"You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. In a heartbeat. Or the absence of one."
~The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan DideonI had a feeling. As soon as I coaxed myself out of bed yesterday morning, I knew it would be a rough day. Maybe it was just that I didn't start the day with a good cup of coffee. Maybe it was just because it was a Tuesday and I'd been up too late the night before. Maybe it was just one of those days. I became fixated on the events of April 7, 2007. I turned them over and over in my mind. I looked back over the official AR 15-6 investigation of Jon's death. Was I trying to find an answer that I already knew wasn't there? Was I just torturing myself by reliving the details of my husband's last hours? The report said his body was thrown 10 - 15 meters from the burning vehicle. How many feet is that? I looked it up. 10 meters equals 30 feet. Of course it does, I already knew that. Why did I bother to look that up? Why focus on the fact that Jon was living and breathing one moment...and then the next moment, he was not?
I'm not sure if there are any answers to these questions. At least, none that make sense. In class later the same day I was asked if I was married. Oh, God. At this point, I've filled out how many forms and documents that demand I categorize myself as "single" or "married" ("widowed" is often not even an option)? And yet, being asked to do it in an open forum in front of my peers was surprisingly painful, and I wasn't ready for how hard it hit me. I avoided looking around the class to see how many happily married people raised their hands. Instead, I averted my eyes, embarrassed by the immediacy of my tears. As I stared down at my hands and fidgeted with my pen, Jon's wedding ring seemed to taunt me: "You were once one of those nice, normal married people...you couldn't stop smiling at him the day you slid on that ring...and then one year later, the coroner was removing it from his lifeless finger." I left the class, sat down on the cold bathroom floor, and cried for my poor beloved Jon. Then I pulled myself back together. You can do this, I told myself. "Married" and "single" are just the words we use to explain what transcends explanation. When love is there to stay, a title is no more than just that: it's just a title.
As I listened to my classmates talk about their thoughts on the institution of marriage, I chose not to chime in. Jon is so much a part of who I was...and who I am now. He does define me. My marriage was a momentous, life-changing event. And I'm proud of that. Describing myself as "his wife" may not be the definition others would choose for themselves, but that's okay. I don't expect everyone to understand the array of conflicted feelings I experience whenever I'm asked to categorize myself by marital status, and that's okay too. I imagine Jon's parents must often feel the same way when people ask them if they have children. Why yes, yes we do. Both are in the Army. My oldest son is a surgeon and lives out on the west coast. My youngest son...well, he lives in Arlington. Headstone number 8617.
When we have these feelings, there's a reason for them. They're not necessarily "bad." They just mean our loved ones are still looking out for us in ways we may not understand at the time. So it's probably best that we listen to these feelings when they make themselves known. They're there to protect us and to warn us about impending - or inevitable - emotional breakdown. But they're also there to provide comfort in the moments we feel most alone.
I had a feeling. And when I walked into the grocery store last night and saw some of Jon's favorite Valentine's Day candy on display, my heart skipped a beat. I had a feeling. I should have listened. That feeling means he's still there, that he's still looking out for me when I need him most. I don't doubt there will be many more days when I need his love the way I did yesterday. I have a feeling he knows it too.
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