44. A Life and a Love Without Equal

"I would trade all my possessions for a moment of time."

~Elizabeth I, 1533 - 1603

As part of an ongoing case, I was asked last week to look into the concept of False Memory Syndrome (FMS). In theory, people suffering from FMS can be made to recall events that never happened by being shown certain visual stimuli or by being told by an authority figure that the event occurred when they were too young or incapacitated to remember it for themselves. According to one article I read, "the act of telling a story adds another layer of distortion, which in turn affects the underlying memory of the event. This is why a fish story, which grows with each retelling, can eventually lead the teller to believe it." It's not too difficult to see how easily the truth can be unintentionally manipulated - by repeating a story over and over and filling in the details of a vague, distant memory with what you think might have happened, uncertainty becomes accepted as reality. Despite being fascinating, my research made me a little nervous; what if the grief get so bad sometimes that I subsconciously start to recreate events in my mind of happy times with Jon that didn't occur? Luckily, though, I don't think I've quite reached that degree of desperation yet - Jon and I are fortunate enough to have so much physical evidence (photos, tickets to events we attended, brochures from trips we took, cards we wrote to each other, etc.) that there is plenty of proof to validate my stories. Although it probably seems a little obsessive from an outside perspective, this is another reason why I frantically write things down as soon as a thought or forgotten memory comes back to me unexpectedly. While my recollections are still fresh, I'm essentially creating a physical memory bank for own peace of mind in case I get to a point later in life when I can no longer distinguish fact from fiction.


Although I know my memories are by far the most valuable thing I have from Jon and I's time together, the recent wildfires in Colorado got me to thinking about what I'd try to salvage if I got orders to evacuate my home and was in danger of losing all my worldly possessions. I think I'm relatively good at being discerning when it comes to deciding which of Jon's belongings to hang onto, but I still have massive amounts of "stuff" - I often have to explain to the Army movers when they show up at the house that although my shoes, clothes, and purses are responsible for a good portion of my allocated weight, I still have enough possessions for at least two people. I constantly take trips to Goodwill and share things I no longer use with friends and family...yet, it's difficult to part with the little things, even those without much emotional meaning, that belonged to Jon. Each one of them has a story. For some of them, I know all the intimate details associated with the item; for others, I can begin to imagine, but can't say for sure. It's the latter items that jog the memory of friends and family and invite stories I haven't heard before, which is what makes me so hesitant to part with anything.

I think I've collected some pretty amazing moments AND things along the way...but perhaps I could afford to heed this advice a little more often

I read about one widow who found herself incapable of giving away her husband's shoes - in her grief-stricken mind, he would need his shoes if he were to return ("How could he come back if they took his organs?  How could he come back if he had no shoes? - Joan Dideon, The Year of Magical Thinking).  For me, it's often some piece of paperwork with Jon's handwriting on it that causes me the most angst; Jon saved everything from anything he'd ever done, and it's taken me forever to sort through it all.  For example, after he deployed to Iraq and I started going through his things and combining our respective belongings (I had to do something to keep my mind and hands occupied), I came across a couple of carefully preserved stencil rubbings of names and dates.  In the course of conversation with my father-in-law, I later discovered that Jon and his dad made these rubbings many years ago during a trip to the Vietnam Wall.  The names were those of Mark's fellow Soldiers and fallen friends.  I now have similar stencil rubbings of Jon's name from the memorial monument at Fort Bragg that was erected a few years ago to honor those killed in the Global War on Terror.  Incidentally, Jon's name was spelled wrong on that monument when it was first constructed.  From my husband's Squadron, 22 Soldiers were killed over the course of their 15-month deployment.  A total of 63 were killed from his Brigade.  And yet, they couldn't spell his name correctly.  We fought tooth and nail to get that fixed and, finally, the mistake was remedied.

Mark and I creating a stencil rubbing of Jon's name from the 82nd Airborne Division Global War on Terror Memorial Monument

Another thing I can't bring myself to get rid of - or even reduce in size despite it taking up so much space -  is Jon's movie collection.  He owned so many DVDS, all carefully catalogued and accounted for, but with certain notable favorites.  About two years after we started dating, Jon was horrified to discover that I'd never seen Gladiator.  He was famous for quoting movies, and one of his all-time favorites is from the scene before the battle with the Germans when Maximus is finalizing last-minute preparations with his staff.  In order to lessen their fear of death, which was a very real possibility, Maximus tells his comrades, "what we do in life, echoes in eternity!"  Jon swore I'd absolutely fall in love with the movie...and he was right.  I ended up watching it one night in Korea when he had to leave for a training exercise and wasn't scheduled to get back until early the next morning.  He came home to find me where he'd left me in his recliner chair, groggy and half-asleep with tears crusted on my cheeks from sobbing at what is an incredibly sad ending to an epic piece of cinematography.  Whenever I see that movie, even now, I always tear up.  Jon would describe his reaction to the movie as "getting misty-eyed."  The way he explained it, guys can't flat-out bawl at the sad scenes without compromising their dignity, but getting misty-eyed at key moments in movies like Gladiator, Rudy, and Last of the Mohicans is perfectly acceptable. 

Pictures are another absolute invaluable. Most of Jon and I's photographs are, fortunately, digitized and saved on an external hard drive that I can carry around with me and don't often let out of my sight.  One particular picture is not in digital form, however, and that's Jon's official unit photograph, which was taken only a month or two before he left for Iraq.  His Squadron arranged for a professional photographer to come on post and photograph every Soldier in their Class A uniform and maroon beret (complete with both the Cavalry and American flags as the backdrop - very official-looking indeed!).  Jon joking referred to it as the "death picture."  I know it sounds morbid, but as he explained it to me, it's the photograph they show on the evening news if a Soldier is killed in combat.  When he saw the horror on my face in response to this description, he said, "oh don't worry, baby. Just think - the photo is only from the waist and up. I'll look all serious and official on top, but I'll be wearing my Army PT shorts on the bottom.  How can you be sad when you know I'm wearing such a ridiculous outfit?" He had a good point.  I now carry that photo with me in my wallet where it can be close to my heart at all times. 

I still haven't really answered my own question:  What am I supposed to do with all of Jon's stuff when it represents my memories of a life and a love without equal?  Ironically, in the middle of writing this entry, I read a blog entry written by a widower dealing with the very same conundrum.  In his words, "I can't keep her stuff around forever...[but] maybe I just don't know how to merge appropriate homage with practicality."  I'd say I have a relatively similar problem.  For now, it's a rather heavy problem (literally), but not one that causes the kind of emotional burden on my heart that many other aspects of widowhood do.  Time - and memories...and stuff - are ultimately all I have, and I'm in no rush to downsize in any of these departments for right now.  I'm working slowly but surely on the practicality aspect of holding onto so many of Jon's things, but I see no real reason to push myself before I'm ready, as I did in the world of dating.  What's the rush?  As long as I continue to make progress, however slight, towards a less cluttered and less burdened life as a military widow, I think I'm doing pretty good, stuff and all.

Another thing I've been able to do better recently - find the humor, even if there's very little of it, in my situation.  Look at the widow in this picture!  She's not old and gray; she's young and proud!  We may be a minority, but we do exist. 

43. Waves of Grief

"If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever."

