73. Little Connections for a Big Cause

The Grassbaugh Veterans Project

http://www.giveto.osu.edu/grassbaughveteransproject

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.  To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother's words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world."

~Mister Rogers

When I was in Washington, D.C. a few months ago for the wedding of Jon's best childhood friend, I made an appointment to have my toes and nails painted at a nearby salon.  The salon was owned by a man named Patrick who, as it turns out, is a Patriot Guard rider and the proud grandfather of a brand new Private in the United States Army.  As we continued to talk a little more, I discovered he was not only a Patriot Guard Rider, but also a member of the Arlington chapter of the organization.  When I pulled out a photo of my beloved Jon, he recognized his face and said he remembered Jon's funeral.  As he explained to me, the Patriot Guard Riders are shown the picture of every Soldier whose funeral they protect from protesters.  Seeing a Soldier's face brings life to the Patriot Guard's mission.  It makes each Soldier mean far more than just a name.  I pulled out one of the funeral cards I keep in my purse with Jon's picture on it and told Patrick he could keep it.  He held it close to his heart and thanked me - in his words, that little piece of paper meant the world to him.

In light of the terrible events in Connecticut that have shaken the nation over the past few days, I have a new- found appreciation for unexpected connections like these that bring a smile to my face.  They shed a little light on a world that often seems full of darkness and doom.  Those same protesters that showed up at my husband's funeral plan to picket at the funerals of the twenty children who were killed on Friday at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Although I cannot begin to understand why such greed for attention plagues the individuals in this hate group, I thank men like Patrick who fight back against such evil and make the world a slightly better place.

These little connections are also what I'm counting on to make a big and meaningful cause into a success story.  On what was otherwise a dark and somber day for so many families, I officially founded the Grassbaugh Veterans Project.  The timing may seem a little off, but I had several people tell me that they felt the need to do something good on what was otherwise such a terrible day, and they thanked me for the opportunity to contribute to this cause.  I pray it will bring a smile to the faces of those who so desperately need a little joy in their lives.  In lieu of Christmas cards and presents this holiday season, I ask for the help of family and friends in spreading the word about this cause.  In doing so, we can perpetuate Jon's legacy of selfless service, help those who deserve it most, and maybe - just maybe - bring a small beacon of hope into what can often seem like an awfully bleak world.

For more information on how to help, please visit http://www.giveto.osu.edu/grassbaughveteransproject

72. The Captain Jonathan D. Grassbaugh Memorial Clinic

"The angels are always near to those who are grieving, to whisper to them that their loved ones are safe in the hand of God."
~Eileen Elias Freeman

During a trip home from Washington, D.C. a few months ago, I was at Reagan Airport for an early morning flight and, as usual, I had packed too much stuff.  As I checked my heavy bag in at the ticket counter and then hoisted it up onto the screening belt, I was struck by a sudden sense of deja vu.  I've been here before, I thought.  This all seems incredibly familiar.  It was in that moment that I remembered lifting a similar bag up onto the very same conveyor belt over five years ago as I prepared to leave D.C. after Jon's funeral.  On that trip, I felt weighed down - both physically and emotionally.  Leaving my husband's body behind was hard enough; contemplating what on earth to do with the rest of my life seemed unimaginable.  A proverbial brick of fear and apprehension sat squarely on my chest.  My bag was heavy and full, only instead of clothes and shoes, it contained things like a wooden flag box, a folded American flag, and a plastic container full of all the birthday, Valentine's Day, and Christmas cards Jon had ever given me.

This time of year is full of moments like these. To say that the holidays are rough is an understatement, especially since Christmas day of 2006 was the last day I saw my husband alive. Every year I look for new things to do and new traditions to make the season a little more bearable. I realized as I braced myself for this year's festivities that this is the first year since I lost Jon that I've been truly alone on Christmas. In other words, I'm not in a relationship, I'm not reeling from the realization that the very thing I thought might bring me happiness was really just causing more pain, and I'm not on the brink of jumping into the dating world. It's just me. Damn...that's scary to write down on paper, much less think about all the implications inherent in such a stark reality.

Given the trepidation with which I face the blank slate of my future, I've recently taken a giant leap of faith and thrown myself into something I hope will bring me some fulfillment while also helping others in need. Over the past few years, I've undertaken several small projects in my husband's memory. My family and I award an annual scholarship to a Johns Hopkins University ROTC graduate and to a middle-school student in the town where Jon's mother is now the principal. We helped to push a bill through Congress to name the post office in Jon's hometown in his honor, and we donated funds to purchase a new optic telescope at the Phillips Exeter Academy Observatory where he worked as a student. Last year, we also funded a Public Interest Legal Foundation fellowship here at The Ohio State University. As I mentioned, however, these projects have all been relatively small in scope. The latest project I've proposed will remain faithful to the kind of public service endeavors I feel passionately about while breaking new and innovative philanthropic ground. In other words, this project will ultimately expand the scope of the Jonathan D. Grassbaugh Memorial Fund and take our community outreach efforts to a whole new level.

Best of all, this project will be all about the heroes who have given all and receive so little in return: our nation's military veterans. Although I've volunteered with surviving family member support groups and organizations over the past few years, the problems facing veterans also cause me much concern. In the state of Ohio in particular, there is currently a great need among low-income veterans for assistance with a wide range of civil issues ranging from landlord-tenant issues to disability claims. As a result, the Legal Aid Society of Columbus is overwhelmed by a caseload that requires specialized knowledge and expertise, and there is also no central location to which Ohio's 900,000 veterans can go for help.

This is where I come in. Since this community has already given me so much in preparing me for my future career, I want to do more to give back while I'm still here. I want to found a clinic to provide veterans with much-needed legal assistance. Although I'm yet to embark on any major projects of this size and scale, the time has come for me to take on an endeavor that, if successful will truly leave a lasting impression and perpetuate my husband's legacy of selfless service. It will take a lot of work, fundraising, and support, but if my recent meetings with members of the Columbus legal community are any indication, the support is there. There is simply a need for a passionate, emotionally-invested advocate with "boots on the ground," so to speak. And I think I can be that person.

My latest meeting with law school administrators and the Student Development office was incredibly encouraging; we've reached about a 70 percent solution in structuring the program to meet the needs of veterans while simultaneously offering students the opportunity to provide hands-on legal assistance to those most deserving of our help.  I can't imagine a better manifestation of the value Jon placed on both education and service, and I look forward to the coming weeks and months of continued progress.  I'm proud to report that we're now well on our way to creating the $500,000 endowment that will allow this initiative to exist into perpetuity.  In the words of a wise woman, "the older you get, the more you realize there's just one thing that matters - happiness."  I can't have the kind of happiness I long for and envisioned with Jon, so instead I do the things I think he'd be proud of, like founding this clinic.  I can't have Jon, but what I can do is provide others with the kind of help they need to live the kind of life Jon and I dreamed of sharing together.  

After I long day of meetings about the clinic this past week, I lit four holiday candles - one candle for grief, one for courage, one for our memories, and one for our love.   I sensed Jon's presence in the warmth of those four tiny flames.  It let me know I'm doing the right thing by pursing causes greater than myself.  The results of these efforts will, I hope, ultimately touch others and provide them with a little light in times of darkness.  I'm just one person, but with the right vision and the requisite support behind me, I will strive to be the kind of person the veteran community needs.  In the words of one of my favorite national non-profit organizations, "if not me, then who?"  The holiday season is indeed rough.  This is, however, the best Christmas gift - short of Jon - I could ever ask for.

My 4 holiday candles for my beloved husband, Jon. Cheers to the love we shared and for the beautiful life he gave me. It is truly an honor to call myself his wife ♥ 

71. The Last Full Measure

When President Lincoln died from a gunshot wound on April 15th, 1865, his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, received messages of condolence from all around the world. She attempted to answer many of these messages personally. To Queen Victoria, who suffered the loss of her husband four years earlier, she wrote:

"I have received the letter which your Majesty has had the kindness to write. I am deeply grateful for this expression of tender sympathy, coming as it does from a heart which from its own sorrow, can appreciate the intense grief I now endure."

