13. My Better Half

"The days will always be brighter because he existed, 

The nights will always be darker because he's gone. 

And no matter what anyone says about grief and about time healing all wounds, the truth is:   

There are certain sorrows that never fade away until the heart stops beating and the last breath is taken." 

~Unknown 

I've always thought if I could be half the Soldier...or person...that Jon was, I'd be doing just fine.  When he was at Ft. Polk for JRTC, Jon and some of his Soldiers came down with an awful flu-like sickness.  Swamp fever was what they called it.  Jon wouldn’t stop working and refused to lie down until the medics physically removed him from his desk and stuck an IV in his arm.  That swamp fever took him out for days.  He didn't even tell me about it until after the fact once he had recovered enough to make it to a phone.  That was my Jon - always putting others and the job at hand before himself.  I remember when he was home for Christmas of 2006 on R&R and confessed that he'd used some of the money leftover from his allocated budget to buy things for his Soldiers that didn't technically fall within the realm of pre-approved purchases, like mini refrigerators and Wild Tiger energy drinks.  This was one of those times when it's better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission - these purchases were ultimately one of the few things that boosted morale and made up for multiple Thanksgivings and Christmases in a war zone many miles away from home. 


I've received so many emails, messages, and phone calls since his death from Soldiers and co-workers who don't know me personally but just want to let me know that Jon was an outstanding officer - the best leader they'd ever had.  His Soldiers especially loved the time that Jon air-assaulted in pizzas to 9 different LZs during an extended operation for which the unit later received the Presidential Unit Citation.  As one of his Soldiers recently wrote in a letter to me, "I was out at a blocking position and was woken up some time in the night to run out and set up IR chem lights in the street.  I had no idea what the delivery was, but I figured it was something very important given the gravity of the situation.  You can understand my surprise when I saw our S-4 running off the helicopter holding a stack of pizzas.  To this day when I tell people that story, they do not believe me."  Another one of Jon's co-workers told me that he didn't know about the pizza delivery until the next morning - but the cold, slightly hardened slice of pizza he ate for breakfast was the best thing he'd tasted in days.  During that same operation, the unit's Kurdish counterparts were supposed to leave after 48 hours.  At a critical point when the unit didn't want to lose them for fear of losing momentum, the only thing the Kurds asked for was a change of t-shirts and cigarettes.  Within 6 hours, Jon flew in with cartons of cigarettes and boxes of shirts and socks he had "requisitioned."  In the words of his Squadron Commander, "let there be no doubt, the Kurds felt if we could do that, there was nothing we couldn't accomplish, and they stayed and fought alongside us for the entire 11 days without being rotated out.  This was Jon."


And this is why I feel like half the person I used to be - because my better half is missing.  Add to the equation all this recent "embracing" of the pain and the emotions I've suppressed for the past few years and it feels like a great weight on my heart as we quickly approach what will be 5 years since I lost Jon.  5 years...seems like barely 5 minutes since I got his last email from Iraq saying how much he missed me and couldn't wait to see me again.  It's like ripping off the band-aid and taking with it much of the scab - every time I speak or write about Jon right now, I tear up, my throat tightens, my breath shortens, and I'm often forced to return to my writing later since I can't see the computer screen through the tears.


But maybe if I keep letting it hurt now without all the distractions, I'll get a little more using to coping and living with it...if that's even possible.  That's my hope - or, at least, that's what I plan to tell myself enough times until I actually start to believe it.  What else can I do?  I don't want to be a constant burden on my family or my friends - I feel like they probably already shake their heads when they think about me and wonder if I'll ever get past all this and just "be happy."  Believe me, I wish it were that simple too.  But I guess I know it's never going to all go back to being "okay" again, not when I look around me at the world and wonder how it can possibly have the nerve to keep on turning without Jon; not when I see an elderly man or woman and the first thing I feel is jealousy - jealousy at the fact that Jon won't ever grow to see that age and jealousy at the fact that I still have so many years until that's me too.  Jon's boss likened him to a "bright star," the kind we do not get to experience for long but that we are glad we did - the ones that burn forever in our memories."  I remember I once had a conversation with my widow friend's little boy about shooting stars and about how they say you should always make a wish on them if you want your dreams to come true.  He looked at me very seriously and asked if I would wish that my husband was still alive.  My answer, of course, was yes.  Yes times a million.  I want my star back.  I want my husband - my better half.