 ~Unknown

This weekend, I had the privilege of visiting the graves of my father-in-law's father, his birth mother (who died from cancer when he was only 4), and the woman he grew up calling mom. All three of them are buried on top of a hill at a beautiful scenic spot in Danville, Ohio. Within only a few feet of their headstones is the grave of a man named Johnathan G. Arnold (1895 - 1988). Mark, my father-in-law, told me that Mr. Arnold was a wonderful man held in the very highest regard by all those who knew him. When my husband was born in 1981, Mark chose to name him "Jonathan" (though with a slightly different spelling) as a tribute to Mr. Arnold's continuing legacy. It seemed appropriate to me that Jon was named after someone who garnered such respect from others. The only real difference between Jon and Mr. Arnold was their respective lengths of life. Johnathan's was long, and, I hope, full. My Jon's was full in terms of all he accomplished, but much too abrupt in coming to an end. More than anything, I wish for the lifetime of stories with Jon that I hope Johnathan enjoyed over his 93 years with his wife and family. Instead, I have only a few years, and they must last me a lifetime.

Although I have many beautiful, cherished memories of our time together, I also don't want it to seem as though Jon and I lived some sort of perfect, charmed life beyond all reproach. We were both human; we each had our flaws and our little idiosyncrancies that no doubt irritated each other from time to time. However, instead of letting minor disagreements take the place of our overall happiness, Jon and I went out of our way to ensure that we talked through points of contention and never stayed annoyed at each other for very long. If either of us ever did get frustrated over little things that, in retrospect, really didn't matter, it was me. I'm guilty of giving him the cold shoulder a few times over some silly misunderstanding, and, looking back, it's the only thing I regret. I recognize now that my behavior on those occasions was childish, unnecessary, and wasted precious moments that could have been spent doing what we did best, which was having fun and loving life together. Fortunately, Jon was incredibly patient and forgiving and never let much of anything bother him. He preferred to laugh than to worry about something that was already said and done and in the past.

Again, I'm not saying by any means that my husband was perfect, though I think you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't like him, and he was as perfect as could be for me.  However, if I had to name his worst trait or feature, if would probably be his feet. Jon's feet smelled terrible. He would come in the door at the end of the day and leave a trail of dirty, stinky socks in his wake on the floor. As I lovingly picked them up, I'd remind him - politely, of course - how crazy this bad habit drove me, especially since I went through the same clean-up routine with his PT (Physical Training) uniform every morning. In case it wasn't already obvious, I'm a little OCD when it comes to cleaning, though Jon never seemed to care; I'd apologize for being such a pain, but he always said he liked that the house looked so nice and tidy whenever I was around.

Although I never understood it at the time, on most nights, Jon would fall asleep at about 8:30PM. I knew as soon as he said he was going to lie down on the couch and take a "little nap" that he'd be out for the night. Now that I'm not 20 anymore and feel every minor ache and pain, I can appreciate how 8:30 already seems late when you've been up since 5AM for PT, meetings, appointments, and who knows what else througout the day. There's a long-standing joke that for every couple of years in the Army, you age about ten, and I can see why the joke persists. It's actually pretty accurate. Even after particularly long work weeks, though, Jon was a little impatient when it came to cuddling anytime past 8AM on a Saturday morning. I'd roll over to find no husband, stumble out of bed, and round the corner into our living room where I'd see him sitting in front of his computer with his right hand on the mouse, ready to hit "refresh." Most of the time, he was busily educating himself about world events via CNN.com. My husband loved to learn; he was one of those individuals with a true hunger for knowledge. I'd squeeze in front of him and make him share the chair with me, just so I could lean back and feel his arms around me as he continued to read the news. Then I'd poke and prod at him to make me chocolate chip pancakes. He always knew how to make them just the way I liked them: A disproportionate number of chocolate chips to batter, topped off with whipped cream and real maple syrup (which he would warm up ever so slightly in the microwave so it wasn't cold out of the refrigerator). It was these little considerate things he'd do for me that made me love him so much...and, of course, forgive him for his stinky socks.

It's weird how the grief hits you in different ways at inexplicable times - you'll go from being dry-eyed one second to a blubbering, pathetic puddle of self-pity the next. There's a reason for the cliche that says grief comes in waves, and that's because it really does; some of the waves just take longer to break (or crash and burn) at shore than others. All we can hope for is a little respite and inner peace before the next one comes along. I've found that one of the times the grief hits hardest is when I attend a Catholic Mass, especially when it's in context of a memorial service like the one I attended for Jon's uncle this past Saturday. I have to physically fight back the tears, and it's a rough battle that I often lose. All I can think of is my hazy recollections of the packed church in New Hampshire on the day of Jon's funeral. They had to set up a TV with a closed circuit feed in the basement of the church because the place was beyond full to capacity. In my mind, I see Jon's flag-draped casket in the aisle and I can remember how it felt to tremble from fear, overwhelming sadness, and physical exhaustion as I stepped up to the podium to say goodbye to my beloved husband...and as I recall these things, I just cannot stop crying. It must look a little odd to others when I'm the girl who always seems to have tears rolling down her cheeks, even at the happy stuff, in church. I wonder, as the tears fall, why God couldn't have let a love like Jon and I shared last a lifetime - both of our lifetimes. Is that so much to ask?

The grief also hits hard at grocery stores and airports (of all incredibly public places!). At grocery stores, it's the times when I'm pushing my cart down an aisle past Jon's favorite foods and a random song comes across the loudspeakers that totally crush me. My heart feels like I literally have to reach down and scoop it up off the floor, but I can't because the huge, cavernous hole in my chest gets in the way. The song is usually something completely obscure too, like that sad, so-called "relaxing" music they play at day spas, or one of the cheesy instrumental pieces off the original Pure Moods CD (which, I've owned for well over a decade, by the way). As for airport, well, I've lost count of the number of planes I've been on over the last several years. Seems like I'm always hopping on a flight to run off and escape to somewhere I've never been that still manages to remind me of Jon. Maybe it's for this reason that the whole process of flying is painful - not like it's not already painful enough. I loved flying with Jon. It took all of the emotionally trying parts out of the experience and always made it seem a little more bearable. He'd put his head on my shoulder and I'd hold him as he slept (the man could sleep anywhere!). I loved to be able to just sit there quietly for a while and hold his hand. Talking wasn't necessary. He was by my side and I was happy.

It probably comes as no surprise that the holidays are also another prime culprit when it comes to particularly mountainous waves of grief. I actually really like this current stretch of the year after Valentine's Day when we have no major happy-go-lucky holidays (besides the 4th of July, which is usually pretty low key), and I don't have to focus on the fact that my husband's absence is so palpable. Christmas is by far the worst. December 25th, 2006 was the last time I saw Jon alive. We had just spent every waking minute together over the two weeks of his R&R (Rest & Relaxation) from Iraq, and it was simply glorious. I can't tell you how many times I've relived those last few moments as we sat together at the gate that December morning and waited for his flight to start boarding. The airlines crew had let me go through security with him to the boarding area since he was in uniform and it was, after all, Christmas day. They even gave me a candy cane to say "Merry Christmas" and upgraded Jon's ticket to first class. He was pretty excited about that. But I didn't want the minutes before I had to bid him farewell to come to an end. And yet, simultaneously, we both just wanted to get it over with because it doesn't matter how many times you say goodbye - it never seems to gets easier. Maybe that's why flight and airports in general are so still so hard for me. 

This seems as opportune a time as any for me to say that I love writing this blog. I don't love what I have to write about, but I love the fact that it gives me a purpose and allows me to share my memories of Jon with others. I think it makes the waves seem a little less choppy and a little more forgiving, especially at high tide. In the words of Maya Angelou, "there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."  In the months since I've started writing, I've noticed that when I think of a happy memory of Jon, a tiny half-smile creeps across my face. That never happened before. Of course, that almost subconscious half-smile is usually always replaced a few moments later by tears as I remember for the umpteenth time that these memories are just that - memories that cannot be physically replicated again in real life. But a half-smile is half-way to a real one. So I will continue to ride the waves of grief for as long as they continue to ebb and flow. As Isak Dinesen once said, "the cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea." I have known - and will continue to rely on - all three.

