When memories are all that are left

I uploaded this photograph on Monday, Jason’s birthday, as my profile picture on Facebook. Every time I see it, it’s as though he’s looking right at me, ready to reach out and give me a hug. I miss Jason’s hugs. I just want to reach out, pull him close, hug him so tight and never let him go.

The photograph was taken when he was 14. I loved his beautiful, curly hair at this age. He stood right between childhood and manhood, with one foot in each. He would still playfully plop down on my lap as I sat on the couch, yet he still wanted to get a summer job to earn money like a grownup.

I wanted to keep on making memories with this awesome son of ours, but that’s something I will never have a chance to do. Whatever memories I have are all I have left. They will never be enough.

Missing you, precious boy.

Jason David Carney 7/29/82 – 3/3/02

© 2019 Rebecca R. Carney

Memories

I’m going to be honest. This is a really rough time of year for me. Tomorrow is the anniversary of Jason’s and Alina’s deaths at the hand of a drunk driver.

 

“Anniversary” is such an out-of-place word to use when talking about the death of a child. “Anniversary” is usually used in conjunction with a happy occasion. If a person says, “It’s my anniversary,” there is an automatic assumption that that person is celebrating the number of years he or she has been married. It’s a happy occasion commemorated with dinner and gifts and congratulations.

 

I know people use the word “anniversary” when talking about other things, too, though. 9/11. War events. Floods. Mud slides. Not every anniversary is celebratory.

 

For the first couple of years, I hated the 3rd of every month, beginning with that first March 3, 2002. It marked a horrifically agonizing, lonely, and excruciatingly painful time – Jason had been gone one month, two months, three months. At the two year mark, I sort of switched to years. Two years, two and a half years, three years. It sort of reminded me of the way I marked the ages of our kids when they were little – giving their ages as so many months and then switching to so many years. Instead of marking the celebration of life, it marked the number of agonizing days we had walked the earth without Jason.

 

Jason has now been gone 17 years. I can’t believe it’s been that long. It seems like forever ago…and yet yesterday. I still tend to rebel against even the thought of it. I remember that day as clear as a bell, every single thing. My heart is still so broken. I know that this whole experience has changed me in so many ways. I miss him so much. Grief lasts as long as love does – forever – and we will forever have a Jason-sized hole in our lives. He had so much of life to live, so much to give. As one friend said, “The world is a darker place without him in it.”

 

I hope you will take time to remember Jason and Alina tomorrow, the lives they lived and the people they were. We, their families, are the “keepers of the memories.” I’m sure each and every bereaved mother or father would say that one of their greatest concerns is that their child will be forgotten as the world moves on without them.

 

If you would like to honor Jason tomorrow, you could play a game of chess (Jason’s favorite game), bake and share some chocolate chip cookies (Jason loved to bake chocolate chip cookies), give someone some flowers (Jason generously gave flowers to those he loved), share an act of kindness (Jason was the most kind and loving person I have ever known), be nice to a stranger (Jason knew no strangers), hug your family and friends tight (Jason gave awesome hugs), listen to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata or Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s “A Mad Russian’s Christmas” or many other songs he loved.

 

Julie Lindsey, a homeschool mom, generously gave and prepared a scrapbook for Marie and me. She asked us what we would like in them. I had asked that the scrapbook contain photos I didn’t have and written memories about Jason from those who knew him. It just happened to be around the time when people were writing victim advocate statements to present to the court for the sentencing of the young man who killed Jason and Alina, so most of the efforts went to writing letters to the court. I am very thankful for those who wrote to the court and have copies of all of those letters. It was a lot to ask for at that time.

 

Whatever memories and photographs we have of Jason and Alina are the only ones we will ever have. There are no graduation, wedding, birth of children, holiday celebrations or any other memories or photographs we will ever have of Jason past the date of March 3, 2002. The opportunity for additional memories and photographs died right along with Jason, along with his future. In our minds, Jason will forever be 19 years old.

 

Thank you for taking the time to remember Jason and Alina. We appreciate it.

 

~Becky

© 2019 Rebecca R. Carney

February 13

 

My dad died 31 years ago today. It was not unexpected, but that did’t negate the feelings of finality of such a death. Although I had had several months to get used to the idea that he was dying (he had gone in the nursing home in August of the previous year after several strokes), it still felt like a shock to me. Seeing my dad in that coffin took my breath away, just by the pure realization of finality right in front of me. When someone dies, you no longer have the opportunity of resolving differences, creating new memories, or just sitting and talking. Everything you had together was in the past; there is no future with that person.

