07 July 2004
Marybeth O'Mara
I approached the anniversary of Carrie's dying with dread and weepiness, and, while it was difficult, it was bearable. A year ago, I would not have imagined that any part of this journey could be bearable and yet, here we all are, with our own joys and accomplishments to celebrate and our own demons with which we struggle.
We managed this day as we have managed every other moment of our grieving--surrounded by family and friends and the very best support system one could hope for. Many people joined us for 7:45 mass at St. Nick's, and for breakfast afterwards, which reminded us of the hundreds who turned out for Carrie's wake and funeral last year. We have felt loved and embraced every moment and, while there are steps that we each must navigate alone, the awareness that there are people willing and able to walk with us at any point is a comfort that cannot be diminished. Years ago, I came across a definition of "compassion" that I liked and that I used to guide my caregiving of my own mother in her final years--Compassion is the willingness to get close to pain. I have been amazed and blessed by all the people who have demonstrated genuine compassion to our family, both during Carrie's illness and in the year since her death, people who could have turned away and did not.
My memories of Carrie continue to unfold, almost like a tape rewinding. At first, I could not think back to before she was sick and in pain, but over the months, memories of her grade school years and toddlerhood have begun to seep in around the edges. She was a radiant child with, as Nora likes to say, a "picture-perfect" smile. She was not always easy to get a handle on, because she liked to hang back and figure out the landscape of new experience before she let herself become fully a part of it. I keep remembering times in which her will turned steely--giving up her blankie at age 3, writing a letter to her science teacher in fifth grade, giving up meat at 13--and I see the roots of the strong and brave woman she became.
I am so sad that I cannot watch her become even more comfortable in her skin, even more engaged with life, even more excited at her siblings' accomplishments. She would have loved sharing Luke's move to Seattle, Scott's lead in Oklahoma, Nora's mastery of piano.
A year is just another mark aloing the way--it does not signify the end of anything of substance. It is certainly not the end of grieving the loss of Carrie, nor the end of the lessons she taught us about living and dying, or about the importance of family and friends, and about being true to yourself.
I miss her to my very core.