42. Life Lessons from a Dying Man

"Of all the classes we taken on earth, grief is by far the toughest one."

~Unknown

I'll be honest:  I've been guilty of indulging in one or two pity parties recently.  I feel bad because I know it's not like anyone is doing anything to deliberately rub salt in the wound.  But whenever certain things come up, it's like a sucker punch to my stitched-up abdomen.  There are a few of these particularly gut-wrenching, daily topics of conversation that consistently get to me for whatever reason at the moment.  Listening to other families discuss their summer vacations is one.  Hearing about the romantic trips couples are planning to tropical locales is another.  I want to be happy for them, I do, but truthfully, the ache in my chest is hard to ignore.  When friends talk about their kids or share the news that they're expecting, I find myself unable to think about anything besides the fact that children are so conspicuously absent in my own life.  I guess that motherly, nurturing gene has decided now would be the perfect time to start bugging me incessantly.  And don't get me started on the concept of missing someone.  When I hear people say they miss their spouse or children while they're out of town for a few days, I think to myself, "hmm, well, if that's what it means to miss someone, then I need a new word for what it's like when the person isn't merely away on a trip but, rather, is gone forever."  Forever:  It's a beautiful word when used at a wedding to express a couple's deep, undying love and commitment to one another.  But it's an incredibly depressing word when used to denote how long it will be before seeing a loved one again on this earth.


In light of all this pervading negativity of late, I decided it was time to consult an expert on positive thinking.  Randy Pausch, a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon, is famous for his inspirational "Last Lecture," a phenomenon that spread like wildfire on YouTube (the video currently has almost 15 million "likes").  With the help of Jeffrey Zaslow, the last lecture was later expanded into a book.  Randy's original assignment was to consider his demise and ruminate on what mattered most to him.  He was asked to consider what wisdom he would impart to the world if he knew it was his last chance.  In providing his own unique answer, Randy asked his audience the following question:  if you had to vanish tomorrow, what would you want as your legacy?


When Randy delivered his last lecture, entitled "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams," he was terminally ill and dying from pancreatic cancer...yet he still managed to get down and knock out some push-ups to prove to everyone that he had what it takes to keep fighting, no matter what the odds.  His lecture wasn't about dying.  It was about the importance of overcoming obstacles, of enabling the dreams of others, and of seizing every moment.  It was, in short, a summation of what it means to live.


His wife, Jai, also recently wrote a book called "Dream New Dreams:  Reimagining My Life After Loss."  I guess I did things a little out of order; it wasn't until after I read Jai's story (to which I could relate in many ways) that I got started on the book Randy wrote to pass along his share of parental wisdom to his three young children.  His book is a beautiful tribute to a well-lived life.  At first, I thought I'd just reference a couple of my favorite quotes in the context of one of my blog entries, but as I found myself increasingly wrapped up in Randy's guidance, I figured it was only appropriate that I dedicate a whole entry to this extraordinary man.  It makes me wish I had a similar written record of Jon's advice to me over the years that I could refer to every time I need to call on him for help along the way.  I suppose I do have such a collection, of sorts - in my beautiful memories of our years together.  For now, that will have to suffice.


Many of Randy's life lessons spoke to me on a very personal level, but the following words are a few of his most poignant.  Thank you, Randy, for taking the time to remind us that life is short...and that love is stronger than any of the challenges we might face along the way. 


One of my favorites:  "Time is all you have.  And you may find one day that you have less than you think."


Oh, how I have come to appreciate the truth in this one:  "When it comes to men who are romantically interested in you, it's really simple.  Just ignore everything they say and only pay attention to what they do."


I'm still searching for my own personal opening, but hopefully it's out there:  "If you can find an opening, you can probably find a way to float through it."


Mental note - remind self of this fact next time something makes me want to give up:  "Brick walls are there for a reason.  They give us a chance to show how badly we want something."


Thanks for this one, Randy.  Not everyone seems to realize this:  "Not everything needs to be fixed."


I should adopt this as my new personal mantra:  "No matter how bad things are, you can always make things worse.  At the same time, it is often within your power to make them better."


Sounds like Randy would agree that bizarre travel plans are dancing lessons from God:  "Go on those trips you've always wanted to take...Live in the moment."


Simplicity at its best:  "The truth can set you free."


You don't realize until you no longer have the blessing of time how invaluable a mere fifteen minutes can be:  "Could I afford to pay the extra $16.55?  I could.  So I left the store, happier to have fifteen minutes than sixteen dollars."


It's not easy, but I'm doing my best to formulate a new plan in the wake of all of all our hopes and dreams for the future being dashed:  "You can always change your plan, but only if you have one."


It's true what they say - dream big or go home!  "Give yourself permission to dream.  Fuel your kids' dreams too.  Once in a while, that might even mean letting them stay up past their bedtimes."


Good people don't have to be fashionistas:  "I'll take an earnest person over a hip person every time, because hip is short-term.  Earnest is long-term."


Ain't this the truth:  "Life's too short."


Another one to add to my mental arsenal of important reminders:  "We have finite time and energy.  Any time we spend whining is unlikely to help us achieve our goals.  And it won't make us happier."


I've been working on this one for a while now but admittedly still have a ways to go:  "If nobody ever worried about what was in other people's heads, we'd all be 33 percent more effective in our lives and on our jobs."


I knew there was a reason I love cliches!  "Cliches are repeated so often because they're so often right on the money."


I can't believe I'm saying this, but keep the hits coming:  "It's not how hard you hit.  It's how hard you get hit...and keep moving forward."


Ah, such a catch-22.  I just wish there was a slightly less painful way to learn life's most valuable lessons..."Experience is what you get when you didn't get what you wanted.  And experience is often the most valuable thing you have to offer."


I tend to apologize too much.  Looks like I should put a little more thought into the frequency and ways in which I use the words "I'm sorry:"  "Half-hearted or insincere apologies are often worse than not apologizing at all because recipients find them insulting.  A good apology is like an antibiotic.  A bad apology is like rubbing salt in the wound."


There is is again - the truth will set you free:  "If I could only give three words of advice, they would be 'tell the truth.'  When you lie, you run into those people again later, and they remember you lied to them.  And they tell lots of other people about it.  Most people who have told a lie think they got away with it...when in fact, they didn't."


Can't say enough about the special people in my life that make me who I am today:  "When we're connected to others, we become better people."


My ultimate goal is now to be thought of as a Tigger:  "There's a decision we all have to make, and it seems perfectly captured in the Winnie the Pooh characters created by A.A. Milne.  Each of us must decide:  Am I fun-loving Tigger or am a sad-sack Eeyore.  Pick a camp."


I often wish we'd talked in more painstaking, specific detail about what Jon would want for me if something terrible happened to him..."Cancer has given me the time to have vital conversations with Jai that wouldn't be possible if my fate were a heart attack or a car accident."


Happiness is the ultimate goal, but so very difficult, if not inherently impossible, without the person you love more than life itself:  "Most of all, I want Jai to be happy in the years ahead.  So, if she finds happiness through remarriage, that will be great.  If she finds happiness without remarrying, that also will be great."


And my all-time favorite:  "We cannot change the cards we are dealt - just how we play the hand."

