66. Arm-in-Arm

Mom (in response to the death of her son's dog):  He'll always be in your heart, honey. 

Son:  I don't want him in my heart.  I want him here with me. 

~From Tim Burton's Frankenweenie

When I made the decision to join ROTC at college, I had this silly, romanticized image in my head of meeting a cute Army guy and walking arm-in-arm together through campus - him in his uniform, of course, and me in a pretty little sundress with the perfect pair of shoes.  I never anticipated what ultimately ended up being a far better reality - that I'd find myself in some of the grungiest and most unattractive situations of my life and, in the process, that I'd meet my soul mate.  A good friend of mine from high school (and one of my bridesmaids at my wedding) told me that besides the obvious emotional connection, Jon and I even looked like we were made for each other.  She said she could see us having beautiful children one day together...and that those children would undoubtedly bring out the best parts of both of us.

At Jon and I's wedding in 2006, Jon's brother, Jason, was the best man.  During his speech, Jason poked fun at his little brother, which, of course, made Jon mad in a friendly, brotherly, I'm-going-to-kill-him later kind of a way.  Jason said that he had known I was a keeper when we all went to the pistol range in December of 2003, and, in the process of shooting at my target, a piece of brass managed to find its way down the front of my shirt.  Hot metal on pale, sensitive Scottish skin doesn't feel too good, so I immediately put down the weapon and turned towards the back of the room to remove the piece of brass with as much dignity and poise as I could muster.  So much for the dignity and poise.  My future father-in-law, Jason, and Jon all laughed at my ridiculous efforts to get rid of that piece of brass without undressing in front of all of them.  After an episode like that, I always knew Jon must love me for a whole lot more than just my looks and lack of gracefulness.

As I avoided writing a miserable paper for law school the other day, I found myself surfing the web to find out how to insert a missing person into a photograph.  It was just a silly Google search, but it made me reflect on how strong the urge can be to jump back in time to when my favorite, current photographs always included my husband.  Sometimes I swear I can still feel his touch.  I'll dream about him, feel his lips on mine, and I want to stay there in dreamland with the man who made my silly dream possible back in college and who promised me we'd continue to walk arm-in-arm into the future.  Cliche or not (being that I'm from Scotland and all...), one of my favorite movies is Braveheart, and although the first time I saw it was long ago, there's this line during a dream William Wallace has about his late wife that always brought me great sadness as I tried to imagine how a man who has lost the love of his life might feel.  Now that I know how he felt, I'd really like to go back to just imagining it:

"Murron's ghost:  William, you must wake now.
William Wallace:  I don't want to wake.  I want to stay here with you.
Murron's ghost:  And I with you...

I think I've become pretty good at what I call "the transference of sadness."  It's probably just a coping mechanism, a way to dull the sharp sting of losing my soul mate since my heart can only take so much of it at once.  I call it the transference of sadness because that's essentially what I'm doing when I cram my schedule full of events and activities and work.  It's what it means for me to focus on other things that are less real and seem less personal, like the movies I've loved for years that I can watch over and over again while letting my mind drift to thoughts of something else for a while.  And yet, in the end, all my favorite movies always manage to hit a little too close to home for comfort.  Braveheart is a good example.  Gladiator is another.  Gettysburg.  The Green Mile.  Black Hawk Down.  P.S. I Love You.  Same thing with Forrest Gump.  Why is it that all the best and most brilliant of movies always involve a good person losing someone they love more than life itself?

Jon and I never had the chance to have those children my friend said would be beautiful and look just like us.  For some reason, people think that this somehow makes it easier for me since I can focus on my own grief and don't have to look into the face of a child who represents a constant reminder of what I've lost.  Yet, what they fail to understand is that I'd give just about anything to have to drag myself out of bed every morning and live my life to the fullest for the sake of a little one with my husband's beaming smile and his crooked, Roman nose.  I'd even picked out a name already for a little girl if and when Jon had one in the future:  Nicola (pronounced Nick-oh-lah).  It used to be a pretty popular name in Scotland, and although most Americans mispronounce it, I love that it's so different and requires you to pause and think for a moment.  I know I'm biased, but I guess I always assumed that any child Jon created would be like that too - he or she would be brilliant, inquisitive, and, just like Jon, would cause people to pause and think for a moment about the world and way they see it.

