they have no hope whatsoever.

It took me a while took me a while to get into the Christmas spirit. Christmas always hurts my heart. We ordered a new Christmas tree for our new house. It was missing the wall plug when it arrived. They sent a new plug which was the wrong size. Then they sent an entire new tree. We pulled out Christmas decorations and ornaments that we haven’t seen in so many years. I’m not going to lie – putting the angel on top of the tree that was always Jason’s job reduced me to tears. By the time we got the new tree and got it set up, Christmas was almost here and we barely got it decorated in time for our daughter to arrive for a few days to celebrate with us. It ended up being a good Christmas together.

On this last day of 2022, I peer over the edge into the new year with some trepidation. It’s always difficult to think of starting a new year without Jason. It’s easy to sit and reflect, looking back over the years at broken dreams and how our lives would have been so much different had Jason lived. I’ve always been a hopeful, positive person but feel like I’m running out of years and experiencing diminishing hope.

We’re going to spend today taking the Christmas tree and decorations down. We want to set up a small in-home gym area in the garage and will work on that today, too. Organizing, planning and doing the best we can planning for a healthy, good year ahead and hoping for the best.

As always, missing you, my precious boy, with all my heart. Another year without you, but another year closer to seeing you again.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

Happy birthday, precious boy

Jason David Carney – 7/29/82 – 3/3/02

Settling In

We have been in our new house nearly a month now. We are settling in and it is beginning to feel like home. It’s a process that takes longer than one would think.

It’s been super glitchy, much more so than I would have anticipated – last minute rush by the builder to get things finished before we could move in, things needing fixed, delivery issues, etc. Some things have been done, but even now, nearly four weeks in, we still are waiting for several fixes by the builder. Other things we will take care of ourselves or will just have to wait until it can be done.

The window coverings are in but the installer can’t be here for several weeks. Our coffee table won’t be here for a while as it’s on backorder. We have to find a set for the patio and small table for the front porch but haven’t found anything we like or that is affordable. Most of the “big stuff” has been delivered and other things we will purchase as we go along or can afford.

Our progress also has been hampered by some health issues. Joe works part time at a local veterans home and recently was moved arbitrarily to a different job, one that requires working outside in the heat and humidity. Although it was not a move he wanted, he took the change in stride. Joe is a man of integrity and will perform a job to the best of his ability no matter what’s required of him. As a result of this move, he came home overheated nearly every day since then and ended up extremely dehydrated.

He came home one day last week after work, laid down to rest and woke up extremely confused and disoriented. About two hours later, he started to shake all over. When the shakes didn’t dissipate, I took him to the emergency room. They checked him in, listened to his symptoms and health history, told us to take a seat in the waiting area and then we waited. And waited. And waited. About 2 1/2 hours into our wait, we were told that there was an eight hour waiting list and we were way down the line. Because Joe had finally stopped shaking and was so exhausted he could hardly sit up, we went home so he could get some rest (before he was seen by a doctor).

I called first thing in the morning and got Joe in to see his GP doctor. The doctor was surprised the emergency room personnel didn’t see him right away with his symptoms, age and heart history. Joe was still somewhat dehydrated (despite our efforts to hydrate) and they ran some tests. Thankfully, his kidneys weren’t damaged, but he did end up with a secondary infection from being so dehydrated. He has been too exhausted to do too much since then. A trip to the cardiologist to check on his heart was also a priority. Everything looks okay, but he is scheduled for an echocardiogram next week just to make sure and to see why his blood pressure and weight are running low. His energy seems to be improving some day by day, so that’s good.

As a result house-wise, though, most of the responsibility for getting things done and and working on forward progress has fallen on me. My #1 priority has been making sure Joe is okay, though. Everything else is taking a back seat.

The boxes in the garage are slowly – very, very slowly – getting reduced at least a little as things get put away or go to Goodwill. The garbage and recycling guys now wave at us as they pick up the trash and cut-up boxes from our efforts to settle in. We finally got internet yesterday – and it is rip-roaring fast (as a person who works remotely at home, that’s very important). The desk for my office should be here today. We have a few more larger items to buy when we can afford them and then we can work on filling in gaps and putting up pictures, etc. It’s taking much longer to get done that I would anticipated, but we’re getting there. Our neighbors told us they have been in their house for seven months and are still working on unpacking boxes. I guess we are not alone in our efforts. But we are doing the best we can…and we’re getting there.

Our goal is to create a place where we can be at home, a place of healing and hope, a place where we can make guests feel welcome. Hopefully, that is something that we can eventually achieve.

~Becky

© 2022 Rebecca R. Carney

Easter 2022

This is one of the first Easters in a long time we’ve been asked to do anything. Our landlord/neighbor upstairs (we are staying in an apartment while our house is being built) asked us to go to church with her and to join them and their family for Easter dinner later in the day.

We have been alone for so long and are so guarded that it was a big deal for us to say yes. Because of COVID, we don’t really know them well at all. We talked about it some before we responded. It was not an easy thing for us to do.

