Conditioned to Missing Him

Yesterday was my first session with a bereavement counselor. Among the many things we discussed, I told him that being a military wife has prepared my heart in a different way for coping with the loss of my husband. When you are conditioned to missing your husband, through deployments and TDYs, that initial shock of his absence is hard to understand.

I am used to being alone. I think that is sometimes hard for people outside of the military to understand. I know what it is like to fall asleep without my husband. To manage the details of both our lives on my own. These are not new phenomena to my world. I already know that I am capable of standing in his place when he is gone. I have done it numerous times. I am not afraid of that part of being a widow. I don’t want it, but I am not afraid.

What is difficult is dealing with the flutters of hope, believing that this is just another deployment. Thinking, for a brief moment, that he will come home and everything will be ok. In that sense, I feel like my grief is delayed. I find myself wondering when will the weight of his death truly hit me? Will it eventually paralyze me, or will I continue to find resiliency? The stark realization that there are no more homecomings is hard to bear. And yet, that hope does not completely shut itself down all at once. 

I think all military spouses live with the fear of finding men in dress uniform standing at their door. It is the nightmare we try not to think about when our loved ones are deployed. The anxiety is enough to drive a person mad at times. Still, it is a reality that, deep in our hearts, we know is possible. Whether overtly spoken or not, that possibility is part of our marriage vows and a fear we take on in loving our spouses deeply. (It is also in the commitments we make to each other before marriage, as significant others and fiancés who love our service members). 

That commitment to love, in the face of fear, is what I mean by preparing my heart in a different way. I don’t think most people sign up for marriage knowing that their partner stands a greater chance of being fatally wounded than most people. Military spouses do. While I could not help falling in love with Chris (he was irresistible that way), I chose this life with him. And with that, I chose the risk that one day he may not return to me. I took it on willingly because he was a man of character and love, worth every moment of fear, every sleepless night wondering if he was ok. He is worth every tear that I have cried, every moment of intense sadness that I have felt because I love him so deeply. 

I firmly believe military spouses share a special bond of strength. A facebook friend recently posted what was intended to be an inspiring message to all the single ladies, one that talked about managing life on her own, without anyone to lean on. Being single comes with its own set of challenges, I won’t dispute that. And I respect the intent of what she was trying to say. Still, I found myself thinking, “you must not know too many military wives” if that is your perception of marriage. There are so many married women and committed girlfriends out there who are living highly independent lives, and supporting their partners at the same time. It takes strength to love a member of the military. It takes courage to love someone who will not always be there for you because duty calls them away. It takes patience and faith to make it through deployments. It takes tenacity to keep your personal world (as a couple) afloat on your own. In that sense, our hearts are prepared to deal with the difficulties of loss. We have already learned how to let go.

I truly believe that among the reasons Chris chose me was his faith that I am strong enough to be his wife. I believe that is something that all military personnel find in their partners. We are chosen for a reason.

I wish I didn’t have to stand without Chris. I wish that the other families of Jolly 22 didn’t have to know their strength in this way. I miss Chris so desperately. But I also know that I have the capacity to continue living our life in his absence, I have done it before. Military life has prepared me well for this journey as I face the longest deployment of my life. On the other end of this journey, the sweetest homecoming I will ever know. Until that day arrives, I will live a life Chris would be proud of-- I will live up to his faith in me.

I hold our last homecoming close to my heart. Until we meet again my love.

What Dreams May Come

Night time is always the most difficult for me. Most nights lately, I sleep on his “side” of the bed, trying to fill the emptiness next to me. In some small way, it makes me feel less lonely than reaching to my left and not finding him. It also makes me laugh to think about our sides, and how adamant he was about sleeping on the left. For being so care free, Chris was very particular about certain things, like his side of the bed and seafood enchiladas. 

Bed time was our time. When the laptops were closed, the television turned off, it was our time to talk and decompress from the day. Without ever establishing a “rule” it was very rare for us to go to bed at different times. Bed time was a family matter, dog included.

Chris would always tell me how tired he was, brush his teeth, climb into bed and start talking for at least 30 minutes. Or sing songs. Or Dutch Oven me. (It’s weird what you start to miss). And once he was tired, he slept like a rock. I envied that trait while I would lay awake twisting and turning, vying for space on our king size bed. 

Chris and Schrodie had the same technique for sleeping in the bed: stay as close to me as possible. Which is endearingly sweet in theory, but has literally forced me off the bed more than once. Even dead asleep, Chris had to be touching me. In our downsized English bed, I was even more cramped, but loved every minute of it. Schrodie continues to fulfill his bed hogging responsibilities—which provides me some sense of normalcy at least.