When my dream of children with Jon didn't come to fruition and I first found myself facing the prospect of many long, lonely days ahead, I rescued a two-year-old dog from an animal shelter on what would have been our wedding anniversary.  I named her Nicki.  Nicki is now about seven, and although she can be a little annoying sometimes, she's a sweetheart and just wants to be loved.  I think she's also grateful to have a warm, comfortable home after spending God-knows how long in a dirty cage with several other dogs where she had to fight for food and water.  A couple of days ago, I took another break from writing that miserable paper to go on a long walk with Nicki and experience fall in Ohio.  We walked for well over an hour and it was dark by the time we finally made it home.  Nicki loved it - she pranced through the leaves and left her mark on every bush, mailbox and tree from our front doorstep to our turn-around point and back again.  It made me laugh to see her so excited over little things like all the delicious smells on our new route.  And the sunset was, in a word, beautiful.  Again, I know I'm biased, but I'm pretty sure Jon would have approved...and I know he would have loved to have been there, walking arm-in-arm with me, too.

65. Ya'Aburnee (Arabic): "You Bury Me"

"If I knew back then, 

All the things that I know now, 

I'd kiss you forever and never let go 

When I uttered that sacred vow."

According to the author of an article I read, "ya'aburnee" is Arabic for "you bury me."  (Pamela Haag, The Top 10 Relationship Words That Aren't Translatable Into English:  http://bigthink.com/marriage-30/the-top-10-relationship-words-that-arent-translatable-into-english?page=all).  As Ms. Haag describes, this word is a declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.  It's a morbidly beautiful thought...and one with which I'm all too familiar.  How ironic that this happens to the be one word on Ms. Haag's list that's in Arabic, of all languages.  It sums up the very essence of what I've often tried to express to others, in English - that I wasn't, and still am not, ready to say goodbye to Jon.

A friend of mine once told me she and her husband never tell each other "goodbye."  Even when they served together in Iraq and went out on dangerous missions, they'd say "see you later."  She said it helped to soften the harsh reality of never knowing whether it might be the last time they would see each other alive.  These are the little tricks we play on ourselves to retain our sanity.  To live day in and day out with the prospect of losing the love of your life at the forefront of every thought is mentally and physically exhausting, almost to the point of being self-destructive.  Try then, to imagine living with the reality of it after months of worrying how on earth you'd ever cope if that reality were to come to fruition.  And yet, here I find myself.  Who would have guessed that there lies such a vast, great distance between being alive and going through the motions of living one's life?

Goodbyes are, by definition, exponentially harder than hellos.  Even when we do say goodbye, we often hope it's just an extended version of "see you later" because the finality of goodbye is simply too much to contemplate.  And yet, without a goodbye, there is no real sense of closure to the story.  Perhaps that's because what comes next is still a part of the story, but with an unexpected - and often unwanted - plot twist.  In Jon and I's story, the beginning of the end was April 6th, 2007 - the day I missed the last call he ever made to me from Iraq.  Although I couldn't have known it at the time, it was my one and only opportunity to say goodbye...and I missed it.  It's one of the things I've struggled with over the years, and every time the image of that missed call showing up on my phone comes to mind, I blame myself all over again for the fact that I never got to tell him "I love you" one more time.  He left me a voice message, promising he'd try to call again the next day.  When I checked my email later that night, he'd also emailed me to make sure everything was okay.  As it turned out, of course, everything was not okay, but not in the way either of us imagined at the time.  The next day - a Saturday - I can still picture so clearly the way those last few blissful hours of normalcy played out, like the calm before the storm, if you will.  I remember looking down at my watch as I walked into the grocery store, seeing that it was already 5 pm, and thinking it was too late to hope he might still be able to call.  When I got back to our apartment about twenty minutes later, there was a knock at my door.  That was, of course, the knock that would change my life forever.

I later recorded that last voice message from him, along with the others I'd saved over the past few weeks, so that I'd always be able to recall the sound of his voice telling me he loved me.  Some nights, when I'm feeling strong enough, I'll listen to those messages just to hear that sound one more time.  I hear Jon say my name, call me his "cute wife," and tell me he's about to go to bed and hopes to dream about me.  Sometimes, it's the nights when I'm not feeling so strong that I choose to listen, and that sound is the most beautiful, bittersweet thing I've ever heard.  I wish to God I could hear his voice again...in real time.  A tape-recorded message is no substitute for a sound that always brought a smile to my face, and still does - only now, that smile often gets lost amidst the tears.