When I watched the YouTube video version of Randy's lecture, I was struck by the fact that, despite all the positive take-aways from his presentation, people have still managed to post all sorts of negative and hateful comments in response to his attempt to find true joy in this life.  Given all of my own recent negativity and pessimism, I guess I felt particularly saddened at seeing this kind of attitude directed at a man I admire and hope one day to emulate.  I realize, of course, that there will always be cynics and non-believers, but doesn't society have any respect for the dead anymore?  God forbid that a man find some beauty in the time he has left on earth with his wife and children...personally, I think that the legacy Randy has left for his three young children is unparalleled and worthy of the highest praise.  The scalding criticism and heartless trivialization of what he set out to accomplish that day is, fortunately, overshadowed by his many supporters and followers.  Maybe if people actually did their homework or just opened their eyes, they'd see it for what it was always intended to be - a tribute to living every moment to the fullest and then some.


At times, when I take a moment to look around, the world seems almost too bright and too much in focus.  People are always reveling in all the natural beauty around us, but it's like it's screaming at me, "your husband is dead, just in case you forgot - sucks to be you!  Welcome to yet another day without him!!"  The bitterness and resentment take up residence in the hole in my chest and all I can focus on is how palpable Jon's absence continues to be during my every waking moment.  Every now and then, though, when the lines become a little blurred and the glare of the sunlight fades, I can still see Jon in all that natural beauty.  It's no substitute for the feeling of his arms around me, but I'll take it over nothing at all.  As a wise woman once said, "maybe a person never really leaves this world.  You can pack up their belongings, deliver their clothes to Goodwill, put their letters away in shoeboxes.  But they will always inhabit the landscape in some way."


While I was walking my dog the other night, I thought about what a co-worker had said at the office earlier that day.  He picked up the framed wedding picture I have of Jon and I on my desk and said "damn, your husband looks like a movie star!"  I laughed as I envisioned the photo in my head and said out loud, "yes, you do look really handsome in that picture...God I love you so much, baby."  Right as I said it, I looked up to my left and caught sight of the glow from a pink-orange sunset dissolving behind distant treetops.  It was like a little reminder of the joy that hides in simple pleasures and of Jon's desire for me to be happy if anything should ever happen to him.  So much beauty in the world, indeed.  And maybe, if I give Randy's advice a chance, I'll find that there's more than just a little positivity and beauty left in this life too.

41. Venting Session

"When asked where his officers were, a British NCO replied, 'when it comes time to die, they'll be right there with us.'"

~Richard A. Gabriel and Paul L. Savage, Crisis in Command:  Mismanagement in the Army (1978)

Forgive me, but I need for vent for a moment about an issue that's reared its ugly head one too many times over my last few years in the Army.  I'm more than just a little tired of the service-wide myth that being an "officer" means being a second-class Soldier.  A former Soldier I know recently posted a comment about how he believes all officers make everything unnecessarily difficult in order to impress their superiors; in his words, the more elaborate and difficult the plan or idea, the more impressed their superiors will be.  Non-commissioned officers (i.e. Sergeants of all ranks) are, in his opinion the opposite - NCOs try their best to impress their direct leadership with the easiest and simplest plan available.  The easier the plan and the fewer the moving parts, the more impressive the NCO's plan is.  According to this individual, an officer will take an entire weekend to plan a five-paragraph Operations Order (OPORD) while it takes only five minutes for an NCO to filter out all the BS and come up with his own plan that can easily be broken down to his troops.


Well, I'm not sure which officers he's referring to, but personally, I'd much rather drink wine and sit on my couch watching movies all weekend than write an OPORD for a boss I don't necessarily like too much or have any overwhelming desire to impress.  I experienced the whole hatred-toward-all-officers stereotype a lot during my first few years in the Army.  I was fed many a comment along the lines of "oh, don't worry about that, Ma'am, you just go back and sit in the truck - we'll do the heavy lifting here."  That, and "NCOs are the backbone of the Army.  We're the ones who get things done."  I sometimes wish I could go back and redo those first few years; I'd put my foot down more often and make every attempt to keep that kind of negative attitude in check.  I figured those guys knew best because they had a day or two in the Army and I had less than thirty seconds to my name.  Some would argue, however, that junior NCOs are actually promoted too quickly now and lack the practical experience required of their new leadership positions.  I can't say for sure if this is true, though according to some older NCOs I know, that is indeed the prevalent trend.  What I can say is that personally, with a little more experience under my belt, I now have more confidence in my abilities.  I think I have something worthwhile to contribute, and I'm not going to let an NCO who hates all officers - point-blank - deter me from doing some good.


The resentment toward officers that so prolific at some Army installations tends to persist until an NCO needs help writing something to save their behind or requires some form of "high rank" influence.  Believe me, I've now worked with one too many NCOs who comes crying to me with a big sob story when they get in trouble and their career is on the line.  There are bad officers AND there are bad NCOs out there; I just hope to work with more from the "good" category in the future.  The point is, though, that we're all just people.  How and in what capacity we serve matters little at the end of the day.  The last time I checked, the American public says "thank you for serving," not "thank you for serving as a Specialist" or "thank you for being a Colonel."  I've worked hard to get where I am, as have many Privates, NCOs, and Generals alike.  Again, just a thought...


Bottom line, it's frustrating to have my profession trivialized by the fact that I'm NOT an NCO...and I'm equally tired of the cocky, arrogant attitude often associated with being a certain kind of so-called "seasoned" NCO.  If you're so seasoned and experienced, then please teach me what you know (instead of putting me down and reveling in your greatness) so I too can contribute to the mission.  Otherwise, stop wasting my time.  Back in college, I was trained by fantastic, knowledgeable NCOs, and that was when I had no idea what I was getting into with the Army - historically, believe it or not, being an officer actually carried some respect.  But where I grew up as a new lieutenant, the NCO is all-knowing and the officer is just a dumb college grad who needs to be pushed into a corner as quickly as possible.  In every other real-world situation, earning a degree or bettering yourself through professional training is considered a good thing.  Some might even call it "success."  And yet, in some sectors of the officer corps, according to NCOs, the work and effort associated with earning a degree and becoming a commissioned officer means next to nothing.  I just hope that when I've attained the legal knowledge and expertise needed to save some Soldier's career at a time when no one else can do anything for them, maybe they'll listen and recognize that it took a lot to get to the point where I'm qualified to help.


On the flip side, I certainly don't think that being an officer somehow entitles me to extra benefits or makes me special.  A fellow widow once accused me of believing that because my husband outranked her's, we were superior to her family in some way.  Far from it.  Death doesn't differentiate in rank.  We are all vulnerable to the very same fate.  Although it may be a few years later, I'd like to apologize to her if, for some reason, something I did in fact do or say to make think that I was so misguided.  I certainly appreciate now more than ever that every man and woman who has died in service to their country leaves behind a grieving family, and when it comes to grief, there are no class lines or special privileges.  It hits home and it hits hard, rank and years in service aside.  NCO or officer, we all agreed to serve during a time of war and, for the most part, if we're still here, it's because we want to stay.  I truly believe that each of us has a purpose and a job to do, and I plan to do mine to the best of my ability until, for whatever reason, I can't do it anymore.  Again, correct me if I'm wrong, but - NCO and officer alike - we're all just human beings at heart.  So let's treat each other like it.  

"Old school:"  Officer reenlists a Cavalry Sergeant First Class on horseback

40. The War Numbers Game

"People say 'time heals all wounds.'  I do not agree.  The wounds remain.  In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens.  But it is never gone.  You just learn to accept the reality."