Almost exactly 142 years after Mrs. Lincoln penned these words, I too discovered the meaning of that "intense grief." I became a widow and a member of the club to which no one wants to belong. People ask me all the time what they can do or how they can help. Honestly, I don't really know. Maybe just let me talk about Jon instead of getting all quiet and uncomfortable whenever I bring him up? Try not to make me feel so awkward when I tell our stories and share memories of the time we spent together?

Realistically, though, there's no way to fix what's broken here. I miss him. All the time. Everything makes me think of him. So unless someone figures out how to resurrect the dead, there's only so much they can do or say. It's particularly frustrating when people tell me to "call if I need anything." In an ideal world, I'd probably take up just about anyone on that offer. On the rough nights, I'd love to to call up my friends and tell them I've had a bad day. More often than not, though, I don't pick up the phone and I don't call anyone because I'm a self-conscious, blubbering mess. The intensity of my emotions always makes perfect sense in my own mind, but when I try to explain these feelings out loud to others, the words come out sounding hollow and strange.  I don't want to be "that friend" - the needy girl who's always sad and in tears because her husband died.  So I often keep my tears to myself...or hold them inside and fight like hell to keep them there.  And yet, despite all this, I know I'm still better off now than I was when I tried to bury my grief in work and unhealthy relationships.  Those distractions didn't solve anything, besides protracting the inevitable heartache. Ironically, my decision to quit following everyone else's advice on how to be happy again is one of the best decisions I've made since the day I was notified of my husband's death.

President Lincoln once advised that we "put [our] feet in the right place, then stand firm."  I've done plenty of tap-dancing around the right place since Jon died, but I think I've finally settled where I need to be.  It's where I should have been all along, and now that I'm here, I plan to hold my ground.  This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend a special screening of "Lincoln," a film based on the final four months of the President's life.  For as long as I can remember, I've been a huge Civil War buff, so the screening was a highly anticipated and exciting event for me.  In fact, one of my fondest memories is of traipsing around Bentonville Battlefield with Jon in North Carolina.  We'd passed the site countless times before, and on this particular day, he turned to me and said, "hey babe, let's stop and check it out."  I loved him for indulging my nerdy fascination with military history and for giving me the gift of that experience.  I loved him even more for getting excited about our discoveries together on the battlefield.  We were the only ones there that day...and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Appropriately, the "Lincoln" movie began and ended with some of Lincoln's most famous oratorical words.  On November 19th, 1863, President Lincoln gave a two-minute speech to commemorate the thousands of Soldiers who died four and a half months earlier on the outskirts of a little-known town called Gettysburg.  The words he uttered that day have become imprinted on the very fabric of our national identity.  When we consider the profound simplicity of his words in light of their monumental meaning, it's easy to understand why:

"In a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground.  The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.  The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.  It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.  It is, rather, for us to be here dedicated to the great tasking remaining before us - that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Jon, baby, I'm so sorry it had to be you.  I'm sorry you had the give the last full measure of devotion for our nation's freedom...but I know you wouldn't have it any other way.  Within a few short years, you lived a full life.  You died for the motto non sibi - not for one's self - and it is by this same moral code that I'll live out the rest of my days.  I promise, no matter how many of those days there might be, that I will do my best to finish your work and advance the noble causes to which you devoted yourself with such passion.  I promise you will not have died in vain.  As President Lincoln so eloquently put it, although my words will fade in time, the things you did here will never be forgotten.

70. The Extra Mile

"What is it like to lose your best friend, your soul mate, your everything? Your world just comes crashing down, you lose your life, you lose everything that ever mattered to you. My husband was only [insert age]. I am [insert age]. It took me [insert years] to find him, and I thought my life finally had meaning. My life finally had what I was searching my whole life for. We had a perfect life together that people only dreamed of. People would look at us and say how perfect we looked together. People used to say, when they thought of true love, they just pictured the relationship my husband and I had. People used to tell us that looking at us, they knew that true love soul mates really do exist. All they had to do was look at me and my husband. It was like we were a greeting card for Hallmark for true love soul mates. Our lives were complete. 

~I am Too Young to Be a Widow, LibertyBell (February 24th, 2009)

I think if one more person tells me I'll find love again, I will scream and throw a full-blown temper tantrum. I already had - and lost - the love of my life. He was my soul mate and my best friend. In short, my everything. And now he's gone. Forever. Why can't society just accept that sad reality, devastating though it may be, instead of telling me I'm "too young" to make the kind of life-altering decisions that others my age are fortunate enough to be making with their husband or wife by their side? I was also too young to become a widow, and yet here I am. The older I get, the more passionate I feel about advocating for the perspective that has come at the cost of losing what I love most.

After a particularly grueling and emotional day this past week, I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to the sound of something tapping on my window. My bedroom is on the third floor and there are no trees outside my window, nor was there a strong wind that night. My puppy heard it too - she jumped out of bed and started barking at the noise. It's times like these that I know Jon is still with me. And it's times like these that remind me of how impossible it is to open my heart when I'm still deeply in love with my husband. Enough with the "he would want you to be happy" stuff. Please - spare me. I've been dealing with all of this for five and a half years now. And yes, I know he'd want the very best for me. That's what happens when you love someone. He told me himself that if anything ever happened to him, he'd want me to continue to live my life to the fullest. But that's a lot easier said than done. He also didn't want to die. He wanted to experience a long life and rejoice in all the plans we'd made for the future. It's not so easy when you're the one who's left behind to live that life without your soul mate. It literally makes me sick to my stomach when people encourage me to "move on" and "find love again." I'm simply not ready, and I don't know if I ever will be. I tried going down that route and obviously it didn't work out so well. If anything, I felt I was somehow betraying my husband, even though I know that's technically impossible.  Like it or not, it's simply not something I want right now. Ironically, while the clock may be ticking on the one hand, society also tells me I'm also "so young" and have "so much life left to live" on the other. So I'm going to work on being happy just being me for a while. There's a big difference between being alone and being lonely because I miss my husband.

A few weeks ago I attended a conference in California to learn about entrepreneurial ventures from an inspiring - though somewhat eclectic - group of speakers. All were experts in their chosen fields. One man had created a renowned mentoring program and soccer league for refugee children in California. Another woman fled Afghanistan during the Soviet War and has since returned to her homeland to investigate the infamous opium trade. Members of the Occupy Wall Street movement discussed the challenges they've faced, while the author of the best-selling book What Color is Your Parachute? spoke about measures of success in hunting for jobs given the current state of the economy. All of these speakers came together in the redwood forest, high up in the mountains of Loma Mar, California, to encourage those of us in the audience who have faced personal adversity. Their words were powerful and reflected the wisdom and insight that can only come with knowing perseverance on an intimate level. As one speaker put it, "there is no traffic on the extra mile."

Before the daily slate of speakers got underway, I spent the early morning hours trekking through the forest on a long hike, and as I walked, I thought about the direction my own path has taken and how, lonely though it might be at times, it's worth every inch of the discomfort and sorrow because it's my path and no one can take it away from me. While everyone else might be doing what life has deemed right for them, I'm doing the extra mile because I believe that extra mile is worth all the blisters and sweat and tears of the work it takes to complete it.  Not only that, it's also worth the sacrifice my husband made to send me down this path. The extra mile may be long and it may be hard, but it's mine. As my brother-in-law told me after a particularly difficult and emotional talk, I should be proud of just being myself - he told me to just "stay being Jenna," and that that's all he could really ask for.  And as the conference taught me, nothing that's extra is ever easy. So no matter what others might say, I'll continue to meander my way down the only path I know. It's extra long and extra hard. But that's ultimately what makes it worth it - extra worth it.

69. A Little Misty-Eyed

"The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and inheritance of a great example." 

~Benjamin Disraeli  

"Because of you, I can." 

