"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
~Maya AngelouJon was always a huge technology geek. He loved every fancy, state-of-the-art, up-to-date device out there and took great pride in demonstrating his skills with all his toys. One of my favorite pictures from our travels during his R&R is of him and his dad showing off their Christmas gifts to each other; Jon and I gave his parents a digital picture frame (which was still a pretty new and fascinating invention back in 2006) and his parents gave him the latest and greatest 80GB iPod. Back then, the 80GB iPod weighed a couple of pounds and was a far cry from the slimmer, sleeker versions that have been released since then. But it was the best thing Apple had to offer at the time, and, therefore, Jon loved it. His parents used to send him the weekly Best Buy circulars in Iraq, even though he had no intention of actually buying anything while overseas. Best Buy - a man's version of a woman's shoe heaven (DSW, anyone?).
Ironically, another technological favorite from the last decade or so (besides Facebook, of course) is Google. It's now a household name and a verb in and of itself - "oh, just Google it!" Everything you could ever want to know about a person is now available at the click of a button and at the mercy of a search box. It’s a little scary when you Google my name, not to mention my husband’s. The number of positive hits is mind-boggling; I guess it’s a good thing I’m going into law and don’t plan to try and get hired as some kind of a secret under-cover agent anytime soon. Like any smart employer, first they'd Google me. Then, just to confirm their suspicions, they'd set up a meeting with me in person. They'd take one look at me and say, “oh, no. You ooze “widow.” You might as well have it tatooed across your forehead.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that as far as I’m concerned. Baby steps towards being just as proud to be his widow as I was to be his wife, right?
Speaking of which, I think I’m finally making progress in that area, as I hoped might be the case after months of trying to write my way through the web of very mixed emotions that accompanies my widow identity. “URW” (Un-Remarried Widow) is what the dependent military ID cards call us for the first few years. During my recent visit to Fort Bragg, my widow friends showed me that their updated IDs now read “DB” (Deceased Beneficiary). I, thankfully, have my own active duty ID, which means I don’t have to carry around a separate dependent card. But even if I did, I'd still think of myself as far more than a URW whose husband is now a DB or whatever other acronym they want to use to title me. My title isn’t any of these things. My name is Jenna Carolyn Grassbaugh. I am Jon’s wife, his widow, and he is my soul mate – in this life and the next. I am a Captain in the U.S. Army's Military Police Corps and in two years, God willing, I will be a lawyer. These are all titles I’m okay with – forget the URW and DB crap. When I first started law school last fall, I thought it was best not to mention the details of my story and my status to my classmates for fear of scaring them away or making them uncomfortable. Now I realize how foolish it was to feel that sense of shame in what makes me the person I've become today. This is who I am. There's no reason to hide it. If anyone wants to know more, all they have to do is ask (or, alternatively, Google me). And if they have a problem with me being so open and candid, they're free to walk away. This is me, and if the people in my life are going to stick by me, they have to accept all of me, to include the parts that make them squirm a little.
I had one of those "light bulb" moments a few days ago when I realized that there's a difference between being lonely and missing Jon when I'm alone. I think I always confused the two in the past and chalked up all my issues to pure loneliness...but if that was really the case, a half-way decent (or even mediocre) relationship should have solved that problem, right? The thing is, even when I thought I was finally happy in the context of a relationship, I'd still have these God-awful, miserable episodes where a tiny trigger would escalate into a night of inconsolable sobbing. I'd drink too much wine, pore over photos and videos of Jon and I, and, ultimately, cry myself to sleep from exhaustion. Do these sound like the signs of a happy widow (ha, such a funny phrase...no pun intended) who has successfully tackled the demons surrounding her husband's death? I think not. In fact, I think I was generally more unhappy when I quickly began to sense that the confines and restrictions of those past relationships were sucking the life out of me and keeping me away from the things that really matter, like honoring Jon's memory. It always felt slightly awkward to try and do both at the same time - the best of both worlds didn't really apply. Plus, being in a relationship shouldn't be as hard as it's been every time I've given it a try since losing Jon - even with long distance, things with Jon were practically effortless. When it's right, there can be challenges and speed bumps along the way, but your relationship shouldn't be one of the stressors in life - it should be your soft landing, something that makes the other inherent difficulties in life melt away. I got spoiled with Jon, I suppose, and it very well may have ruined me for life...in the best of all possible ways. At the same time, I'm not so naive as to think that this is a process I can just work my way through from start to end, beginning now (hey, better late than never, right?), earn the t-shirt, and then go home a graduate of grief. No, this is a life-long process, and after trying and failing to invent the cliff notes version over the last few years, I'm finally realizing that I should probably just dig in for the long haul.
When it comes to that dreaded long haul, I'm grateful for the fact that technology makes it a little easier to share all my stories and pictures of the man who made me the happiest I've ever been. It's what allows me to write this blog, to document my journey, and to stay in touch with all the wonderful people who knew and loved Jon and those who never knew him but live to honor his memory, like the couple I rode with in Operation Rolling Thunder this past Memorial Day weekend. At the same time, it makes me a little sad - well, maybe more than a little sad on some days. Jon would have delighted in the iPhone, the iPad, the ability to share photos with friends and family on Facebook seconds after they're taken, and navigating via GPS to an unfamiliar location without ever unfolding a map (okay, maybe not that last one - Jon loved maps in the same way I love old books, so I think he'd probably always prefer the old-fashioned feel of a map in his hands). What makes me sad is the fact that Jon's life was too short to allow him to enjoy all the technological comforts we now take for granted. I can just imagine the child-like joy on his face as he opened the cellophane wrapping on a new MacBook Pro laptop or unpacked a digital camera with three times the pixels and optical zoom capacity of the Canon Digital Elph he took with him to Iraq. His brother always said Jon was like an overeager tourist when it came to taking pictures - it drove us all a little crazy at the time, but thank goodness we have as many of those photos as we do now.