Goodbye.  Forever.  For two relatively short words, they carry with them a whole hell of a lot of interminable finality.  It's a kind of finality that brings the world into sharp focus; we see things we never noticed before, understand the fragility of life on a deeper level, and grateful though we are for all this newly acquired wisdom, we wish whole-heartedly that we could return to the time when things were less clear.  To borrow from the words of one of my favorite historical figures, "oh, what damn fools we were."  Damn fools, perhaps.  But happy fools.  And as happy fools, our days were ones of ignorant bliss, like the day almost ten years ago now when Jon and I went (for the third time) to see The Lord of the Rings:  The Return of the King.  During the final scene, the main character bids his best friends farewell and embarks on a journey to another world.  I can still remember sitting there in the theater with happy tears rolling down my cheeks like it was just yesterday.  It touched me to think that there are people who come into our lives unexpectedly, represent an irreplaceable piece of who we are and what we become, and then, just as suddenly as they appear, they're gone again.

At the time, I squeezed Jon's hand a little tighter, thankful to have the man who made me strive to be a better person sitting right there next to me.  I could never have guessed that within a few years, we would live out that final farewell scene for ourselves.  It was December 25th, 2006, and after two glorious weeks of respite from what had become an increasingly dangerous deployment, it was time for the dreaded airport goodbye.  I kissed my husband, told him I loved him, and, as I held him close, etched every detail of his smell into my memory.  At the very last possible second, I had no choice but to let him go so he could board his plane and fly back to Iraq.  Now I wish I'd held on forever.  I remember the expression on his face as I caught sight of him on the jet way.  He smiled at me and waved, and my heart did this little flip-flop of joy.  Only he had the power to affect me in this way.  Knowing now what would happen just a few months later, the clarity with which I remember that moment continues to bring me to my knees in a state of unspeakable grief.

One of the last pictures taken of the two of us together on Christmas Eve

A week and a half after Jon was killed, we had a closed-casket wake in the little New Hampshire town that Jon called home.   After several hours of standing by my husband's casket and shaking the hands of a never-ending stream of visitors, family and friends, my strength was depleted and my heart had had enough.  I pulled up a chair alongside the flag-draped casket and sat with my hand pressed to its smooth wooden surface as people milled around me and prepared the church for the funeral the following day.  I didn't want to talk anymore, and there was no one, besides the obvious, that I wanted to see.  I just wanted to be as close to my husband as humanly possible, knowing all too well that the moment I would never touch him again was drawing near.  Eventually, my family tried to persuade to go home and get some rest for the night, but I refused to move from his side.  Only after two of our friends from college assured me they'd take turns standing guard by Jon's casket throughout the night did I finally relent and let my family put me to bed for a few hours before the final goodbye.

Watching the pallbearers place my husband's casket into the funeral car

That final goodbye took place the next day after the funeral service and reception.  With a full honor guard procession in tow, Jon's body was transported from the church to a local funeral home.  As I sat in a private room next to his open casket, I leaned over his body and wept without restraint for the husband I loved more than life itself.  I touched his face - to hell with all the caked-on make-up.  I unbuttoned his jacket, hoping to find evidence of the marks I knew so well on his skin but found only layers of white gauze and bandages.  I kissed the bridge of his nose (whose shape he always hated), and I held his stiff, gloved hands in mine.  Jon's brother and my sister-in-law joined me after a while.  One of the songs I'd requested for the funeral service - appropriately titled "Time to Say Goodbye" - hadn't made it into the final program, but Jason knew how much it meant to me and let me listen to it on his iPod through headphones as we cherished those last few minutes with him.  As I left the room at the end of the night, my dad tried to step inside for one last look before they sealed the casket, but I begged him no, please, that I wanted to - had to - be the last one to see him like that.  That was also the last time I ever listened to the song "Time to Say Goodbye."  I've heard snippets of it on two occasions over the past five years - once on a trip to Las Vegas with Jon's family during the fountain display outside the Bellagio and once, of all places, in a shopping mall.  Shopaholic or not, you can be sure I ran for the nearest exit as quickly as humanly possible.

Things have been really hard recently.  They're always hard, but lately I can't seem to relax, not even when I'm doing something that is, in theory, incredibly relaxing, like taking a bubble bath complete with scented candles, a glass of wine, and soothing spa music.  In the mornings, I hold my breath before I open my eyes, hoping against hope that I'll wake up to a different reality.  Maybe I'll even roll over and Jon will be lying right there next to me?  But sadly, once I open my eyes and see the empty space in my bed, I realize that the life I've been living without him for the past few years remains the status quo.  Advice from others has been plentiful, and for those who simply say, "I'm here, and I love you," I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  For those who try to fix me and tell me Jon wouldn't want me to be sad, please understand that you can't fix what's broken here.  I'm sure that whenever I write another blog entry or post some quote about loss, there are those who think "oh great, here we go again - what could she possibly say about how sad all this is that she hasn't said before?"  But in widow-land, this is my new normal.  You'd think at a certain point I'd have said it all and there would be nothing more to discuss.  But the thoughts keep flowing, and so I keep writing.  