~The American Widow Project

This Veteran's Day, I woke up with the taste of my husband's lips still fresh on mine. My mind was numb with disbelief and yet my body tingled from the intensity of the sensation. In my dream, Jon and I were finally reunited in either this life or the next - it doesn't matter. All that matters is that I held him in my arms for what felt like forever. It was glorious. Then, as if in slow motion, I wrapped my legs around his waist and savored in the closeness of his heartbeat against mine. When I finally pulled back and opened my eyes, there were tears streaming down his cheeks. I kissed him, almost desperately, three or four times, relief pouring over me at the sight of his beautiful face. Jon rarely shed actual tears - he'd get "misty-eyed" at particularly sad movies, but that was his limit. So this was the only second time I'd ever seen him cry. The first time was within a few weeks of his death, and it too was in a dream as real as this one.

And then I woke up - in a strange bed and in an unfamiliar city.

Luckily, I wasn't alone. My bed-mate, another military widow, lay there sleeping beside me. "Snoring" always sounds so negative, so let's just say she was "purring" gently. This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to share a life-changing experience with group of nine other broken-hearted widows. Seven of us are widows of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan; three are 9/11 widows. All of us came together to help to rebuild one of the many houses in New Orleans that was destroyed seven years ago during Hurricane Katrina. The owner has been without a place to call home since then, but, thanks to the St. Bernard Project, she and her family will soon return to a completely refurbished house where they can begin the process of building new memories.

Our little group listened carefully to various safety briefings and then got to work on taping, sawing, hammering, insulating, and prepping for drywall. As we worked diligently (and apparently performed the rare task of volunteering on a Sunday - Veterans Day), we listened to an eclectic mix of country music and '80s classic hits, laughed at silly stories of our husbands, and snapped pictures of the new friends we'd known for only a few hours but with whom we'll share a common bond for a lifetime. I also discovered I have a new love in my life - a love of power tools. I felt empowered as I sawed through sheets of plywood and two-by-fours and smiled to myself as I felt warmth of Jon's presence. As I washed the sweat and grime off me at the end of the day, I knew I was fortunate to be surrounded by such good, selfless people and I felt for the first time in a while like I'd actually accomplished something meaningful. Like all good things, the weekend came to an end too soon; Dorothy once said that there's no place like home, but I was definitely more than a little misty-eyed on my flight back to Ohio. I'd probably modify Dorothy's mantra to something more like "there's nothing quite like a group of women with a passion for the men they've lost and a commitment to the life they have left to live."

I always laugh when I tell people that Jon and I would never have kissed for the very first time if not for a little liquid courage. Every time I kissed him after that first night was a gift for which I will forever be grateful. Sometimes I wonder if the memories of those kisses will be enough to last me for an entire lifetime, but every now and then he comes back, albeit fleetingly in my dreams, to remind me of how it felt to be in heaven on earth. With the help of some lovely ladies, the raw reality of those feelings seems far less overwhelming, and I feel less alone. I can't imagine doing anything other than exactly what I did to commemorate this past Veterans Day. Throughout the entire weekend of shared fellowship and hard work, the tears of both joy and sadness flowed constantly among the ten members of our little group. It might not have been the stuff epic movies are made of, but if Jon had been there, I think he might have been willing to make an exception to his general no-tears rule.  At the very least, I can imagine him up there in Heaven nodding with approval...and maybe even getting a little misty-eyed too.

68. Who Are You?

"I will love you - and only you - until death do us part."

If you think about it, this is really a pretty crappy wedding vow. "Until death do us part" is awfully vague. What happens when death does do us part? Love transcends the grave. Life ends; love doesn't. So what happens to the person with so much love left to give and no love of their life to give it to?


If there's one thing I've learned throughout this process, it's that people have an overwhelming desire to fix me and tell me that I'll be happy again. They tell me that the happiness will be "different," but it will happen one day. Being happy again, in society's eyes, means "finding someone else." But why? What is so wrong with loving one person forever, even when they are no longer here? Even when I ventured into the dating world, my heart always belonged to Jon. You don't tell a parent who has lost a child that they'll find another child, so why do we tell widows and widowers that they'll find another spouse? It's not like shopping for new pair of shoes when the old ones wear out.


This tendency to assume that happiness - or, at least, satisfaction - has to come from another relationship is something I've certainly been guilty of myself. As I've discovered, I do have a lot of love left to give. But maybe it's just not in the cards for me to have that love come in the form of another amazing man. I already had my one great love - the love of my life. I've been a lot of things, but I've never been selfish enough to assume that I deserve two in one lifetime. Does that make me sad? Yeah, it does. But maybe I can prove to society that adopting a child and channeling my energy into philanthropic outreach projects will sustain me until the day that Jon and I are reunited. Love doesn't really conquer all - death ultimately wins every hand in the game called life. And yet this in and of itself is a double-edged sword, for it wouldn't be this hard or hurt this badly if I didn't love him this much. You don't just get rid of the symptoms of true love and expel it from your system like some temporary illness.


I hope the book I read this summer titled "Heaven is For Real" is right. It tells us that this life is just a drop in the bucket. There's so much more waiting for us on the other side of the sorrows in this world. I think that sometimes when I voice these sentiments, people get all worried and assume I only believe those things because I want to see Jon again. Obviously I want to see him again. But it's more than that. In order to survive life here on earth, I need to believe there's something more. A friend once told me that although he can't understand exactly how I feel, he can certainly appreciate how different my perspective must be when the person I love is already waiting for me on the other side. And that's exactly it right there. Like I've said before, I'll see him again. Just not yet.


In church today, the title of the sermon was "Who Are You?" In the back of my Bible, the glossary of terms defines widow as "a woman whose husband has died." As I read those words over and over, I consciously told myself that I am so much more than this. I am a dedicated wife, a heart-broken lover, a passionate advocate for our nation's heroes, and a proud Soldier. Not one of these things defines me. All of these things define me. I am not just a woman whose husband has died. I am a woman who has seen more in twenty-eight years than many people experience in a lifetime, and I am a woman whose love for my husband lives beyond the grave. My love for him is endless, timeless. To feel this way is truly a gift, though a bittersweet one. No one can take this away from me because it's not just what defines me - it is me. And although it might not fit with popular sentiment, I won't apologize for it. I want to scream it from the rooftops. No, make that the mountaintops. I am me! I am in love with a man who is gone but never forgotten!


"Jonathan" is defined as "God's gift." That gift is unconditional and without equal - a real version of the kind of gift that keeps on giving. I can't imagine my life - or my identity - without the wonders of this gift. For I am here. Here I am! And he is always with me.

67. My Generation

"The Soldier, above all other men, is required to practice the greatest acts of religious training - sacrifice.  However horrible the incidents of war may be, the Soldier who is called upon to offer and to give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind.
~General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, May 12th, 1962

When 9/11 happened, I wasn't just a kid.  I was a senior in high school, about to turn eighteen and officially become an adult.  The next year, as a freshman in college, I joined ROTC and began my military career.  In terms of my commitment to the program, I'd passed the point of no return by the time we invaded Iraq on March 19th, 2003.  This is why it frustrates me now to no end when people emphasize the fact that the current war is being fought by an "all-volunteer force," as if this somehow makes it more okay when bad things happen over there.

It's an all-volunteer force...but so what?  

Does that make the sacrifices of those volunteers mean any less?  There is no relative scale for self-sacrifice, and, if anything, volunteering to put oneself in harms way should make it mean that much more.  The force that constitutes today’s military is unlike any other form of volunteer work or duty in existence.  It is, in the words of General MacArthur, among the noblest developments of mankind.  In my words, I don’t care what it is you’re doing – unless your job here at home involves getting shot at every day or travelling along roads where people routinely get blown up, there’s simply no comparison.  That is not to say, by any means, that every person who serves deserves some sort of medal – there are a handful of individuals with whom I’ve served that I’m embarrassed to call Soldiers in the United States Army.  But they are the exception and not the rule. 