Now, the transition from night to morning is filled with dreams that leave me hopeful, confused, and sad. The same dream presents itself in different fashions—me frustrated, not understanding, until I realize what is missing is Chris. It’s sort of like Ground Hog Day, just different tragic scenarios-- which is fitting I suppose, given that Chris loved that movie.

I wrote the following poem to describe what these dreams are like:

In my dreams, I seek you out

finding empty corners

and enigmas that confuse me.

I hunger, waiting to find you,

unsatisfied by empty promises,

people and things that will never be you.

I wait, knowing there is something,

far greater, if only

I can find the path that leads to you.

No arms, but yours, can bring me comfort,

No other smile can make me laugh,

It is only your presence that completes me.

In the moment I find you,

I know a peace that breaks my heart,

open, with hope and relief.

I cling to you tightly, fearing it won’t last.

Your face is the only face with clarity,

your touch, exactly as I remember.

You stay with me until my sadness reminds me,

you are no longer mine to touch.

Reality invades stolen moments with you,

revealing my hopeful heart,

has developed another ruse,

to disguise its shattered disposition.

Waking is another way I lose you, every day,

pulling me from your arms into empty sheets,

stained with tears I am almost too tired to cry.

Still, if dreaming is all I have of you,

to relive you for a moment,

is worth a thousand salty tears.

It is a bittersweet reunion,

bringing both joy and sadness,

finding you and losing you.

As in life, I could not choose any other way.

My heart is compelled to find you,

if only when I dream.

By Sarah Stover

While I am used to sleeping without Chris, thanks to deployments, the gravity of his absence is taking adjustment. It gets a little better, a little easier to fall asleep… some nights. There are still many tears on which I sail off to sleep. My tears remind me of how deeply we loved, and that is its own sense of comfort.

I am here

Lately I am realizing how irrelevant and insufficient the phrase, “how are you,” can be—especially when life is complicated. Not because it isn't an important question, but because it is often used to  gloss over how people really feel. It seems so inadequate to ask, and such a convoluted thing to answer.

One of the most difficult things that I have encountered so far is that my grief does not occur in a vacuum. I am not alone in this pain. For one, Chris was part of a crew, all of whom lost their lives. There are three other spouses, three other families who are grieving and hurting. While each of our experiences is as unique as the people we loved, we share a brokenness that makes my heart ache. As a squadron, community, and rescue family, we are all grieving. For each person, that experience looks very different. To ask, “how are you” feels like such a small question when I think of how complicated my own grief feels. It feels stupid and insufficient for what I really want to express, the depth of care that I want to convey feels lost in the question because it is so common place. That doesn’t mean it isn’t important to ask, because I want to know, in a real way. But then again, there usually aren’t enough right words when it comes to sadness (or love for that matter).

With family, the question feels ridiculous. How can I ask that of Chris’ family without feeling the huge hole that is part of our lives? In the days immediately following Chris’ death, I would cringe as I asked the question because I already half way knew the answer, of course you are feeling awful, so am I. With physical distance between us, asking was the only way I could discern how they were feeling that day. Again, the asking itself was important because I care; I want some idea of what they are feeling, how they are coping, or not coping.

There should be a wink, or some kind of hand signal for when you actually care how someone is doing-- something to convey that you want the person to answer with honesty and robustness. A gesture that implies your sincerity. Between friends and loved ones, I would hope there is a standing agreement that we always want to know the truth.

For now, it makes more sense to ask how are you doing today? Let us measure what we are feeling in small increments that feel a little less vague. If we can narrow it down to specific span of time, answering the question feels far less complicated. For the past ten minutes, I have been reasonably calm. Several hours ago, I was on the verge of tears looking at a t-shirt in the GAP.

And that is what makes answering the question feel like such an overwhelming feat. The answer is complicated. The easy answer is, I am okay. And for strangers, that answer feels sufficient without being a lie. But when my friends and family ask, I feel I owe it to myself and them to have a better response. Something that is honest. Again words fall short because I feel so many things in one day that it is hard to know where to start. 

I am okay because I am still here. I am sad because Chris is not. I am unsettled and restless without my home (my love). I am loved in ways I don’t always deserve and that humbles me greatly. I am tired. And at times I feel small doses of happiness, when I am loving my dog, or talking to friends about the life they are bringing into this world. In southern terms, I am just a hot mess. And I am okay with that.

For the sake of integrity without being overwhelming, my simple answer is “I am here.” I am living in the moment, I am taking each day as it comes. I am present. Those are all good things. And I am here if you want to tell me how you really are doing too.

Gratitude

“Grief can destroy you --or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death, and you alone. OR you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it. But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see that it wasn't just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it. The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life.”
― Dean Koontz, Odd Hours

That beautiful smile, and the mustache I dared him to grow. Love him so much.