A co-worker of mine once said Jon knows how much I miss him every day.  He said Jon is probably doing PT up in Heaven right now because he wants to look his best for when his bride rejoins him there at some point in the future.  Guess I'd better get my butt into gear too - I obviously want him to recognize me when I see him again!  That, though, is really the point of all of this.  It's why I feel the way I do - I will see him again.  So when people tell me it's time to turn the page on the last chapter of my life and move onto the next one, I ask them how?  I don't want Jon and I's chapter to be over...and how can it be when I'm still deeply in love with the man I'm honored to call my husband?  Hard though it is at times, I'm still here, so unless those people expect me to turn the page on my own future, I'm going to continue to live and breathe this story - our story - until it's time to say goodbye to this life and move onto the next.  As long as Jon is waiting for me when I get there, I can't imagine anything more beautiful.

Ya'aburnee:  "You bury me."  Noun, verb, noun.  Read literally, the phrase almost seems to command that one of us take action in response to the inaction of the other.  I guess it basically says what I already knew, which is that one of us would always have to go first, much as I wish I could reverse the "you" and the "me" in Jon and I's case.  I'll be honest - it's pretty eerie to look down into a pre-prepared hole, knowing that that's where your husband's casket will be placed, not to mention where I'll be laid to rest too one day.  Yet, eerie though it is, it is there that our bodies will be reunited while our spirits dance on into eternity.  And maybe - just maybe - the goodbye we never had will finally become a see you later.

Or, better yet, see you always.  Always and forever, my love...

64. "In Humor Oft Lies the Truth"

Last week, I came close to doing something I've never done before.  I almost walked out of a class.  Ironically, the class is one I usually enjoy.  Unlike other courses where PowerPoint slides are the norm and professors cold-call on students at random, this class thrives on open discussion and student participation.  However, it was during this class that I seriously questioned my desire to become an attorney.  I wondered if the kids in my class are really the kind of people I want to surround myself with...and whether I'm callous enough to survive in a profession where people believe it's okay to charge exorbitant fees based on the damages awarded at trial for the deaths of twenty-one children.

The case we were studying was referred to by lawyers as a "slam dunk," but it wasn't their depiction of it that bothered me as much as the nonchalant acceptance of their greed by my classmates.  The majority of students (or, at least, those who spoke up) felt it was appropriate for people who've been hurt to sue anyone and everyone in order to get as much money for their troubles as possible.  And when it's all said and done, the ambulance-chasing lawyers who help them win all that money should, according to the consensus, feel no ethical qualms about keeping a large cut of the monetary verdict for themselves as compensation for their services.  That is, after all, how our system works - sue until there's no one left to sue, play up the tragedy and tug on the heartstrings of the jury at trial, and hope for a big win so that the person who's been wronged can be made "whole" again...and the lawyers can get paid.  In theory, it doesn't sound so bad:  Lawyers make it possible for society's less fortunate to acquire huge sums of money from rich corporate entities with deep pockets.  If there were ever a real-world illustration of fairness and justice in action, wouldn't that be it?  And since we spent precious class time debating the merits of the practice, it must have some potential to be considered socially acceptable, right?  After all, if other lawyers are doing it and we as future attorneys don't do it too, we'll fall behind the curve, so doesn't that make it all okay?

Or maybe that's just what we tell ourselves to sleep at night.  As we watched the video about a tiny town twelve miles from the Mexican border where a school bus was side-swiped by a Coca-Cola truck and slid down an embankment into a lake, killing twenty-one children and wounding countless others, I tried to remind myself about the media slant on the story and the ease with which lawyers become scapegoats for collective greed.  But when, in referring to a survivor who lost his brother and received a substantial part of the settlement, the guy sitting behind me said, "oh man, he's living in this huge, awesome mansion now and still drives that crappy car?", I about lost it.  Seriously?  That is what you choose to focus on in the context of a horrific tragedy?  What about the fact that a group of people who lived in shacks and slept on plywood cots suddenly acquired millions of dollars and hadn't the faintest idea about how to save or invest it for their future?  What about the fact that their lives that will never be the same, even with all that new-found wealth, because their children aren't alive to share it with them?  And what about the fact that within a hour or two of losing their sons and daughters in a senseless accident, the families of the victims were immediately confronted by attorneys telling them what to do and who to sue?  Realistically, I'm well aware of the fact that some of my classmates are only entering the legal profession to win and get rich quick, but give me a break.  Those kids who died had lives - real, human lives.  There is simply no dollar value that can ever be placed on the the one thing money can't buy.  If anything, the money will likely make their families increasingly unhappy over time as they come to the slow but all-too-unfortunate realization that fancy cars and expensive houses can't fill the hole left by a child's laughter.  Believe me, I've gone down this route time and time again in trying to distract myself from Jon's loss.  And time and time again, I've found that it just doesn't work.