The fact that it is an all-volunteer force just makes the people who quietly resent the military's "privileges" and benefits seem even more ridiculous – the option of signing up is open to all those complainers in the same way it was open to me, to all those who came before me, and to all those who've chosen to sign on the dotted line over the past ten years.  For me, at least, it was never about the money, the benefits, solving violence with violence, or even the ability to do all the fun stuff, like jumping out of airplanes and shooting big guns.  Even the fun stuff comes with the price tag of a whole lot of suck and waiting around on someone to tell you what to do next.  And don’t get me started on the deployment thing.  We all go over there, knowing full well it could be us who doesn't get to come home alive, but discounting the probability and believing instead that we will be “okay.”  All we want to do is put our heads down and get through whatever it is we have to do so we can get back home to our families and away from the place that’s overshadowed by death at all times.  It’s not fun over there and it’s not supposed to be.  To call it a job is like the understatement of the year.  No, make that the century.  The E-3 Private First Class on the front lines may be getting paid…but his meager $2,000 a month paycheck is hardly enough to justify him coming home to his wife and newborn baby in a wooden box.   And therein lies another great paradox of inequity:  never before have the debts of so many been paid by so few.  When I observe the self-entitlement of some members of my generation, I literally feel sick to my stomach and have to physically separate myself from the situation.  Again, those individuals are the exception and not the rule, but it's funny how one or two bad apples have the ability to sour the whole batch.

Call me old-fashioned (or maybe even a little boring?), but this lack of patience with my own generation is what contributes in part to the respect and appreciation I have for my grandparents' generation.  By chance, I ended up having drinks and dinner a few nights ago with three wonderful people who've been around for long enough to know what matters most in life.  I've never met them before, but one of them - a man named Randy - literally could not stop crying and hugging me as I told him my story about Jon.  He took pictures of the photos I carry with me in my wallet, wrote down our names, and toasted to my sweetheart.  He also invited me to stop by the restaurant anytime for a glass of wine - he promised he'd be there and would be honored to hear more of my stories about the husband whose absence in my life and home never seems to get any easier.

Just a couple of weeks before this unexpected surprise,  I was fortunate enough to be in the presence of some of the greatest and most patriotic men and women I've ever met:  veterans of the Vietnam War.  As a local representative of the American Widow Project, I attended the reunion banquet of the Tan Son Nhut Association at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.  A slight mix-up in the start time meant my cousin and I were a little late, which, considering it was a military event and all, didn't bode too well for the rest of the night.  However, things improved ...and quickly.  I approached the chapter president to thank him for having us and he immediately insisted on announcing Jon's name to the entire room.  As he listed the dates and place of Jon's death, he asked me to stand up and be recognized, and then the entire room followed in a standing ovation.  I was beyond touched...and, of course, in tears.  The Association also presented me with a coveted unit coin, which I am honored to be able to add to my collection of military coins.  The entire experience was truly the modern version of magical.  It made me prouder than ever of my sweet husband, whose sacrifice allowed me to experience such gratitude and kindness from complete strangers.

At the banquet, I knew Jon was right there with me.  While eating dessert, a nut from my brownie escaped and somehow made its way down the front of my dress.  My first thoughts were great, just what I need...but only moments later I had to laugh as I remembered the story about the hot brass going down the front of my shirt back in 2003.  I realized this was just Jon's way of encouraging me to smile, even in the midst of an incredibly emotional event.  What more can I say?  Jon was one of those special members of my generation who gives me hope for the future.  His sacrifice was the most selfless act a person could possibly perform, and his love for me was endless.  I hit the husband lottery.  It doesn't get much better than that.  

66. Arm-in-Arm

Mom (in response to the death of her son's dog):  He'll always be in your heart, honey. 

Son:  I don't want him in my heart.  I want him here with me. 

~From Tim Burton's Frankenweenie

When I made the decision to join ROTC at college, I had this silly, romanticized image in my head of meeting a cute Army guy and walking arm-in-arm together through campus - him in his uniform, of course, and me in a pretty little sundress with the perfect pair of shoes.  I never anticipated what ultimately ended up being a far better reality - that I'd find myself in some of the grungiest and most unattractive situations of my life and, in the process, that I'd meet my soul mate.  A good friend of mine from high school (and one of my bridesmaids at my wedding) told me that besides the obvious emotional connection, Jon and I even looked like we were made for each other.  She said she could see us having beautiful children one day together...and that those children would undoubtedly bring out the best parts of both of us.

At Jon and I's wedding in 2006, Jon's brother, Jason, was the best man.  During his speech, Jason poked fun at his little brother, which, of course, made Jon mad in a friendly, brotherly, I'm-going-to-kill-him later kind of a way.  Jason said that he had known I was a keeper when we all went to the pistol range in December of 2003, and, in the process of shooting at my target, a piece of brass managed to find its way down the front of my shirt.  Hot metal on pale, sensitive Scottish skin doesn't feel too good, so I immediately put down the weapon and turned towards the back of the room to remove the piece of brass with as much dignity and poise as I could muster.  So much for the dignity and poise.  My future father-in-law, Jason, and Jon all laughed at my ridiculous efforts to get rid of that piece of brass without undressing in front of all of them.  After an episode like that, I always knew Jon must love me for a whole lot more than just my looks and lack of gracefulness.

As I avoided writing a miserable paper for law school the other day, I found myself surfing the web to find out how to insert a missing person into a photograph.  It was just a silly Google search, but it made me reflect on how strong the urge can be to jump back in time to when my favorite, current photographs always included my husband.  Sometimes I swear I can still feel his touch.  I'll dream about him, feel his lips on mine, and I want to stay there in dreamland with the man who made my silly dream possible back in college and who promised me we'd continue to walk arm-in-arm into the future.  Cliche or not (being that I'm from Scotland and all...), one of my favorite movies is Braveheart, and although the first time I saw it was long ago, there's this line during a dream William Wallace has about his late wife that always brought me great sadness as I tried to imagine how a man who has lost the love of his life might feel.  Now that I know how he felt, I'd really like to go back to just imagining it:

"Murron's ghost:  William, you must wake now.
William Wallace:  I don't want to wake.  I want to stay here with you.
Murron's ghost:  And I with you...

I think I've become pretty good at what I call "the transference of sadness."  It's probably just a coping mechanism, a way to dull the sharp sting of losing my soul mate since my heart can only take so much of it at once.  I call it the transference of sadness because that's essentially what I'm doing when I cram my schedule full of events and activities and work.  It's what it means for me to focus on other things that are less real and seem less personal, like the movies I've loved for years that I can watch over and over again while letting my mind drift to thoughts of something else for a while.  And yet, in the end, all my favorite movies always manage to hit a little too close to home for comfort.  Braveheart is a good example.  Gladiator is another.  Gettysburg.  The Green Mile.  Black Hawk Down.  P.S. I Love You.  Same thing with Forrest Gump.  Why is it that all the best and most brilliant of movies always involve a good person losing someone they love more than life itself?

Jon and I never had the chance to have those children my friend said would be beautiful and look just like us.  For some reason, people think that this somehow makes it easier for me since I can focus on my own grief and don't have to look into the face of a child who represents a constant reminder of what I've lost.  Yet, what they fail to understand is that I'd give just about anything to have to drag myself out of bed every morning and live my life to the fullest for the sake of a little one with my husband's beaming smile and his crooked, Roman nose.  I'd even picked out a name already for a little girl if and when Jon had one in the future:  Nicola (pronounced Nick-oh-lah).  It used to be a pretty popular name in Scotland, and although most Americans mispronounce it, I love that it's so different and requires you to pause and think for a moment.  I know I'm biased, but I guess I always assumed that any child Jon created would be like that too - he or she would be brilliant, inquisitive, and, just like Jon, would cause people to pause and think for a moment about the world and way they see it.

