61. "Too Soon? Too Soon?"

"If you ask me how I'm doing, I would say I'm doing just fine.
I would lie and say that you're not on my mind.
But I go out and I sit down at a table set for two,
And finally I'm forced to face the truth:
No matter what I say, I'm not over you.  Not over you."
~Gavin DeGraw, Not Over You

Until last week, I felt very alone in the guilt and regret I've been saddled with for a while now.  The guilt and regret have nothing to do with anything I did or didn't do during my husband's lifetime - they have to do with what I did after I lost him.  I committed the cardinal widow sin that the rest of society loves to gossip about - I started dating again too soon.  I didn't stick to the "wait at least one year before making any major changes rule."  Nope, not me - I made a handful of life-altering decisions in the first several months, and getting into a new relationship at around the seven-month mark was one of them.  In my defense, I know there's been far worse; the first example that comes to mind is the widow who hooked up with her Casualty Assistance Officer the night after she buried her husband.  But I know I shouldn't compare - everyone has their own way of dealing with this nightmare, and it's not for me to judge.  Plus, comparing my situation to her's is really just an attempt to make myself feel a little better.  Looking back on it now, I cannot fathom how I thought I was ready to date again after only seven months.  I'd been happily out of the dating pool and on monogamous dry land for several years when I lost Jon.  During the seven months that followed his death, I could barely get myself out of bed to brush my teeth, get dressed, and go to work.  Why did I think that opening my heart to someone else when it was still bleeding, broken, and crying out for my husband was a good idea?

Jon = My Forever Nemo :)

Here's the kicker, though:  The man I started dating wasn't some random guy I met at a bar and decided to go wild and crazy with.  I suppose I could have gone that route, but the whole drowning-one's-sorrows-in-one-night-stands approach was never my thing before I met Jon and it certainly hasn't become my thing since I lost him. This guy was a good guy, a mutual friend, and he was on the very same deployment that claimed Jon's life.  Jon even designated him as the person he wanted to accompany his body back to the United States if anything should happen to him, so I know I spoke to him at some point during the two weeks of funeral preparations and memorial events but the details from that period are very hazy and I can't recall what was said during the conversation.  For some people, I understand that the idea of becoming involved with someone so inextricably linked to the situation would hit far too close for comfort and might even seem wrong.  But mutuality in friendship as well as grief caused us to gravitate towards each other and talk for hours about the things we couldn't share or admit to anyone else.  He was going through his own issues, not only in dealing with Jon's death, but also in continuing to face the loss of other friends and co-workers.  To put it lightly, he saw a lot of bad stuff on that fifteen-month deployment.  And thus it was through this friendship of mourning that my first relationship since being forcibly deported to "widowland" came about.  In the eyes of some people, it was seven months too soon.  We had this saying back in college, almost like a code that we'd use during that awkward moment when someone brought up something that was probably still a little too raw and touchy for the joke to be funny.  We'd say:  "Too soon?  Too soon?"  For me, however, throwing myself into a relationship long before I was ready probably saved me from a much worse fate.  At that point, I was sleeping the days away, drinking (a lot), and thought constantly about suicide.  With his help, I managed to pull myself out of that dark pit, and I relied on his encouragement to fight tooth and nail to stay out whenever I started to slip back down there again.  So even if the relationship didn't work out because we wanted different things and I wasn't in love with him, I will always be grateful for the fact that the worst blunder I made at the seven-month mark was trying to find love again.

A picture a friend sent to me after I discovered all
the crap my last boyfriend tried to pull

Since that time, I've tried my hand at dating on two more occasions.  I learned a lot from the second guy, though we weren't right for each other and it didn't work out.  The third was a mistake, pure and simple.  I have no good excuse for going down that route with that last guy, other than the fact that I was hurt, vulnerable, and looking for any and all distractions to avoid dealing with the fact that the love of my life was gone.  I invested a lot of time, energy, and money into that relationship, hoping to make it into something that was worth fighting for.  The extent to which I misjudged him still horrifies to this day and makes me wonder what happened to my sense of reason and good judgment - how the hell am I supposed to be a good lawyer if I fall hook, line, and sinker for someone's lies and manipulation as I did with him??  I was an open book, and told him exactly how I was feeling and what I needed to hear - and guess what?  He repeated it all right back to me and I foolishly thought it meant he was a kind and compassionate person.  I think I was also afraid that if I was going to take the plunge into the dating world after losing my husband, I'd better ensure it was worth the risk.  When it didn't work out, not only did I feel like a personal failure, but I also felt I had somehow insulted the sanctity of my marriage.  The fact that Jon is not the last man I kissed in this world breaks my heart.  

It's ironic when I think back now on the occasional nightmares I had during Jon's deployment in which, for some inexplicable reason, I did the very thing I am most opposed to, i.e. being unfaithful.  I would wake up from these nightmares in sheer panic with my heart racing, unable to understand why these awful things were penetrating my sub-conscious when consciously, my biggest (and well-founded) fear was for my husband's safety.  It's bizarre to think that, in a way, these nightmares ended up coming true, only not in a way I could ever have predicted.  The nightmares made no logical sense; Jon and I's relationship was built on trust and fidelity was never even a question for us.  Both of us agreed from day one that honesty is absolutely non-negotiable, especially when faced with the distance and separation that come along with the Army way of life.  Ultimately, when my last relationship ended, I realized that being in a bad relationship is not better than being alone.  They say you don't know how good you have it until you don't have it anymore, but I beg to differ.  It's not that I didn't know how good I had it with Jon - I always recognized how incredibly lucky we were while he was still alive.  In fact, if anything, it seemed too good to be true.  I was terrified that the bubble of bliss would burst and leave behind the sticky remnants of a perfect life in an imperfect world.  

