62. Tragedy

"The price of freedom costs more than 99.99% of us will ever have to pay."
~Anonymous

I knew I was back at law school when, within two minutes of walking into the building on the first day of classes, I heard some girl say, "God, I want to kill myself!"  And no, she wasn't talking about an epic dilemma of life-or-death proportions.  She was talking about something related to the notorious legal job search.  Oh boy, I thought, here we go again...back to the land of limited perspective in which getting a "C" means your life is officially over!  I just hope what I've been told by other practicing attorneys is true - that it's quite possible to hate law school but love being a lawyer.

It's moments like these when I wonder why I thought coming back to school with other twenty-something-year-olds who are yet to see much of the real world was a good idea.  I'm pretty sure it's easy to tell me apart from the bubbly, upbeat young optimists because I'm the one who blogs between classes instead of immersing myself in law school books and sprints for the door as soon as my last class of the day is over.  But then again, I suppose it's impossible to expect I'll find the same value and fulfillment in the things that would have mattered to me at one time in the past.  My twenties have been shaped by the highs of pure joy and the lows of debilitating sadness that's brought me to my knees - both literally and figuratively.  Grief, whether I've acknowledged its existence of not, has dulled the shiny newness of academic endeavors.  It's also dramatically skewed my views on life in general, especially in comparison to my peers.  It amazed me to hear one of my classmates say that if he were an inmate on death row, he'd want his lawyers to fight at every opportunity to stay his execution, even if it meant living through years of appeals and never knowing for sure if or when the execution would take place.  My take on it was somewhat different.  I said I'd want to just get it over with - what's the value in a life spent waking up every day to the four concrete walls of a jail cell?  He said that in his opinion, even if those four walls were all he ever saw, moments spent in a cell are still precious moments of life.  I responded by asking him whether that kind of life can really be considered "living."  Is that living?  Is this living?

This was posted by a Soldier I served with in Iraq and made me laugh
during finals period last year

I'm usually not usually a library studier - it doesn't go too well with the whole sprint-for-the door and blogging-instead-of-reading thing.  So I usually don't bother to fool myself into thinking I'll actually get something done if I camp out there in between classes.  It's like when I bring certain books home, knowing all too well exactly how the scenario will play out - the books will add some weight to my backpack for my trek up and down the parking garage stairs, but that's about it.  Last week was no exception.  Despite being down on the lower level of the library (sans all natural light) at a tiny walled-in cubical and in a "no talking" zone, my concentration was nonexistent.  All I could think about was my husband...and how much I miss him.  So instead of pretending to do the work that could wait, I closed my books, plugged in my headphones, and listened to the songs that take me back to my memories of Jon.  Music lets me escape to happier times when things were simple.   With a few familiar notes, I can picture myself in that exact moment - how it looked from my perspective, what I felt, and the ignorant bliss of a life that hadn't yet been turning upside down by tragedy.

Tragedy – perhaps that seems like a strong word to use.  A friend from college once described Jon's death in the very opposite terms from how one might define a tragedy:  He said that kids dying after being fired upon at school by one of their classmates is the epitome of a senseless tragedy, but that Jon died in one of the noblest and honorable pursuits of mankind, namely serving his country.  This may be true, and I could not possibly be prouder of my husband for his bravery and courage.  Yet, his death is still the ultimate tragedy for me as his wife.  When it comes down to what’s left after sorting through all the hows and the whens and wheres, it really doesn’t matter so much how he died – gone is gone.  There are no degrees of absence.  Death comes to us all, and with its sudden arrival comes the heartache that clings to those left behind.  That heartache is one of few universal languages in existence; I don't get extra (or fewer) points on the scale of grief because the cause of death on Jon's death certificate is listed as a homicide versus terminal cancer or a fatal car accident.

Death is also unique in being the only completely irreversible reality in life.  No matter how many tears I cry or healing I seek or prayers I utter, I can’t bring him back.  Those who knew Jon - be it close friends or distant acquaintances - go about their daily lives with the sad reminder of a man who left an impression that will echo for many years to come.  But that man was - and is - the love of my life.  I can’t just pick up the phone and call him whenever I want to hear his voice.  I can’t look forward to the next time I’ll see him with the same giddy excitement that a little kid looks forward to opening presents on Christmas morning.  I can’t look to the years ahead and make plans that involve “us.”  I can’t anticipate the day I’ll hold our child in my arms and look into his eyes and know we created something more beautiful than words.  To live without that kind of love in my life is, in my eyes, a personal tragedy.  And even worse, of course, is all the living my husband never got to do and that I’d literally do anything to give him back.  It's not just his physical loss that's so hard - it's all the things that could and should have been too.  So for these reasons, tragedy is the word I choose.  If it seems overly dramatic…well, let’s just say I’d never wish this reality upon anyone, no matter how I felt about them.  A wise woman once wrote that the whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.  Her words ring true with the knowledge and conviction of someone who knows.  I wish it were not so, but I know.  I know I don’t want to fake my way through another birthday or however many more years I may have without him.  I know I don’t want to keep filling my life with things in the hope that materialistic items will somehow make me feel complete.  I know I don’t want to keep wondering when the day will come that I won’t be in love with Jon anymore.  Not in love with him?  To even suggest such a thing makes me laugh because I can't fathom it.  It’s probably a self-defeating prophecy to believe that what Jon and I had cannot be replicated, but therein lies the essence of the problem.  My love for my husband grows every day, just as it would if he were still here.  I’m more in love with him now that I ever was; time and distance have not changed any of that.  They say falling in love is unique - you don't do it twice.  So what am I supposed to do with all that love and no husband to give it to?  Ah.  The million dollar question.