We – Joe and I – tend to do everything by ourselves any more. We don’t ask for help unless we absolutely need it. We would rather give than receive – financially, emotionally, supportive. When needed, we figure out a way to do everything on our own, if at all possible. We’ve always been independent, but being so deserted after Jason died – and some other things we have walked through during the years – has made us very cautious in relationships. We are not as open as we used to be. We’ve gone it alone for so long that it feels strange to do anything different. It’s hard to make a change.

But being so cautious in relationships can lead to loneliness. Always giving can deplete you so much that pretty soon you have nothing left to give – not even for yourself. It’s not a sustainable way to live. I’ve always thought of people of having a reservoir of energy – whether it’s to work a job, sustain relationships, help people or any number of things that require draining that reservoir in some way. You can only drain from that reservoir so much before it goes empty and you have nothing left to give at all. You have to find some way and take some time to fill up that reservoir, whatever is a meaningful way to do that. That could be any number things that refreshes your soul/spirit and fills up those reserves again. Spending time with a good friend is one way to do that.

Our daughter and I were recently discussing new relationships/friendships. I told her that I have always been of the mind that it takes two to tango, so to speak, when it comes to friendships. There has to be a desire on behalf of both parties to actually want or be open to a new friendship. And it takes the willingness and consistency to make the time and take the effort to make the connection. She is making an effort to be open to new friendships, and I am trying to follow suit. As I said in an earlier post, I’m hoping to make some new friends once we move into our new house. Time will tell.

The wall I have built around myself so I don’t get hurt again is high, thick and strong. It’s been in place a long time. I peer over the top at people and activities, unsure if I want to tear the wall down. It will take a lot of effort and vulnerability for me to do so, something I’m not sure I have the energy to do, energy I’m not sure I have to heal should things not go well. I don’t want to be hurt again. Jason’s death and the ensuing years depleted me in ways I don’t know that I will ever recover. I keep trying – cautiously, but I keep trying.

At times I am comfortable in my fortress – perhaps too much so. But it’s also very lonely. It’s been made lonelier recently by one of my bosses (I had two jobs, two bosses) “restructuring his business” and restructuring me right out of one of my jobs. I still work remotely part time for my favorite boss, so I’m thankful for that. He’s awesome. And we had already qualified for the loan on our home, so I’m thankful for that, too. But it’s been an adjustment to spend so much more time alone and to reconcile to a more limited income.

There are so many things I miss. I miss a more connected life, a more carefree one without the shadow of loss and grief. I miss my one and only best friend in my whole life, Mary. I miss the continuity of our lives. I miss my family. I miss my daughter and son. I wish we lived closer. We’ve missed out on all of our grandkids growing up years. I miss the home and life we had when Jason was alive. He made everything better.

I remember the year all the kids were off to college and my homeschooling days were over. It was a big change for me. I was trying to figure out what to do next with my life. Most of the other homeschool moms I knew were making changes, too, and moving on. One morning, all of the change overwhelmed me and I felt so incredibly lonely and disconnected. (I don’t think I really, truly understood loneliness and emptiness until Jason died, though.) Jason noticed I was discouraged and came over and gave me the best hug to let me know he cared. When he got to school, he sent me this sweet email.

On Easter morning when the kids were younger, I filled baskets with things I had collected and placed them outside their bedroom doors so they would see them first thing in the morning. It was fun to collect fun things to surprise them. I’d scour the stores for weeks ahead of time, waking up super early on Easter morning to put them together. It always included a cute stuffed animal. They’d bring the baskets down to the kitchen table to open together. It was so much fun.

I know that because of Easter and our risen savior I will see Jason again. I am thankful for that. We are doing the best we can in the here and now based on that hope, but we miss him.

Oh, how I miss my boy. Such an incredible young man.

~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

Aloneness

Just a bit of background information to this post, perhaps on the verge of TMI (too much information) – About ten days ago, my doctor diagnosed me with a urinary tract infection and prescribed an antibiotic. The following morning, I woke up chilled and couldn’t get warm. Funny when you have a high fever you feel really cold. I wrapped up tighter in my blankets and went back to sleep.

When my alarm went off to get up for work, I couldn’t seem to wake up. I turned it off and went back to sleep. My husband made coffee and breakfast, but I still couldn’t seem to wake up and get out of bed. I would try to get up and then just lay down and go back to sleep. Meanwhile, my temperature kept going up and up until it reached nearly 103 degrees. By then, my husband couldn’t get me to stay awake and I wasn’t coherent.

Joe called my boss to say I wouldn’t be in to work. He then called my doctor’s office to find out what to do. Poor guy was freaking out. They told him to take me to their urgent care clinic, which he did. With all of the COVID stuff, the urgent care staff comes to the car to check you out before they actually let you in the building. The person checking me out called the doctor over right away after taking one look at me and they immediately sent me to the ER.