When Jon and I recited our marriage vows and promised to navigate the unknown oceans of the future together, I never contemplated that those oceans would include the tsunami-like tidal waves of the dating world after you've already had the best of the best.  My family and friends have told me not to settle...so I'm not.  I think I've made many important realizations since relationship #2 and catastrophe #3; one of them is that I'm better off now than I was when I dreaded ripping the band-aid off my heart.  I've learned the hard way that I tend to avoid all my grief issues when I'm distracted by a relationship, and so now I'm actively dealing with all those issues instead...whatever that means.  There's no book with a step-by-step checklist that tells me what to do, so I'm still not sure "dealing" with my grief really entails.  For now, however, writing seems to assuage the heartache a little.  As my legal writing professor told us on our first day of class, writing is how we figure out what we think.  Sometimes we think we think something...until we write it down and realize the reality is actually quite the opposite.

I still feel the same way now that I did back when I first plunged into the dating world - I still look for distractions and run myself ragged with an impossibly busy schedule because it's easier than succumbing to the pain of the reality.  And I still think an awful lot every day about how I'd much rather be in a place beyond this world where I could see Jon's face again.  But instead of drowning my sorrows in relationships that acted only as a band-aid in temporarily concealing the hurt, I now depend more than ever on the belief that I'll be reunited with Jon again one day.  It's literally all that keeps me going sometimes.  As I recently admitted to a couple of friends out loud for the first time, I would not be standing here today if I didn't believe that ending your own life means you don't get to go to Heaven.  I can't take that risk - I need to do everything I can in the here and the now if I want a shot at an eternity with Jon.  One of my military fraternity brothers committed suicide while I was a senior in college (in fact, it happened in the very same bedroom that had been Jon's bedroom while he lived at the fraternity house), and as I thanked God for Jon and prayed for his safety each night, I'd also ask Him to please look after Austin.  Given that he took his own life, I was always afraid as I uttered those words I might be asking for the impossible.  But I figured it couldn't hurt to ask and to hope that Austin was in fact in a better place.

I mentioned at the beginning of this entry that until a week or so ago, I felt pretty guilt-ridden about the fact that I started dating soon after Jon's death.  The remedy for all that regret came in the form of an article I read entitled "Why Some Women Start Dating Soon After Husband's Death."  I know, pretty on-point, right?  How could I not read it?  The author starts off by saying that she's been confused by many things in her life, but that by far, the thing that has confused her the most is being comforted by a boyfriend while she cries about her husband.  Ha, yep - been there and done that one!  It is, as she says, "a doozy."  She also says she made it no secret that she started dating what some would consider "early" in her widowhood:  "I've often said that that was because my partner had been ripped from my life, suddenly and without warning, and I wanted that void filled.  I wanted to skip the part of dating where you wonder whether or not someone will call (or in this day and age, text, IM, email, or message in some other way) and the other games we all play, no matter what age we are.  I wanted to catapult right back to where I was - comfortable, sure of my rock-solid relationship, taking care of someone I knew would take care of me.  So while the perception may have been that I didn't "love my husband enough,' and so I immediately started dating, the exact opposite was true:  I loved him so much that I wanted him back without missing a beat.  I wasn't ready to grieve him.  Because I loved him too damn much." (Catherine Tidd, Why Some Women Start Dating Soon After Husband's Death: http://www.opentohope.com/?post=why-some-widows-start-dating-soon-after-widowhood&utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=why-some-widows-start-dating-soon-after-widowhood)

God, if there was ever an answer to my prayers, that was it.  As she goes on to say, the other reason for her decision to date was the fact that she still had all of this love to give - a specific kind of love that was her husband's and his alone.  It was the kind that keeps people together for a lifetime.  And then he was gone, but her love wasn't.  Much like this author, I too was such a fool to think when I first started dating that the love I have for my husband could be given to anyone else other than him.  It can't.  It's all his.  So although I desperately tried and failed over the past few years to fill that void, I'm done with trying to make the distraction of another relationship work for me.  It doesn't work.  For now, good friends, the love of family, beautiful memories (and perhaps some retail therapy?) seem to work much better.  

60. "Widster" Defined

Wid-ster (noun) 

Definition of WIDSTER 

1:  wife sans husband, long-lost sister of fellow widows, and woman with a no-B.S. perspective on what really matters in life

2:  Hell on earth 

Origin of WIDSTER 

Unexpected and indescribably crappy loss of husband 

First known use:  Forever ago when the first living woman felt the pain of what it means to lose her soul mate and best friend in the world 

Synonyms:  Worst thing ever, shattering of all dreams and plans for the future, sudden inability to fit into the rest of "normal" society, club no one wants to belong to but in which we find ourselves involuntarily committed to a lifetime membership

As crazy as it sounds, I've read that having a bird poop on your head is actually a sign of good luck.   It's even been said to be a "major sign of wealth coming from heaven," despite being an incredibly annoying - and messy - inconvenience.  I remember it happening to me once when I was a kid, though I certainly don't recall any heavenly riches.  The next time I saw it happen was when Jon and I were in Williamsburg, Virginia buying furniture for my law school apartment just a few weeks before he deployed to Iraq.  A bird pooped on his mom's head as we walked out of one of the stores and, after the requisite laughter, we agreed it must be an indication of good things to come.

I'll admit I've become a bit of a cynic, but I don't think I buy into all these signs and cliches about good luck anymore.  It's also supposed be a good omen if it rains on your wedding day...and we all know how that one turned out for Jon and I.  As far as our future was concerned, all the signs were there for a long, happy life together.  I know we would have had our challenges and disputes as time went on, like all married couples do, but I'd welcome the opportunity to go through even the hardest of the hard times with the man that was my husband.  When I listen to friends and family gripe about the things their spouses do and don't do, I think about how I'd give just about anything to have a fight with Jon if it meant I could see his face and hear his voice one more time.

