56. The Real Reasons to Fall in Love (and the Moments That Take Your Breath Away)

"If my heart had wings, I'd fly to you. A breath away's not far from where you are..."
~Celtic Women, To Where You Are

Jon and I didn't fall in love with each other because we were worried about appearances or because either of us thought the other was "cool." I always knew he must have loved me for who I am as a person because when we started dating, I definitely wasn't looking my best. Among other things, I'd gained the freshman fifteen...at least. And before March 23rd, 2003 - our first "official" date - he'd also seen me in several not-so-attractive situations. Okay, maybe more than several. I'd like to say it was love at first sight, but in reality, it was a little more complicated than that.  Where to even begin? Well, I guess you could start with the fact that when I joined ROTC as a freshman I couldn't run a mile without stopping and gasping for breath. Our first workout on my very first day of Physical Training (PT) was a 1.9-mile run. Jon was in charge, and the instructors told him to "go easy" on the new kids. Turned out that for me, even easy was a challenge. I worked on that - hard - over the next couple of years because I got tired of always being in the slow group and of running sucking so much. I eventually reached a point where, instead of dreading it, I was able to complete the Army Ten Miler, and Jon and I could go for a run together at a good pace. The first draft of our wedding ceremony script included this blurb where Jon said that one of the reasons he loved me was because of my dedication to him, to my friends and family, and to bettering myself in areas where I knew needed improvement - according to him, by that point, I could probably beat him on a two-mile run. I ultimately decided to take that sentence out of the final version of the script because although it made me laugh, I saw no reason to lord it over him during our big day. And he could still kick my ass in combatives or a tickle war any day...as he did on many occasions.

I HATE this picture of me - look at those chubby cheeks!  But Jon thought it was cute - this is us at Ruby Tuesday about a month or so after we started dating (April 2003)

Jon and one of his classmates helped move me into my freshman dorm on the first day of ROTC orientation.  Apparently, he'd told one of the other Cadets to save him a cute girl and I was the lucky one he picked.  Other than that brief interaction, I only had a single one-on-one conversation with Jon the rest of my first semester, and it was at the post office in the basement of the arts and sciences building. I was a bad Cadet and hadn't quite wrapped my head around all the uniform rules and regulations. I was wearing my BDU hat inside - a big no-no - because taking it on and off whenever I went into buildings completely screwed up whatever I'd been able to do to get my hair under control (silly me...I cut it all off before joining ROTC, thinking it would make things easier, but ended up just creating more of a headache for myself). When I saw Jon walking toward me, I thought "damn! I hope he doesn't see me with this thing on!" and quickly removed my cover. He was very polite and respectful, and I never would have guessed that beneath that reserved exterior was a man who would later have me doubled over and gasping for air...but this time, instead of running, the culprit would be me laughing too hard.

Jon when we went to the pistol range (my first time!) at Christmas during our first year together - he was such a goofball...and a damn good shot! (December 2003)

During my second semester, I pledged to the military fraternity in which Jon was the designated First Sergeant and PT Instructor. He had seemed pleasant and very competent as the ROTC Battalion Commander, so I figured he'd be one of the nicer ones during the pledging process. I was one hundred percent wrong. I couldn't stand him - I thought he was so mean and hard to talk to. As it turned out, that was all a big act...and when I finally finished the excruciatingly difficult two-month pledge period and got my life back, I discovered that he was actually an incredibly nice and unassuming guy, as I'd originally suspected. It probably worked out to his advantage that he seemed so mean to me as a pledge - in fact, he even made me cry once. But it made getting to know the "real" Jon much more enlightening...and so much more fun.

What's even better is the fact that, unbeknownst to me, Jon made up a rule prohibiting any of the other guys from trying to date me for at least a month after I became a member of the fraternity...and then he promptly broke that same rule about two weeks after I completed pledge period. As one of the other guys in the group told me, he was definitely staking his territory so that no one else would try to call dibs. Again, I thought it was hilarious when I eventually found out - hilarious and oh-so-cute. It all started after we finished pledging when someone in the group sent out an email with a list of everyone's screen names so we could stay in touch over spring break (this was back in the days of AOL Instant Messenger). The first time I ever sent "grassman18" a message to say hello, he pretended like he was all surprised that I'd contacted him personally (in fact, I think his exact words were "Oh God, how did you find me?"). But that was before he casually mentioned that he'd looked at a map and noticed that we only lived forty-five minutes apart from each other in Massachusetts/New Hampshire and would I maybe like to get together and hang out since he was bored and didn't have any big spring break plans? At first, I didn't think much of our first outing together. I thought we were just spending time together as friends and getting to know one another better. But the conversation I had with one of my other new frat brothers the night I got back from that outing went something like this:

Frat brother: What did you do to Jon? He called me all panicked because he said you guys hung out today.
Me: Yeah, we went to get pizza and saw Old School at the movies. So?
Frat brother: Well, he said he already met your dad...
Me: Yes, he picked me up at my house. I thought it was only polite to introduce them.
Frat brother: And he said you showed him two dresses you're thinking of wearing to the military ball and asked him which one he thought you should wear...
Me: Yeah, that's also true. We did a quick tour of the house and they were hanging up in one of the bedrooms.
Frat brother: Well, he's all nervous, so I don't know what's going on. I bet he likes you...

