"I find that I stare in wonder at people who have kids and a spouse. It feels a little like being at the zoo, looking through the glass at a little world I can't get to, watching a species so different from my own. I examine them and wonder how they feel. I wonder if they feel lucky to have so much to live for. I wonder if they feel the sense of belonging I miss so much."
~Cassie, Widow's Voice (May 27th, 2013)
Cassie's words hit the nail on the head - with a simple analogy, she sums up exactly what I can't quite seem to convey when people ask me how I'm handling everything. When I see happy families and hear people talk about their spouse or kids, it's like rubbing salt in a wound that won't ever heal. Ironically, my reaction is usually one of two extremes - either I turn away and separate myself from the painful reminder of what I've lost, or I stare, mesmerized by their happiness, and think, "God, I had that once - and now it's gone. I'm in love with a man I'll never see or touch again in this life. How can someone be expected to live like that?"
Another author from Widow's Voice wrote about the goodbye she wished she'd been able to share with her husband the last time she saw him. The problem, of course, is that she had no idea it would be the last time - none of us do. We don't comprehend the need to cherish every second and every touch until it's too late; only then do we come to the sickening realization that those precious few seconds of physical contact will have to last us a lifetime. We agonize over every last detail and every last word - did I tell him I love him? Why didn't I kiss him for longer? Did he know I felt like the luckiest woman in the world to be his wife? Why didn't I stop him from leaving? Would he still have died if I'd done something differently? There must be something I can do to change the way things played out...
I knew when I said goodbye to Jon that I had good reason to worry because he was getting on a plane to go back to Iraq at the height of the violence, but I convinced myself that there was absolutely no way it could be our last embrace or our last kiss - we still had so much living to do together for it to be over so soon. Now when I look back and relive the moment I saw his face for the last time, I wish I'd never let him go. I don't think I'll ever stop wishing that. He told me in person years before be died that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and if I could bring him back for a moment and tell him one thing today, it would be just that. Life ends - love doesn't. I love him more today than I did yesterday and I'll love him a little more tomorrow (if that's possible) than I do today. That's just the way it is. Deep down, I know that no number of tears or "I love yous" will bring him back, but a tiny part of me continues to hold out hope for a miracle.
Such is the life of a young widow. Countless people have told me that he would want me to be happy and that he's always with me. And I get it, okay, I do - hell, I even agree with them. But what they don't seem to realize is that they have the luxury of detached objectivity. Offering advice from the outside looking in and living this reality minute-to-minute are two very different things. In the latter scenario, it's really me who's like the zoo exhibit while the rest of the world passes by, glancing at me from behind the glass with pity.
"Happy" is what I was when he was alive. There's no going back to the simplicity of how things were after all the emotional trauma and heartache - unfortunately, it's too late for that now. That may not be what people want to hear, but, as with everything, the truth hurts. You can create lemonade from lemons, but the bottom line doesn't change. Some things are just sad, and, quite frankly, I don't always want people to try and make a happy ending out of something that, for me, represents a life-changing tragedy - sometimes, I just want them to say, "Jenna, it's not fair, and he didn't deserve this. And neither do you. You lost the love of your life - you have every right to feel sad, alone, and cheated." And sometimes - well, make that always - knowing that he's with me isn't enough: I need to feel his embrace and hear him say "I love you," instead of just imagining these things. I don't think that means I have a bad attitude or that I'm an abject pessimist; it just means I refuse to treat as "okay" something that isn't "okay." My twenty-five-year-old husband died in a war many Americans seem to have forgotten about, and he was robbed of a long life and the children we couldn't wait to raise together - that's not okay. It never will be.
They say that losing the love of your life is like a wound that never heals. It eventually becomes less like a gaping hole and more like a tender scar, but it's always there. I'd have to agree. And I'll bite the bullet and play the part of the zoo exhibit if it serves to remind people to be thankful for what they have, because you simply never know when the last time will be the last. As I've learned the hard way, there are but a few simplistic principles that sum up what matters most in this world: Love people, not things. Do good for others, not just yourself. And last but not least, never miss an opportunity to say "I love you" one last time. Take it from me - you won't regret it.
Such is the life of a young widow. Countless people have told me that he would want me to be happy and that he's always with me. And I get it, okay, I do - hell, I even agree with them. But what they don't seem to realize is that they have the luxury of detached objectivity. Offering advice from the outside looking in and living this reality minute-to-minute are two very different things. In the latter scenario, it's really me who's like the zoo exhibit while the rest of the world passes by, glancing at me from behind the glass with pity.
"Happy" is what I was when he was alive. There's no going back to the simplicity of how things were after all the emotional trauma and heartache - unfortunately, it's too late for that now. That may not be what people want to hear, but, as with everything, the truth hurts. You can create lemonade from lemons, but the bottom line doesn't change. Some things are just sad, and, quite frankly, I don't always want people to try and make a happy ending out of something that, for me, represents a life-changing tragedy - sometimes, I just want them to say, "Jenna, it's not fair, and he didn't deserve this. And neither do you. You lost the love of your life - you have every right to feel sad, alone, and cheated." And sometimes - well, make that always - knowing that he's with me isn't enough: I need to feel his embrace and hear him say "I love you," instead of just imagining these things. I don't think that means I have a bad attitude or that I'm an abject pessimist; it just means I refuse to treat as "okay" something that isn't "okay." My twenty-five-year-old husband died in a war many Americans seem to have forgotten about, and he was robbed of a long life and the children we couldn't wait to raise together - that's not okay. It never will be.
They say that losing the love of your life is like a wound that never heals. It eventually becomes less like a gaping hole and more like a tender scar, but it's always there. I'd have to agree. And I'll bite the bullet and play the part of the zoo exhibit if it serves to remind people to be thankful for what they have, because you simply never know when the last time will be the last. As I've learned the hard way, there are but a few simplistic principles that sum up what matters most in this world: Love people, not things. Do good for others, not just yourself. And last but not least, never miss an opportunity to say "I love you" one last time. Take it from me - you won't regret it.
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