"'Women and children first!' Someone was shouting these last few words over and over again. They meant my own safety, but they also meant the greatest love I've ever suffered - the loss of my husband."
~Charlotte Collyer (2nd-class passenger on the Titanic - April 11, 1912)
My last entry was inspired by a woman I've never met in person but who reminds me so much of myself. Her husband was killed in Afghanistan in October of 2011, and we've talked many times about the challenges we've both experienced in dealing with our grief. It doesn't seem to matter how many months or years it's been since the day things changed for each of us forever - the wound this kind of loss inflicts on a person's heart never fades with time. She too has started writing a blog in order to work through some of the emotions associated with this trauma, and one of her most recent entries explicitly discusses the night on which she made a conscious decision to end it all before turning back at the last minute. When I read what she wrote, I thought, you know what? She's exactly right to be so brutally honest about how hard it gets, especially during those times when you're alone. There have been many moments when there's no one around and I can't, for the life of me, stop the tears from flowing; I look up at the sky - just like in the movies - and think, "please, God, just take me now. I'm so tired of fighting from minute to minute down here." So, to say that I owe her a debt of gratitude for paving the way to some of my own personal healing is an understatement. I write - and keep writing - because once I get going, the emotions literally pour out of me. It helps me to get it all off my chest and onto paper, but I hope it also does for others what she did for me in helping alleviate some of the isolation associated with widowhood. When I first lost Jon, there was no equivalent of the well-established support network that now exists thanks to organizations like the American Widow Project, so I know how tough it is to buy into a sense of community when you feel so far-removed from the rest of society. The only thing I regret about writing this blog is the fact that I didn't start sooner.
When multiple people responded to my last entry to say, "thank you for putting into words what I feel" (versus "Oh my God, you're crazy!"), I felt I'd made the right decision in going ahead with it, though I'll admit I was incredibly nervous to hit the "publish" button. It took me a long time and a lot of consideration before I felt ready to open up about the things I've been ashamed to say out loud for many years. There's a natural fear of judgment and irreversible stigma when it comes to thoughts of suicide, particularly in the military context, which is why there's been such a big push in the last few years to reduce that stigma and encourage service members to get help before it's too late. Most people squirm a little when you tell them the details of your plight, but that's the thing about the truth - it's often hard to hear. And it's because people don't want to talk about it that those who are struggling may ultimately lose the battle to grief and depression. Still, I wasn't sure if putting it all out there was a wise choice since it could potentially come back to bite me; however, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief at the fact that being so forthcoming means I no longer have anything to hide. I figure if Vice President Joe Biden can admit on national TV that he understands the feelings of hopelessness associated with losing someone that meant everything to him, then it's okay for me to say it too since it's the truth. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't go wrong with honesty.
This past weekend, my friend and I went to see an exhibit of artifacts recovered from the wreck of the Titanic. The infamous movie (which has now, admittedly, become the butt of many jokes and comedic parodies) was first released in 1997 when I was in the eighth grade. Besides discovering my undying (and unrequited!) love for Leonardo DiCaprio, the senselessness of the tragedy also struck a chord with me, even as a teenager, and I watched the movie over and over again. It's like I couldn't get enough of the sadness, as strange as that may sound. Appropriately, when we entered the exhibit, we were each given a card with the name of a passenger and told to cross-check the names on a plaque at the end of the tour that lists those passengers that lived and those that perished at sea. The name on my card was Mrs. Sylvia Mae Caldwell, and she was born on 23 July, 1883, just over a century before I was born. She and her husband, Albert Francis Caldwell, were traveling home to the United States after working in Thailand at the Bangkok Christian School for Boys when the ship hit the iceberg that led to its untimely demise. Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell survived the sinking. Their marriage, however, did not, and they were divorced in 1930. As I searched the plaque for other individuals I might know, I was relieved to find no familiar names but was also struck by the irony of having received the "Caldwell" card. Forward Operating Base (FOB) Caldwell was the name of the base in Iraq where Jon was stationed for the majority of his deployment...and from which he made his last trip to FOB Warhorse a few weeks before embarking on the combat patrol that would ultimately claim his life. It never ceases to amaze me when these little connections to my past pop up and take me by surprise when I least expect them. And thank goodness for these blessed connections...without them, I don't know how I'd find the energy to pull myself up off my knees when I'm looking up at the heavens and asking God why he continues to make me stick it out down here.