Needless to say, that pizza-and-a-movie outing eventually led to Jon changing his itinerary to be on the same flight back to Baltimore as me. He had my mom and I pick him up at his house in New Hampshire on the way to the airport...only, as it turns out, his house wasn't exactly on our way.  This was a few years before navigating via GPS became standard practice, so it was usually difficult to predict exactly how long a trip would take. The directions Jon emailed me, however, were exact to the tenth of a mile. As my mom pointed out, someone with that kind of precision knows perfectly well that he's adding another 45 minutes to our trip, but these are the things a guy does to impress a girl he likes, right?  When we picked Jon up, he had a week's worth of stubble and a tiny spot of what looked like tomato sauce on his chin.  I pointed it out to him, laughed, and silently made a mental note of how sexy and adorable he looked in that moment. On the plane, he pretended he didn't want to sit next to me because I was sick with a head cold and sniffled throughout the entire flight. Although I could barely breathe, he took the opportunity to jokingly chastise me for infecting everyone else on the plane with my germs...and therein was born a relationship in which making fun of each other led to years of funny stories. After we arrived back at school, it only took another week or so for me to realize, "oh crap, I have feelings for this guy!" After I asked him (via the infamous Instant Messenger) to be my date to the military ball, I think he probably knew he had me hooked. And I'm still hooked to this day. Maybe the better question for my frat brother would have been: "What has he done to me?"

Compare the chubby cheeks picture to this one - when I got to Korea to visit Jon after being apart for a few months, he was surprised by how much I'd changed.  He kept joking around about how my abs were now rock solid (versus before when I'll be the first to admit that they were decidedly squishy!) (December 2004)

I think Jon would have made an amazing father. He used to joke about how I'd have to work extra hard to become an attorney so he could quit his job and stay home to change poopy diapers. It's been one of the hardest things about losing him when we were still so young and just starting out in life - we had this whole plan in place, and it didn't include trying to get pregnant until I was done with law school. Shortly after he died, I remember asking another young widow if she and her late husband had wanted to have kids....and reacting with shock when her answer was no. For me, at least, it's been one of those aspects of this process that I spent a lot of time going over and over again in my head...and then wishing like hell that we hadn't been so careful. I remember when I was a Cadet, Master Sergeant Eversmann (one of my instructors and the lead character in the movie Black Hawk Down) told Jon and I that there's nothing like holding that little bundle of joy in your arms. It was a huge shock to see a guy who was normally a big bad scary NCO melt like butter at the mention of his newborn daughter. It had only been a month or two that we'd been dating at that point, but I remember looking at Jon as MSG Eversmann described how having a baby had changed his life and thinking that I could definitely see myself marrying him one day...and raising a little family with this wonderful man.

Jon and I laughing - this became pretty typical for us as couple.  The closeness and comfort we shared in those moments of pure happiness is something that has never ceased to amaze me and continues, as always, to take my breath away. (July 2006, December 2006)

I still hope to live out that dream of having a little one in my life, however and whenever that might be, but it makes me sad that my baby will never know Jon as his or her father. This is one of the many reasons I've thought seriously about adoption - it's nearly impossible to imagine anyone but Jon being the biological father of my children. As he told me himself, he was so looking forward to the time that we could watch our family grow bigger and grow up together. I wish so very much that we'd had the chance to make that dream a reality. I wish I could tell our baby how their daddy was a good, funny man, and had this beautiful way of saying exactly what I needed to hear at the moment I needed to hear it, like when I was stressed about something at school and he said (via a terrible phone connection from Iraq, no less), "don't worry, baby. As long as we have each other, there will always be something to smile about at the end of the day." So thank you, my sweet husband, for always knowing what to say, for showing me what it really means to fall in love, and for the laughter. I promise, no matter what, I won't let the laughter die. I know you'd be mad if I did...and then you'd probably destroy me in a tickle war. Thank God for the memories and for all the stories...for as long as there are still stories, I'll figure out a way to keep smiling through the tears.

The first time I truly laughed again after being notified of Jon's death:  Telling old stories with old friends at dinner the night after we buried him at Arlington (April 2007) 

55. The Little Things

"Every day I spend here on earth is one day closer to being with you in Heaven."
~Anonymous

There's this thing in the Army called the Soldier Fitness Tracker: Strong Minds! Strong Bodies! that I'm required to complete every year. There are about 103.7333 annual online requirements of this aggravating type, and the SFT is just one of them. It's also referred to as the GAT (Global Assessment Tool) and it's a computer program that asks you a bunch of multiple choice questions before categorizing your answers into four areas of overall Soldier fitness: Emotional, Social, Family, and Spiritual. You even get a colored status bar for each category - green is good, amber means you need improvement in that area, and red means you face some significant challenges in that area (i.e. you have a lot of work to do). Guess who got red bars for both emotional and spiritual....oh yeah - this girl! Encouraging, right? And it wasn't like I was trying to "fail." I was just being honest (a novel concept, I know). Maybe I should tell whoever made up that test that getting red-barred makes me even less confident about my well-being than I was before answering their silly questions...

I guess the good news is that my overall scores in social and family health went up a little. Again, not so surprising, however, is the fact that my emotional and spiritual scores either decreased or stayed about the same since I took the test last year. The program also gives you the option of comparing your scores to others in various categories, including gender, component status, rank, marital status, etc. Lo and behold, when it comes to comparing my stats to those in the same marital status category (i.e. widowed), there are only 1,368 of all the hundreds of thousands of people surveyed who fall into the same group as me. Compare that to the number of individuals I'm compared against in any other category (gender - female: 202,602; rank - Captain: 47,515; age - 27: 61,061, etc.) and it's easy to see why it's lonely to be in this teeny tiny little category in which I find myself.

One of many "cute cliches" (though I hope it's true....)

It's the little things like this test that creep up and get you when you let your guard down for a moment. The same day I took that test, I went to a baseball game with some people from work. I watched couples laugh together as they sat with their arms around one another and parents buy their cute little kids snow cones and popcorn. As I drove home, I thought about how I'd do anything to feel Jon's arm around me again. When we walked together, he always used to say how I fit perfectly under his arm. I thought about what I'd do just to hold his hand. His hands were the same size as mine. We discovered this on our second date at the movie The Hunted when we held hands for the first time. As we walked out of the theater, the first thing he said to me was "so, you realize your hands are the same size as mine right?" Yup, that's me - big man hands (and big feet too). And what I wouldn't do to hear him say my name again...I always loved the way it sounded when he'd come in the door at the end of the day and say my name or refer to me as his wife.

