94. Still

"Imagine everything you ever wanted shows up one day and calls itself your life. And then, just when you start to believe in it - gone. And suddenly it gets very hard to imagine a future." 
~Side Effects

For some people, death is the scariest thing on their list of fears. For others, forgetting those who have died or failing to find some meaning in their deaths is far scarier. Those of us who are left behind are already serving a proverbial life sentence - why fear the very thing that set them free? I work long hours over here in Afghanistan, but I still have too much time to think about these things. When I hear about Soldiers dying, my heart breaks for their families. The truth is (and I don't say this to be morbid, nor do I have a death wish), I would much rather it were me than someone with a wife and kids waiting for them at home. And yes, in case there was any doubt, after six long years, I still feel that way. It may not be quite so prevalent in everything I do and say as in the past, but it's still the truth.

"Still." How I hate that word. It seems to suggest there will come a time when this won't be my reality. As time continues to pass, I become more and more certain that that day will ever come. I think I've gotten pretty good at putting on an exterior show of the fact that "I'm fine." It's a necessity in my line of work. Maybe I'm wrong about that - maybe people see right through my act to the heart on my sleeve and the guarded defensiveness in my eyes. For now, though, I'm going to tell myself that I'm doing a decent job of masking what I can't ever really hide.

It's funny, you know. It used to be that when I looked at people, especially men, I noticed hands and eyes. Now I notice wedding rings, and I think about what that ring says about the person. Maybe they're married to the love of their life, and maybe they'd feel the same way I do if they ever lost that person. Maybe their marriage isn't great, but they remain faithful and committed because they took an oath to do so and refuse to go back on their word. Or maybe they're like the man in my last attempted relationship: They wear the ring when they feel like it to pretend that they're living the picture-perfect, happy American life, but, in reality, the words fidelity and commitment mean nothing to them. Am I still bitter about that? You would think so, right? But, honestly, no. I no longer dwell on the pain he caused or the lies that constituted the basis of our entire relationship. But I don't doubt that I'll never quite be the same when it comes to my ability to trust in people or believe in the inherent goodness of mankind. As a good friend of mine pointed out, there's a reason they say you can never get rid of the weeds. I'll try to remember that more often when I ask myself the dreaded question: Why do bad people get to live while good people have to die? And yes, I still ask it. And no, there's still no answer. I wonder what people think when they see the two rings on my right hand...

As one might guess, I have a love-hate relationship with the Army. Still. There are so many bittersweet moments that cause me to take pause and imagine what could have been and should have been. Since Jon died, it's always been the little things - the day-to-day things - that strike hardest where it hurts most. Initially, I looked for him in everyone, everywhere, hoping he'd somehow magically turn up where I needed him. I'd see him in other Soldiers - the way they walked or the way they laughed. I've stopped looking for him in those places; now it's all about those little things. Just the other day, for example, I decided to recycle a couple of pairs of Army PT shorts that were well past their prime. You'd think this would be a relatively simple and emotionless activity, right? Wrong. I suddenly remembered that Jon had taken these shorts with him to Iraq and, as he always did, he wrote his name on the labels so they wouldn't get mixed in with someone else's things. They were really too small for him - he wore large shorts and I wear mediums - but the thought of him squeezing into my too-small-for-him shorts always made me laugh. This revelation changed my decision-making process completely. Could I bring myself to throw away something he'd worn, that had physically touched his skin?

At this point, I've gotten used to look on the faces of the Army movers when they come to pack up my household goods for one of my many moves to a new duty location - they seem surprised (and perhaps even a little annoyed) that one person could own such a vast quantity of stuff. That's because I really have enough stuff for two people - myself and Jon. Many of the things I continue to hold onto that belonged to him are trivial, silly even, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they were his. He was a real person, a living and breathing person, and he had things that reflected what he liked and who he was. So who am I to decide that it's time for these things to go? I can't just discard them like they meant nothing to him. The fact that that they meant something to him means that they continue to mean something to me. His all-too-familiar handwriting is proof of the fact that he was once here by my side - he put pen to paper, and he wrote things like "I love you and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you." He wasn't just a figment of my imagination or a fantasy of a life I wished were mine. He was real. We were real.

So, to return to the PT shorts, my solution to my dilemma was to remove the faded, discolored labels with his handwriting and store them safely in a zip-lock bag until I return home to the United States. I don't know what I'll do with them when I get there - probably add them to the box of cards, pieces of scrap paper, and post-its I've kept over the years that bear the evidence of the person I love. My point is, though, that the simplest of things continue to add fuel to the fire of my post-Jon existence. In many ways, I still feel stuck, like I'm just treading water and waiting for the nightmare to finally end. Still. "Still" almost feels like it's becoming my new version of "forever." The word itself is short and simple, but the meaning it carries is heavy and, at times, unforgiving.

