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.