I’m a lot more like my dad, personality-wise, than I am my mom and I was closer to my dad than my mom. I tend to be independent, stoic, never ask for help. My sister is more emotional and relational like my mom was. Jason was a lot like me.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my dad today. I wish my kids had had a chance to know him better – maybe a younger version of himself before he was so ill. They were quite young when he died. They really would have loved really knowing him. We lived a long way apart, so we didn’t get to see them much. Distances are hard on establishing or maintaining close relationships.

I have written about him before: https://onewomansperspective02.wordpress.com/2012/06/17/happy-fathers-day/ and https://onewomansperspective02.wordpress.com/2015/06/21/lost-in-thought-on-a-sunday-morning/

I think one of the most encouraging things that happened since Dad’s memorial service was when someone found my blog online and posted the following comment:

Dear Becky,
When I was young in the early 1970′s, my father would take me fishing and hunting with him in Wyoming. We spent lots of time around LaBarge Wyoming. On Sundays, as we drove along beautiful rivers and streams near the Salt River Range and the Wyoming Range, my dad always found ‘The Singing Knudsens’ on the radio. I believe it was KMER, the radio station out of Kemmerer. We thought you guys were great. I remember thinking how brave you must have been to sing on the radio. I think about those times a lot because I was very close to my father. Those were such incredible times. I was just thinking about LaBarge, my dad, and listening to the Singing Knudsons. I searched the internet and found you here. I have three sons of my own now. I was truly heartbroken when I read your story. I can not imagine losing one of my boys. I wonder if I could even survive it. You and your family will always be very special to me. I wish happiness and love to you and your family always. Thank you for bringing much to mine.

Sincerely,
Peter

I was so thankful that he took the time to share these memories, even though it was so many, many years later. A fellow blogger, Melanie DeSimone, recently wrote a post entitled “Child Loss: Helpful Tips for Interacting With Bereaved Families.” One of the tips was: “It’s never too late to reach out. NEVER.” So true. No matter how many years it had been, it was so nice to hear these memories of my dad and for Peter to let me know that he remembered.

Let people know you remember their loved ones. It could mean the world to them.

~Becky

© 2019 Rebecca R. Carney

Christmas

Christmas 2001

Jason and Alina, best friends

Jason David Carney

7/29/82 – 3/3/02

 

I miss you, my precious boy, more than words could ever say this Christmas Day and every day.

© 2018 Rebecca R. Carney

Memory Quilt

When we lived in Oklahoma, I started making a memory quilt. I pulled it out last week to start working on it again. Even though I have lost so many things that meant something to me in our many moves, I somehow managed to keep pieces of leftover fabric from my family of sewers – from my grandma, my mom, my own sewing from jr. high on, my sister’s sewing (my wedding dress, Easter outfits for Jenna, etc.), Jenna’s sewing, etc.

I have pieces of fabric from one of the first dresses I ever sewed for myself, pajamas I made when the kids were little, shirts I made for the boys and dresses I made for Jenna. I have a piece of fabric from a robe I made and wore in the hospital when Eric was born. I have scrap pieces from shirts my grandma made for herself and from dresses and shirts my mom made for herself. In my mind, I can picture each and every article of clothing and the person who wore it. I am supplementing with fabric I’ve purchased that triggers a memory for me – a piece of fabric with pictures of chocolate chip cookies (because Jason loved to make chocolate chip cookies), video games the kids used to love, chess pieces (Jason’s favorite game), math quotes, etc.

Jason’s senior picture, taken by Jenna, by the Snohomish River

Jason – Downtown Snohomish

One thing I terribly regret is not keeping more of Jason’s clothing. I’ve talked before about feeling pushed to go through his room before I was ready and how I would do things differently if I knew then what I know now. I kept a couple of shirts, his letterman jacket, a sweater and a sweatshirt he wore all the time. I have a Halloween costume I made when Jason was little, a white tee shirt and one with the Pillsbury dough boy that he loved. I’m not sure I actually have the courage to cut them up to put into my quilt. I also have a couple of Jason’s hats that he loved as a little boy.

Eric and Jason – Halloween

Jason didn’t have a lot of clothes and, even though he was a tee shirt kind of guy, he always looked classy. He loved dressing up in three piece suits, white shirt and tie, dress slacks and a vest, a tux and his top hat, white gloves and cane for extra-special occasions. I have his hats and gloves, although the cane was lost somewhere along the way.

Then – Jason, Downtown Snohomish

This week I sat hugging his letterman jacket and crying. It’s a tough time of year for me, this approach to March 3rd. Hugging a coat is a poor substitute for hugging my boy.