When my dream of children with Jon didn't come to fruition and I first found myself facing the prospect of many long, lonely days ahead, I rescued a two-year-old dog from an animal shelter on what would have been our wedding anniversary.  I named her Nicki.  Nicki is now about seven, and although she can be a little annoying sometimes, she's a sweetheart and just wants to be loved.  I think she's also grateful to have a warm, comfortable home after spending God-knows how long in a dirty cage with several other dogs where she had to fight for food and water.  A couple of days ago, I took another break from writing that miserable paper to go on a long walk with Nicki and experience fall in Ohio.  We walked for well over an hour and it was dark by the time we finally made it home.  Nicki loved it - she pranced through the leaves and left her mark on every bush, mailbox and tree from our front doorstep to our turn-around point and back again.  It made me laugh to see her so excited over little things like all the delicious smells on our new route.  And the sunset was, in a word, beautiful.  Again, I know I'm biased, but I'm pretty sure Jon would have approved...and I know he would have loved to have been there, walking arm-in-arm with me, too.

65. Ya'Aburnee (Arabic): "You Bury Me"

"If I knew back then, 

All the things that I know now, 

I'd kiss you forever and never let go 

When I uttered that sacred vow."

According to the author of an article I read, "ya'aburnee" is Arabic for "you bury me."  (Pamela Haag, The Top 10 Relationship Words That Aren't Translatable Into English:  http://bigthink.com/marriage-30/the-top-10-relationship-words-that-arent-translatable-into-english?page=all).  As Ms. Haag describes, this word is a declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.  It's a morbidly beautiful thought...and one with which I'm all too familiar.  How ironic that this happens to the be one word on Ms. Haag's list that's in Arabic, of all languages.  It sums up the very essence of what I've often tried to express to others, in English - that I wasn't, and still am not, ready to say goodbye to Jon.

A friend of mine once told me she and her husband never tell each other "goodbye."  Even when they served together in Iraq and went out on dangerous missions, they'd say "see you later."  She said it helped to soften the harsh reality of never knowing whether it might be the last time they would see each other alive.  These are the little tricks we play on ourselves to retain our sanity.  To live day in and day out with the prospect of losing the love of your life at the forefront of every thought is mentally and physically exhausting, almost to the point of being self-destructive.  Try then, to imagine living with the reality of it after months of worrying how on earth you'd ever cope if that reality were to come to fruition.  And yet, here I find myself.  Who would have guessed that there lies such a vast, great distance between being alive and going through the motions of living one's life?

Goodbyes are, by definition, exponentially harder than hellos.  Even when we do say goodbye, we often hope it's just an extended version of "see you later" because the finality of goodbye is simply too much to contemplate.  And yet, without a goodbye, there is no real sense of closure to the story.  Perhaps that's because what comes next is still a part of the story, but with an unexpected - and often unwanted - plot twist.  In Jon and I's story, the beginning of the end was April 6th, 2007 - the day I missed the last call he ever made to me from Iraq.  Although I couldn't have known it at the time, it was my one and only opportunity to say goodbye...and I missed it.  It's one of the things I've struggled with over the years, and every time the image of that missed call showing up on my phone comes to mind, I blame myself all over again for the fact that I never got to tell him "I love you" one more time.  He left me a voice message, promising he'd try to call again the next day.  When I checked my email later that night, he'd also emailed me to make sure everything was okay.  As it turned out, of course, everything was not okay, but not in the way either of us imagined at the time.  The next day - a Saturday - I can still picture so clearly the way those last few blissful hours of normalcy played out, like the calm before the storm, if you will.  I remember looking down at my watch as I walked into the grocery store, seeing that it was already 5 pm, and thinking it was too late to hope he might still be able to call.  When I got back to our apartment about twenty minutes later, there was a knock at my door.  That was, of course, the knock that would change my life forever.

I later recorded that last voice message from him, along with the others I'd saved over the past few weeks, so that I'd always be able to recall the sound of his voice telling me he loved me.  Some nights, when I'm feeling strong enough, I'll listen to those messages just to hear that sound one more time.  I hear Jon say my name, call me his "cute wife," and tell me he's about to go to bed and hopes to dream about me.  Sometimes, it's the nights when I'm not feeling so strong that I choose to listen, and that sound is the most beautiful, bittersweet thing I've ever heard.  I wish to God I could hear his voice again...in real time.  A tape-recorded message is no substitute for a sound that always brought a smile to my face, and still does - only now, that smile often gets lost amidst the tears.

Goodbye.  Forever.  For two relatively short words, they carry with them a whole hell of a lot of interminable finality.  It's a kind of finality that brings the world into sharp focus; we see things we never noticed before, understand the fragility of life on a deeper level, and grateful though we are for all this newly acquired wisdom, we wish whole-heartedly that we could return to the time when things were less clear.  To borrow from the words of one of my favorite historical figures, "oh, what damn fools we were."  Damn fools, perhaps.  But happy fools.  And as happy fools, our days were ones of ignorant bliss, like the day almost ten years ago now when Jon and I went (for the third time) to see The Lord of the Rings:  The Return of the King.  During the final scene, the main character bids his best friends farewell and embarks on a journey to another world.  I can still remember sitting there in the theater with happy tears rolling down my cheeks like it was just yesterday.  It touched me to think that there are people who come into our lives unexpectedly, represent an irreplaceable piece of who we are and what we become, and then, just as suddenly as they appear, they're gone again.

At the time, I squeezed Jon's hand a little tighter, thankful to have the man who made me strive to be a better person sitting right there next to me.  I could never have guessed that within a few years, we would live out that final farewell scene for ourselves.  It was December 25th, 2006, and after two glorious weeks of respite from what had become an increasingly dangerous deployment, it was time for the dreaded airport goodbye.  I kissed my husband, told him I loved him, and, as I held him close, etched every detail of his smell into my memory.  At the very last possible second, I had no choice but to let him go so he could board his plane and fly back to Iraq.  Now I wish I'd held on forever.  I remember the expression on his face as I caught sight of him on the jet way.  He smiled at me and waved, and my heart did this little flip-flop of joy.  Only he had the power to affect me in this way.  Knowing now what would happen just a few months later, the clarity with which I remember that moment continues to bring me to my knees in a state of unspeakable grief.

One of the last pictures taken of the two of us together on Christmas Eve

A week and a half after Jon was killed, we had a closed-casket wake in the little New Hampshire town that Jon called home.   After several hours of standing by my husband's casket and shaking the hands of a never-ending stream of visitors, family and friends, my strength was depleted and my heart had had enough.  I pulled up a chair alongside the flag-draped casket and sat with my hand pressed to its smooth wooden surface as people milled around me and prepared the church for the funeral the following day.  I didn't want to talk anymore, and there was no one, besides the obvious, that I wanted to see.  I just wanted to be as close to my husband as humanly possible, knowing all too well that the moment I would never touch him again was drawing near.  Eventually, my family tried to persuade to go home and get some rest for the night, but I refused to move from his side.  Only after two of our friends from college assured me they'd take turns standing guard by Jon's casket throughout the night did I finally relent and let my family put me to bed for a few hours before the final goodbye.

Watching the pallbearers place my husband's casket into the funeral car

That final goodbye took place the next day after the funeral service and reception.  With a full honor guard procession in tow, Jon's body was transported from the church to a local funeral home.  As I sat in a private room next to his open casket, I leaned over his body and wept without restraint for the husband I loved more than life itself.  I touched his face - to hell with all the caked-on make-up.  I unbuttoned his jacket, hoping to find evidence of the marks I knew so well on his skin but found only layers of white gauze and bandages.  I kissed the bridge of his nose (whose shape he always hated), and I held his stiff, gloved hands in mine.  Jon's brother and my sister-in-law joined me after a while.  One of the songs I'd requested for the funeral service - appropriately titled "Time to Say Goodbye" - hadn't made it into the final program, but Jason knew how much it meant to me and let me listen to it on his iPod through headphones as we cherished those last few minutes with him.  As I left the room at the end of the night, my dad tried to step inside for one last look before they sealed the casket, but I begged him no, please, that I wanted to - had to - be the last one to see him like that.  That was also the last time I ever listened to the song "Time to Say Goodbye."  I've heard snippets of it on two occasions over the past five years - once on a trip to Las Vegas with Jon's family during the fountain display outside the Bellagio and once, of all places, in a shopping mall.  Shopaholic or not, you can be sure I ran for the nearest exit as quickly as humanly possible.