In 1998, Canadian country music singer Shania Twain co-wrote and recorded a song titled "You're Still the One." Although Twain and co-writer Mutt Lange divorced in 2008 after 14 years of marriage, the words of that song continue to hold great meaning for me. I'd like to be able to tell Jon that he's still the one - still the one I run to, the one that I belong to, still the one I want for life. He's still the one that I love, the only one I dream of, and still the one I kiss good night. Still. Always. Forever.

93. They Say...

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.” 

~Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

They say everything can be fixed.
I disagree: Not everything.
What I can’t fix literally haunts me.

They also say we always want what we can’t have.
They might be right about that: Those that are old would give anything to be young again, and those that are young just want to be old enough to be taken seriously. The rich want to be richer, the poor want to be richer. Those who lead normal lives wish for more excitement. Those who live under a microscope of public scrutiny curse the price of fame. When I wake up in the morning, I keep my eyes closed for a few extra seconds and hope that when I open them, things will be different – the tattoo with the date of Jon's death will be gone, Jon will be at his computer checking the headlines on CNN.com, and everything will be okay. But when I open my eyes, my tattoo with that life-changing date is still there. I'm alone, and Jon is no where to be found. And everything is still not okay.

They say I have to go through all the stages of grief and that one day I’ll finally be “done” mourning Jon’s death. But I go through multiple different stages throughout the course of one day. To suggest that I’ll ever "get over" the love of my life seems ridiculous and, quite frankly, downright insulting. I’m beginning to doubt that this process will ever really be over for me. They say everyone has their own timeline and that I don’t have to rush anything until I’m ready. It's been six years and on some days, I still can't even say his name without breaking down in tears. So, I guess my timeline is really, really slow. And to be honest, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I can’t let him go. I can’t just compartmentalize my life with Jon and put away all the things that remind me of him. There are few things to which I’ll voluntarily admit defeat, but this might have to be one of them.

They say that "the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path - one that we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it: White shores...and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise."

I truly hope they are right about that.

92. "Here I am, Lord. Send me."

"Fly me up to where you are beyond the distant star.
I wish upon the night to see you smile.
If only for a while, to know you're there,
A breath away's not far to where you are..."

I often have this odd sensation of looking down on my life from up above, as though from a distant galaxy. The edges of what I can see down below are a little hazy and out of focus, and I can't quite discern what lies beyond the fours corners of my existence. Perhaps it's just easier to disassociate from the truth by taking myself out of the picture entirely. This out-of-body sensation usually envelops me just as I'm about to drift off to sleep, and I always wonder if the picture will look different by the time I wake up. But when I return to reality, I'm back in the picture and Jon is still gone. The picture is the same, and there's still an empty spot in the bed where his 5'10" frame used to rest next to me so peacefully.

Due to the nature of what I do here in Afghanistan, I can't openly discuss the details of my job or what I've learned thus far.  What I will say without restraint, however, is that I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with mass media and its impact on wartime operations.  When Jon was deployed to Iraq, my heart sank every time I turned on the news and saw the news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen with the names and numbers of the Soldiers we'd lost in combat that day.  Now I find myself scouring the headlines for any mention of Afghanistan and, similarly, my heart sinks when there's nothing to be found.  I see more coverage of insignificant things happening in other countries than I do about our own Soldiers fighting and dying for the sake of everyone back at home.  It's as if this kind of news is no longer sensational enough to splash across the front page and has now been downgraded to a mere afterthought.  Why is that?  Is it just that after twelve years, the majority of the American population has become numb to the loss of our men and women at the hands of terrorists? And when did we reach the point at which we could be so cold and indifferent towards death?  Is it because so few Americans are personally impacted by these losses given that so few people volunteer to serve in the first place?  Hey, if the news isn't covering it anymore, the situation can't really be that bad, right?  Ha.  I don't mean to sound bitter, but if people only knew . . .

Although the national anti-war sentiment was far more rampant and unforgiving during the Vietnam War era, I'm beginning to wonder if this is how those veterans felt when they returned home and were told by cowardly draft dodgers that what they fought for was "wrong" or pointless.  I find myself studying past military operations in which American lives were lost (like Operation Gothic Serpent, Somalia) and wondering if we've learned anything at all from our mistakes.  I guess only time will tell.  But until then, I won’t hold my breath.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  Never before have the debts of so many been paid by so few.  And if you ask me, there’s something very wrong with that picture.  As some of us know all too well, freedom is not free.

People ask me all the time why I'm still in the Army after everything that's happened.  My question to them is "why not?"  Someone has to do it right?  My husband taught me a lot about leadership, and one thing it does not include is looking around for someone who'll take the hit when shit hits the fan.  It really is as simple as stepping forward and saying "here I am, Lord.  Send me."  (Isaiah 6:8)  When my ROTC instructor, Matthew Eversmann (75th Ranger Regiment Veteran and co-author of the book "Black Hawk Down,” which tells the story of Operation Gothic Serpent), first recited this quote to my young, impressionable commissioning class, I thought his words were just that:  words.  But now I know better.  They're not just words - they're proof of a purpose in a world where terrible things happen and so little makes any sense.  And so I say, here I am, Lord.  Send me.  Jon would expect no less.