One of the many questions on that Army survey asked if I'm afraid or fearful on a daily basis. The honest answer is yes. I'm fearful of the future and what it will hold for me without Jon in it. I'm fearful of finding myself isolated and far from family and friends when big Army makes its decision in a couple of years about where to send me for my first assignment. I'm fearful of living a long life and missing Jon this much until the day I die. I'm fearful of never having the courage to follow through with my plan to adopt a baby and give that child a better life because parenting is scary enough - life as a single parent is downright terrifying. I'm fearful of losing the other people in my life who keep me company and distract me from the loneliness that comes hand-in-hand with the widow territory. And I'm fearful of the fact that people will think I didn't love Jon enough because I tried to find happiness by dating other people too soon after losing my husband. Sometimes I wonder if the things I do and say now are motivated subconsciously by the fact that I think I have something to prove to myself in that regard. Am I trying - without even realizing it - to apologize for the fact that I made some stupid mistakes in how I went about filling the void of Jon's absence? I've asked myself this question many times, though I'm afraid of the answer. I'm even more afraid of someone else giving me an honest-to-goodness, no B.S. answer without worrying about hurting my feelings. Which brings me to yet another thing I fear, silly though I'm sure it seems: Sometimes when I have one of those nights where I sniffle, hate life, and sit alone feeling miserable (and yes, there may be more than a little self-pity involved), I don't have enough energy to pick up the phone because I see all the numbers of people I could call and get overwhelmed by the thought of having to figure out which one to pick. Funny how something that's really a good thing can become so stressful and seem so scary.

So yes, there are a lot of things that I fear, which is why it makes me laugh even more when people comment on how "strong" I seem on the outside. If I weren't so squeamish, maybe I should have gone into medicine instead of law? Being around death and sickness on a daily basis might make this all seem a little less traumatic. When I visited with an old college friend who I hadn't seen in a while the other day, he made a good point about Jon's loss in relation to time - he said that perhaps it actually gets harder, if anything, as time goes on and people drift away. People tend to forget that just because Jon didn't die two months ago and I handle things differently now than I did at his funeral doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt like hell. He told me it's okay to be sad...and to always be sad about all of this, especially since, in his words, our friends agreed when they heard the news of Jon's death that it could not have happened to a worse person. 


I think, in a way, it helped to hear him say these things; his straight-forward honesty made much more of an impression than when I try to feed myself happy go-lucky thoughts in an effort to change my mood. Every morning before I get out of bed, I read inspiring messages like "follow your dreams - dream big" and "what's meant to be will always find a way," but the cynic in me can't help but snicker a little at some of these sentiments. Sometimes it's the blunt and less sugar-coated messages that speak far louder volumes than the cute cliches. And it's the old stories and the happy memories that make me laugh, not the overly optimistic phrases about having faith and looking forward to the future, blah blah blah. So bring on the stories and the memories. The people who come into my life now and never had the opportunity to meet Jon may think it's weird that I still talk about "my husband" so much, but like my old friend said, who cares what they think? I may even lose friends over it because it makes people uncomfortable (as has been the case in the past), but I guess that's just another casualty of this whole process. It's the little things, like the funny Jon-isms, that keep me going...and make me who I am. So, to borrow from one of the cute cliches for a moment, "dream as big as you want to - and don't let the limited thinking of others stop you, for love has a way of lifting us up."

Jon and I being silly a few months after we started dating back in 2003 - God, how I miss those times and that sweet, funny face...I love you so much, baby.

54. Winning a Battle, Losing the War

"Grief is not an illness.  I will not 'get over it.'  I will learn to live with the pain.  Don't change the subject when I talk about my loved one.  If you don't know what to say, just hug me and shed a tear, for the ones that cry with me I will hold close to my heart forever."
~Anonymous

If we knew exactly when our lives would end, would it change the way we live from day to day?  Like, if you knew you only had three months left to live, would you quit your entire daily routine, sell all your possessions, and embark on a whirlwind world tour?  What would Jon have done if he'd known he only had twenty-six years to make a difference?

I'm not an angry person.  I don't think anyone has ever heard me yell and scream or raise hell over this whole crappy widow thing.  And I really haven't.  Well, not in front of anyone at least.  But dragging my heavy heart around is...well, if you'll forgive the pun, getting to be a bit of a drag.  I really feel like yelling right now.  Maybe if I go beat up a punch bag at the gym, the desire to throw a temper tantrum will burn a little less?  Or perhaps if I take out my frustration on a target at the pistol range I'll finally gain some peace of mind?  To say that these times hit me like a ton of bricks doesn't quite do justice to the extent of it.  I literally dreamed about Jon last night, woke myself up to make a mental note of what happened in the dream, remembered the details, and then fell back asleep and forgot them all.  I keep a private journal of every dream I have about him - both good and bad - because my dreams are the only place where I know I can see him again...and touch him.  Recently, I've been going to bed almost every night at 9pm (if not earlier) because I'm tired of being awake and killing time until I have to wake up and do it all over again the next day.  I didn't know it was possible to sleep so much and still be so exhausted.  Sometimes I might as well be living a double life with the effort it takes to keep it together on the outside.  Every day I make it through is a battle won...and yet, it also feels as if I've taken a few steps back in the overall scheme of things.  I guess you could say it's like winning a battle while losing the war.


One of the worst aspects of all this is that I usually think of myself as a pretty self-sufficient and independent person - after these last several years on my own, I've had to learn how to take care of myself and do the things Jon used to do for me.  I've had a lot of help from family and friends along the way, of course.  But lately I've felt very needy and more dependent than ever on others to keep me company and fill the silence.  In fact, as soon as I'm alone again, I can tell that there's a noticeable shift in my mood.  I go from distracting myself with work or socializing with friends to walking around with a scowl on my face, and not because I'm mad at anyone; it's just become my natural tendency to frown more than I smile as I get lost in my thoughts of Jon and how I still can't believe that he's really gone.  I swear, I've been telling myself every day for the past five plus years that dead means dead, but my idiotic brain still keeps trying to figure out a way around the bottom line.  Is that pathetic or is it just another a sign of how much I miss him?  I know everyone feels broken sometimes, but I worry that my brokenness is becoming more like a personal epidemic.

