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.