I feared what people might say if I spoke up and shared my opinion during class, so I chose to keep quiet and did not contribute to the discussion.  In the midst of a debate that turned death into dollar signs, I had to focus all my energy on fighting back the tears.  I'm sure most people would never say it out loud but might silently feel that I have no leg to stand on when it comes to my outlook on wealth - after all, the government is paying for me to be here at school, and when my husband died, the government wrote me a check for that too.  It probably seems easy for me to feel that money isn't the end-all-be-all when I'm not crippled with student loans and thousands of dollars of debt.  And yet, therein lies the great conundrum.  There's a reason they say we always want what we can't have.  I'll never understand how people can be so heartless and shallow when it comes to money because when it comes to what matters most to me, I'd happily back give every penny (and then some) if it meant I could have my husband back.  Money, in my humble opinion, is truly the root of all evil, especially in combination with grief.  I've never seen so many ugly family disputes and ruined relationships than those created by the insurance money paid to the loved ones of Soldiers killed in action.  This money - blood money, if you ask me - brings out the worst in people and encourages others to swoop in and take advantage of an already nightmarish situation.  I can only hope that others who have not seen the full extent of it do not have to learn this lesson the hard way, though it's often the only way.  Again, I wish I didn't have to speak from experience on this one, and perhaps my outlook comes across as idealistic or even naive.  It's the only outlook, however, that I can live with in good conscience.

Let's just say it was a relief when class ended early last week.  Ironically, our professor started the class that morning with a cartoon that played upon lawyer stereotypes, but admitted he probably shouldn't poke fun at the profession since there are already enough people out there who do it for us.  And yet, when I consider the attitudes that were expressed during that class, it makes it easy to understand why.  As they often say, "in humor oft lies the truth."  There's a reason cliches are cliches, right?  Thank God I'll be practicing a type of law where billing hours, fancy dinners to impress clients, and annual bonuses are nonexistent.  I'll be paid just the same as any other officer of my equivalent rank and time in service, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  Although I'll be proud to call myself a military attorney, I am still, above and beyond all else, a person, and as a person, I recognize that money can't buy happiness.  To reach this understanding, I've taken emotional journeys in which money played no part and traveled miles for which money deserves no credit.  The riches I have gained in the form of beautiful friendships, hard-earned knowledge, and bittersweet memories, are, in my eyes, the epitome of success.  It's this form of success that I'll covet and safeguard for the rest of this life...and carry with care into the next.  Who, after all, wants to be the richest guy in the cemetery?  Times may be hard and the going may be tough, but being able to say "I love you" to the people who make our lives meaningful is still the greatest of all fortunes.

63. September 11th, 2012

It’s odd, isn’t it? People die every day and the world goes on like nothing happened. But when it’s a person you love, you think everyone should stop and take notice. That they ought to cry and light candles and tell you that you’re not alone.” 

~Kristina McMorris, Letters From Home

September 11th, 2012: A day that, for many, marks the anniversary of an event that changed their lives forever. Yet, you wouldn't know it at law school...or in many sectors of society, for that matter. Eleven years later, life continues on as normal. I was a senior in high school when the twin towers fell back in 2001, yet some of my youngest classmates were only in the 6th grade. God, that makes me feel old. Not so much the numerical age difference itself, but rather, the vast expanse of living that separates us. September 11th, 2001 was not a day on which I came to some sort of eye-opening personal revelation, yet I still remember with vivid clarity standing alone on the deck of my parents' house and thinking about all the lives that had been lost and those left behind that would never be the same. Eleven years later, I still think about that. I had no idea on that day how the subsequent War on Terror would affect me personally; I hadn't even applied to colleges yet, much less decided on Johns Hopkins and, with it, the Army ROTC program. Hence, I hadn't yet met Jon.

Jon...oh, dear Lord, how I wish he was here with me today. Today, on the anniversary of such a somber tragedy, I could really use his words of wisdom and the calming way his outlook on life always made everything seem okay. His classmates have described to me how it felt on September 11th, 2001 to be a college student and ROTC Cadet preparing to commission into the United States Army with the prospect of war looming on the near horizon. I can only imagine how heavily the magnitude of that responsibility weighed on their shoulders. It was not until about eighteen months later, once I too had committed to the ROTC track, that the war in Iraq finally kicked off. I still had absolutely no concept at that point of how deeply the significance of that day would later resonate with me many years later on this day. I could not have imagined that just over four years after the invasion, Jon would live out his last days in Iraq. And I certainly could never have predicted that on September 12th, 2008 - seven years and one day after 9/11/01 - I too would deploy to the same place that claimed my husband's life.

