66. Arm-in-Arm

Mom (in response to the death of her son's dog):  He'll always be in your heart, honey. 

Son:  I don't want him in my heart.  I want him here with me. 

~From Tim Burton's Frankenweenie

When I made the decision to join ROTC at college, I had this silly, romanticized image in my head of meeting a cute Army guy and walking arm-in-arm together through campus - him in his uniform, of course, and me in a pretty little sundress with the perfect pair of shoes.  I never anticipated what ultimately ended up being a far better reality - that I'd find myself in some of the grungiest and most unattractive situations of my life and, in the process, that I'd meet my soul mate.  A good friend of mine from high school (and one of my bridesmaids at my wedding) told me that besides the obvious emotional connection, Jon and I even looked like we were made for each other.  She said she could see us having beautiful children one day together...and that those children would undoubtedly bring out the best parts of both of us.

At Jon and I's wedding in 2006, Jon's brother, Jason, was the best man.  During his speech, Jason poked fun at his little brother, which, of course, made Jon mad in a friendly, brotherly, I'm-going-to-kill-him later kind of a way.  Jason said that he had known I was a keeper when we all went to the pistol range in December of 2003, and, in the process of shooting at my target, a piece of brass managed to find its way down the front of my shirt.  Hot metal on pale, sensitive Scottish skin doesn't feel too good, so I immediately put down the weapon and turned towards the back of the room to remove the piece of brass with as much dignity and poise as I could muster.  So much for the dignity and poise.  My future father-in-law, Jason, and Jon all laughed at my ridiculous efforts to get rid of that piece of brass without undressing in front of all of them.  After an episode like that, I always knew Jon must love me for a whole lot more than just my looks and lack of gracefulness.

As I avoided writing a miserable paper for law school the other day, I found myself surfing the web to find out how to insert a missing person into a photograph.  It was just a silly Google search, but it made me reflect on how strong the urge can be to jump back in time to when my favorite, current photographs always included my husband.  Sometimes I swear I can still feel his touch.  I'll dream about him, feel his lips on mine, and I want to stay there in dreamland with the man who made my silly dream possible back in college and who promised me we'd continue to walk arm-in-arm into the future.  Cliche or not (being that I'm from Scotland and all...), one of my favorite movies is Braveheart, and although the first time I saw it was long ago, there's this line during a dream William Wallace has about his late wife that always brought me great sadness as I tried to imagine how a man who has lost the love of his life might feel.  Now that I know how he felt, I'd really like to go back to just imagining it:

"Murron's ghost:  William, you must wake now.
William Wallace:  I don't want to wake.  I want to stay here with you.
Murron's ghost:  And I with you...

I think I've become pretty good at what I call "the transference of sadness."  It's probably just a coping mechanism, a way to dull the sharp sting of losing my soul mate since my heart can only take so much of it at once.  I call it the transference of sadness because that's essentially what I'm doing when I cram my schedule full of events and activities and work.  It's what it means for me to focus on other things that are less real and seem less personal, like the movies I've loved for years that I can watch over and over again while letting my mind drift to thoughts of something else for a while.  And yet, in the end, all my favorite movies always manage to hit a little too close to home for comfort.  Braveheart is a good example.  Gladiator is another.  Gettysburg.  The Green Mile.  Black Hawk Down.  P.S. I Love You.  Same thing with Forrest Gump.  Why is it that all the best and most brilliant of movies always involve a good person losing someone they love more than life itself?

Jon and I never had the chance to have those children my friend said would be beautiful and look just like us.  For some reason, people think that this somehow makes it easier for me since I can focus on my own grief and don't have to look into the face of a child who represents a constant reminder of what I've lost.  Yet, what they fail to understand is that I'd give just about anything to have to drag myself out of bed every morning and live my life to the fullest for the sake of a little one with my husband's beaming smile and his crooked, Roman nose.  I'd even picked out a name already for a little girl if and when Jon had one in the future:  Nicola (pronounced Nick-oh-lah).  It used to be a pretty popular name in Scotland, and although most Americans mispronounce it, I love that it's so different and requires you to pause and think for a moment.  I know I'm biased, but I guess I always assumed that any child Jon created would be like that too - he or she would be brilliant, inquisitive, and, just like Jon, would cause people to pause and think for a moment about the world and way they see it.

When my dream of children with Jon didn't come to fruition and I first found myself facing the prospect of many long, lonely days ahead, I rescued a two-year-old dog from an animal shelter on what would have been our wedding anniversary.  I named her Nicki.  Nicki is now about seven, and although she can be a little annoying sometimes, she's a sweetheart and just wants to be loved.  I think she's also grateful to have a warm, comfortable home after spending God-knows how long in a dirty cage with several other dogs where she had to fight for food and water.  A couple of days ago, I took another break from writing that miserable paper to go on a long walk with Nicki and experience fall in Ohio.  We walked for well over an hour and it was dark by the time we finally made it home.  Nicki loved it - she pranced through the leaves and left her mark on every bush, mailbox and tree from our front doorstep to our turn-around point and back again.  It made me laugh to see her so excited over little things like all the delicious smells on our new route.  And the sunset was, in a word, beautiful.  Again, I know I'm biased, but I'm pretty sure Jon would have approved...and I know he would have loved to have been there, walking arm-in-arm with me, too.