Despite always thinking of how much he'd love it as soon as I see that a new and improved device has hit the stores, I can no longer give my sweet husband any of these fancy toys as gifts on his birthday or at Christmas (though I did fulfill his wish of buying a big, high-quality, flat screen TV as his "coming home from Iraq" present). What I can do, however, is to promise that for as long as I have a keyboard at my fingertips and a touchscreen device of some kind in my pocket, I will continue to utilize the wonders of technology to keep his memory alive and well. A friend once questioned the fact that I continue to display pictures and mementos of Jon in every room of my house, as if to suggest that I shouldn't remain so fixated on the past. Well, I'm afraid this is just another one of those things about me that people will just have to accept - if my house were on fire, my photographs, videos, and reminders of my husband are the first things I'd try to save over anything of any kind of monetary value. Everyone has to figure out their own way in surviving the unimaginable, and this is mine. Just as I'm proud to call myself Jon's widow, I'm proud to pledge, with a little help from the technology he so loved, that Jon will never be forgotten.
I had one of those "light bulb" moments a few days ago when I realized that there's a difference between being lonely and missing Jon when I'm alone. I think I always confused the two in the past and chalked up all my issues to pure loneliness...but if that was really the case, a half-way decent (or even mediocre) relationship should have solved that problem, right? The thing is, even when I thought I was finally happy in the context of a relationship, I'd still have these God-awful, miserable episodes where a tiny trigger would escalate into a night of inconsolable sobbing. I'd drink too much wine, pore over photos and videos of Jon and I, and, ultimately, cry myself to sleep from exhaustion. Do these sound like the signs of a happy widow (ha, such a funny phrase...no pun intended) who has successfully tackled the demons surrounding her husband's death? I think not. In fact, I think I was generally more unhappy when I quickly began to sense that the confines and restrictions of those past relationships were sucking the life out of me and keeping me away from the things that really matter, like honoring Jon's memory. It always felt slightly awkward to try and do both at the same time - the best of both worlds didn't really apply. Plus, being in a relationship shouldn't be as hard as it's been every time I've given it a try since losing Jon - even with long distance, things with Jon were practically effortless. When it's right, there can be challenges and speed bumps along the way, but your relationship shouldn't be one of the stressors in life - it should be your soft landing, something that makes the other inherent difficulties in life melt away. I got spoiled with Jon, I suppose, and it very well may have ruined me for life...in the best of all possible ways. At the same time, I'm not so naive as to think that this is a process I can just work my way through from start to end, beginning now (hey, better late than never, right?), earn the t-shirt, and then go home a graduate of grief. No, this is a life-long process, and after trying and failing to invent the cliff notes version over the last few years, I'm finally realizing that I should probably just dig in for the long haul.
When it comes to that dreaded long haul, I'm grateful for the fact that technology makes it a little easier to share all my stories and pictures of the man who made me the happiest I've ever been. It's what allows me to write this blog, to document my journey, and to stay in touch with all the wonderful people who knew and loved Jon and those who never knew him but live to honor his memory, like the couple I rode with in Operation Rolling Thunder this past Memorial Day weekend. At the same time, it makes me a little sad - well, maybe more than a little sad on some days. Jon would have delighted in the iPhone, the iPad, the ability to share photos with friends and family on Facebook seconds after they're taken, and navigating via GPS to an unfamiliar location without ever unfolding a map (okay, maybe not that last one - Jon loved maps in the same way I love old books, so I think he'd probably always prefer the old-fashioned feel of a map in his hands). What makes me sad is the fact that Jon's life was too short to allow him to enjoy all the technological comforts we now take for granted. I can just imagine the child-like joy on his face as he opened the cellophane wrapping on a new MacBook Pro laptop or unpacked a digital camera with three times the pixels and optical zoom capacity of the Canon Digital Elph he took with him to Iraq. His brother always said Jon was like an overeager tourist when it came to taking pictures - it drove us all a little crazy at the time, but thank goodness we have as many of those photos as we do now.
Despite always thinking of how much he'd love it as soon as I see that a new and improved device has hit the stores, I can no longer give my sweet husband any of these fancy toys as gifts on his birthday or at Christmas (though I did fulfill his wish of buying a big, high-quality, flat screen TV as his "coming home from Iraq" present). What I can do, however, is to promise that for as long as I have a keyboard at my fingertips and a touchscreen device of some kind in my pocket, I will continue to utilize the wonders of technology to keep his memory alive and well. A friend once questioned the fact that I continue to display pictures and mementos of Jon in every room of my house, as if to suggest that I shouldn't remain so fixated on the past. Well, I'm afraid this is just another one of those things about me that people will just have to accept - if my house were on fire, my photographs, videos, and reminders of my husband are the first things I'd try to save over anything of any kind of monetary value. Everyone has to figure out their own way in surviving the unimaginable, and this is mine. Just as I'm proud to call myself Jon's widow, I'm proud to pledge, with a little help from the technology he so loved, that Jon will never be forgotten.
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| Pure happiness |
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