An article that mentions the 9/11 Heroes 5k race I ran this past weekend in Jon's memory was published in the Columbus Dispatch today, and it features a picture of me rounding the final corner to the finish line. I'm wearing the t-shirt with Jon's picture on the front and the Gold Star on the back that I created for the Army Ten-Miler Race back in 2009. One lady wrote a comment in response to the article that essentially said she's glad to see Ohio paying "quiet" tribute to 9/11 this year since "we are becoming a nation that absolutely bathes in grief, and this needs to be stopped." I almost laughed out loud when I read this. Okay, I thought, this is clearly someone who hasn't been personally affected in any way by the events of that day or the two wars that have followed! The response I offered was, I hope, not overly scathing, but I did my best to emphasize the fact that there's a very good reason the phrase most often associated with 9/11 is "never forget."

http://www.dispatch.com/content/stories/local/2012/09/11/we-still-look-for-best-way-to-mark-sept--11.html

For me, the best part of the race was having the opportunity to meet and speak to an incredibly nice man named John Carney, who was running in memory of his brother.  He came up to me before the race, shook my hand, and gave me a big hug to thank me for my husband's sacrifice.  After the race was over, he approached me again.  This time, he gave me a dog tag that had been made for him by a friend to pass along to another Gold Star family.  He'd carried that dog tag with him for the last five years since the day his brother was killed in Afghanistan.  He said he knew he was supposed to pass it on sooner but couldn't bring himself to do it until that moment.  John's hands shook as he spoke, and his eyes filled with tears as he asked me if I still talked to Jon as though he's still here.  My answer, of course, was yes, I do - every day.  More than anything, John seemed relieved to have the opportunity to talk to someone else who "gets it" and who was happy to listen to stories of his brother and laugh at the memories of the good times they shared.  I was touched beyond words to receive the dog tag and will carry it with me proudly until it's time to pass it along to another family.  May God bless John's fallen brother, SFC Scott Carney.  And God bless the organizers of events like the 9/11 Heroes 5k Run - these wonderful people continue to recognize and commemorate the high price of freedom, lest me forget.  I, for one, will never forget.

The front and back sides of the dog tag John Carney gave to me after the
9/11 Heroes Run

On January 17th, 2000, well before the travesties of 9/11/01, my husband wrote a letter to the Professor of Military Science at the Johns Hopkins ROTC Department describing his desire to serve as an officer in the United States Army.  He ended the letter with a quote by Henry Hyde in a speech before the House of Representatives during the impeachment of President Bill Clinton:

"Let us look across the river, to Arlington National Cemetery, where American heroes who gave their lives for the sake of the rule of law lied buried.  And let us not betray their memory...It's our country - the President is our flag bearer, out in front of our people.  The flag is falling, my friends - I ask you to catch the falling flag as we keep our appointment with history."

For obvious reasons, that quote strikes me as incredibly ironic now.  On this day, as we commemorate the lives that were lost on that terrible day eleven years ago, let us remember the patriotism that brought us together back then and let us keep our appointment with history in ensuring that their sacrifice is never forgotten.  My prayers are with the families of all those who were lost and those who have since answered the call to defend our great country.  As I sat outside on my porch tonight - wearing my husband's sweater, a pair of his boxer shorts, and a t-shirt from this weekend's race that reads "If not me, then who?" - I thought about this day in history.  Eleven years ago now seems like a different lifetime.  So much has happened.  So little has changed on the one hand, and yet, on the other, everything has changed.  Lives have been lost, new lives have come into being, and the world has kept on turning.  For some of us, however, the world of today turns with a bit of a limp.  We will never forget.  Ever.  And whether it be today, tomorrow, or eleven more years from now, this world will forever be defined by those who are no longer in it.

62. Tragedy

"The price of freedom costs more than 99.99% of us will ever have to pay."
~Anonymous

I knew I was back at law school when, within two minutes of walking into the building on the first day of classes, I heard some girl say, "God, I want to kill myself!"  And no, she wasn't talking about an epic dilemma of life-or-death proportions.  She was talking about something related to the notorious legal job search.  Oh boy, I thought, here we go again...back to the land of limited perspective in which getting a "C" means your life is officially over!  I just hope what I've been told by other practicing attorneys is true - that it's quite possible to hate law school but love being a lawyer.