~A fellow widow

I know I've talked about it before, but it drives me crazy when people try to compare to the loss of a spouse to any other kind of loss, be it the loss of a child, the loss of a parent, or the loss of a friend.  Each loss is awful in its own unique way, and trying to make one kind somehow sound less awful than another doesn't help or provide comfort.  Even worse is when people play the comparative numbers game.  A friend recently posted an article entitled "More Killed in Chicago This Year than Afghanistan."  Um, so what?  It's not a competition.  I'll never understand what the authors of these proclamations are trying to get at.  Numbers are numbers, but each of those numbers (be it in Afghanistan or Chicago) represents a person with a family whose lives are forever changed.  I doubt this was the author's real point, but comparing the numbers comes across to me as "see?  The war isn't that bad because there aren't really THAT many people who have been killed."  In reality, though, it doesn't matter if it's 1 or 1,000 - somewhere, someone will forever be missing and missing and loving that one person.


The only solace I can derive from an article like this is the fact that law-enforcement officers in cities like Chicago continue to fight crime even after personally witnessing their comrades pay the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty.  I think I've said before that people often react with surprise when I tell them I'm still serving in the Army on active duty, yet to me it's really not as surprising as it may seem - I need to feel a continuing sense of community, a sense of support in a familiar context, and I've been told by many of my friends who have since transitioned out of the Army that little things, like the sense of humor and comaraderie associated with military life, are unmatched on the outside.


Furthermore, from an academic perspective, the simple fact is that the current war cannot be compared with the likes of Vietnam, World War II, or even the contemporary American city.  Although ROTC programs and other Army training schools still teach Soldiers basic Vietnam-era battlefield tactics, these lessons are more a test of leadership than an indication of what today's Soldiers should expect to see on the modern battlefield.  Soldiers used to line up shoulder-to-shoulder in a straight line and charge straight towards the enemy, guns ablazing, and many of them would become "cannon fodder" when they were unlucky enough to be in the wrong line at the wrong time.  Today, however, we have incredibly sophisticated equipment that allows us to target specific individuals based only on their body heat from miles away, which, in turn, translates into the individual Soldier occupying a much larger personal space on the battlefield.  If Soldiers were being killed by the tens of thousands in the current war with the all advantages of our weapons systems and advanced technology, we'd be doing something very wrong...and, no doubt, losing the fight to the enemy.  It's true that the total number of Soldiers killed in the Iraq and Afghanistan wars totals approximately 6,440, a far cry from the 58,209 casualties of the Vietnam War or the 405,399 from World War II.  Yet, any comparison is inherently unfair to every Soldier who has lost their life fighting for what they love and swore to defend.  The times were different, the tools were different, but the result for the Soldier who doesn't come home to see his or her children grow up is just the same. 

Hence why I don't like to play the war numbers game.  Putting all intellectual and academic rationales aside, there is no replacing a human life.  For those families left behind, one is one too many.

39. Dancing Lessons from God

"Bizarre travel plans are dancing lessons from God." 

~Kurt Vonnegut 

I bought Jon a framed map of the world for our wedding.  I thought it was a pretty appropriate gift for a groom who loved maps more than anyone I've ever met.  He always said that when he arrived in a new place, the first thing he liked to do was open up a map and follow along to see where "little Jon" was in the grand scheme of things.  We must have owned about 30 different state and national maps, some of them duplicates - Jon always preferred to be over-prepared versus the alternative.  This map that I bought him had a little plaque affixed to the bottom of it inscribed with the words, "Jon and Jenna's Lifetime of World Travels."  The map came with little multi-colored pins that were meant for marking each of the locations we traveled to as a couple.  I guess I can mark Iraq - times two.  And Jamaica, where we went on our honeymoon.  And Korea where I visited Jon for a month over Christmas.  And the various states we flew to and drove through during our years together in the U.S.  But Spain, Italy, France, Germany, and all the other countries I was so excited to experience with him remain unmarked.  I'm kind of a wimp, to be honest, when it comes to the prospect of visiting these places by myself.  It's not that I don't think I could manage to get around and figure out a plan - I know I wouldn't have a problem with any of that stuff.  It's the museum tours and fancy restaurants and gondola rides that would get to me by myself.  I'd no doubt still enjoy every bite of the delicious food and every moment spent soaking in the richness of old-world European history.  But it will never be the same alone as it would have been with the man who could make even the most serious of statues seem wildly funny and who literally lifted up his plate to breathe in the aromas of gourmet food before taking his first bite.  He had a special appreciation for beautiful (and delicious) things in life that I am yet to see replicated in another person.  

Jon's favorite part of our wedding - eating the cake!

I could dedicate an entire entry (and then some) to Jon's love of food.  And museums are a close second.  I remember when we took my parents to the Airborne and Special Ops Museum in Fayetteville, NC.  Jon loved that place.  He took everyone who ever came to visit us in North Carolina to see it.  There is now a large paver outside the front door of the museum with his name on it; when he died, his family and I purchased and inscribed the stone in his memory.  I think - I hope - he'd like it.  Anyway, when we took my parents to this museum, it was just for a "quick" walk-through right before Jon's deployment to Iraq.  Ha, so much for quick.  Like me, my dad is a huge history buff and insisted on reading every single plaque and informational display.  Jon and I would literally walk about 50 feet ahead of my parents, turn the corner into the next room and look back expectantly to see if they were following close behind.  This hurry-him-up trick didn't work out too well.  We must have been the most thorough visitors the museum ever saw.  Another of my favorites is the time Jon and I toured the War Memorial of Korea in Yongsan-dong, South Korea.  I remember walking slowly down the long hallway inscribed with the names of Soldiers killed in action in Korea and Vietnam and being in awe of what was an incredibly moving tribute.  Jon and I were both pretty quiet as we walked down that hallway.  I never imagined how the recollection of holding his hand while surrounded by a memorial to fallen Soldiers would later come back to haunt me.

Jon's paver stone at the Airborne and Special Operations Museum

Maybe one day someone will come along who will sweep me off my feet and rekindle my desire to travel the world twice over.  That's what my family and friends hope for, anyway.  But I'm super picky, and as time goes on, the bar Jon set isn't getting any lower.  I know everyone loves a happy ending, and I'm guilty of it too - I always try to wrap up these entries on some sort of upbeat note, even when the content of the entries themselves is pretty solemn (or downright depressing) at times.  So, in attempt to look on the positive side, the truth is that I do still hope to visit all of those beautiful European countries - it just won't be the kind of magical, romantic experience I had envisioned with my husband.  But then again, that's true of my story in general - I'm still living it, but the course it's taken is vastly different from what I foresaw for our future together.  Over the past few years, I've done some really stupid things and made some major errors in judgment that could have been disastrous.  I guess you could say I got things a little backwards; I didn't do all my dumb stuff when I was young and dumb, but, rather, when I was slightly older and not so wiser.  But I think I'm finally living my life right now.  I hope so, anyway.  And if I continue down this route, maybe I'll be rewarded at some point with a little inner peace, some happiness, and maybe even the fulfillment of my wish to eat real Italian gelato and wander the streets of Barcelona at sunset, a la Eat-Pray-Love.  After all, bizarre travel plans, it's been said, are dancing lessons from God.

The quote we included on the program for Jon's funeral service  in East Hampstead, NH

38. The Modern Widow

"Some people come into our lives and quickly go.  Some stay for a while, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same." 

~Flavia Weedn, Forever

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, 800,000 people are widowed each year.  Since there are currently over 313 million people living in the United States, this means that 0.25% of the total population will join the ranks of the widowed before the end of 2012.  For this small portion of the population, there is a constant struggle to find support communities due to the isolation associated with acute grieving.  This explains the recent surge of organizations like Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, the American Widow Project, and the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS), all of which seek to provide resources and emotional support for those of us who have lost a spouse, child, parent, close relative or friend.  Those who have been widowed due to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are even fewer - not quite 4,000 in total.  Of those 4,000, the percentage of women who were also serving in the military at the time our spouses were killed represents such a bare minority that the numbers are currently unavailable.