Jason David Carney – 7/29/82 – 3/3/02

Missing you, Jason. I love you.

~Mom

© 2018 Rebecca R. Carney

 

Too much time on my hands

I came down with that nasty flu bug a week ago. It hit me hard and then went into pneumonia. About the only place I have been out of the house for the past week has been to go to either urgent care or to the emergency room. It’s left me totally miserable, with barely enough energy to take a shower some mornings. Add on top of that that I had “ice pick” headaches nonstop in addition to a horrible “regular” nonstop headache for the first five days, it’s about put me at my max. (Ice pick headaches are just what they sound like – horrible, sharp headaches that feel like someone is hitting your head with an ice pick.)

My husband and I are not ones to just sit around the house. We like to go and do things. We don’t watch tv during the day. Because I grew up without a tv until I was in high school, I max out on tv fairly quickly. But, because of being so sick, let’s just say there’s been a lot of sitting and laying around the house on my part. I’ve been napping when I felt tired, which I suppose is what I need to do, but it’s messed up my sleeping schedule some. I’ve been waking up at night and my mind won’t shut off.

Last night, I woke up thinking of Jason. Not that he’s ever far from my thoughts, but the pictures and vignettes of things we used to do played clearly in rapid succession. My cuddly little baby boy. High energy toddler. Determined little guy. Loving hugger. Oh, how I wanted to step back into that time and hold that little guy in my arms. I started crying and couldn’t stop.

Oh, how I miss you, my boy.

~Becky

 

© 2018 Rebecca R. Carney

Arby’s

As a junior and senior in high school, Jason participated in a program called Running Start. Running Start is a program in Washington State offered through the public school system where a student, as a junior or senior in high school, can attend a local community college or university and receive both high school and college credits at the same time. Jason had about topped out of what I could teach him and what the homeschool community had to offer as far as classes, and so we decided it would be the next logical step in his education.

The classes Jason took the first quarter were not offered at consecutive times – he had a couple of classes certain mornings of the week and one class a couple of evenings during the week. We lived 20-30 minutes away by car (nearly an hour on the bus) from the school with no good public transportation close by, so one of the things we had to work out was a way for Jason to get to school.

At the time, we had a Volkswagen Eurovan. Jason had had his permit to learn to drive since he was 15 and a half, but didn’t have his driver’s license yet at 16 years old. I had taken him out several times for lessons on the VW, but it had a manual transmission with tricky clutch. That first semester of college, he had a lot on his plate. He was beginning a new level of higher education going to college at 16 years old, working part-time in a local hardware store and tutoring math students through the homeschool co-op. For some reason, on top of everything else, dealing with the tricky clutch while learning to drive was just a bit too much for Jason at the time. He took everything he did with great responsibility, including the responsibility of operating a motor vehicle. After a couple of lessons of clutch frustration, he decided to put off getting his license for a little while until he felt he was ready to learn to drive.

The closest bus stop for public transportation was several miles away, so, on the mornings he had classes, I drove Jason to the bus stop and then picked him up again when he was done. He would hop in the car and immediately turn on the radio or pop one of his compilation CD’s in the van’s CD player, and off we would drive to the bus stop, both of us humming or singing or rocking away to some song or another. Jason liked a wide range of music from classical (his favorite piece was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata) to a band named Collective Soul to contemporary music to Christian music to Christmas music. Whether or not it was anywhere near Christmas, we would blast Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s Christmas album “Christmas Eve and Other Stories” over the van’s speakers, bobbing our heads in time with the beat of “Sarajevo” or “Mad Russian’s Christmas.”

I decided to sign up for a continuing education evening class at the same college that first quarter of Jason’s Running Start. That way, I could drive Jason to his class so he wouldn’t have to ride the bus at night for nearly an hour each way, and I could learning something new at the same time. Quite often, he and I would leave early enough so that we could stop and eat at Arby’s on the way. We would order their 5/$5 special, and then sit and munch on curly fries and roast beef sandwiches, talking about whatever was on our minds. He loved Arby’s and I loved spending time with him.

I don’t go to Arby’s any more hardly at all, just because it’s too hard. But, I found myself craving an Arby’s sandwich yesterday, so I stopped by for lunch. I ordered a roast beef sandwich and curly fries. As I started to eat, my eyes filled with tears and I had a hard time actually eating what I’d ordered.

The food didn’t taste as good as I remembered, but the memories of my time with Jason eating at Arby’s are clear, strong, wonderful and so very bittersweet.

Oh, how I miss you, my boy.

~Becky

© 2017 Rebecca R. Carney