Long story short, the UTI had gone up into my kidneys and I was technically septic – not the kind of septic where the bacteria has gone into the blood stream yet, but, rather, a set of criteria (low blood pressure, low oxygen level, high fever, dehydrated, lack of coherence, etc.) that fits that particular medical diagnosis. As each of the doctors kept telling me every time they came in my room, “You were really sick!!” They got me on an IV, oxygen, antibiotic in the IV, tests, scans and then admitted me to the hospital once a room became available.

Thankfully, I responded fairly quickly to the regimen, much to their amazement. They actually kept me an extra day to monitor me and to make sure the progress wasn’t a fluke and that it “stuck.”

I can’t say that I could recommend the hospital I was in. It’s the same one my husband was in when he had his heart attack, but has been bought out by a different company – and not with great results. I felt the staff was pleasant and trying really hard, but that they were stretched thin and overworked. For example, I had a horrible, horrible headache the whole time I was in the hospital. They gave me two Tylenol the first day before I left ER to go to my room. I again asked for additional Tylenol or something to help on the second day, but was told it was not on my charts and they would have to ask the doctor. I understood and was okay with that, but it took five hours (after reminding the staff again) and another half an hour after that to get two Tylenol and an ice pack. It also a long time to get checked in to ER, they took me to a room that had been double booked (already had someone in it), tests and scans took forever as I sat in a wheelchair in a holding room for some machine to free up.

And, I have to say, I would not feed the hospital food to my dog!! I didn’t have much of an appetite at all, but I’ve never been served worse food in my entire life, including meatloaf that looked like it was made up dog food! I was extremely thankful that Joe was allowed in with me – plus, he brought me decent food to eat!!

I am getting better, much more slowly than I would like. Much to my doctor’s chagrin, I have returned to work a couple of hours each day this week, just to put out fires and stay on top of urgent issues. I promised I would listen to my body and go home when I felt tired – and I have kept that promise. Heaven knows, I don’t want to go back to the hospital again!! The thought of the hospital food is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. At least I see forward progress each day.

One thing I realized while I was in the hospital was how alone I felt. Joe stayed with me as much as he could, but at times he had to go home, get rest, and tend to some other things. I kept the hospital room door shut while I was there, as I ended up being a bit noise sensitive after Jason died. Once that hospital room door closed and everyone left, it gave me a lot of time to reflect on things. One of the things that came to the forefront – one of which I am quite aware, but tend to ignore – is how alone we are. Our son is all the way across the country, grandkids that make no effort to contact or connect with us at all, daughter 4 hours away, son-in-law and daughter-in-law who make no effort to really connect with us.

Add on top of that how guarded I am after being burned so many times by people I considered to be friends, it’s no wonder we feel so alone at times. I’m friendly, but I’m not very open at all (for example, I initially actually didn’t tell anyone other than our son and daughter how sick I really was when I was in the hospital) and really don’t make any effort to connect with people any more as friends. I just don’t make friends easily. Never have, and it’s even harder now. It just feels like opening up to make a new friend is an opportunity to get burned again. Most of that stems from how we were treated after Jason died. It’s hard for me to make friends, to be open, and I don’t know how to change that. I’d like to; I just don’t know how. And so, until I figure out how to do that, I will struggle with feeling alone.

I’m not depressed or unhappy; I’m just not really very happy. Everything is tinged with Jason’s absence. Oh, how I miss him.

Joe and I are not ones to sit around. We never have been, but at times it feels more urgent to find “something to do” than it used to. Our daughter calls us “high maintenance.” I think, in my personal opinion, that when we don’t have something “to do,” it emphasizes the emptiness in our lives caused by Jason’s death and resulting trauma. (There’s really no word for it other than “trauma,” is there?)

Staying busy keeps the aloneness, emptiness and ever-present shadow of grief somewhat at bay. “Staying busy” has been a little difficult since my recent illness and the fact that recovery has not been very fast. We’ve both struggled with trying to figure out what to “go and do” that won’t set me back or zap my energy too badly. We’re both restless at times. We have been looking for a home to buy, trying to figure out where we fit and where to move (again). I’m not sure it matters where we move. The restlessness, aloneness, emptiness and grief are inside of us. What we have gone through contributes to who we are now.

It’s ironic that at Jason’s memorial service we played the song “Friends (are friends forever)” by Michael W. Smith. It fit Jason at the time. He was a good friend to so many and valued those friendships so much. I believed that our friends would stand by us, the way we had stood by them and the way Jason had stood by his friends. I can’t even listen to the song any more, because I no longer believe the words or the sentiment – that friends will stay by you forever because you both serve the same God.

I realize that it falls on me to figure this out. I’m just not sure I have the energy to do it. But, I am aware of it and keep working on it. It never ceases to amaze me how long the tentacles of grief are and how much our lives are affected following the death of a child. I’m not sure it ever ends to some degree or other. We just have to figure out how to make it work.

Life would be so different if you were here, my precious boy. I miss you so much.

~Becky

© 2021 Rebecca R. Carney