Within this small population of war widows, I am, according to an article I recently read, the definition of a "modern" widow.  The modern widow is not an 80-year-old grandmother dressed in black whose life comes to a screeching halt the moment her husband takes his last breath.  The modern widow is a woman just like me - young.  Too young.  Yet, despite this growing trend, widowhood is still not "'a very major issue below age 50,' says Samuel Preston, a sociology professor at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. 'It just doesn't move the percentages'...The most recent Census data from 2009 show just 1.1% of women ages 35 to 39 are widows. Among those 30-34, it's 0.6%." (see http://www.usatoday.com/news/health/2010-08-11-widows11_ST_N.htm?loc=interstitialskip)  


I find it ironic that the article doesn't even mention a percentage for my age group.  Widows in their twenties don't make the cut - we must be that much of an anomaly.  It's funny how alone this makes me feel despite everyone around me constantly reiterating the mantra of "you are not alone!"  On some days, the reminder helps.  On others, it sounds like a broken record.  I consider myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to meet and speak with so many young widows just like me...and yet, according the statistics, there are proportionally very few of us.  I realize that's a good thing; it's just a lonely reality.  I am painfully aware of the fact that almost every "normal" person around me appears to be married or in a serious relationship headed in that general direction.  The first thing I usually look at when I meet someone new is not the color of their hair or eyes or the kind of clothes they wear - I look at their ring finger and, when I see the wedding band, I wonder to myself if that person knows how lucky they are to have the person they love be alive and well.  I look down at my own ring finger and wonder what they think when they see me, especially when they know what happened to Jon.  Is it pity?  Or relief, maybe, that it's me and not them?  I guess I'm just trying to fit in, even though I know in my heart that I don't.

The same day I read the modern widow article, I also read a story about a woman who, after sixty years of dead ends and conflicting answers, finally found out what became of her husband when he did not return home from WWII.  For many years, this woman had no idea if her husband was alive, dead, missing, or buried somewhere in Europe, yet she remained dutiful to him and her marriage vows:  in her words, "Billie was married to me all of his life, and I choose to be married to him all of my life."  After many frustrating and unsuccessful attempts to track down his whereabouts, Peggy finally discovered that Billie was laid to rest among his comrades in Normandy, France.  The date of death on his headstone is July 17, 1944.  Peggy now visits her husband frequently and sends flowers to the cemetery ten times a year.  Perhaps she's making up for lost time - for sixty years, this poor woman never got a knock on the door, or a telegram, or a straight answer - she lived with not only the question of "why," but also "what?" and "how?" for over half a century.  Forget about closure; the best Peggy says she can hope for at this point is acceptance.  And her visits help her get there.  Plus, she says, "after just six weeks together as husband and wife - and more than six decades apart - any time together is a treasure." (see http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-18563_162-57447896/for-wwii-soldiers-widow-a-60-year-mystery-finally-solved/?fb_ref=fbrecT&fb_source=home_multiline)


The take-away from this second article is slightly more positive that what I felt after reading the first.  At least I know exactly what happened to my husband.  I read every report and I studied every available photograph taken on the scene of the explosion that caused his death.  Not everyone likes to know all the details to the degree that I do, but that's because everyone has their own way of dealing with the sadness of the reality.  For example, some people don't understand why I chose to view the autopsy pictures of Jon's lifeless body.  If it were them in my position, they assume that they'd rather remember their loved one alive and laughing, rather than lying there naked on a cold autopsy table.  My response to this assumption is simply that there was nothing I could imagine that was "bad enough" to deter me from seeing for myself what enemy combatants did to my husband.  I knew that his outer appearance did not represent the strength of his spirit, and I love him too much for the sight of any physical injuries to turn my stomach in horror.  Peggy, however, did not have the opportunity to obtain all the answers that I have sought, though in truth, knowing everything doesn't make the reality of Jon's absence any easier.  It stops my mind from asking the whats and the hows, but the whys will always remain.  For my own sake, I'm grateful for what I've been able to learn about the the events that unfolded up until my husband's last moments, but, just like Peggy, I think acceptance is ultimately the most I can hope to achieve.  Seeing Jon lying there in his casket was a confirmation of what my mind knew to be true, but it did not hammer home the fact that he will not come walking through the front door any day now.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I always wonder when I hear people talk about trying times (financial hardship, stress at work, family feuds, etc.) if they'd still consider those times "trying" in comparison to losing the one person who could always make even the most insurmountable of life's challenges sound easy.  Sometimes I feel resentful towards overly positive messages that I might otherwise believe if Jon were still sitting right here next to me.  Bubbly little sayings like "in all things, it is better to hope than to despair" and "think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy" ring false to me when the one thing that was so good and pure in my life is so conspicuously missing.  I guess everyone has to learn the hard way that people like Jon don't come into our lives too often...and once they do, we will never be the same.  I am the modern widow (and I can embrace it or reject it - either way, it is what is, right?)  I am young and I am proud and, deep down inside me somewhere, I know I am strong.  And like Peggy and Billie, I choose to be married to Jon for all my life.  Peggy may not be the "modern" widow, but she certainly has the right idea.  I thank Peggy for reminding me that it's okay to love one man forever.  For those lucky members of the population who will not fall into the 0.25% of the newly widowed this year, take a moment to tell your better half that you love and treasure every moment you spend with them, for you never know when a beautiful moment will become a cherished memory.

  

37. Dating - It's Everywhere!

"As long as there is someone in heaven to protect me, there is no one on earth who can break me." 

~ Unknown

Everyone in the Army gets married so young.  I forgot how prevalent that trend is until I started working on a military installation for the summer.  Being enmeshed in this culture again makes me realize that it's almost easier than not to wear my weddings rings since no one bothers me (or tries to hit on me), though they do sometimes make the assumption that I'm what's called "dual military."  Just the other day, for example, I had to tell another officer that I was dual military...until my husband was killed in action.  Oh, hello!!  The elephant in the room has now been revealed!  From my perspective, it doesn't bother me to talk about it, but most people usually react with that horrified look, like "oh, my God, why did I bring it up?"  I don't think they realize how much it means to me to be able to talk about Jon, even if it means going into the more painful aspects of our story.  Talking about my husband is how I remember him on a day-to-day basis in the absence of some special memorial event or meaningful date on which everyone's attention is focused on the magnitude of his loss.  


Since I lost Jon, the guys I've dated I should not have dated....and for a wide variety of reasons.  A mutual friend once told my latest ex, DS (before I made the mistake of going down that road with him), that he thought "it would take a really special guy to win [my] heart again after what [I've] been through."  At one point, I fooled myself into thinking DS was that guy...and that he was comparable in some ways to Jon.  Oh, how wrong I was.  When I think about the fact that I dared to suggest DS was a good man like my husband, I literally feel sick to my stomach.  That's not a comparison I make lightly and it's one I clearly wasn't warranted in making in reference to someone so incapable of telling the truth or doing the right thing in general.  I'm sorry to sound so harsh, but what an absolutely worthless piece of crap that guy is.  Seriously, who does what he did, knowing all too well what I've already endured?  And if it was the thrill or attention he sought, why not pick someone who doesn't suffer from permanent-broken-heart syndrome?  Perhaps he ought to heed the words of Jeckov Kanani, a wise man who once said:  "A real man is measured not only by the respect he gives himself but also by the respect he gives his woman."