At dinner at few nights ago, a friend and I talked about the things we've found the most challenging along this long and lonely road called widowhood.  I realize it's human nature, but both of us agreed that listening to others complain about issues that are trivial in the grand scheme of things is something we have less patience for as more time goes by.  While she's generally been pretty blunt with these people about her unwillingness to tolerate their pettiness, I've been playing the all-too-nice game for a long time.  I make excuses for others' failure to recognize that they sound ridiculous, and I apologize for the fact that I'm a little distracted by bigger issues (like the fact that my husband died) and don't always have much energy left over for long, complicated stories about the latest office drama or debates about which political candidate is the bigger sleazeball.  I quite frankly admire my friend's straightforward approach to the situation; her self-professed "spazzing" probably makes a bigger difference in the long run than my own tiptoeing-on-eggshells technique.  People don't realize they say stupid things and sound like whiners unless you tell them exactly how they come across...and then not-so-politely tell them to knock it off.  Again, I get it - people love to complain (much like it probably sounds like I'm doing right now), but I wish there was a magic phrase I could throw out there at stressful times to remind everyone of what really matters in life.

This conversation with my fellow widster made me realize how much I continue to want (and need) the love of other widows in my life.  I wish I could scoop them up from their scattered homes across the country and plant them all in one spot - that being, of course, wherever the Army decides to send me.  It would be like our own little wacky widow commune.  The only rules would be:  (1)  Don't die.  (2)  Laugh lots.  (3)  Tell husband stories whenever you feel like it.  Here in Ohio, the widow population is notably sparse, and I miss being around the incredibly insightful women I was lucky enough to befriend back at Fort Bragg.  Like me, all of them had to grow up much too quickly and in doing so, they learned the hard way that life is not always fair.  To these women, I don't sound crazy and they don't try to handle me with kid gloves or look at me like an alien with three heads.  And they definitely don't do the thing I hate the most, which is when people act like I won't notice if they go out of their way to avoid all mention of my dead husband.  It's the proverbial elephant in the room - we all know it's there, and I'd much rather it was openly acknowledged and accepted than shunned like a sick circus beast.  You are not making it worse for me by bringing him up!  How many times to I have to emphasize this to get the point across?  In fact, more than anything, it touches me when people remember the hard dates or take a moment to ask how things are going along what is indeed a very long and lonely path.

For the first time since I added the dates of Jon's birth and death, a woman I'd never met before recognized the tattoo on my arm for exactly what is - a memorial tattoo.  Unlike other people in the past, she understood immediately.  She didn't grab my arm and say, "Oh, cool tattoo!!  What does it say?!"  She just told me that she was very sorry and that loss is an incredibly sad and difficult thing to endure.  I thanked her for her sentiments.  It made me glad I'd gone ahead with my decision to add the dates to the tattoo in order to clarify its meaning.  It also made me breathe a sigh of relief - finally, someone who gets it and doesn't belong to the widster club herself.  Hallelujah!

Don't worry, though - there's always the opposite extreme to pull me back to reality and serve as a reminder of why it is that loss sucks so much.  When I started law school last fall, I was initially very self-conscious of the fact that my tattoos would probably raise questions from some of my classmates - law students are naturally pretty inquisitive people.  As the months went by, however, I started to feel less wary and wore things that sometimes exposed one or even both tattoos.  That's essentially what happened on the day one of my friends first noticed the tattoo on my upper back - the Gold Star with Jon's initials (JDG) in between the points.  "J-D-G," he said, "Jenna...'Something-That-Starts-With-a-D' Grassbaugh.  What's your middle name?"  Really?  Okay dude, why would I tattoo my own initials on my back?  It's not like I'm going to forget them or love myself that much.  It didn't even occur to me when I got the tattoo done that anyone might think the letters signify anything other than what they actually mean.  Maybe I'm just too emotionally entrenched in it all to see it from an outside perspective, but hey, too late now.   Even better, though, was when a lady told me a few days ago that her life sounded so boring in comparison to my exciting plethora of experiences and world travels.  I hadn't gotten to the part yet about losing Jon.  Oh no, I told her, you don't want my story, and this is why...

I. Am. Just. So. Freaking. Tired.  I'm tired of looking of someone across the table and listening to their words and knowing by these words that they simply don't get it but nodding my head politely as if to verify what they're saying.  Once or twice, I've been brave enough to cut the person off once they start spouting the dumb cliches, but more often than not, I do my all-too-nice thing.  It's exhausting to put on the fake-fine face every day.  Plus I hate fake.  Fake isn't fine.

I'm tired of constantly feeling like I have to make excuses and explain in detail what I'm feeling because it's been FIVE years and good God, I should be "over it" by now, right?  I'm tired of having to count the number of times I mention Jon during a single conversation and wondering to myself if my non-widow friends are going to start thinking it's strange that I talk about him so much.  It brings me a sense of peace and happiness to laugh about the good times Jon and I shared together...but when the people I'm talking to weren't fortunate enough to have met him, I get these blank looks that probably mean they're secretly assuming I'm just biased when I tell them my husband was an amazing man.  I am, after all, one of their "single" friends, and they don't see me the way I will always see myself, which is as Jon's wife.  One of my friends even told me I won't always think of myself as "Jon's widow."  Ha, okay, so I guess "wife" is completely out of the picture in his eyes.  I think from now on, when I'm filling out paperwork and it asks for my "marital status," I'm just going to circle all three - single, married, and widowed.  Single:  The way my peers view me.  Widowed:  The way society at large views me.  Married:  The way I feel in my heart.  Let the other person figure out what the heck all that means.

