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.