Dating.  UGH.  It's all around me.  The catch-22 I keep coming back to is that I don't want to be alone forever.  I long for the comfort and security of having that special person I can collapse on the couch with at the end of the day and talk to about anything in the world.  But the only person I want to spend the rest of my life is Jon.  It never ceases to amaze me when family and friends offer their advice in response to this impossible dilemma - they tell me to focus on being happy just being me...but, when I feel ready, to get out there and date because Jon would want me to have companionship...but not to expect too much right off the bat...oh, and not to settle for anything less than the best.  My brain goes into a tailspin just trying to follow the logic - or lack thereof - of what they think I "should" do. 


It's hard to escape the fact that dating and the military's tendency to jump the gun on marriage are all around me.  I try to focus on the future, but my connections to the past keep pulling me right back into it.  To say that the military community is a small world is an understatement.  I constantly run into people I've worked with or who knew my husband - at the airport, at training events, through mutual friends, on Facebook, and, of course, at Arlington National Cemetery.  Just today, I ran into Jon's first commander from Korea at a will-signing session here on post.  His name immediately struck a familiar chord and I racked my mind to remember where I'd seen it before.  Then I knew - that was the name on Jon's old Officer Evaluation Reports from Korea.  It was the same name printed on the legal documents in front of me, and I figured it was worth asking.  Sure enough, when I made the connection, he said he was about to ask me the very same question.  I consciously had to fight back the tears as I realized how I knew him...and how he knew me.  There aren't too many Grassbaughs in the Army.  In fact, there used to be three.  Now there are just two - myself and my brother-in-law.  As it turns out, my husband's old commander was also a classmate of Jon's brother at West Point.  Small world indeed.


Speaking of will signings, that's a real fun one for me.  On a daily basis, I'm now bombarded with people asking each other what they would want if their worst case scenario were to become a reality.  They can usually joke about it because it's such a remote possibility.  They'll discuss without any emotion how they want their assets handled.  Or who their beneficiaries should be.  Or who should have the ability to "pull the plug" in the event that they're no longer capable of making decisions independently.  Or - my all-time personal favorite - if they have any specific burial and funeral arrangement requests.  Jon didn't have a will when he died.  All of his other military paperwork was in order, but he left on such short notice that he didn't have time to take care of this particular item of personal business.  He was too busy procuring last-minute supplies to make sure his unit would be ready for the upcoming deployment.  Thank God he told his dad that he wanted to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery if anything should ever happen to him.  He never had that conversation with me, most likely because he didn't believe it would truly be necessary.  It was probably his way of protecting me from the grim reality of his job.  But when his unit couldn't locate the papers we needed to make time-sensitive decisions regarding funeral arrangements, we had to rely on our best judgment and limited knowledge of what he would have wanted.  I guess we knew him pretty well because, in the end, our best guesses were almost 100% accurate.  


I also recently sat in on a meeting with a widow who had just lost her husband in Afghanistan last month.  She seemed so calm and collected as she handled her affairs, but, as I tried to explain to one of the other attorneys at my office, it's a whole hell of a lot easier to appear to have it all together when you have a long to-do list you're working your way through.  It's the silence at the end of the day that's the hardest.  It's when you have nothing to occupy the interminable minutes without the love of your life that makes you wonder how much longer you can keep up the outer facade of strength that everyone knows and comes to expect.  To provide guidance and support to the families of fallen Soldiers, the program the Army has developed (and that I helped contribute to at a special planning session in Washington, D.C.)  is called Survivor Outreach Services.  As I observed that widow answer the questions I knew she was realistically of no sufficiently sound mind to even consider, I thought about how appropriate that title really is...Survivor Outreach Services.  S.O.S - a call for help.  It's the only response I've been able to come up that makes any sense with when people offer their customary greeting:  
The question:  "How are you?"  
My response  "Oh, I'm fine- I'm here.  I'm surviving."
Surviving.  That's all it is.  What more can I do?  Dating and marriage may be all around me, but they're not a part of my new normal.  When I see other couples kiss and hug and say "I love you," I have to turn away.   I whisper "I love you, Jon," to myself and hope against hope that those couples never have to know how it feels to no longer hear the sweet sound of their loved one's response:  "I love you too, baby - so much."  

36. A Little Bit Older, Wiser, and Smarter

"You were the one who gave me life, a reason to wake up and try. 

So why'd you have to die?? 

You were the one who gave me wings, a reason to wake up today and sing, 

The song of your life. 

Oh, we'll miss you, baby boy.  We'll miss you, baby boy." 

~Colleen McMahon, Beautiful Boy

When Jon died, he was 25 years old.  His birthday is August 18th, just 4 days before mine, but in terms of age, we were three years apart.  When I turned 26 and officially became older than Jon was when he died, it felt wrong - so wrong.  I wondered how I could possibly be older than the man who was always just a little bit older, a little bit wiser, and a little bit smarter than I could ever be.


On the day Jon and I first met, the first emotion I experienced was respect because there I was, a brand new Cadet without a clue about how the Army works, and Jon was the commander of the entire ROTC unit.  I often think about how far I've come since that day and how much of it can be attributed to the example Jon set and the things he taught me.  I may now be "older" than him, but I definitely don't feel wiser - just somewhat hardened by the experience of spending the last several years wondering why he's gone and how I will make it through the interminable future without him.

As I was explaining my career track to a fellow officer the other day, I was struck by the unusual and somewhat unconventional nature of the journey that got me to where I am today.  When Jon died, I had already fulfilled the requirements of becoming a commissioned officer, but I had elected to attend law school on an educational delay in order to serve the time I owed the Army in the JAG (Judge Advocate General) Corps.  I was only about three weeks from the end of my first year when I was notified of Jon's death.  Although I was encouraged by family and friends to take my final exams whenever I felt ready, I was unable to focus on anything besides getting out bed and numbly making it through each day, never mind the hours of preparation and mental focus that those awful exams require.  


My decision to enter onto active duty and serve at Fort Bragg was not a popular one, but it's one that I haven't regretted when I reflect back on what I've learned, mostly through making mistakes and promising myself I won't make the same ones again.  During my first few years in the Army, I wasn't sure if I'd ever return to law school and declared adamantly at one point that becoming a lawyer was no longer a dream of mine now that Jon had died and my future was so uncertain.  A year or two and a deployment to Iraq later, however, my plan changed again and I thought I'd maybe get out of the Army and return to law school as a civilian.  In the end, practicality won out; in light of the dismal job market, the lure of the Army's Funded Legal Education Program (which would allow me to stay on active duty while attending school with a guaranteed job as a JAG attorney) turned out to be pretty persuasive.  Plus, in truth, I still wasn't ready to get out - although it would be easy for me to hate and resent the Army for what happened to my husband, I still retain the idealistic feelings of pride and patriotism associated with serving my country during a time of war.  Above all else, it always bothered me to have started and not completed something of the magnitude of a law degree, and I felt I owed it to Jon to finish it since he was always so supportive of my goal of becoming an attorney.


Ironically, one of the key events that triggered my change of heart occurred when I helped to save the career of a Soldier whose story of injustice I believed but later discovered to be questionable and, quite possibly, completely implausible.  The charges against this Soldier originated at his previous duty station and were substantiated by the investigating officer assigned to his case.  The substance of the allegations was serious; this Soldier's future career essentially rode on his ability to poke holes in the investigator's findings.  Given the Army's aggressive reductions in personnel strength, there's a good chance he would no longer be serving in the military if he had been unable to rebut the charges against him.  In a nut shell, recent troops draw-downs overseas have prompted the Army to identify individuals with unfavorable actions on their record and send them home with the dreaded pink slip that essentially says "thanks for playing - have a nice life!"  Bottom line, in order to save his career, the Soldier's rebuttal had to be good.  When this whole dilemma arose, I'd known the guy for a couple of months and he seemed competent and likable enough.  I had no reason to doubt his integrity, and so I listened to what he had to say and helped him to strategize an approach to his rebuttal.  After giving him a couple of days to jot his thoughts down on paper, I revised and rewrote the document to make it as logical, coherent, and persuasive as humanly possible.  As I typed and proofread my work, he sat in the chair next to me and claimed to be fact-checking his timeline of events.  The finished product was solid, and I was hopeful that we would be successful.  We were.  The Soldier was exonerated of all charges and his career was safe.