Mostly, I'm tired of having a reason to be so tired.  I want a do-over.  This isn't the life I signed up for.  "Where do we go from here?  This isn't where we intended to be.  We had it all, you believed in me.  I believed in you..."  Somewhere, somehow, someone must have made a mistake along the way.  It certainly wasn't Jon, so maybe it was me.  Honestly, the truth is that on some days I can kick back and even laugh a little at my crazy life, but others are surprisingly more hellish and bring about the rage against the fake-fine.

I'll be twenty-eight years old this Wednesday.  Twenty-eight.  It's really not that old, but the time has truly dragged by over the past several years without Jon.  Getting older doesn't bother me.  Older and hopefully wiser, right?  But I think I've finally figured out this year why it is that I dread and dislike my birthday so much.  It's not the number or even the not-so-pleasant things that come along with age, like wrinkles and fatigue.  It's simply that I dread becoming another year older without Jon.  It isn't fair and in my mind, it doesn't even make sense - I physically can't wrap my brain around it.  He's supposed to be three years older than me, period.  He was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, when he died.  On a physiological level, that means his adult brain had just barely reached full development when it was blown to smithereens by an IED.  And now here I am, in unknown territory without Jon here to impart his wisdom and guide me through it.  Jon always kept me right, like bumper lanes at a bowling alley.  When I lost him, I lost my left and right limits and I eventually lost my way altogether.  As I contemplate turning another year old, I wonder how is it possible that I've reached an age he never lived to see.  

Birthdays are also one of those things Jon and I rarely got to celebrate together, and if we missed one, we usually missed both since our birthdays are only four days apart.  However, no matter where he was, he always wrote me beautiful cards to commemorate the occasion.  On August 18th, 2012 - the day Jon would have turned thirty-one - I re-read the card he wrote to me for the last of my birthdays while he was still here on earth.  It was just a few months after our wedding and I was about to turn twenty-two.  I thought I was so grown up; my friends at school used to call me an "old soul," but really, I was just a baby.  It's true that I didn't like to go out to the bars until 3am, and unlike many of my twenty-something-year-old friends, I valued sleep over partying.  I'd grown up a lot faster than I would have without the Army, but I still had no idea back then that I'd have so much to learn - and fast - less than a year later.  Although he was deployed and couldn't be there to tell me in person, Jon's words in the birthday card he sent from Iraq reminded me that there were still many things for us to celebrate.  He said he missed me so much, but that the days were ticking by, and before I knew it, we'd be back together again.  He told me he loved me with all his heart and that he knew would would live life to the fullest, all the while in each other's arms.  He said he was eager to be my best friend forever and share each other's happiness and sorrow.  He told me he would be there to support me - always, and that no matter where we found ourselves in our life experiences, he would be there waiting for me.

This is not where we expected to be...but I pray Jon is still waiting for me.  I miss those arms of his - I want to be there again in the "nook," protected by his love.  I miss his smile, his touch, and the sight of his beautiful face.  I miss everything about him.  We had only a few minutes together in the grand scheme of things, and yet I have a thousand hours to spend thinking of how I would do anything to have him right back here by my side.  So happy belated birthday with all my heart to the man I love.  Until we meet again, I will be spending my thousands of hours thinking of you, missing you, and dreaming of a time when I won't have to miss you anymore.  With the support of my fellow widsters - even if from afar - I pray I'll find the inner strength I need to push myself through those thousands of hours.  And maybe, just maybe, I'll even enjoy a few of them too.

Nothing comes easily - fill this empty space.
Nothing is like it was - turn my grief to grace.
Nothing comes easily - where do I begin?
Nothing can bring me peace - I've lost everything.
I just want to feel your embrace.
I love you.  I love you.  I love you...
~Kate Havnevik, "Grace"

59. Fighting the Anti-Christs

Doctor (to post heart-attack patient): “Every year on this date, your heart stops because you’re grieving for Ted.” 

Patient: “For twenty-seven years, I loved him. He was my soul mate…So what do I do next? How do I treat it? 

Doctor: “I wish I knew.”

I hope I didn't come across as too harsh in my last entry when I referred to the people who don't read my blog.  It's okay, honestly.  No one is obligated to do anything - after all, thanks to Soldiers like Jon, it's a free country.  Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss.  Writing happens to be mine, though I understand it's not for everyone.  Again, it's more the fact that I get frustrated when people ask, "so how are you?  How are you handling things??"  In response, I usually think - impatiently and admittedly, a little selfishly - that they would already know the answer to that question if they'd take a few moments to read an entry.  But again, everyone has their own coping mechanisms.  For me, this is just the one and only place where I can be honest about how I'm really doing.  Even if someone takes the time to ask me how things have been, I usually avert my eyes and say, "oh, you know, I'm fine," which clearly means something quite different.  I usually mention that I've been writing a lot to try and work through the issues I avoided for so long, which is really my code way of saying, "if you want to know the answer to your question, it's out there.  You just have to read it."  Again, I'll always be far better at expressing myself with a pen than when I attempt to explain my deep sadness and innermost fears while fighting back the tears in person.