Things have been really hard recently.  They're always hard, but lately I can't seem to relax, not even when I'm doing something that is, in theory, incredibly relaxing, like taking a bubble bath complete with scented candles, a glass of wine, and soothing spa music.  In the mornings, I hold my breath before I open my eyes, hoping against hope that I'll wake up to a different reality.  Maybe I'll even roll over and Jon will be lying right there next to me?  But sadly, once I open my eyes and see the empty space in my bed, I realize that the life I've been living without him for the past few years remains the status quo.  Advice from others has been plentiful, and for those who simply say, "I'm here, and I love you," I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  For those who try to fix me and tell me Jon wouldn't want me to be sad, please understand that you can't fix what's broken here.  I'm sure that whenever I write another blog entry or post some quote about loss, there are those who think "oh great, here we go again - what could she possibly say about how sad all this is that she hasn't said before?"  But in widow-land, this is my new normal.  You'd think at a certain point I'd have said it all and there would be nothing more to discuss.  But the thoughts keep flowing, and so I keep writing.  

A co-worker of mine once said Jon knows how much I miss him every day.  He said Jon is probably doing PT up in Heaven right now because he wants to look his best for when his bride rejoins him there at some point in the future.  Guess I'd better get my butt into gear too - I obviously want him to recognize me when I see him again!  That, though, is really the point of all of this.  It's why I feel the way I do - I will see him again.  So when people tell me it's time to turn the page on the last chapter of my life and move onto the next one, I ask them how?  I don't want Jon and I's chapter to be over...and how can it be when I'm still deeply in love with the man I'm honored to call my husband?  Hard though it is at times, I'm still here, so unless those people expect me to turn the page on my own future, I'm going to continue to live and breathe this story - our story - until it's time to say goodbye to this life and move onto the next.  As long as Jon is waiting for me when I get there, I can't imagine anything more beautiful.

Ya'aburnee:  "You bury me."  Noun, verb, noun.  Read literally, the phrase almost seems to command that one of us take action in response to the inaction of the other.  I guess it basically says what I already knew, which is that one of us would always have to go first, much as I wish I could reverse the "you" and the "me" in Jon and I's case.  I'll be honest - it's pretty eerie to look down into a pre-prepared hole, knowing that that's where your husband's casket will be placed, not to mention where I'll be laid to rest too one day.  Yet, eerie though it is, it is there that our bodies will be reunited while our spirits dance on into eternity.  And maybe - just maybe - the goodbye we never had will finally become a see you later.

Or, better yet, see you always.  Always and forever, my love...

64. "In Humor Oft Lies the Truth"

Last week, I came close to doing something I've never done before.  I almost walked out of a class.  Ironically, the class is one I usually enjoy.  Unlike other courses where PowerPoint slides are the norm and professors cold-call on students at random, this class thrives on open discussion and student participation.  However, it was during this class that I seriously questioned my desire to become an attorney.  I wondered if the kids in my class are really the kind of people I want to surround myself with...and whether I'm callous enough to survive in a profession where people believe it's okay to charge exorbitant fees based on the damages awarded at trial for the deaths of twenty-one children.

The case we were studying was referred to by lawyers as a "slam dunk," but it wasn't their depiction of it that bothered me as much as the nonchalant acceptance of their greed by my classmates.  The majority of students (or, at least, those who spoke up) felt it was appropriate for people who've been hurt to sue anyone and everyone in order to get as much money for their troubles as possible.  And when it's all said and done, the ambulance-chasing lawyers who help them win all that money should, according to the consensus, feel no ethical qualms about keeping a large cut of the monetary verdict for themselves as compensation for their services.  That is, after all, how our system works - sue until there's no one left to sue, play up the tragedy and tug on the heartstrings of the jury at trial, and hope for a big win so that the person who's been wronged can be made "whole" again...and the lawyers can get paid.  In theory, it doesn't sound so bad:  Lawyers make it possible for society's less fortunate to acquire huge sums of money from rich corporate entities with deep pockets.  If there were ever a real-world illustration of fairness and justice in action, wouldn't that be it?  And since we spent precious class time debating the merits of the practice, it must have some potential to be considered socially acceptable, right?  After all, if other lawyers are doing it and we as future attorneys don't do it too, we'll fall behind the curve, so doesn't that make it all okay?

Or maybe that's just what we tell ourselves to sleep at night.  As we watched the video about a tiny town twelve miles from the Mexican border where a school bus was side-swiped by a Coca-Cola truck and slid down an embankment into a lake, killing twenty-one children and wounding countless others, I tried to remind myself about the media slant on the story and the ease with which lawyers become scapegoats for collective greed.  But when, in referring to a survivor who lost his brother and received a substantial part of the settlement, the guy sitting behind me said, "oh man, he's living in this huge, awesome mansion now and still drives that crappy car?", I about lost it.  Seriously?  That is what you choose to focus on in the context of a horrific tragedy?  What about the fact that a group of people who lived in shacks and slept on plywood cots suddenly acquired millions of dollars and hadn't the faintest idea about how to save or invest it for their future?  What about the fact that their lives that will never be the same, even with all that new-found wealth, because their children aren't alive to share it with them?  And what about the fact that within a hour or two of losing their sons and daughters in a senseless accident, the families of the victims were immediately confronted by attorneys telling them what to do and who to sue?  Realistically, I'm well aware of the fact that some of my classmates are only entering the legal profession to win and get rich quick, but give me a break.  Those kids who died had lives - real, human lives.  There is simply no dollar value that can ever be placed on the the one thing money can't buy.  If anything, the money will likely make their families increasingly unhappy over time as they come to the slow but all-too-unfortunate realization that fancy cars and expensive houses can't fill the hole left by a child's laughter.  Believe me, I've gone down this route time and time again in trying to distract myself from Jon's loss.  And time and time again, I've found that it just doesn't work.

I feared what people might say if I spoke up and shared my opinion during class, so I chose to keep quiet and did not contribute to the discussion.  In the midst of a debate that turned death into dollar signs, I had to focus all my energy on fighting back the tears.  I'm sure most people would never say it out loud but might silently feel that I have no leg to stand on when it comes to my outlook on wealth - after all, the government is paying for me to be here at school, and when my husband died, the government wrote me a check for that too.  It probably seems easy for me to feel that money isn't the end-all-be-all when I'm not crippled with student loans and thousands of dollars of debt.  And yet, therein lies the great conundrum.  There's a reason they say we always want what we can't have.  I'll never understand how people can be so heartless and shallow when it comes to money because when it comes to what matters most to me, I'd happily back give every penny (and then some) if it meant I could have my husband back.  Money, in my humble opinion, is truly the root of all evil, especially in combination with grief.  I've never seen so many ugly family disputes and ruined relationships than those created by the insurance money paid to the loved ones of Soldiers killed in action.  This money - blood money, if you ask me - brings out the worst in people and encourages others to swoop in and take advantage of an already nightmarish situation.  I can only hope that others who have not seen the full extent of it do not have to learn this lesson the hard way, though it's often the only way.  Again, I wish I didn't have to speak from experience on this one, and perhaps my outlook comes across as idealistic or even naive.  It's the only outlook, however, that I can live with in good conscience.

Let's just say it was a relief when class ended early last week.  Ironically, our professor started the class that morning with a cartoon that played upon lawyer stereotypes, but admitted he probably shouldn't poke fun at the profession since there are already enough people out there who do it for us.  And yet, when I consider the attitudes that were expressed during that class, it makes it easy to understand why.  As they often say, "in humor oft lies the truth."  There's a reason cliches are cliches, right?  Thank God I'll be practicing a type of law where billing hours, fancy dinners to impress clients, and annual bonuses are nonexistent.  I'll be paid just the same as any other officer of my equivalent rank and time in service, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  Although I'll be proud to call myself a military attorney, I am still, above and beyond all else, a person, and as a person, I recognize that money can't buy happiness.  To reach this understanding, I've taken emotional journeys in which money played no part and traveled miles for which money deserves no credit.  The riches I have gained in the form of beautiful friendships, hard-earned knowledge, and bittersweet memories, are, in my eyes, the epitome of success.  It's this form of success that I'll covet and safeguard for the rest of this life...and carry with care into the next.  Who, after all, wants to be the richest guy in the cemetery?  Times may be hard and the going may be tough, but being able to say "I love you" to the people who make our lives meaningful is still the greatest of all fortunes.

