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.