A funny thing happened to me at Arlington during my visit this afternoon.  I was feeling kind of disappointed (for reasons other than the obvious) because, in my rush to get out the door, I'd grabbed the flowers I bought for Jon off the counter but not the frozen piña colada mix I wanted to leave at his headstone.  Anyway, so while I was sitting there with Jon and using my phone to respond to a request for donations to a Fallen Soldiers benefit, both my legs suddenly went numb.  I've had terrible calf cramps before, some of which have literally woken me up in the middle of the night, but nothing like this.  It was truly bizarre.  I'd been sitting "Indian-style," which is something Jon was incapable of doing.  We ate dinner once at a traditional Korean restaurant and I remember the look of pure discomfort on his face at the fact that he physically couldn't cross his legs to sit on the floor at the grill.  As the feeling of numbness spread all the way down both my legs, I started to panic.  I figured it would pass after a few moments, but instead it started to get worse and I couldn't move them at all.  I lay back on the grass in front of Jon's headstone and started to cry, overcome by the irony and the unknown nature of whatever was happening to me.  I listened to the distant drums of funeral processions, heard the occasional 21-gun salute, and the familiarity of these sounds made me cry even harder.  In the midst of this mini anxiety attack, I ordered my brain to picture something funny, anything that might help me to relax.  I envisioned the photograph I found just last night of Jon and I passed out together on the couch at my parents' house in Florida...and reminded myself of how his "I Love Beer" matching pajamas had struck me as incredibly sexy.  It's the first thing I told him about when I sat down at his headstone today and it's that silly memory that helped me to start to regain the control and function of my legs.  As I squeezed my eyes shut and let the tears flow, it was as if I could hear Jon's voice telling me to stop running myself ragged - to stop throwing my energy into every cause out there with all of my effort and just take a minute to relax.  It was as if he wanted me to just "be" without constantly having to think and do so much.  If he'd been sitting right there next to me, he'd probably say, "Jenna, I love that you always want to help everyone and be so involved, but saving the world can wait - just give yourself a second to be here in this moment with me."  

Jon trying to get comfortable on the little floor pillows at the grill table in Korea - no Indian-style sitting for this man!

So that's what I did.  And as I did, the sensation slowly returned to my legs.  I opened my eyes to the blinding sunlight and laughed while still crying at the fact that my husband is somehow managing to take care of me, even from a grave site in a cemetery.  The last thing I heard while saying goodbye to my sweetheart and leaving Section 60 of Arlington this afternoon?  The long, sad sounds of a bugler playing TAPS. 

Although I felt better as I wandered back through the Cemetery Visitor's Center, happy is hardly how I'd describe myself after sitting at my husband's grave and talking to a headstone for a couple of hours.  "Irritated," "drained," and "emotionally exhausted" are probably more accurate descriptors.  Imagine, then, my frustration, when the gate guard yelled at me for trying to exit through the vehicle lane instead of the pedestrian lane.  Good Lord, man, I thought to myself, I'm not a lost tourist wandering aimlessly around and getting herded from one place to the next.  I'm on a very personal mission to visit my husband since he's actually buried here.  I'm sorry if using the wrong gate makes that mission a little easier for me and slightly less convenient for you!  This wasn't quite as dumbfounding, however, as my encounter with "homeless dude" at the Arlington Cemetery Cemetery Metro Station yesterday evening.  Still wet and uncomfortable after the downpour that hit me en route to Jon's grave, I wasn't really in the mood to talk.  The trains were also running very slowly due to some ongoing track construction, so I knew I was in for a long wait.  My feet (in my canvas platform wedge sandals) were killing me, so I sat down on one of the open benches out of the rain.  A man with a backpack full of God-knows-what came over after a few minutes and asked to sit down.  I was still in no mood for conversation, but I moved over to give him some room.  The first thing he asked was if I had any change for the homeless.  With his nice clothes and a practically brand-new sports backpack, he sure didn't look very homeless, so I said no, that I didn't have any cash on me.  After asking everyone in the general vicinity the same question, he came back, plopped himself back down next to me and proceeded to ask me where I'm from, what I'm doing in town, etc.  I was trying not to be rude, but I ultimately just dropped the bombshell and told him that I was here to visit my husband, who's buried at Arlington.  He said how sorry he was, asked if the tattoo on my right arm was a tribute to him, and then proceeded to tell me that I had nice feet...and that I should think about getting married again one day.  After sharing these deep thoughts, he asked me one more time if I had any change for the homeless.  Then, just as abruptly as he'd sat down, he got up and walked off, mumbling to himself about he needed the train to come so he could sleep on the subway.  Unbelievable...but realistically, not that surprising.  This is the dichotomy that exists at a place as sacred at Arlington National Cemetery, when we have the delights of the subway to factor into the overall entertainment value of any somber visit.

Laying in the sun with my baby at Arlington once I could feel my legs again...so peaceful and beautiful.

After this latest escapade, my friend I'm staying with in D.C., took me to an evening church service.  It was probably exactly what I needed after the day I'd had.  The people were nice, the place was full of young professionals who looked like me (even if perhaps their stories are different), and the music was uplifting.  The book of scripture on which tonight's sermon was based was 1 John.  If that in and of itself wasn't enough to give me chills, the focus of the talk was on deception and how certain anti-christs in our lives (good examples might be Osama Bin Laden, Bernard Madoff, my ex-boyfriend, etc.) can easily sway us away from what we know to be right.  I've certainly been down the road they refer to as a "crisis in faith" - be it for moral reasons, i.e. making some error of judgment you struggle to forgive yourself for (check!); theological, i.e. not wanting to accept what the Bible says about non-believers going to Hell and trying desperately to figure out some back-door loophole to get these loved ones into Heaven (check!); and last but not least, spiritual, i.e. fighting with God about why he does certain bad things to certain undeserving people (check check check!).  I can relate all too personally to several of these crises that tend to pull us even further away from the truth of what matters at the times when it matters most, but if there's anything I've learned in the last few months, it's that I'm not going to let others' ideas about how I should be living my life affect the decisions I make.  If these people want to dissuade me from following the dreams I have left on earth without Jon, bring them on and let them try, but at the end of the day, I know what I hold most dear, and that is truth.  All the cynics and naysayers in the world can't change the very essence of what I know to be true about Jon's new home in Heaven and they can't take away my belief that I'll see him again one day.  It's all about love, and if God could create a love here on earth as strong and beautiful as the one Jon and I shared, then there can be no doubt that there are many more emotional riches to be had when its the time for those of us still here to go too.  If there were ever a tangible victory over deceit, distraction, and the anti-christs, I think this must be it.

