52. The 1% of the 1%

Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed to so many by so few."
~Winston Churchfield

There's a well known saying in the Army that pain is weakness leaving the body.  When it comes to the pain of losing a loved one, however, the pain never seems to cease.  There are times when it's a sharp, relentless force that gnaws at you and practically eats you alive.  That's the kind of pain I woke up to just a couple of days ago without warning.  And then there's other times when it's more like a dull, sobering ache that penetrates deep in your bones and leaves you feeling sluggish and unfocused.  For something to physically hurt so much, you would think there would have to be some sort of a external gaping wound.  But the mere thought of my husband being caught unaware by an explosion that literally ripped his world apart and led to what would be his last moments on earth is enough to break my heart.  I have this mental image of him riding along nonchalantly in his truck, perhaps thinking about what he might eat for dinner that night, and then there's a sudden deafening roar...followed by nothingness.  Having seen all the pictures and studied all the reports, I have a pretty clear mental image of the way the scene played out that day, but no mental image, no matter how graphic, quite compares to the image of my husband lying motionless on the ground, moaning and mumbling incoherently, and made completely vulnerable by a force that was beyond his power to control.

For some reason, people have thought it helpful over the years to tell me things like "if we'd arrived on scene just a minute earlier, we could have saved him" or "he didn't have to go out there on patrol that day." Despite wanting to know everything that happened on 7 April 2007, these kind of statements have caused me to take pause and wonder if perhaps I'm getting more than I bargained for when I ask too many questions. They've also led to a lot of emotional anguish as I try to wrap my mind around the fact that Jon might have lived - I've clung to that notion at times, and mentally tortured myself over why, if it were possible, it didn't work out that way. I now know from speaking with other eye witnesses that the fact Jon lived long enough to make it onto the MEDEVAC bird is a miracle in itself; the blast from the IED was catastrophic and should have caused everyone in that truck to perish on impact. Human nature, however, seems to work against us sometimes, and I'll probably never stop questioning why the Staff Sergeant who was sitting in the TC seat about six inches in front of my husband somehow survived the incident and Jon did not. Admittedly, although he lived to see another day, Staff Sergeant Henline's life will never be the same; people will always stare when he walks into a room since the third-degree burns and injuries he sustained have left him looking very different from his former self. However, no matter what the condition of his body or his external appearance, I'd rather have Jon here with me in some form today than none at all. Would he ever have been the same person I knew and loved after a life-altering experience like that? Who can say...all I would have hoped is for Jon to have been able to take the horror and trauma of that day and turn it around into a reason to live life to the fullest, as SSG Henline has done along his route to recovery.


As for the other suggestion that Jon was out there needlessly on patrol that day: I've had a lot of time to mull that one over, and after a few years of my own Army experience, I'd have to disagree. Yes, he did have to be there. It was his job. Sure, he could have taken the easy way out and sat in his office on the FOB for the entire deployment without ever checking up on his Soldiers. But when it came to fufilling his responsibilities to his troops, he was the definition of a leader who burned the midnight oil. As strange as it may sound coming from his wife, I looked up to him as an Soldier. I admired his unwavering commitment to others and that fact that he'd always ensure his subordinates had everything they needed before taking care of himself. He even gained the respect and admiration of other units that he didn't have to do anything for, but which he supported by providing logistical resources and comfort items. For Soldiers living in an austere, dangerous environment many miles from home, these are the things that matter most on an interminable fifteen-month deployment. And when they talk about Jon, these are the things the guys who worked alongside him and who supervised him have wanted me to know. They've sought me out one, two, and even five years after the fact to tell me that Jon was an outstanding officer and a rare human being - they didn't have to say anything at all, but they've wanted to make sure I know just how dedicated he was in going above and beyond the call of duty. What made him even more special was his humility; you'd never know he had an impact on so many people because he was always so modest about all his accomplishments. I get nervous that as time goes on, people will stop talking about the ways he impacted their lives and the funny things he did that made him who he was. As I continue to nurture the invisible wound that is my grief, I depend on these stories and memories to sustain me more than ever.

Every year on Memorial Day, a veteran of 4th ID places this card at Jon's grave in Arlington to thank him for the logistical support he provided to their unit in Iraq

It's interesting how conspicuous and self-conscious you can feel about the one thing you don't have that's way more important than all the things people probably look at you and think you do have. I'm sure people who meet me for the first time think, "oh, she's doing fine. She's successful - she's got a good job, financial security, friends and family who love her, and the support of the American people. If I had all those things, I'd be happy!" And I'm sure on the outside, this is exactly how I appear. However, these people fail to understand how oversimplified it is to think this way; yes, I do have these things, and I appreciate their value. But if given the option to live in a cardboard box and have Jon back, I'd take it in an instant over the best job and all the financial security in the world. Don't get me wrong - it never ceases to amaze me when people approach me to thank me for my husband's sacrifice, but at the end of the day, I want to be one of those observers who shows up to a memorial event and then gets to go home to my family instead of going home to an empty house and my thoughts of Jon. In reminding me of all I still have to be grateful for, people often encourage me to live my life to the fullest because it's what Jon would have wanted. I understand (and appreciate) the sentiment, but I'm yet to figure out how I'm supposed to keep living every day to the fullest the way he'd "want" me to when he's not here to share it with me. This seems like an oxy moron and it perplexes me to no end - how can I live my life to the fullest when it was fullest with him in it? To suggest otherwise is simply unfair...and wrong. For some reason, it's okay for an elderly widow or widower to admit that they're just biding time until they can be reunited with their spouse in the next life, but for me to say the same is looked upon with discouragement and even dismay. Perplexing indeed...

When I hear about kids dying in Afghanistan who were literally still in elementary school while I was graduating from high school, it makes me incredibly sad.  They're so young - too young.  Those of us left behind are also far too young.  We're the 1% of the 1%.  I wish I didn't find myself in this teeny tiny minority, but like a wise man told me the other day, we must encourage each other; we are, after all, all we have.  We have to be there for each other on the bad days...and all the ones in between.  Because every day without the heroes we've lost is a bad one, and anything we can do for each other to bring a little light into this dark place is golden.  The invisible wounds that never heal will be with us for a lifetime.  So remember that the next time you look at one of us and think we have just about everything we could ever want and then some.  Death ends a life, not a relationship.  And you don't get over it, you just get through it.  You don't get by it because you can't get around it.  It doesn't "get better," it just gets different.  Every day, grief puts on a new face.  For those of us in the 1% of the 1%, we just have to hope that, on most days, that face allows us to smile at the happy memories and live for the good times we have left with those we love.