84. Hero Stuff

"It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone.
'Cause you went away.
How dare you.
I miss you.
They say I'll be okay.
But I'm not going to ever get over you."
~Miranda Lambert, "Over You"

I think I've finally stopped trying to bargain with God.  For much of this past year, I figured if I just did all the right things and experienced enough of the raw, unforgiving pain of grief, I could somehow reverse what happened six years ago.  It probably sounds pretty silly, but these are the kind of tricks your mind plays on itself when backed into an impossible corner.  That corner is, of course, the one I've found myself in since I realized that death is the one thing in this world I can't change.  As humans, we can solve financial crises and find solutions to relationship issues, but there is no "fix" for death.  To say that it's as permanent as anything could ever be is the understatement of the century.

As I stared at my husband's headstone this past weekend, I was reminded of what all of this means.  He's not coming back, and no magic number of tears will change that.  That may sound ridiculous - I've had six long years to figure it out - but sometimes when we get caught up in the details, we miss the bottom line.  For days before the anniversary this year, I rode the euphoric high associated with the launch of the veterans project, only to experience a crash course in sobering reality as I traced the letters of his name on the marble headstone and realized that none of this would be happening in the first place if he hadn't died.  If he hadn't died, I'd probably be a nice, normal, happily married woman right now - maybe there would even be a kid or two in the picture and a little house, complete with white picket fence.  If he hadn't died, I wouldn't have a reason to continue to visit what's been referred to by some as the saddest acre in America (and yet, no matter how many times I go, I still can't seem to stop wishing I were just one of the thousands of tourists with no personal connection to the cemetery whatsoever).  Because Jon died, I'm not just a tourist.  When I maneuver my way through the crowds of people (armed with flowers and sunglasses), I do it with a very specific purpose...and with unspeakable sadness. Section 60 is truly a beautiful place, and Jon is buried among friends and heroes.  However, as humbling and touching as all the hero stuff is, I'd gladly give it all up in a second just to hold him one last time.

So cheers to you, baby.  On this April 7th, 2013, I pay tribute to person you were and the person you've made me.  You're my hero for reasons beyond those we traditionally associate with heroes.  You taught me to laugh, to live, and to love fully and completely without restraint.  You taught me that serving others is indescribably more rewarding than catering to our own personal needs.  And you taught me that there are really, really good people out there - you just have to look really, really hard for them.  I'm just lucky I found one of them in you.  Thank you for the honor of being your wife.  The fact that people continue to reach out to let me know that they served with you or knew you in some capacity and admired you for the person you were lets me know I'm not alone in appreciating your rarity.  Someone recently referred to me as a "gem," but I think that title belongs to you.   Thank you for being the definition of all that is good in this world...and for all the hero stuff that made you "my Jon."  I'll be back to the land of heroes to visit you again soon.