Sending you this heavenly piña colada for when we meet again one day...that's
right!  For one that good, you gotta wait to enjoy it with me, like old times :)

Tonight when I finally got back to my friends' house, I took the frozen piña colada mix out the freezer.  Piña colada for one, please!!  Cheers, baby, I said to myself, as I sipped the sweet delicious concoction.  Cheers to us and to when we drank these things from the slushy machines on our honeymoon in Jamaica.  Cheers to paying $11 for a rich and delicious one made with real cream and savoring every last drop, to include the slice of pineapple and maraschino cherry on top.  Cheers to finally enjoying a few more of these together in Heaven when I get there.  And cheers to you - to you, my sweet husband - for being the kind of man who provided (and still provides) all the love and and faith I need to fight all the anti-christs out there.  Thank you for trying to protect me in your own special way from the bad things in the world while still allowing me to enjoy the good, like the love I have for you...and piña coladas, of course.

58. Ghosts of the Past

"Oh Lord, what can I say?   

I am so sad since you went away. 

Time, time, ticking on me.  

Alone is the last place I wanted to be. Lord, what can I say?" 

~Brandi Carlile, What Can I Say

Okay, as a quick disclaimer, this is probably going to sound like I'm complaining.  No one likes a whiner, so I'm sorry in advance if I come across that way.  I don't know why I even care so much or let it bother me...but here's the thing:  A few of my closest family members, some of whom I thought would find comfort in the recollection of Jon and I's memories, don't read what I write about on this blog.  Strangers read my words and tell me my entries have provided other young, grieving widows with encouragement, friends support me in my moments of doubt...but certain family members don't bother to look.  It makes me wonder if they understand that I'm trying my very best to make emotional progress...and writing is the means by which I'm trying to achieve it.  Selfishly, I get annoyed at the fact that when they ask how I'm doing, I have to explain things to them all over again instead of just directing them to the blog and having it answer all their questions.  Perhaps this is almost lazy of me, but let's be honest:  I know I'm far better at conveying my feelings on paper than I am in person.

I'm not sure if it's just that these particular family members are busy or they think I'm being too dramatic or it's simply too hard, but I feel somewhat hurt at their ambivalence.  Ugh, okay, I can't believe I just wrote that - it sounds so ridiculous and trivial.  Maybe ambivalence is too strong of a word.  Either way, I just don't get it.  I guess in some ways I'm a little jealous of their ability to focus on their own lives and achieve a comfortable amount of distance from the past, but for me, it's not that easy.  I'm hungry for any and all knowledge there is to be had about Jon.  I want to know everything there is to know, especially since the stories and the memories are so finite.  There is not a day that passes when I don't think about him a million times.  Is this just because he's my husband and being in love with someone will have that kind of long-lasting effect on you?  I don't know.  I do know, though, that it shocks me when I hear people say that they "still" think about Jon on "almost a daily basis"...I didn't think five years warranted the use of the word "still" when it comes to any aspect of Jon's absence.  And daily?  Try hourly, minute-to-minute, and second-to-second.  It makes me realize for the umpteenth time that the words a friend shared with me several years ago still hold true:  As much as I might wish others could take on some of this burden, it's mine to carry and no one else can walk in my shoes.

We were always good at cuddling (and falling asleep) on couches.  Here we
are, missing out on most of the movie at my parents' house in Florida.

This final week of my summer vacation before my second year of law school kicks off has been anything but relaxing.  I don't mean that in a bad way - I just mean that all the emotions have hit hard, and the reverberations of their impact have left me feeling a little off-balance and disoriented.  For the first few days of my latest travel adventure, I visited my in-laws at their home in New Hampshire where Jon and I made many happy memories, starting from the time when we'd barely been dating for more than a couple of months up until just a few months before he died.  My in-laws are the proud owners of a traditional New England home; not only is it warm, inviting and characterized by beautiful nuances that make it unique, but it's also full of photos of Jon as a cute little kid all the way through to adulthood when I start to recognize him as the man I love.  When I look at these photos with the knowledge I have now of the way things would turn out, tears spring to my eyes.  I want there to be more photos - a continuation of the life we started - but these photos don't exist.  The story ends in April of 2007 when Jon died and the plans we had for the future were dashed.  There are, to be sure, many pictures of grandchildren and happy smiles from over the past few years...but none of these are of Jon and I's kids or of our happy smiles because, to be blunt, there aren't any to be had.  I guess it feels like half of the photo collection is missing because they don't include the children or the life that Jon and I dreamed of having together.

Snuggling on the infamous couch at the Grassbaugh house in New Hampshire (Thanksgiving 2005)

As I lay on the sofa where Jon and I spent several nights curled up in front of the TV, I thought about happier times when we'd watch movies together from that couch and he'd make fun of me for crying at the sad parts.  It was while I sat there reminiscing about the past that a sudden movement in the kitchen caught my eye and I saw an inexplicable flash of blue.  One of Jon's favorite shirts (and one that I've held onto over the years so I can pull it out and hug it whenever I feel like it) is a short-sleeved, bright blue polo shirt.  Jon's dad told me about a few bizarre things that have happened to him at their house since Jon died...could it be possible that he's still there with us?  A couple of hours later, I swear I heard movement downstairs when everyone, including me, was already upstairs in bed.  I asked Mark about it the following day, thinking maybe he'd gotten restless during the night, but nope - he said he slept like a rock.  My in-laws have lived in that house for over twenty years now.  They moved there when Jon was just eight years old and about to enter the third grade.  It's those little things about a house with all that history that remind me of what I've had to give up for the life I've chosen to pursue in the Army - over the past six years, I've moved seven times, so my current home does not have Jon's presence lurking in every corner.  Although every single room is filled with his pictures, it's not quite the same as staring at a familiar chair and being able to picture him alive and well and sitting right there in front of me.  Sometimes I wish I had a little more of that continuity, and that Jon's ghost (or whatever the remnants of his presence amount to) would come by and visit me more often.