91. Seven Years

"Life's not fair, you know? Good people die, and others let you down."
~A.W.

In Afghanistan, the air is usually so full of dust and grime that it shrouds the mountains and makes it impossible to see the stars.  Last night, however, was an exception.  As I bypassed the concrete T-wall barriers that skirt the path back to my room, I searched the night sky for the brightest star.  As soon as I settled on a winner, I smiled.  Hi, baby, I said out loud, oblivious to anyone who might be nearby.  You'd better not forget to stop by and visit me on June 9th.

Seven years ago on June 9th, 2006, I stood before a roomful of family and friends wearing the dress of my dreams and said "I do" to the love of my life.  I held his hands, looked into his eyes, and promised to cherish him no matter what life might bring, be it the joy of laughter or the anguish of tears. At the time, I thought the "unknown oceans of the future" we spoke of in our wedding vows would include multiple Army moves and deployments, graduation from law school, and, God-willing, our own little family. Seven years later, the moves and deployments have transpired as predicted, and graduation from law school is imminent. The children we prayed for, however, are not to be, and the unknown oceans have proven far stormier than I could ever have imagined. Ten months after our blissfully happy wedding day, two uniformed officers showed up at my door and turned my happy world upside down. Predictably, the "anguish of tears" quickly became the rule, rather than the exception.

As I've learned since then, life is full of little ironies. In the infamous words of a well-known songwriter, "isn't it ironic? Don't you think? A little too ironic, yeah, I really do think." I think of these words whenever people tell me that no one can take away what Jon and I shared together. They seem so eager to reassure me that our memories are mine to cherish forever. And they're right, thank goodness. However, what's also painfully true is that no one can give me back what I lost the day he died. That loss is permanent, and no matter how desperately I wish to see his face or feel his touch for just a moment, those wishes will remain no more than dreams that torment me, some nights more so than others.

Disappointment has also assumed a whole new dimension over the past few years. These days, whenever someone falls short of my expectations, I feel ten times worse than I did in the past.  Maybe it's because I look at people who treat others like stepping stones and think, dammit, Jon was twice the man you'll ever be. Why is it that he's gone and you're still here?  Or maybe it's because Jon isn't here for me to lean on in these moments of frustration. No matter how bad things seemed, he had this uncanny way of talking me down from the ledge and reassuring me that everything would be okay.  Always the gentleman, I think of the way he ever so gallantly carried me over the threshold on our wedding night and then gently removed the hundreds of bobby pins from my fancy updo as I leaned back against him, happier than ever to call myself his wife.  He couldn't have let me down even if he'd tried.  If the last seven years have taught me anything, it's that men like that simply don't come along every day.

I continue to wonder all the time about the little things that might have made a big difference. What if he'd been assigned to Fort Campbell (his first choice) instead of Fort Bragg after his tour in Korea? What if I hadn't missed his call the night before he died and I'd gotten to say "I love you, baby" just one more time? What if I'd thought to send him a Red Cross message when we found out my mom was in the hospital and he'd come home immediately instead of going out on that logistics patrol? He could have been on a plane the very next day! Instead he was one of five Soldiers in the lead truck on a dangerous road in Iraq. And when that truck got hit by 500 pounds of explosives, he didn't have a chance at survival. Today we don't even use those trucks in combat anymore, in part because they can't withstand the kind of catastrophic damage caused by Improvised Explosive Devices.  IEDs - God, do I hate that word.  My skin literally crawls every time I hear it.  Seven years later, the enemy continues to improvise while we continue to be the victims of their success.  Sadly, despite the fact that IEDs are often constructed from simple, rudimentary materials, the effect they have on families like mine is anything but ordinary.  And therein lies yet another great irony.

The day I married Jon will forever be etched in my memory as the happiest of my life, just as the day I lost him will undoubtedly remain the saddest.  It's hard to imagine anything ever topping the elation I felt as I walked down the aisle and the future seemed to stretch out before me like a long red carpet of endless possibilities.  I've come awfully close to tumbling off the edge ever since that knock at my door cut short what should have been a life full of unknown joys and heartaches, but somehow I'm still on the path, battered and bruised though I find myself at times.  As I looked up at those stars here in Afghanistan the other night, I thought of Jon and all I'd like to be able to tell him.  And then I realized that although much has changed over the past seven years, there is one thing that remains constant:  he knows.  When he was here beside me, he always knew what to say and what I needed to hear, and to this day, he continues to know me better than anyone.  No matter how many years might pass, I'm guessing he always will.