I often wish Jon and I had talked in more intimate detail about what he’d want if anything happened to him.  We discussed it a little, but he always glossed over the worst case scenario to protect me from having to contemplate that possibility.  As it turns out, of course, I've had to do a whole lot more than just contemplate it.  Living and reliving it has become my new normal.  I've lied and said "I'm okay" so many times at this point that I sound like a broken record, which I guess is actually a pretty appropriate metaphor.  Every time I say it, I think back to the report of investigation into Jon’s death, which emphasized that at all times after the IED detonation, there was someone with him telling him it would be okay.  Whether or not he was able to hear or comprehend their assurances is something only Jon will ever know for sure.  But he’s not okay.  Those people lied.  I know they didn’t mean to, but they did.  It would not be and is not all okay.  I wonder now what he would have done if the situation had been reversed - if it had been me instead of him.  Would he still struggle on a daily basis and withdraw from the world to nurse the wounds that run too deep for explanations?  Would finding love again, as he told me he'd want me to do, be something that would even seem plausible?  What I do know is that Jon did nothing in his short life to deserve the fate that befell him.  If it was going to be one of us, it undoubtedly should have been me.

I spent this past weekend in Washington, D.C. to attend the wedding of Jon's best friend.  Despite receiving numerous invitations, I've managed to avoid weddings for the most part over the past few years, but this one was important enough for me to summon the inner strength I knew I'd need to pull myself together for the big day.  It's something I had to do for Jon.  With my father-in-law's support, I did pretty well despite a couple of challenging moments, like when they recited the very same Bible verse Jon and I chose for our ceremony.  Music, however, as I mentioned, is usually always what gets me.  When it came time for the bride and groom's first dance, the song they chose was the one I considered "our song."  What happened next reminded me of the scenario that played out at my own wedding six very long years ago.  As I walked into the ladies room during the reception, I ran into a friend of Jon’s parents who had recently lost her husband to a sudden illness.  The emotions of the day were too much for her and she was in tears.  Although she was touched by the beauty of the occasion and the magnitude of Jon and I’s commitment to one another, it was also incredibly hard for her to witness us embarking upon the bright future she and her husband had been denied.  At the time, I didn’t have the right words.  I didn't understand how bittersweet a young couple’s happiness can feel to an outsider looking in from a place where true love sometimes isn't enough to overcome all odds.  Well…I get it now.  This time, that teary-eyed friend was me.  The bride and groom began their first dance to Aerosmith’s classic hit “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” and I bolted for the ladies room as the memories of Jon and I blasting that song from the stereo in his old Toyota Camry filled my mind and blurred my vision.  This is ridiculous, I thought to myself.  I can't even make it through this beautiful and incredibly special night without losing it!  As I sobbed behind the closed door of the bathroom stall and gripped the handicap bar for support, I thought about how much I need and want Jon.  And yet the one thing I need is the one thing I cannot have.  As I was often told as a young child, "I want does not get."

I know there are many other people out there who have had their share of horrific problems, and I respect that fact.  But as my father-in-law has reminded me many times, anyone can rattle off unwanted advice and assume they know what’s best for you.  Until they become a member of this particular club, the understanding can only go so far.  When I think back on the things people have said to me over the years that made (and make) me mad, I realize that not one of these people was a fellow widow or Gold Star family member or someone who has known tragedy on an intimate level.  In the days both before and after the wedding, my father-in-law and I visited with Jon at Arlington National Cemetery.  As we laughed and cried at the memories of happy days, we looked around us at the sea of headstones and knew without a doubt that we were in good company.  Section 60 has been called the saddest acre in America, and yet the understanding that exists on that tiny, tragic plot of land runs deeper and richer than anything we might hope to find beyond the cemetery gates.  The people who come there to visit their lost loved ones know that death is irreversible.  I don't have to explain to them that I won't get "over it" or "move on with my life."  This is my life.  Without Jon in it, it is a tragedy.  And you know what?  That's okay.  There are some negatives that don't need to be turned around and made into a positive.  Some things are just sad and deserve the respect of being recognized as nothing less than that.  As Gabrielle Zevin said in All These Things I've Done, "tragedy is when someone ends up dead.  Everything else is just a bump in the road."