Sorry, I know this is all rather depressing.  Please forgive me if it sounds like I'm spending my time complaining instead of dealing with the problem.  I'll be the first to admit to that this won't be among my most enlightening or popular of entries.  I guess that's just it, though - this is my way of trying to deal with it.  It's taken me years to realize that this process is not a nice linear progression from bad to better where each day is a little easier than the last.  I think people want to believe that - both for my sake and for their own - but the truth is it's just not that simple.  No one likes to come out and say it, but that's the reality, depressing or not.  I just hope it's okay that I'm not the epitome of strength and optimism at the moment.  As anyone who's lost someone who meant everything knows, it's hard to be strong and pretend it's okay when deep down, it really isn't okay at all. 


In a few days, it will have been six years since I told Jon goodbye in a parking lot on Fort Bragg before he deployed to Iraq.  We couldn't possibly have known then that he would never return to Fort Bragg alive, but hindsight is always 20-20, right?  I often wish he hadn't been so brave and determined when it came to doing what's right, but I guess if he hadn't been that way, he wouldn't have been the Jon I knew.  To quote one of the best war movies ever made (and one which Jon held near and dear to his heart), no one asks to be a hero - it just sometimes works out that way (SSG Eversmann, Black Hawk Down).  I love you, my husband and my hero.  In that parking lot six years ago, you told me that I gave you so much to live for and to look forward to when you got home; well, the same goes for me, babe.  Only this time, it's you who's already home and me who has to wait.  Each day is one day closer.  I just have to wait...

July 31st, 2006 - Many tears were shed the day I said goodbye to my sweetheart at Ft. Bragg, NC

53. Mistakes: Proof You Are Trying

"People say you don't know what you've got until it's gone. Truth is, you knew what you had; you just never thought you would lose it."
~Unknown

Why did this happen to us? To Jon? I know I'm not supposed to ask that question - it's a recipe for disaster - but sometimes I get tired of there being no good answer. Maybe the real question is why can't I stop asking why when I know the response will always be the same.

Last week was one of those weeks for me - a "widow week," as one of my friends calls it. They take so much out of you, both mentally and physically. I couldn't look at a picture of Jon or say his name without getting all teary eyed. I ran for miles and miles at the gym, hoping the happy endorphins would kick in. That seemed to work for a little while...until I started walking back to my car in the parking lot and crumbled all over again. And while I was wandering around an outdoor shopping mall and saw a car with "Just Married" written on the window, I literally told myself out loud to look away. I knew if I allowed myself to linger on it that the tears would come. The whole point of the shopping trip was not really to buy anything but, rather, to distract myself and try to keep my emotions at bay.

Usually it helps with the tears when I go to work, but my latest project made we wonder if there's anywhere I can go to escape the constant reminders of Jon's death.  The assignment dealt with suicide - it was as if my work was taunting me.  All of the regulations and programs referred to in the context of my research - The Army Casualty Program, the Casualty and Mortuary Affairs Office, The Army Fatal Incident Family Brief Program - are entities with which I'm familiar on an overtly personal level. I also read about changes to the requirements for earning the Purple Heart Commendation, which is now being awarded to Soldiers for Traumatic Brain Injury and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in recognition of the fact that serious head trauma leads to conditions like these. In legitimate cases of brain injury, it's no joke - head trauma is ultimately what caused Jon's death. This recent development made me wonder what my old Commander would have to say the changing nature of the Army's wartime valor system - he once said he thought it was "B.S." that the Combat Action Badge is awarded to Soldiers who get blown up by IEDs. He said that in order for them to have truly been "in action," they would have had to fire back at the enemy after being attacked. I told him - with all due respect, of course - that it's hard to fire back after being blown up if you're already dead.

Ironically, an hour or two after writing that last sentence, I ran into my old Commander here at Fort Leavenworth. After a long discussion with him, I'm happy to say I think we've both grown up a lot and moved onto a better time in our lives over the past few years. But I did want him to know that I'm sorry for the fact that I was such a mess back then; when we parted back at Fort Bragg, we weren't exactly on the best of terms. As a young junior officer, I was angry at the world, pissed at the Army for taking my husband away, and thought I didn't need anyone else's help in dealing with my issues. To say that I wasn't handling my grief well is an understatement, and I think I've done a better job in recent months when it comes to making healthier decisions (side note to family and friends: please don't hestitate tell me if you ever do think I'm losing it or taking things too far. That was another startling revelation I had at work after reading the case file of a guy who wants to be exempted from every tasking under the sun due to his major depressive disorder diagnosis...despite the difficulties grief has brought with it, I still don't want to be "that guy," i.e. the one who's perceived by others as the recipient of special treatment).

Anyway, the point is that I don't have the same lingering feelings of anger that used to fester whenever I'd think back on my relationship with my old Commander. I was in denial about the reality of Jon's death then and, again, I know it now. I just hope that what I've been told about mistakes is true: Mistakes are proof that you are trying. I'm not sure if making more mistakes means you're trying that much harder, but on the bad days, I keep telling myself to try and forgive what I cannot change. I'm well aware that I'm often my own worst enemy and harshest critic. It's been that way since I was a kid; as my younger sister (who has somehow acquired an impressive amount of wisdom over the past few years) likes to say, people don't change - they just become more of who they are. I guess that's something I could stand to remind myself of more often...and that being who I am doesn't mean being perfect all the time.

So. I know I'm not supposed to ask why...but why? Why is my sweet Jon gone? And why am I still here without him? I don't know. I didn't know five years ago and I still don't know now. I just know I wasn't ready to say goodbye. I know I miss him with a deep, aching sense of longing that never seems to subside. And I hope tomorrow is a little easier than yesterday because the thought of another "widow week" is exhausting...