The night after I published my last entry, I swear I heard someone by the door of my bedroom. I suppose it could have just been my puppy - she often snores and moves around throughout the night, but this really sounded like a person. I didn't freak out. I just assumed I was either dreaming...or it was Jon checking on me to make sure I was still okay. I think I like the latter interpretation best. The moments when he appears out of nowhere to let me know he's still with me are what give me the push I need to keep going from one day to the next. I pray he never stops dropping by to make his presence known, especially at those times when I'm feeling particularly discouraged and need a little motivation to keep up the fight. Of everyone in this world (and the next), he's still the only one who always seems to know exactly how to bring a smile to my face. And for him, I can promise to keep fighting.
When multiple people responded to my last entry to say, "thank you for putting into words what I feel" (versus "Oh my God, you're crazy!"), I felt I'd made the right decision in going ahead with it, though I'll admit I was incredibly nervous to hit the "publish" button. It took me a long time and a lot of consideration before I felt ready to open up about the things I've been ashamed to say out loud for many years. There's a natural fear of judgment and irreversible stigma when it comes to thoughts of suicide, particularly in the military context, which is why there's been such a big push in the last few years to reduce that stigma and encourage service members to get help before it's too late. Most people squirm a little when you tell them the details of your plight, but that's the thing about the truth - it's often hard to hear. And it's because people don't want to talk about it that those who are struggling may ultimately lose the battle to grief and depression. Still, I wasn't sure if putting it all out there was a wise choice since it could potentially come back to bite me; however, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief at the fact that being so forthcoming means I no longer have anything to hide. I figure if Vice President Joe Biden can admit on national TV that he understands the feelings of hopelessness associated with losing someone that meant everything to him, then it's okay for me to say it too since it's the truth. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't go wrong with honesty.
This past weekend, my friend and I went to see an exhibit of artifacts recovered from the wreck of the Titanic. The infamous movie (which has now, admittedly, become the butt of many jokes and comedic parodies) was first released in 1997 when I was in the eighth grade. Besides discovering my undying (and unrequited!) love for Leonardo DiCaprio, the senselessness of the tragedy also struck a chord with me, even as a teenager, and I watched the movie over and over again. It's like I couldn't get enough of the sadness, as strange as that may sound. Appropriately, when we entered the exhibit, we were each given a card with the name of a passenger and told to cross-check the names on a plaque at the end of the tour that lists those passengers that lived and those that perished at sea. The name on my card was Mrs. Sylvia Mae Caldwell, and she was born on 23 July, 1883, just over a century before I was born. She and her husband, Albert Francis Caldwell, were traveling home to the United States after working in Thailand at the Bangkok Christian School for Boys when the ship hit the iceberg that led to its untimely demise. Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell survived the sinking. Their marriage, however, did not, and they were divorced in 1930. As I searched the plaque for other individuals I might know, I was relieved to find no familiar names but was also struck by the irony of having received the "Caldwell" card. Forward Operating Base (FOB) Caldwell was the name of the base in Iraq where Jon was stationed for the majority of his deployment...and from which he made his last trip to FOB Warhorse a few weeks before embarking on the combat patrol that would ultimately claim his life. It never ceases to amaze me when these little connections to my past pop up and take me by surprise when I least expect them. And thank goodness for these blessed connections...without them, I don't know how I'd find the energy to pull myself up off my knees when I'm looking up at the heavens and asking God why he continues to make me stick it out down here.
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| Mrs. Sylvia Mae Caldwell |
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| Jon overlooking FOB Caldwell, Iraq |
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