Jon and I...and his bright blue polo shirt (Christmas 2006)

Part two of my trip has been spent in Washington, D.C., which continues to be, as always, a very bittersweet place for me.  Whenever I walk through the visitor's center at Arlington National Cemetery with a bouquet of flowers in my arms, I sense everyone's eyes on me and just assume my purpose for being there is painfully obvious.  Hell, for as conspicuous as I feel, it might as well be plastered across my forehead.  It makes me wish to God that I could just be there as a regular tourist and ride the little blue trolley around to all the most popular cemetery hot spots.  Instead, rain or shine, I make the long walk to Section 60 to perform what has become my ritual.  I take a bouquet of flowers to Jon's grave, meticulously arrange them in a plastic flower vase, tidy up the area, and then sit there dumbfounded, staring at his headstone for a while as I try to wrap my mind around the fact that his body is only a few feet beneath my feet.  One day, I'll be there too, and my name and title - "His Wife" - will be carved into the back of his headstone, just like the other wives whose names have now started to appear on the headstones of older service members buried near my husband.  Yesterday there was far more rain than shine, and it started pouring down relentlessly before I even reached Section 60.  As luck would have it, I'd worn a thin cotton dress and canvas platform wedge shoes.  As I stood there at Jon's grave, soaking wet and miserable, I held my head in my hands and let my tears mix with the onslaught of rain.  I felt irritated and angry at the fact that this is our future and the life we now lead.  It couldn't be further from the one we wanted.  And then suddenly, in that moment of resentment and self-pity, Jon smiled at me.  The rain let off, the dark storm clouds parted, and the sun's brilliant rays shone through.  Just like the day of his burial, I thought.  Do we look for signs like these when we've lost someone we love? Absolutely - not only do we look for them, but we cling to them.  They are, after all, among the only tangible things we have left.  But it sure is nice to feel Jon's presence all the way from Heaven...and smile back.

57. Sweet Tooth

"It's hard - I know it's hard being the one who's gone.  But, man, it isn't easy being the one who's still around."
~Grey's Anatomy (Season 2, Episode 3)

When I first started writing this blog, a buddy of mine (who didn't know me in the "before-Jon" phase of my life but has since become a good friend) said he was glad to see me dealing with all my "Jon issues."  At the same time, however, he feared that talking and thinking about such a traumatic loss on a daily basis might actually make things worse for me.  I dismissed his concerns and insisted I'd be fine.  I told him that writing, in which I've always found comfort, would help me to deal with the things I've avoided facing for several years.  It's not like I don't think about this stuff all the time anyway...I might as well get it out of my head and down on paper where my friends and family can understand how I'm really feeling when I lie and tell them I'm doing "good" or "fine."

After the truly terrible day I had last Tuesday, I started to think he could be right.  For a long and tearful afternoon, I wondered if putting it all out there in an open forum is nothing more than yet another sign of how much I miss my husband, especially during that lonely time at the end of the day when there's no one around to see my tears or witness my anguish.  But then I considered all the people who've supported me in this endeavor and thanked me for expressing what they feel and can't put into words, and I changed my mind again.  Yes, I thought, I'll keep on writing. It's what I do.  It's all I know how to do for now.  And I think - for now - that's okay.  If this is what it takes to convince myself than I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, then this is what takes.  Others tell me all the time that I seem to be doing so well, but when I reach that lonely time at the end of the day, it doesn't matter what they think until I start to believe it too.

I've been told on several occasions that the love Jon and I shared is rare, and that very few people ever love so passionately and unconditionally.  That's exactly the problem.  Why do you think it's so hard to go without it?  I want it back.  I don't mean this to sound glib, but I truly feel sorry for anyone who has never loved another person with that magnitude of feeling.  The depth of emotion you experience when someone else's life means more to you than your own is more beautiful than anything you can see or touch.  During one of many conversations about how unfair life can be, a guy I worked with at Fort Bragg tried to relate to my loss by describing how he felt after being shot several times.  He said that as he lay there on the table in the Emergency Room, wondering if he was going to survive, he wasn't thinking about his wife or even his kids.  He was thinking about the fact that this was his life on the line and he knew he had to fight like hell for it.  His thoughts of the future - and all the things in it that he still wanted to do in it - were what pulled him through the worst of the pain and pushed him to make a full recovery.

As soon as he said that, I tuned him out.  I knew as soon as he said that his life was the one that mattered most that he was selfish and didn't get it.  And that's fine, I understand that many people feel the same way he does.  But that's not how I feel when I think about the love I have for Jon.  I can't describe in words how it feels to have and hold something like that...and then watch it slip through your fingertips, but believe me, I've tried.  The best analogy I can offer is that it's like watching the most heart-stopping, chill-inducing, gorgeous sunset imaginable...and then, in the next instant, losing your sight forever with no hope of recovery.  The image of that last sunset would torture you, both in good ways and in bad, as you tried to find the same kind of fulfillment in other things that don't include the power of sight or natural beauty.  For lack of a better explanation, that's the way I feel when I look back on what I had with Jon.  Seems like I've been navigating the road ahead blind and on empty since I lost it.