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. 

51. Someone Else's Story

"It’s not being pessimistic to be realistic. There are no magic words. There are no quick fixes. To acknowledge that this loss is horrendous and unfathomable and cannot ever truly be overcome are among the kindest things you can say."
~Anonymous

When I was a kid, I was a self-admitted drama queen, though not in the traditional sense.  Every emotion I expressed was big, exaggerated, and overly effusive.  I attribute some of it to my personality and the rest to my involvement in musical theater - leading any kind of a life onstage has this weird way of instilling in you a penchant for moroseness and ridiculous sweeping gestures.  It's something I've rebelled against as I've gotten older and gone down routes I would never have anticipated (like joining the Army), but internally, the dramatic foundations are still there.  In some ways, it's helped me to do well in various offstage activities, like Speech and Debate in high school (yes, I was a huge nerd) and Mock Trial competitions in college (again, that nerd thing hasn't changed much over the years).  And that's all the courtroom really is - one big show, so hopefully this means I'll make a decent attorney when I graduate from law school and venture out into the world of legal practice.


I often wish I hadn't had to find out how it really feels to experience a travesty that turns your world upside down.  I would have been much happier to continue to imagine how I think it might play out, as I did when I was rehearsing scenes for musical theater productions.  I want to slap my former self sometimes when I think about how much "fun" I used to think it was to play the role of a deep, dark, tragic character - those were always the more complicated parts, the ones you could really sink your teeth into.  But it makes me wonder now if I asked for this, if I somehow caused or contributed to Jon and I's fate with my silly childish ideations.  Would I even like the person I was back then?  Knowing what I know now, would I still carry on as though the whole world's a stage?  I think I'd find myself kind of annoying, very naive, and lacking in perspective.  I knew what mattered in life - I loved Jon like nothing else in the world, and I was incredibly grateful for the little family we were building together.  But I didn't take the time to consider how my happiness made those who were not so lucky feel, and I didn't stop for that extra second to discern that someone was, in fact, not okay when I asked how they were and they responded automatically with "oh, I'm fine."  Again, I was very much lacking in perspective and life experience in general. 

On the days when I'm feeling sorry for myself, I get mad and think it's awfully cruel for God to have blessed me with the knowledge I now have in the way I've had to obtain it.  Why couldn't I learn those life lessons without losing my husband in the process?  Isn't there some easier way to gain wisdom as you grow older?  Aren't there some experiences that no one should have to be subjected to?  The natural cycle of life, by definition, involves death.  We all know that at some point, we'll have to go through the awful pain of losing the people we love - grandparents, parents, mentors, friends.  The same is not true, however, of losing a spouse or a child.  We don't expect to have to go through those things.  I sometimes wonder if I made so many mistakes in the past that this is what I get for being so happy with Jon, even if just for a little while.  It makes me question if I can ever hope to achieve that kind of happiness again at some point in the future.  Before Jon, I really only dated one other guy, and it was back in high school before I knew anything about the ways of the world.  Since I lost Jon, every relationship I've tiptoed (or flung myself headfirst) into has ended badly, either because it was with the wrong guy or because I just couldn't stop comparing him to Jon...and feeling tremendous disappointment when he didn't measure up.  I realize that I could be making things harder for myself in the long run by thinking this way, but I've also been told multiple times not to settle, so where does that leave me?  Like Cassie said last week on The Widow's Voice, one big conundrum...


As a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young teenager, one of my favorite theater-related activities was to sing for guests when my parents hosted a dinner party or invited friends over for drinks. One of the songs I'd sing (which I realize, in retrospect, was far too old for me at the time) was called "Someone Else's Story." It's basically a song about a woman trying to deny her unwanted reality, which seems ever-so-appropriate now that I'm living out that scenario in real life. Another one of my favorites was "On My Own" from the musical Les Miserables, which is, to be sure, a beautiful ballad, but one that now resonates with me for reasons beyond Eponine's sad story of unrequited love. The last line in particular seems almost haunting when I look back with the knowledge I have now: "I love him...I love him...I love him, but only on my own." How ironic that the very thing I treated with such a cavalier attitude when I too young and dumb to know any better now rings true where it hurts most. Maybe the message I'm supposed to take from it is the fact that there is no answer to the "why" of it all, despite how much I may want one. "It is what it is" seems like such an inadequate explanation for the loss of a man whose morals and values could not be questioned by even the harshest of critics, but maybe it's the only one there is.

I'm sure to others this will sound morbid, but there are some days (like today) when I wish I could go to where Jon is buried, dig up whatever physical remains are still there, and just hug them in my arms.  Again, I'm well aware of the fact that that probably sounds incredibly creepy...but that's what longing to hold someone again does to you after a while.  Settling for a moment or two where I can touch him again in my dreams doesn't cut it when it's all I have left of him in this life.  I wish this were still someone else's story - another world from which I could escape.  Instead, I'm overcome with this strange sense of confusion after dreaming about kissing my sweet husband and realizing, even in the middle of the dream itself, that I'll have to wake up to the reality of this world sooner or later.  I don't want to wake up...I want to stay there in that alternate universe with him forever.  But all good things must come to an end, some of them sooner than others.  Until we meet again, I will be here - on my own - and dreaming a dream much different from the one I'm living...

"I dreamed a dream in time gone by

When hope was high 

And life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving.

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid,

No song unsung, no wine untasted.

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

As they tear your hope apart

As they turn your dream to shame...

And still I dream he'll come to me

That we will live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather.

I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed

Now life has killed the dream I dreamed."

~Fantine, I Dreamed a Dream (from Les Miserables)

50. The Things I Wear

"In a story, which is kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world."

~Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

In his book, The Things They Carried, author Tim O'Brien catalogues the variety of things his fellow Soldiers brought with them on combat missions during the Vietnam War.  Several of these things are intangible, including guilt and fear, while others are specific physical objects, including matches, morphine, M-16 rifles, and M&Ms.  It makes me think about the things I've carried with me over the past few years in an attempt to keep Jon as close to me as physically possible.  Maybe calling them the things I've carried isn't completely accurate - it's more like the things I wear.  Take, for example, the Captain's rank I wear on my uniform to work every day.  It's the same rank Jon was wearing on his body armor the day he died. His friend brought the patch home for me from Iraq, and I was promoted from Lieutenant to Captain in it by Jon's dad a couple of years ago. Whenever I wash my ACU top, I always make sure that I take I take the rank off first - in fact, it's never been washed, so it's pretty dirty and grubby at this point, but I think that's okay. Some crusty old-school Sergeant Major might yell at me about it one day, but I'll have a decent response ready: My husband was promoted to Captain in this rank, he deployed wearing this rank, and he died serving his country wearing this rank. How can anyone argue with that?

Clean ACU top, grubby Captain's Rank...I think it looks pretty good!

It's like the rings I wear - until a couple of days ago, I've been wearing four rings for quite a while now: My wedding and engagement rings on my left hand and my husband's wedding ring and a cheap ring to keep it in place on my right. The real rings are made of platinum and come from a store called Barmakian Jewelers in New Hampshire - Jon insisted not only on the platinum, but also on the source of all the jewelry. He was very particular - and cute - about things like that. The cheap ring was from Target, and inside were inscribed the words Imagine, Believe, Receive. I always liked this message...and besides, I needed some way to ensure that Jon's ring, which is too big for me, wouldn't fly off my finger and get lost forever. My engagement ring used to be that way - just days after Jon gave it to me, it slid off in the shower and came close to disappearing down the drain. It was already insured - Jon knew me all too well and made certain of that as soon as he proposed to me - but after that happened, we had it refitted so there would be no more close calls. When it came to having his own wedding ring sized, we had to account for the fact that Jon's knuckles were rather fat; in fact, we practiced putting on his ring several times before the wedding ceremony since it took a good amount of force to get it on his finger. That's why it's still too big for me now, even though Jon's hands were, overall, the same size as mine...and incredibly cute.

According to Army regulations, you're only allowed to wear two rings in duty uniform, so my four rings are technically pushing the limit. Three of the four, however, the most important of all my worldly possessions because of what they signify. Ever since my Casualty Assistance Officer hand-delivered it to me, I've always held tightly onto Jon's wedding ring in some way or another - around my neck on a chain, on my dog tags, or on my finger. Although I'm constantly afraid I'll lose it, I don't feel right without it. I'm honestly amazed the ring was able to be retrieved after everything that happened on the day Jon died - his body was thrown out his M1114 up-armored Humvee with such force that it's a miracle it stayed on his finger, fat knuckles and all. My sister, who hasn't seen me since last summer, asked me during a family reunion last weekend about why I still wear my own wedding rings. She said that people will think I'm still married. I told her that was kind of the point - guys don't bother me so much when they think I'm taken, and besides, in my heart, I'll always be Jon's wife.  I guess my ex-boyfriend was right about one thing:  While he and I still were dating, I often struggled with how to handle my wedding rings and would wear them from time to time when I was feeling particularly troubled.  He'd get upset and told me he didn't think it was appropriate.  I apologized and told him I wouldn't wear them anymore if it bothered him that much, but he predicted he'd see them on my hand again before too long.  Again, I don't give him credit for being right about many things, but I guess he was right about that much.

When I went swimming during the family reunion this past weekend, the cheap ring that's been keeping Jon's ring in place for a while now became tarnished and discolored. Losing the cheap ring to the chlorinated pool was literally like a light bulb going off in my head. It made me realize that the best place for Jon's ring is on my left hand with my two wedding rings - there's no way I'll lose it there since mine are slightly tight, if anything. The right hand now feels strangely naked, and I keep thinking I've done exactly what I fear most (i.e. losing Jon's wedding ring). But when I look down, it's perfectly safe alongside the beautiful engagement ring with which Jon proposed to me and the wedding ring with which I became his wife. It feels right there - after experimenting with it on different hands and fingers and necklaces over the past five years, I think it may very well be where it belongs.

Besides Jon's wedding ring and the rank he was wearing when he died, I also have my two memorial tattoos. I never thought of myself as the tattoo type and swore for the longest time that I didn't want one - to be honest, I still think many tattoos are a little silly and I don't get some of the recent bandwagon fads, like Japanese characters, butterflies, dolphins, and random swirly tribal designs. Unless they mean something deeply personal to the person who's choosing to burn the surface of their skin with ink that won't wash off for the rest of their life, I don't quite understand the need to get something so permanent. Before I lost Jon, there was nothing important enough in my life that made me want to make a physical statement with some fancy tattoo design; now, however, I understand the need to have a symbol of Jon and our love with me at all times.  The two memorial tattoos I've had done over the past few years allow me to do just that.

My first tattoo just minutes after it was completed

The first one was an almost instantaneous, no-brainer decision within a month of Jon's death; it's on my left upper back and depicts the Gold Star with Jon's initials nestled between the points of the star. The only thing I felt undecided about when it came to getting this tattoo was its location - initially, all I knew was that I did not want it centered on my lower back because of the stereotypical message conveyed by tattoos in this general vicinity. After careful consideration, the upper back seemed like the most subtle but meaningful spot for it. I was incredibly happy with how this first tattoo came out but didn't feel quite done. I'm not sure how to describe the feeling of not being "done" with tattoos, but it took several more months before I decided on another appropriate design for my second and final tattoo tribute to Jon.

My newly remodeled tattoo at T+5 days - healing quite nicely

The second tattoo is a combination of a broken heart, a Soldier's cross, and the words with which Jon and I signed our cards and letters and emails to one another. They're also the words we chose to have inscribed on his headstone: Loved Always & Forever. It's been almost five years since I got the first half of the tattoo done, and it wasn't until last week that I finally decided to add the dates of Jon's birth and death to the top of the original design. I knew this second tattoo needed something more to be complete, but it's taken me years to figure out exactly what would look best. I even had my friend draw the dates on my arm with a ballpoint pen before committing to the tattoo appointment, just to make sure I liked how it would look. Like isn't quite how I'd describe it - I love it. What better to add to the original artists's beautiful handiwork than the two dates that, for me, will always live in infamy?