It's moments like these when I wonder why I thought coming back to school with other twenty-something-year-olds who are yet to see much of the real world was a good idea.  I'm pretty sure it's easy to tell me apart from the bubbly, upbeat young optimists because I'm the one who blogs between classes instead of immersing myself in law school books and sprints for the door as soon as my last class of the day is over.  But then again, I suppose it's impossible to expect I'll find the same value and fulfillment in the things that would have mattered to me at one time in the past.  My twenties have been shaped by the highs of pure joy and the lows of debilitating sadness that's brought me to my knees - both literally and figuratively.  Grief, whether I've acknowledged its existence of not, has dulled the shiny newness of academic endeavors.  It's also dramatically skewed my views on life in general, especially in comparison to my peers.  It amazed me to hear one of my classmates say that if he were an inmate on death row, he'd want his lawyers to fight at every opportunity to stay his execution, even if it meant living through years of appeals and never knowing for sure if or when the execution would take place.  My take on it was somewhat different.  I said I'd want to just get it over with - what's the value in a life spent waking up every day to the four concrete walls of a jail cell?  He said that in his opinion, even if those four walls were all he ever saw, moments spent in a cell are still precious moments of life.  I responded by asking him whether that kind of life can really be considered "living."  Is that living?  Is this living?

This was posted by a Soldier I served with in Iraq and made me laugh
during finals period last year

I'm usually not usually a library studier - it doesn't go too well with the whole sprint-for-the door and blogging-instead-of-reading thing.  So I usually don't bother to fool myself into thinking I'll actually get something done if I camp out there in between classes.  It's like when I bring certain books home, knowing all too well exactly how the scenario will play out - the books will add some weight to my backpack for my trek up and down the parking garage stairs, but that's about it.  Last week was no exception.  Despite being down on the lower level of the library (sans all natural light) at a tiny walled-in cubical and in a "no talking" zone, my concentration was nonexistent.  All I could think about was my husband...and how much I miss him.  So instead of pretending to do the work that could wait, I closed my books, plugged in my headphones, and listened to the songs that take me back to my memories of Jon.  Music lets me escape to happier times when things were simple.   With a few familiar notes, I can picture myself in that exact moment - how it looked from my perspective, what I felt, and the ignorant bliss of a life that hadn't yet been turning upside down by tragedy.

Tragedy – perhaps that seems like a strong word to use.  A friend from college once described Jon's death in the very opposite terms from how one might define a tragedy:  He said that kids dying after being fired upon at school by one of their classmates is the epitome of a senseless tragedy, but that Jon died in one of the noblest and honorable pursuits of mankind, namely serving his country.  This may be true, and I could not possibly be prouder of my husband for his bravery and courage.  Yet, his death is still the ultimate tragedy for me as his wife.  When it comes down to what’s left after sorting through all the hows and the whens and wheres, it really doesn’t matter so much how he died – gone is gone.  There are no degrees of absence.  Death comes to us all, and with its sudden arrival comes the heartache that clings to those left behind.  That heartache is one of few universal languages in existence; I don't get extra (or fewer) points on the scale of grief because the cause of death on Jon's death certificate is listed as a homicide versus terminal cancer or a fatal car accident.

Death is also unique in being the only completely irreversible reality in life.  No matter how many tears I cry or healing I seek or prayers I utter, I can’t bring him back.  Those who knew Jon - be it close friends or distant acquaintances - go about their daily lives with the sad reminder of a man who left an impression that will echo for many years to come.  But that man was - and is - the love of my life.  I can’t just pick up the phone and call him whenever I want to hear his voice.  I can’t look forward to the next time I’ll see him with the same giddy excitement that a little kid looks forward to opening presents on Christmas morning.  I can’t look to the years ahead and make plans that involve “us.”  I can’t anticipate the day I’ll hold our child in my arms and look into his eyes and know we created something more beautiful than words.  To live without that kind of love in my life is, in my eyes, a personal tragedy.  And even worse, of course, is all the living my husband never got to do and that I’d literally do anything to give him back.  It's not just his physical loss that's so hard - it's all the things that could and should have been too.  So for these reasons, tragedy is the word I choose.  If it seems overly dramatic…well, let’s just say I’d never wish this reality upon anyone, no matter how I felt about them.  A wise woman once wrote that the whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.  Her words ring true with the knowledge and conviction of someone who knows.  I wish it were not so, but I know.  I know I don’t want to fake my way through another birthday or however many more years I may have without him.  I know I don’t want to keep filling my life with things in the hope that materialistic items will somehow make me feel complete.  I know I don’t want to keep wondering when the day will come that I won’t be in love with Jon anymore.  Not in love with him?  To even suggest such a thing makes me laugh because I can't fathom it.  It’s probably a self-defeating prophecy to believe that what Jon and I had cannot be replicated, but therein lies the essence of the problem.  My love for my husband grows every day, just as it would if he were still here.  I’m more in love with him now that I ever was; time and distance have not changed any of that.  They say falling in love is unique - you don't do it twice.  So what am I supposed to do with all that love and no husband to give it to?  Ah.  The million dollar question.