I am driven to my knees every day in gratitude of the life I shared with Chris. I am struck at times with the immensity of his absence in a way that literally takes my breath away. And while that sadness is deep, the emotions that run even deeper are those of gratitude and love.

I feel that I am not often what people expect me to be in the face of death. Yes, my heart is broken. I am facing the fear that used to keep me up at nights, worrying for Chris’ safety, begging God to keep him safe. But my love for Chris was so much bigger than the tragedy of his death, our life was so much greater than that one moment, that I cannot help feeling grateful for our time together. Such gratitude makes it difficult to have all the affects of what people expect a grieving widow to be.

That first night, all I wanted to do was leave. I was so afraid of being in our home, facing his absence in a way that felt like drowning. I was honestly afraid that I might lose my mind, and perhaps lose my grip on life. Because, in all honesty, there is that moment where all you can think is “I don’t want to live without you.” Beyond having the accountability of an incredible friend who stayed with me, even when I had nothing to say, I felt an immense accountability to Chris that kept me grounded through that first night and into this journey of life without him. My husband pursued life with a passion I found inspiring. Giving up wasn’t something he would let me do, and losing my grip on life felt like slapping him in the face. I knew with amazing clarity that my life must be refashioned, whether I wanted it to or not.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t feel lost without him most of the time. Losing Chris was like gutting out the interior of my heart. Knowing I couldn’t stop living and loving life because he was gone, was the thought that gave me a sense of purpose when my world imploded.

Knowing my husband, understanding his heart and appreciating our life helped me not to pity myself. I have heard it said that God prepares our hearts before tragedy, I think perhaps there is some truth to that. In the weeks and months before the accident, there were several moments where I just stopped in a moment to watch my husband and be completely grateful for our life. To know our happiness, before the context of loss, was a gift that helps me in my grief. It gives me perspective on the beauty of our relationship and all the reasons I have to celebrate my husband.

Being grateful doesn’t mean I don’t cry. Despite my impatient nature and tendency to hold back my emotions, the one “gift” I gave myself was the latitude to express my grief as I need to. If I need to cry, I let it happen-- even if that is in the middle of an airport. I have no expectations or time limits for how long I am supposed to feel this way. Some days are better than others, and that is how it will be for some time. Accepting my grief for what it is has given me freedom. Instead of focusing on “being strong” I can focus on healing in a way that is significant to me.

A large part of that healing process is remembering Chris for who he was in life. We tried to give our best to each other in marriage, and that is something that I feel doesn’t end with death. I still want to be a woman he would be proud to call his wife. I was blessed with an incredible love from an incredible man. That is the part of grief that I am not certain people always understand. When your heart is full, even if it is broken, what you feel most is gratitude. To nurture my sorrow, for me, doesn’t honor the life we shared. That is why I can smile when I am expected to be sorrowful—I have so much love to be grateful for.

Until I Find My Own Voice

I am still searching for how I can possibly describe the pain, the love, and the gratitude that lies in my heart. Until that day comes, I have found meaning and expression in the wisdom of other peoples’ words that grasp at some part of what I am feeling. And perhaps that is how my grief will break down, piece by piece, until I have carved my way into something that feels more peaceful. 

In posting quotes and poems online, I have wanted to share my love for Chris. Not because I wish to elicit sadness or commentary, but because I think it is important for people to know that there is so much gratitude in grief. Yes, my heart is broken by loss, but my love for Chris continues to keep me afloat.  Love does not die, it changes. 

For me, facebook is no longer the forum for expressing all of things I need to feel and say. While I wish to reflect a genuine life, I made a decision far before losing Chris that I wanted to infuse my profile with positivity. At this point, I think my personal journey is better cataloged via a blog – as I continue whittling away at what I feel and what my life means in the shadow of Chris’ death. This blog is for me, but it is also for anyone who needs to feel embraced in their own grief. To be reminded of our own buoyancy.

When I married Chris, I committed my life to supporting the mission of his military career: "That Other May Live." In his absence, I still feel called to live out his legacy, in ways that make sense for me. I will never save lives like my husband, his fellow crew members, or the men and women of Rescue. What I can give is a vantage point into what it means to live and love through grief that too many military spouses know too well. "That Others May Love" is my way of reminding myself, and the world, that love continues, even in loss. 

Until I find my voice, find my own words, I am certain I will continue to use the brilliancy of others as my starting point for writing down all the things my heart wishes to say. With that, I part with a poem that reminds me of the legacy I left to fulfill, the legacy I owe to the man who showed me how to love and live: 

A glimpse of the laughter we shared every day.

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
― Ellen Bass