Finally, there's the ID bracelet I've worn for the past five years. The original bracelet was designed and ordered for me by a group of Jon and I's closest college friends. It was inscribed with the all the standard identifying information on the outside (name, rank, dates of birth and death, unit, place of death) and on the inside were the words "Beloved Husband." I took it off only once when I had to do so prior to going into surgery...and even then, I felt naked without it. The second and final time I removed it wasn't by choice either - it's because the metal broke after so much wear. While sitting at my desk at work and playing with it absentmindedly, the bracelet snapped into two pieces. I panicked and immediately jumped online to order a new one. I changed the wording of what appears on the new bracelet slightly, but the essence of its message is exactly the same. I also added the phrase "Loved Always & Forever."

The last fallen Soldier from the Iraq war honored last week after he succumbed to his war-related injuries. His name was Carl Deward Hall III and he was buried at Ft. Rosencrans. He was an Army Specialist and is remembered by those who love him as a father, a husband, and a war hero. Envisioning the family of Specialist Hall at the very beginning of their journey of grief brought back many sad memories, and it made me wonder what they'll choose to carry with them - or wear - as the years pass by. Sometimes when I think about the things I wear (and carry), the weight of it all brings me down - hard. I'll fiddle with my wedding rings and pretend for a few moments that everything is normal and fine and that Jon is still here with me...until I'm reminded by all the other symbols of his absence that that pretense is just a dream. Mostly, though, I feel proud to have shared my life with someone of Jon's calibre and to be the one responsible for honoring his memory now that he's gone. I do this - and always will - with the things I wear. They're not just things, but proof of a life well-lived...and a man who will always be loved.

49. Operation Rolling Thunder 2012

"I wish R.I.P. meant Return if Possible."

~Anonymous

While perusing the blogs I follow over this past week, a quote from a recent entry popped up on the news feed for the Widow's Voice: "Everyday I see couples walking down the street, arms around each other or holding hands or sharing a meal and I feel something so primal and so deeply ingrained that I can't label it well. It's simply a longing. A longing for the feeling of someone else who fits with you so perfectly, that you can't believe you ever lived without them. Physical closeness. Flirting. Romance. Love. I'm wired to want it, but I'm terrified of it. I think about it all the time, but I'm not ready for it yet. I'm lonely, but the cure for my loneliness isn't a relationship. One big conundrum." (Cassie on Widow's Voice)

Her words ring true in a way that's almost too intimately familiar. I'm trying to find other ways to fill the void that the physical closeness, the flirting, the romance, and the love used to occupy, but these things are irreplaceable, especially when they were once shared with an irreplaceable man. I wasn't ready five years ago and it's taken me five years to figure out that I'm still not ready now. Maybe I never will be. Like Cassie says, one big conundrum. I try to tell myself nope, don't need that stuff to be happy. But then I get so mad and angry at everyone who has it. After a trial run of going Facebook-free for almost a year, I've come close many times since then to shutting down my glimpse into the happy lives of others via social media simply because it's so prevalent, so in my face, and there are many days on which I honestly just don't want to see it. These aren't my proudest of moments; I feel like a little kid having an internal temper tantrum. I want to wail: "It's just not FAIR!!" (Am I still allowed to sit and pout in a corner as a 28-year-old?) "I had all of that too, and it got taken away...I want it back!!" I look at photos of others getting married or welcoming their first child into the world and I want to scream and break things and throw my computer out a window. But I guess I can't live in a bubble of resentment forever - people around me will go on to live the kind of life I thought Jon and I would have, and I shouldn't blame them for that. It's not their fault that they're lucky enough not to have felt the pain of an absence that only seems to grow more palpable with time.

With all that bitterness churning just below the surface, I've noticed I do a lot of frowning these days. Those dang wrinkles across my forehead seem to be getting more pronounced by the minute. Ironically, the last time I smiled - really, truly smiled - was over Memorial Day weekend when I participated in a motorcycle rally known as Operation Rolling Thunder. Rolling Thunder is an incredible, one-of-a-kind annual tribute to POWs, MIAs, and Fallen Soldiers. The event started in 1988 with 2,500 participants, and has grown significantly since then; approximately 900,000 participants and spectators are now involved in this awe-inspiring demonstration. The streets of our nation's capital literally shut down from morning until early evening during the day on which the rally takes place. It's pretty amazing - when else do people put life on hold like that in Washington D.C.?

The sea of bikes at the beginning of the Rolling Thunder route

I rode near the front of the formation with a couple named Laura and Adam Olisewski. They didn't wear any fancy clothing or talk to me like they had something to prove. They were just happy to serve as "Gold Star Family VIP Escorts" and honor those who deserve to be be remembered. It had been a long time since I smiled that that...perhaps since the day of my wedding. People lined the streets of the route, cheered loudly as we rode by, and waved American flags, both big and small. There's also a Marine who's become pretty famous for standing at the beginning of the procession and saluting every bike that drives by from start to finish. A fellow widow friend told me she asked to shake his hand last year after it was all said and done, but he was so numb that he physically couldn't move.

