14. "He's okay"

“A life that touches the hearts of others goes on forever.” 

~Anonymous

Children must have a keener sense when it comes to expressing the delicate emotions of the heart than we as armor-clad, stone-faced adults do.  My nephew, Jonathan Adair Grassbaugh, was born to Jon's older brother, Jason, almost one year to the day after Jon was killed.  His original due date was April 7th, 2008, but, thankfully, he arrived one week early.  Last fall, while my sister-in-law and I were talking together in the kitchen, little Jon asked if he could play with my phone.  When I asked a few minutes later what he was doing, he said he was sending a message to his uncle.  We asked him which uncle - Uncle Rob? Uncle Tom? - and he replied that he was sending a message to his Uncle Jon,"to tell him he's okay."

"Okay"...one of those words we hear a million times a day when someone asks, "how are you?" and we automatically respond with, "I"m good," "I'm fine," or, the dreaded, "I'm okay."  For me, okay usually means "not okay."  But no one really wants to hear that.  Because when they ask if you're okay, they don't really want your life story in response.  If I were to respond with "I'm okay" (i.e. "not really okay") every time someone asked how I'm doing, I'm sure they'd start to wonder when I will finally be okay, if ever.  So I usually settle for the happy medium of "I'm fine."  I think it's a little less scary for people than "okay."

On the other hand, I sometimes wonder why I continue to let people get away with saying stupid things and ignore the proverbial elephant in the room.  If someone wants to know how I'm doing and the real answer is "not so good," then why should I lie and say that I'm fine?  I've mentioned it before, but it still never fails to amaze me when I'm sitting next to someone on a plane or tell my story to a colleague for the first time and, as soon as I mention Jon's death, the response is a resounding silence or extreme discomfort and an evident desire to change the subject as quickly as possible.  Or the person, feeling the need to say something, says that I seem to be doing fine.  Or tells me that one chapter has ended and I should focus on moving onto the next one.  Or says that at least I have lots of nice memories to look back on.  Enough to last me for the next 50 plus years?  Would that be enough for you??  I swear to God, if one more person says "you're young, you'll get over it and find someone new," I will literally scream.  What about the fact that I already feel about 60, don't fit in with other 20-somethings my age, and spend every day going through the entire gamut of emotions from sadness to anger to self-pity to doubt, wondering how on earth I'll ever make it through all of this?

A couple of days ago, I could have sworn I saw Jon walking toward me.  I think it was something about the lilt in the man's step...it reminded me of those happy moments when Jon would approach me at the airport or through a busy crowd and I'd feel that incredible surge of anticipation at holding him again after days or even months of forced separation.  Of course it wasn't him...but for a second, my heart sped up and lifted just a little before I remembered the next moment that there's no way it could possibly be the very thing I wish for most.  This happened a lot when I first lost him - I'd think I'd see him behind the wheel of a car or in uniform on post...until I'd get a little closer and realize that the man looked nothing like Jon.  But in my mind, I looked for him everywhere.  I couldn't believe - or accept - that he wasn't still out there somewhere and wouldn't just show up on my doorstep one day.  When I go through the 10 million "what ifs" that I cycle through on a daily basis, this is still one of the wistful wishes I come back to many times.  I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't deployed with his unit?  If he had taken R&R during the week of his death instead of scheduling it over the Christmas break so he could spend time with me?  If he hadn't gone out with the convoy that day?  If he hadn't grabbed the open seat in the first truck?  If only...

So, if you really want to know if I'm okay, the answer is no.  But I hope my nephew is right and that Jon is okay.  And when we're finally together again, I'll be okay too - more than okay.  Both literally and figuratively, I'll be in heaven.