63. September 11th, 2012

It’s odd, isn’t it? People die every day and the world goes on like nothing happened. But when it’s a person you love, you think everyone should stop and take notice. That they ought to cry and light candles and tell you that you’re not alone.” 

~Kristina McMorris, Letters From Home

September 11th, 2012: A day that, for many, marks the anniversary of an event that changed their lives forever. Yet, you wouldn't know it at law school...or in many sectors of society, for that matter. Eleven years later, life continues on as normal. I was a senior in high school when the twin towers fell back in 2001, yet some of my youngest classmates were only in the 6th grade. God, that makes me feel old. Not so much the numerical age difference itself, but rather, the vast expanse of living that separates us. September 11th, 2001 was not a day on which I came to some sort of eye-opening personal revelation, yet I still remember with vivid clarity standing alone on the deck of my parents' house and thinking about all the lives that had been lost and those left behind that would never be the same. Eleven years later, I still think about that. I had no idea on that day how the subsequent War on Terror would affect me personally; I hadn't even applied to colleges yet, much less decided on Johns Hopkins and, with it, the Army ROTC program. Hence, I hadn't yet met Jon.

Jon...oh, dear Lord, how I wish he was here with me today. Today, on the anniversary of such a somber tragedy, I could really use his words of wisdom and the calming way his outlook on life always made everything seem okay. His classmates have described to me how it felt on September 11th, 2001 to be a college student and ROTC Cadet preparing to commission into the United States Army with the prospect of war looming on the near horizon. I can only imagine how heavily the magnitude of that responsibility weighed on their shoulders. It was not until about eighteen months later, once I too had committed to the ROTC track, that the war in Iraq finally kicked off. I still had absolutely no concept at that point of how deeply the significance of that day would later resonate with me many years later on this day. I could not have imagined that just over four years after the invasion, Jon would live out his last days in Iraq. And I certainly could never have predicted that on September 12th, 2008 - seven years and one day after 9/11/01 - I too would deploy to the same place that claimed my husband's life.

An article that mentions the 9/11 Heroes 5k race I ran this past weekend in Jon's memory was published in the Columbus Dispatch today, and it features a picture of me rounding the final corner to the finish line. I'm wearing the t-shirt with Jon's picture on the front and the Gold Star on the back that I created for the Army Ten-Miler Race back in 2009. One lady wrote a comment in response to the article that essentially said she's glad to see Ohio paying "quiet" tribute to 9/11 this year since "we are becoming a nation that absolutely bathes in grief, and this needs to be stopped." I almost laughed out loud when I read this. Okay, I thought, this is clearly someone who hasn't been personally affected in any way by the events of that day or the two wars that have followed! The response I offered was, I hope, not overly scathing, but I did my best to emphasize the fact that there's a very good reason the phrase most often associated with 9/11 is "never forget."

http://www.dispatch.com/content/stories/local/2012/09/11/we-still-look-for-best-way-to-mark-sept--11.html

For me, the best part of the race was having the opportunity to meet and speak to an incredibly nice man named John Carney, who was running in memory of his brother.  He came up to me before the race, shook my hand, and gave me a big hug to thank me for my husband's sacrifice.  After the race was over, he approached me again.  This time, he gave me a dog tag that had been made for him by a friend to pass along to another Gold Star family.  He'd carried that dog tag with him for the last five years since the day his brother was killed in Afghanistan.  He said he knew he was supposed to pass it on sooner but couldn't bring himself to do it until that moment.  John's hands shook as he spoke, and his eyes filled with tears as he asked me if I still talked to Jon as though he's still here.  My answer, of course, was yes, I do - every day.  More than anything, John seemed relieved to have the opportunity to talk to someone else who "gets it" and who was happy to listen to stories of his brother and laugh at the memories of the good times they shared.  I was touched beyond words to receive the dog tag and will carry it with me proudly until it's time to pass it along to another family.  May God bless John's fallen brother, SFC Scott Carney.  And God bless the organizers of events like the 9/11 Heroes 5k Run - these wonderful people continue to recognize and commemorate the high price of freedom, lest me forget.  I, for one, will never forget.

The front and back sides of the dog tag John Carney gave to me after the
9/11 Heroes Run

On January 17th, 2000, well before the travesties of 9/11/01, my husband wrote a letter to the Professor of Military Science at the Johns Hopkins ROTC Department describing his desire to serve as an officer in the United States Army.  He ended the letter with a quote by Henry Hyde in a speech before the House of Representatives during the impeachment of President Bill Clinton:

"Let us look across the river, to Arlington National Cemetery, where American heroes who gave their lives for the sake of the rule of law lied buried.  And let us not betray their memory...It's our country - the President is our flag bearer, out in front of our people.  The flag is falling, my friends - I ask you to catch the falling flag as we keep our appointment with history."

For obvious reasons, that quote strikes me as incredibly ironic now.  On this day, as we commemorate the lives that were lost on that terrible day eleven years ago, let us remember the patriotism that brought us together back then and let us keep our appointment with history in ensuring that their sacrifice is never forgotten.  My prayers are with the families of all those who were lost and those who have since answered the call to defend our great country.  As I sat outside on my porch tonight - wearing my husband's sweater, a pair of his boxer shorts, and a t-shirt from this weekend's race that reads "If not me, then who?" - I thought about this day in history.  Eleven years ago now seems like a different lifetime.  So much has happened.  So little has changed on the one hand, and yet, on the other, everything has changed.  Lives have been lost, new lives have come into being, and the world has kept on turning.  For some of us, however, the world of today turns with a bit of a limp.  We will never forget.  Ever.  And whether it be today, tomorrow, or eleven more years from now, this world will forever be defined by those who are no longer in it.

62. Tragedy

"The price of freedom costs more than 99.99% of us will ever have to pay."
~Anonymous

I knew I was back at law school when, within two minutes of walking into the building on the first day of classes, I heard some girl say, "God, I want to kill myself!"  And no, she wasn't talking about an epic dilemma of life-or-death proportions.  She was talking about something related to the notorious legal job search.  Oh boy, I thought, here we go again...back to the land of limited perspective in which getting a "C" means your life is officially over!  I just hope what I've been told by other practicing attorneys is true - that it's quite possible to hate law school but love being a lawyer.

It's moments like these when I wonder why I thought coming back to school with other twenty-something-year-olds who are yet to see much of the real world was a good idea.  I'm pretty sure it's easy to tell me apart from the bubbly, upbeat young optimists because I'm the one who blogs between classes instead of immersing myself in law school books and sprints for the door as soon as my last class of the day is over.  But then again, I suppose it's impossible to expect I'll find the same value and fulfillment in the things that would have mattered to me at one time in the past.  My twenties have been shaped by the highs of pure joy and the lows of debilitating sadness that's brought me to my knees - both literally and figuratively.  Grief, whether I've acknowledged its existence of not, has dulled the shiny newness of academic endeavors.  It's also dramatically skewed my views on life in general, especially in comparison to my peers.  It amazed me to hear one of my classmates say that if he were an inmate on death row, he'd want his lawyers to fight at every opportunity to stay his execution, even if it meant living through years of appeals and never knowing for sure if or when the execution would take place.  My take on it was somewhat different.  I said I'd want to just get it over with - what's the value in a life spent waking up every day to the four concrete walls of a jail cell?  He said that in his opinion, even if those four walls were all he ever saw, moments spent in a cell are still precious moments of life.  I responded by asking him whether that kind of life can really be considered "living."  Is that living?  Is this living?