Jon and I at Smokey Bones the night before Ranger School graduation
(Fort Benning, GA - April 2004)

As I got my morning fix at my favorite coffee shop last week, I hesitated at the dessert window for a moment.  Did I really need anything from those tantalizing, cream-covered trays?  No, of course not.  But did I want something?  Um, yeah!  Trying to choose between strawberry delight cake and chocolate chip cheesecake was a tough decision, but I finally settled on the strawberry delight because it reminded me of the strawberry shortcake Jon used to make.  He definitely would have drooled over this cake, I thought to myself with a smile.  A sweet tooth was something we had in common.  While suffering through Ranger School, the one thing Jon said he looked forward to the most (besides sleep and freedom) was eating these home-made hot donuts from a restaurant called Smokey Bones.  It's the same restaurant we went to eat at about a year later when he proposed to me on April 30th, 2005.  He told me he'd almost proposed to me right there at the dinner table, but because he wanted the proposal to be more private, he decided to wait.  Instead, when we got home from dinner, he popped the question in his own unique way that, as a history nerd, I could easily relate to - a "what happened this day in history?" kind of thing.  As we went for a walk around our new apartment complex, Jon asked me if I knew the historical significance of April 30th.  I thought for a moment and then said no, that I couldn't think of anything off the top of my head.  He told me that on April 30th, 1975, Saigon had fallen during the Vietnam War...and that this was also the day he would propose and ask me to be his wife.  Then, right outside our front door, he got down on one knee and pulled out a small navy blue box containing a beautiful 1-carat diamond solitaire.  I'm pretty sure he already knew that my answer would be an ecstatic yes.  

My beautiful engagement ring

Once the proposal was official, my father-in-law told me that Jon had known exactly what kind of ring he'd wanted to get me.  He'd looked around almost the entire store before finally pointing to it and telling his dad that that was "the one."  He was so proud of it too - he'd bought a mini magnifying glass so he could show me the quality of the stone and relayed all the details of the diamond's size, cut, and clarity using a little chart that illustrates the break-down of each feature.  When I described the ring to my grandmother, she said she was jealous and that she'd hoped for a ring just like that many years ago when my grandfather proposed to her.  It surprised me to hear her say that since my grandfather proposed to her at the top of the Scot Monument in Edinburgh, Scotland, which is possibly the most beautiful and romantic spot for a proposal if there ever was one.  Also, as I later found out, my mom tried on the engagement ring before I ever did because Jon stopped by my parents' house to ask my dad for my hand in marriage.  Well, maybe "asked" is too strong of a word.  As the story goes, Jon more or less told him matter-of-factly, as was his way, that he planned to marry me.  Old school - I loved it.  When I picked up the phone to tell my parents we'd gotten engaged, my mom was already expecting my call.  She said that keeping it a secret from me over the last couple of weeks had been one of the most difficult things she'd ever had to do.

Eating the delicious wedding cake at our wedding...we always said two of the best things about getting married were the cake tasting and the honeymoon!

In recognition of his sweet tooth, the groom's cake I presented to Jon at our rehearsal dinner was a giant chocolate chip cookie covered in huge globs of butter-cream frosting.  The cake depicted the crossed sabers, which is the branch insignia of the Cavalry.  When Jon deployed to Iraq with the 5-73d Cavalry Squadron several weeks later, I distracted myself by putting together care packages filled with his favorite baked goods.  For Valentine's Day, I sent him a double-layer heart shaped chocolate cake covered with pink frosting that he managed to eat all in one sitting.  When we talked on the phone and I'd ask what he'd been doing, his most exciting news was usually that he'd eaten not one but two desserts at the chow hall for dinner.  And once when we were talking over AOL Instant Messenger (AIM), a college friend told me Jon had just admitted to eating almost a whole box of thin mint Girl Scout cookies.  I confronted my husband via AIM about his sugar intake and joked with mock dismay about how I'd probably have to roll him home to me from Iraq.  When he put on his size 32-inch pants over R&R, he said, "hey honey, you might have to get me a couple of pairs of 34s for when I come home...these are a little tight!"  We never quite got to the point where buying the 34s was necessary because, just a few months after that conversation, Jon was killed in action.  I held onto his beloved 32-inch pants for several years after he died before finally donating them to his brother with the hope that he could put them to good use.  Although it was hard to part with them, I think my husband would have understood; if Jon was ever anything, he was thrifty and did not believe in waste.  As he acknowledged, however, there are some things that are worth investing a little extra money in, like desserts.  One morning when we spoke on the phone after he'd bought a 50-cent donut from a vendor in Korea, he said the lesson he learned from buying a cheap, day-old donut was that it's sometimes worth paying full price for the good stuff.

Mmmm, Volcano Cake - one of the best desserts Jon and I ever shared
together.  I still can't believe we ate the whole thing!

After a long hiatus, it's only been a few months since I finally started eating sweet things again, like ice cream and frosted cookies.  As my husband discovered, it doesn't always work out so well for your waistline...but that's why they make bigger pants.  It makes me smile when I order a dessert and think back on the many serious discussions Jon and I had about which delicious ice-cream-covered treat we could happily share.  Occasionally, we fought over certain items (like desserts that contained peanut butter, which I hate), but we could usually always reach an agreeable compromise and settle on something we'd both enjoy.  It's actually a pretty good metaphor for what made our relationship work so well - we compromised, talked it out, and always made the most out of every situation while focusing on what mattered most.  After all, who really cares about the entree when the sugary goodness of dessert is what counts?  This is one of the many reasons I miss the man with whom I shared a love that is, by all accounts, rare.  Jon was my sweetheart, and together we shared several beautiful years of the sweeter things in life.  I guess I'll just have to keep enjoying these sweet things (minus the peanut butter) until I'm reunited with him in a better place where you don't always have to finish your entree to earn the right to dessert.  Until that day, my sweet prince, I love you always and forever... 

Jon and I just a few feet from where he got down on his knee and asked me to be his wife.
"It's like a dream of never-ending beauty...true love never dies." ~Anonymous