Marine saluting from beginning to end

The whole thing reminded me of a happy version of a funeral procession, as odd as that may sound. The outpouring of support was the same, but the expressions on the faces of those in attendance were smiles instead of tears. It was truly refreshing to be a part of something that gave me such a triumphant feeling of pride - we live in a world where doom and gloom are pervasive, especially in media headlines, so to see something that attracted such positive public attention was a wonderful change...and just what I needed on that particular weekend. I'm so grateful that I allowed another widow to talk me into participating in the rally, and I'm already looking forward to making the trip again next year. After all, why not? This is my story of life, love, and what's happened since I lost the love that made life worth living. There are few blessed people who are as willing to pay such tribute and respect to loved ones lost as those who take part in Operation Rolling Thunder. So for all these reasons, I'll continue, without hesitation, to participate in this meaningful Memorial Day event in lieu of BBQs and beach parties and all of the other "fun" activities often associated with this national holiday. Those frowning muscles of mine need a break every now and then, so if it gives me a reason to keep smiling, sign me up - happiness is a relative term, and I'll take it in whatever form it presents itself.  Happiness, if you ask me, is in the heart of the beholder.

Adam and I getting ready to take off - the yellow placard on the front of his bike reads "VIP - Gold Star Escort"

48. The Infamous Sinking

"'Women and children first!' Someone was shouting these last few words over and over again. They meant my own safety, but they also meant the greatest love I've ever suffered - the loss of my husband."
~Charlotte Collyer (2nd-class passenger on the Titanic - April 11, 1912)

My last entry was inspired by a woman I've never met in person but who reminds me so much of myself.  Her husband was killed in Afghanistan in October of 2011, and we've talked many times about the challenges we've both experienced in dealing with our grief.  It doesn't seem to matter how many months or years it's been since the day things changed for each of us forever -  the wound this kind of loss inflicts on a person's heart never fades with time. She too has started writing a blog in order to work through some of the emotions associated with this trauma, and one of her most recent entries explicitly discusses the night on which she made a conscious decision to end it all before turning back at the last minute.  When I read what she wrote, I thought, you know what?  She's exactly right to be so brutally honest about how hard it gets, especially during those times when you're alone.  There have been many moments when there's no one around and I can't, for the life of me, stop the tears from flowing; I look up at the sky - just like in the movies - and think, "please, God, just take me now.  I'm so tired of fighting from minute to minute down here."  So, to say that I owe her a debt of gratitude for paving the way to some of my own personal healing is an understatement.  I write - and keep writing - because once I get going, the emotions literally pour out of me.  It helps me to get it all off my chest and onto paper, but I hope it also does for others what she did for me in helping alleviate some of the isolation associated with widowhood.  When I first lost Jon, there was no equivalent of the well-established support network that now exists thanks to organizations like the American Widow Project, so I know how tough it is to buy into a sense of community when you feel so far-removed from the rest of society.  The only thing I regret about writing this blog is the fact that I didn't start sooner.


When multiple people responded to my last entry to say, "thank you for putting into words what I feel" (versus "Oh my God, you're crazy!"), I felt I'd made the right decision in going ahead with it, though I'll admit I was incredibly nervous to hit the "publish" button.  It took me a long time and a lot of consideration before I felt ready to open up about the things I've been ashamed to say out loud for many years.  There's a natural fear of judgment and irreversible stigma when it comes to thoughts of suicide, particularly in the military context, which is why there's been such a big push in the last few years to reduce that stigma and encourage service members to get help before it's too late.  Most people squirm a little when you tell them the details of your plight, but that's the thing about the truth - it's often hard to hear.  And it's because people don't want to talk about it that those who are struggling may ultimately lose the battle to grief and depression.  Still, I wasn't sure if putting it all out there was a wise choice since it could potentially come back to bite me; however, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief at the fact that being so forthcoming means I no longer have anything to hide.  I figure if Vice President Joe Biden can admit on national TV that he understands the feelings of hopelessness associated with losing someone that meant everything to him, then it's okay for me to say it too since it's the truth.  If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't go wrong with honesty.


This past weekend, my friend and I went to see an exhibit of artifacts recovered from the wreck of the Titanic. The infamous movie (which has now, admittedly, become the butt of many jokes and comedic parodies) was first released in 1997 when I was in the eighth grade. Besides discovering my undying (and unrequited!) love for Leonardo DiCaprio, the senselessness of the tragedy also struck a chord with me, even as a teenager, and I watched the movie over and over again. It's like I couldn't get enough of the sadness, as strange as that may sound. Appropriately, when we entered the exhibit, we were each given a card with the name of a passenger and told to cross-check the names on a plaque at the end of the tour that lists those passengers that lived and those that perished at sea. The name on my card was Mrs. Sylvia Mae Caldwell, and she was born on 23 July, 1883, just over a century before I was born. She and her husband, Albert Francis Caldwell, were traveling home to the United States after working in Thailand at the Bangkok Christian School for Boys when the ship hit the iceberg that led to its untimely demise. Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell survived the sinking. Their marriage, however, did not, and they were divorced in 1930. As I searched the plaque for other individuals I might know, I was relieved to find no familiar names but was also struck by the irony of having received the "Caldwell" card. Forward Operating Base (FOB) Caldwell was the name of the base in Iraq where Jon was stationed for the majority of his deployment...and from which he made his last trip to FOB Warhorse a few weeks before embarking on the combat patrol that would ultimately claim his life. It never ceases to amaze me when these little connections to my past pop up and take me by surprise when I least expect them. And thank goodness for these blessed connections...without them, I don't know how I'd find the energy to pull myself up off my knees when I'm looking up at the heavens and asking God why he continues to make me stick it out down here.

Mrs. Sylvia Mae Caldwell

Jon overlooking FOB Caldwell, Iraq

The night after I published my last entry, I swear I heard someone by the door of my bedroom.  I suppose it could have just been my puppy - she often snores and moves around throughout the night, but this really sounded like a person.  I didn't freak out.  I just assumed I was either dreaming...or it was Jon checking on me to make sure I was still okay.  I think I like the latter interpretation best.  The moments when he appears out of nowhere to let me know he's still with me are what give me the push I need to keep going from one day to the next.  I pray he never stops dropping by to make his presence known, especially at those times when I'm feeling particularly discouraged and need a little motivation to keep up the fight.  Of everyone in this world (and the next), he's still the only one who always seems to know exactly how to bring a smile to my face.  And for him, I can promise to keep fighting.