34. More Rocks for Uncle Jon

"It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one.  We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up.  And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know.  It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is.  Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things." 

~Lemony Snicket

Last weekend was Memorial Day weekend.  For the majority of Americans, it's "National BBQ Day" and, for some Army folk, it's yet another excuse for a four-day weekend.  For a small percentage of us, though, Memorial Day and the days leading up to it represent a somber reminder of what we have lost for the sake of our freedom.  Sometimes I think with pride of how grateful I am for the sacrifices others have made in the name of this great nation...and, simultaneously, I wish - selfishly - with every ounce of my being that it hadn't had to be Jon who made the ultimate sacrifice in a country no one mentions now that the war in Iraq is technically over.  I picked up a coffee mug yesterday at the Fort Leavenworth PX (Post Exchange - basically the Army's version of Walmart), and, in every font imaginable, the word "AFGHANISTAN" was printed over and over and over.  It made me sad and somewhat wistful as I wondered if my husband's life was worth the so-called progress I witnessed there during my own subsequent deployment to Iraq.  I am often afraid to answer that question.


Memorial Day has even lost its meaning in terms of what it is intended to recognize and to honor.  It's now practically treated the same as Veteran's Day or, as my friend quipped, "Active Duty Day."  I know I'm not supposed to say this, but I believe some Soldiers think every day is "Active Duty Day" and that the military owes them some great debt of gratitude for their so-called "selfless" service.  These are the same people that openly declare their intent to suck the government dry for every penny they can possibly finagle in terms of disability and retirement pay.  Maybe it's just me, but I'm not too sure how truly "selfless" their service can be with that overly inflated sense of entitlement.  


While many Americans were busy sunning themselves at the beach over the Memorial Day weekend, I too acquired an impressive sunburn.  Mine, however, was from spending hours outside in the blazing sun with no shade at Arlington National Cemetery.  Over the four days I spent in D.C., I literally ran from one event to the next; there was barely a free moment to catch my breath, but perhaps that was for the best.  After riding in Operation Rolling Thunder through the downtown area on Sunday, I spent the entire day with Jon at Arlington on Monday - sunburn and all - and cherished every moment I was able to sit on the soft grass above where he lies at rest.  I brought him Reese's Peanut Butter cups and frosted cookie cake - a couple of his all-time favorite foods.  A large group of our friends from college showed up that morning, and we did toasts to him right there in the cemetery with Bacardi Rum, our military fraternity's signature drink.  I bought him a special shot glass and left one shot for him on his headstone.  People also often bring rocks and leave them on the headstones to let loved ones know they stopped by and were thinking of them.  Little Jonathan (Jon and I's four-year-old nephew) visited Arlington for the first time this Memorial Day.  He wanted to know why we couldn't see his Uncle Jon and whether all the guys buried around him were good guys too.  When we told him yes, that these were all very, very good guys, he seemed to accept this fact and then wanted to make sure his Uncle Jon had the most rocks of all the good guys, so he made it his mission to go off and find more rocks that he then rearranged on Jon's headstone to make everything look pristine.  Given how much Jon always loved the pomp and circumstance of ceremonial events, I think he would have approved.  

Later that afternoon, Jon's old boss (and my official Army escort at the funeral) stopped by and sat with me for a while.  We talked about the turns life has taken over the past several years and about how chilling it is to now be sitting in the middle of all the rows at Section 60 after originally being on the edge of the rapidly growing plot.  Jon's Brigade Commander also stopped by to pay his respects.  It was the first time I'd met him in person, and as we hugged, we both sobbed at the loss of a man without whom the world is an emptier place.  We laughed about the fact that Jon hated his job but, as his Brigade Commander told me, Jon was the best S-4 he'd ever seen.  The Command Teams weren't supposed to have favorites but, according to him, Jon's Battalion Commander simply shut down on the day he lost Jon.  It reminded me of the day a few years ago when I met with Jon's XO.  He had written such beautiful words on Jon's behalf at the unit's memorial ceremony in Iraq and said that Jon's loss was the one from which the staff never truly recovered.

As I walked towards my car in the parking lot here at Fort Leavenworth yesterday after my first day of work, the only thing I wanted to do was to call Jon and let him know how it all went.  I've had moments where I literally scroll through the entire list of contacts in my phone and can't figure out who on earth to call because the only person I really want to talk to is no longer reachable on this earth.  As I realized for the millionth time that dialing Jon's number would not be met with the sweet sound of his voice, I recalled a night from years ago when I experienced the same sense of panic that would later afflict me both before and after I was notified of his death because I couldn't reach him and needed to so desperately.  It was the night before Jon administered the commissioning oath that officially transformed me from an ROTC Cadet to a Second Lieutenant in the United States Army, and we had been talking on the phone as he drove toward the restaurant where I was waiting for him with my family.  For some unknown reason, we were suddenly cut off mid-sentence.  I called him back over and over, immediately imagining that some terrible accident had caused him to drop the phone and the call.  My sister asked me what was wrong but I could barely answer her because my heart was in my throat and my brain screamed with panic.  Why isn't he answering?  He always answers my calls!  


He eventually called back, of course, when he regained signal.  At the time, I felt foolish for acting so irrationally, but I would later feel a little more justified in my concerns for his safety when the worse-case scenario I always feared became my unwanted reality.  Instead of calling him, I now have to settle for talking out loud to him as I walk my dog or while I lie in bed in night and hope against hope that he can still hear me and knows how much I love him.  I probably look a little crazy as I walk along talking to myself, but in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter.  Do you see me, my darling?  Do you know how much I need you?  I hope he knows how proud I am of him, despite his sacrifice being forever tinged with the great sadness of his loss.  He put his foot down, he stood for something, and he didn't let the pervading negativity and doubt of the rest of the nation discourage him.  Perhaps I can learn from his example as I try to keep moving forward.  For me, Memorial Day will never be merely a day of rest or celebration.  There is no such thing as "happy" Memorial Day given what it means for so many families like my own.  It is a day to honor my hero the way he deserves to be honored and remembered every day.  Freedom isn't free, and it truly is the home of the free because of the brave.  This I believe...always and forever.