This was posted by a Soldier I served with in Iraq and made me laugh
during finals period last year

I'm usually not usually a library studier - it doesn't go too well with the whole sprint-for-the door and blogging-instead-of-reading thing.  So I usually don't bother to fool myself into thinking I'll actually get something done if I camp out there in between classes.  It's like when I bring certain books home, knowing all too well exactly how the scenario will play out - the books will add some weight to my backpack for my trek up and down the parking garage stairs, but that's about it.  Last week was no exception.  Despite being down on the lower level of the library (sans all natural light) at a tiny walled-in cubical and in a "no talking" zone, my concentration was nonexistent.  All I could think about was my husband...and how much I miss him.  So instead of pretending to do the work that could wait, I closed my books, plugged in my headphones, and listened to the songs that take me back to my memories of Jon.  Music lets me escape to happier times when things were simple.   With a few familiar notes, I can picture myself in that exact moment - how it looked from my perspective, what I felt, and the ignorant bliss of a life that hadn't yet been turning upside down by tragedy.

Tragedy – perhaps that seems like a strong word to use.  A friend from college once described Jon's death in the very opposite terms from how one might define a tragedy:  He said that kids dying after being fired upon at school by one of their classmates is the epitome of a senseless tragedy, but that Jon died in one of the noblest and honorable pursuits of mankind, namely serving his country.  This may be true, and I could not possibly be prouder of my husband for his bravery and courage.  Yet, his death is still the ultimate tragedy for me as his wife.  When it comes down to what’s left after sorting through all the hows and the whens and wheres, it really doesn’t matter so much how he died – gone is gone.  There are no degrees of absence.  Death comes to us all, and with its sudden arrival comes the heartache that clings to those left behind.  That heartache is one of few universal languages in existence; I don't get extra (or fewer) points on the scale of grief because the cause of death on Jon's death certificate is listed as a homicide versus terminal cancer or a fatal car accident.

Death is also unique in being the only completely irreversible reality in life.  No matter how many tears I cry or healing I seek or prayers I utter, I can’t bring him back.  Those who knew Jon - be it close friends or distant acquaintances - go about their daily lives with the sad reminder of a man who left an impression that will echo for many years to come.  But that man was - and is - the love of my life.  I can’t just pick up the phone and call him whenever I want to hear his voice.  I can’t look forward to the next time I’ll see him with the same giddy excitement that a little kid looks forward to opening presents on Christmas morning.  I can’t look to the years ahead and make plans that involve “us.”  I can’t anticipate the day I’ll hold our child in my arms and look into his eyes and know we created something more beautiful than words.  To live without that kind of love in my life is, in my eyes, a personal tragedy.  And even worse, of course, is all the living my husband never got to do and that I’d literally do anything to give him back.  It's not just his physical loss that's so hard - it's all the things that could and should have been too.  So for these reasons, tragedy is the word I choose.  If it seems overly dramatic…well, let’s just say I’d never wish this reality upon anyone, no matter how I felt about them.  A wise woman once wrote that the whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.  Her words ring true with the knowledge and conviction of someone who knows.  I wish it were not so, but I know.  I know I don’t want to fake my way through another birthday or however many more years I may have without him.  I know I don’t want to keep filling my life with things in the hope that materialistic items will somehow make me feel complete.  I know I don’t want to keep wondering when the day will come that I won’t be in love with Jon anymore.  Not in love with him?  To even suggest such a thing makes me laugh because I can't fathom it.  It’s probably a self-defeating prophecy to believe that what Jon and I had cannot be replicated, but therein lies the essence of the problem.  My love for my husband grows every day, just as it would if he were still here.  I’m more in love with him now that I ever was; time and distance have not changed any of that.  They say falling in love is unique - you don't do it twice.  So what am I supposed to do with all that love and no husband to give it to?  Ah.  The million dollar question.

I often wish Jon and I had talked in more intimate detail about what he’d want if anything happened to him.  We discussed it a little, but he always glossed over the worst case scenario to protect me from having to contemplate that possibility.  As it turns out, of course, I've had to do a whole lot more than just contemplate it.  Living and reliving it has become my new normal.  I've lied and said "I'm okay" so many times at this point that I sound like a broken record, which I guess is actually a pretty appropriate metaphor.  Every time I say it, I think back to the report of investigation into Jon’s death, which emphasized that at all times after the IED detonation, there was someone with him telling him it would be okay.  Whether or not he was able to hear or comprehend their assurances is something only Jon will ever know for sure.  But he’s not okay.  Those people lied.  I know they didn’t mean to, but they did.  It would not be and is not all okay.  I wonder now what he would have done if the situation had been reversed - if it had been me instead of him.  Would he still struggle on a daily basis and withdraw from the world to nurse the wounds that run too deep for explanations?  Would finding love again, as he told me he'd want me to do, be something that would even seem plausible?  What I do know is that Jon did nothing in his short life to deserve the fate that befell him.  If it was going to be one of us, it undoubtedly should have been me.

I spent this past weekend in Washington, D.C. to attend the wedding of Jon's best friend.  Despite receiving numerous invitations, I've managed to avoid weddings for the most part over the past few years, but this one was important enough for me to summon the inner strength I knew I'd need to pull myself together for the big day.  It's something I had to do for Jon.  With my father-in-law's support, I did pretty well despite a couple of challenging moments, like when they recited the very same Bible verse Jon and I chose for our ceremony.  Music, however, as I mentioned, is usually always what gets me.  When it came time for the bride and groom's first dance, the song they chose was the one I considered "our song."  What happened next reminded me of the scenario that played out at my own wedding six very long years ago.  As I walked into the ladies room during the reception, I ran into a friend of Jon’s parents who had recently lost her husband to a sudden illness.  The emotions of the day were too much for her and she was in tears.  Although she was touched by the beauty of the occasion and the magnitude of Jon and I’s commitment to one another, it was also incredibly hard for her to witness us embarking upon the bright future she and her husband had been denied.  At the time, I didn’t have the right words.  I didn't understand how bittersweet a young couple’s happiness can feel to an outsider looking in from a place where true love sometimes isn't enough to overcome all odds.  Well…I get it now.  This time, that teary-eyed friend was me.  The bride and groom began their first dance to Aerosmith’s classic hit “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” and I bolted for the ladies room as the memories of Jon and I blasting that song from the stereo in his old Toyota Camry filled my mind and blurred my vision.  This is ridiculous, I thought to myself.  I can't even make it through this beautiful and incredibly special night without losing it!  As I sobbed behind the closed door of the bathroom stall and gripped the handicap bar for support, I thought about how much I need and want Jon.  And yet the one thing I need is the one thing I cannot have.  As I was often told as a young child, "I want does not get."

I know there are many other people out there who have had their share of horrific problems, and I respect that fact.  But as my father-in-law has reminded me many times, anyone can rattle off unwanted advice and assume they know what’s best for you.  Until they become a member of this particular club, the understanding can only go so far.  When I think back on the things people have said to me over the years that made (and make) me mad, I realize that not one of these people was a fellow widow or Gold Star family member or someone who has known tragedy on an intimate level.  In the days both before and after the wedding, my father-in-law and I visited with Jon at Arlington National Cemetery.  As we laughed and cried at the memories of happy days, we looked around us at the sea of headstones and knew without a doubt that we were in good company.  Section 60 has been called the saddest acre in America, and yet the understanding that exists on that tiny, tragic plot of land runs deeper and richer than anything we might hope to find beyond the cemetery gates.  The people who come there to visit their lost loved ones know that death is irreversible.  I don't have to explain to them that I won't get "over it" or "move on with my life."  This is my life.  Without Jon in it, it is a tragedy.  And you know what?  That's okay.  There are some negatives that don't need to be turned around and made into a positive.  Some things are just sad and deserve the respect of being recognized as nothing less than that.  As Gabrielle Zevin said in All These Things I've Done, "tragedy is when someone ends up dead.  Everything else is just a bump in the road."