I felt incredible satisfaction and excitement at the fact that I'd been able to help a Soldier in need.  In the grand scheme of the big Army machine, it's easy to feel that you as an individual are not making much of a difference.  Thus, when there is a tangible, readily identifiable, positive development that results from your efforts, the sense of elation you feel is a high like no other.  That's how I felt when I succeeded in helping to redeem this Soldier's reputation and ensure his future retirement benefits would be safe.  Imagine my disappointment, then, when I later discovered through a series of events that this individual lacked the trustworthiness I had previously attributed to him, not only as a Soldier but also as a person.  To add insult to injury, by the time I came to this realization, I'd already helped to relieve him of a second set of charges!  Although I was never able to confirm that he lied to me about his involvement in either incident, his behavior several months after the fact is highly indicative of a person who is simply incapable of telling the truth.  Some might even call him a pathological liar (Oh my God!  Would you believe it?  I'm sorry to break it to you, folks, but just because someone signs up to join the military - and thereby reaps the reward of all its wonderful benefits - doesn't automatically make them a saint!).  It's sad because he will undoubtedly continue to manipulate other unsuspecting bystanders into helping him when he gets in trouble again in the future.  Again, the irony of the whole situation is the fact that my role in his exoneration is what rekindled my passion for the law and pushed me down the path I'm currently following.  I'd like to say that I won't let future clients fool me the way he did, though I guess I should prepare myself for the fact that I'll deal with other Soldiers who don't tell me the whole truth - that's the reality of the justice system...and of people in general.  On a positive note, however, my unfortunate experience with that one bad apple makes me determined to prevent people like him from avoiding the consequences of their actions, and I'm hopeful that the lessons I've learned over the last few years will help me to be a little more discerning when it comes to judging credibility.


It's funny - for some reason, I used to think my decision to go on active duty would somehow be easier than trying to cut it out in the real world.   When I chose to go this route, I felt incapable of committing to anything or anywhere without Jon, so I figured I'd just let the Army tell me what to do.  I also assumed fellow Soldiers would understand my loss better than others out there in the civilian sector, but, really, it's all the same - the Army is just a magnified version of the rest of society.  As is the case for the rest of the population, there are both good and bad listeners within the military community; some will get it and others won't, perhaps because they don't want to acknowledge the fact that it could just as easily happen to them too.  I've been fortunate enough to befriend some wonderful, kindred souls over my last few years on active duty...and I've also come across plenty of misinformed know-it-alls.  Just the other day at work, for example, we were listening to a presentation on family law issues and the officer giving the briefing emphasized the importance of being sensitive to the needs of clients going through a divorce.  In his words, divorce is the most difficult, stressful, and emotional event a person can possibly go through.  I silently disagreed with him on this point, but then, just to hammer his point home, he continued on to state explicitly that divorce is even harder than losing one's spouse because of the betrayal and disappointment associated with divorce.  It's not the first time I've heard someone make this kind of ridiculous blanket statement.  I wanted to ask him if he's been through either experience himself and could truly make a fair comparison (even though it's like comparing apples to oranges)?  Or if he was just trying (and failing) to imagine something that no amount of imagining can ever really prepare you for?


On my sixth wedding anniversary this past weekend, I didn't even bother to take a shower.  Yeah, I know, it's gross, but I had little energy to do much of anything besides sit, read, eat, drink, and try not to dwell on my husband's palpable absence.  I wondered for the millionth time - selfishly, I'll admit - why it was Jon, of all people, who had to be taken from this world when the best part of our lives was only just beginning.  According to my best friend (with whom I spent this past weekend, trying in earnest to remain distracted), the first words out of the mouth of a mutual college friend when he found what happened to Jon were, "oh, God, why him?  Why them?"  She told me that the love Jon and I so clearly shared was emulated by others as something to aspire to in this life, for it seemed that with that kind of love, anything was possible.  This is why I sometimes get frustrated with my family and friends for telling me that they just want me to be happy again - oh is that all?  Well, I'll get right on that!  Or when they ask me what's wrong when they find me in tears.  Nothing has changed - what's wrong (and what will always be wrong) is that I love and long for Jon.  Things are never going to be the same and there's never going to be "another" Jon, so please stop trying so hard to make these things sound so simple!  To experience the weight of the world without my husband and soul mate is, quite simply, a new kind of "normal" that I neither want nor enjoy.  Yet, it is mine - my new "normal" - and as I continue to get a little older (and perhaps just a little wiser and smarter), I hope that others will accept it too.  In a couple of months, I will turn 28, which will officially make me three years older than Jon was when he died.  Baby, if you can hear me, help me to make it through however many years I have left without you in this life...no matter how old I may become, I will continue to need your guidance and your love - always and forever.  

35. Happy Anniversary

"Why do we close our eyes when we pray?  When we dream?  When we cry?  Or when we kiss?  Because we know that the most beautiful things are not seen, but felt in the heart." 

~Unknown

At work this past week, my coworkers and I lined the street outside our office to pay our silent respects to the funeral procession for a young Soldier from Fort Leavenworth who was killed in Afghanistan earlier this month.  It brought back many hazy recollections and snapshot images of the time Jon's family and I were the ones in those long, black limos watching firemen salute Jon's flag-draped casket and spectators wave American flags in an outpouring of support.  As my mind drifted from the memories of one major event to the next, I eventually returned, as I often do, to the day my world changed forever.  I remember waking up on the morning of April 7th, 2007.  I recall the exact moment I opened my eyes and looked around Jon and I's bedroom; as it turned out, it would be the last time I would do so with the innocence and blissful ignorance of my former life.  As I was just waking up that day, my husband was taking his last breaths of life.  North Carolina and Iraq are separated by an eight-hour time difference.  At approximately 8:16 AM my time, Jon's truck was hit by the massive IED that would lead within less than an hour to his untimely death.  He was alive when they placed him on the MEDEVAC helicopter, but pronounced DOA (Dead On Arrival) when they reached the hospital in Balad.  Time of death, according to the radio log from that day:  1711 hrs.


Today would be our sixth wedding anniversary.  Six years.  Oh, dear God, how I wish I could hold him today, as I do every day.  I would hold him tight and never, ever again let go.  I had a beautiful, simple dream about him the other night where I was holding his hand.  We exchanged no words, but somehow we knew just by looking into each other's eyes that our time together was short and that every moment was precious.  I wish so much I could toast with him today to six wonderful years of marriage...and many, many more to come.  But for us, this dream, for some unknown reason, is not meant to be.


On the day of our wedding, we danced our first dance as husband and wife to the timeless classic, Unchained Melody.  To commemorate that beautiful day, the card I sent to Arlington with yellow and white roses - like the ones from my bouquet at our wedding - reads as follows:


"Oh my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch a long, lonely time.
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much.
Are you still mine?
I need your love, I need your love.
God speed your love to me.


I love you with all my heart.  I miss you like no words can possibly describe.  Wait for me, baby.
A&F,
Your wife, Jenna"


Jon, if you can hear me, I'm here, my darling, and I will love you until the day after forever.  I know you reside in the safest place possible now - inside my heart.  I'm still here, but, just like the song says, I'll be coming home.   Wait for me...

"The only dream that mattered already came true.  In this life, I was loved by you." (June 9th, 2006)