I often wish Jon and I had talked in more intimate detail about what he’d want if anything happened to him.  We discussed it a little, but he always glossed over the worst case scenario to protect me from having to contemplate that possibility.  As it turns out, of course, I've had to do a whole lot more than just contemplate it.  Living and reliving it has become my new normal.  I've lied and said "I'm okay" so many times at this point that I sound like a broken record, which I guess is actually a pretty appropriate metaphor.  Every time I say it, I think back to the report of investigation into Jon’s death, which emphasized that at all times after the IED detonation, there was someone with him telling him it would be okay.  Whether or not he was able to hear or comprehend their assurances is something only Jon will ever know for sure.  But he’s not okay.  Those people lied.  I know they didn’t mean to, but they did.  It would not be and is not all okay.  I wonder now what he would have done if the situation had been reversed - if it had been me instead of him.  Would he still struggle on a daily basis and withdraw from the world to nurse the wounds that run too deep for explanations?  Would finding love again, as he told me he'd want me to do, be something that would even seem plausible?  What I do know is that Jon did nothing in his short life to deserve the fate that befell him.  If it was going to be one of us, it undoubtedly should have been me.

I spent this past weekend in Washington, D.C. to attend the wedding of Jon's best friend.  Despite receiving numerous invitations, I've managed to avoid weddings for the most part over the past few years, but this one was important enough for me to summon the inner strength I knew I'd need to pull myself together for the big day.  It's something I had to do for Jon.  With my father-in-law's support, I did pretty well despite a couple of challenging moments, like when they recited the very same Bible verse Jon and I chose for our ceremony.  Music, however, as I mentioned, is usually always what gets me.  When it came time for the bride and groom's first dance, the song they chose was the one I considered "our song."  What happened next reminded me of the scenario that played out at my own wedding six very long years ago.  As I walked into the ladies room during the reception, I ran into a friend of Jon’s parents who had recently lost her husband to a sudden illness.  The emotions of the day were too much for her and she was in tears.  Although she was touched by the beauty of the occasion and the magnitude of Jon and I’s commitment to one another, it was also incredibly hard for her to witness us embarking upon the bright future she and her husband had been denied.  At the time, I didn’t have the right words.  I didn't understand how bittersweet a young couple’s happiness can feel to an outsider looking in from a place where true love sometimes isn't enough to overcome all odds.  Well…I get it now.  This time, that teary-eyed friend was me.  The bride and groom began their first dance to Aerosmith’s classic hit “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” and I bolted for the ladies room as the memories of Jon and I blasting that song from the stereo in his old Toyota Camry filled my mind and blurred my vision.  This is ridiculous, I thought to myself.  I can't even make it through this beautiful and incredibly special night without losing it!  As I sobbed behind the closed door of the bathroom stall and gripped the handicap bar for support, I thought about how much I need and want Jon.  And yet the one thing I need is the one thing I cannot have.  As I was often told as a young child, "I want does not get."

I know there are many other people out there who have had their share of horrific problems, and I respect that fact.  But as my father-in-law has reminded me many times, anyone can rattle off unwanted advice and assume they know what’s best for you.  Until they become a member of this particular club, the understanding can only go so far.  When I think back on the things people have said to me over the years that made (and make) me mad, I realize that not one of these people was a fellow widow or Gold Star family member or someone who has known tragedy on an intimate level.  In the days both before and after the wedding, my father-in-law and I visited with Jon at Arlington National Cemetery.  As we laughed and cried at the memories of happy days, we looked around us at the sea of headstones and knew without a doubt that we were in good company.  Section 60 has been called the saddest acre in America, and yet the understanding that exists on that tiny, tragic plot of land runs deeper and richer than anything we might hope to find beyond the cemetery gates.  The people who come there to visit their lost loved ones know that death is irreversible.  I don't have to explain to them that I won't get "over it" or "move on with my life."  This is my life.  Without Jon in it, it is a tragedy.  And you know what?  That's okay.  There are some negatives that don't need to be turned around and made into a positive.  Some things are just sad and deserve the respect of being recognized as nothing less than that.  As Gabrielle Zevin said in All These Things I've Done, "tragedy is when someone ends up dead.  Everything else is just a bump in the road."