Casting Off the Veil

I cut my hair. A lot. 

Following Chris’ funeral, I felt the need for something drastic. Something that symbolized how much my life had changed. Casting off my hair, for me, felt like a measure that matched the changes I am still going through. In some cultures, cutting one’s hair is part of the grieving process. For me, cutting my hair was not so much a symbol of my bereavement, rather a sign of my transformation.

In part, cutting my hair was something tangible I could do. After weeks of wanting to make sure everything was right for Chris through all of the services and transitions, going to the salon was something I could do for myself, on my own terms. It was a way of facing Chris’ death through action, and facing that first real life conversation where I would have to tell a stranger that my husband is dead. I was more terrified of that moment than chopping off all of my hair. And I survived, without receiving looks of extreme pity. 

My hair around the time I met Chris

Cutting off my hair was also a way of letting go. When I met Chris, my hair was long. I have changed lengths and styles since, including donating over 12 inches while Chris was in Iraq. He encouraged me to cut it then. But I am not that same girl anymore.  No matter how much I move forward from here, I am changed forever. There will always be a sadness in me. In losing Chris, I lost an innocence that I won’t ever know again. Letting go of my hair was a way of releasing that image of myself. 

My hair was also a veil. It was something I could hide behind. When Jolly 22 went down, the accident thrust all of the families into a spotlight we were not really prepared for. Our grief was never fully private. Instead of trying to run from it, we tried to embrace it with grace. For me, that was a moment where I realized my pain was very public already—there was no hiding. With that veil of privacy removed, it only seemed fitting that my physical veil should follow. I am baring myself to the world. 

That is a scary thing for someone who has always kept her emotions bottled fairly tightly. I think the first time Chris ever saw me cry, I scared him a little (I wonder what he thinks now that I have had some really ugly cries). By losing my best friend, I lost any desire to seem truly composed. I don’t care if the world knows I am sad because I lost the most beautiful thing I knew. That is sad. There is no hiding from that fact. 

There was also a part of me that wanted to feel a little bit ugly. I was moderately convinced that short hair would look awful on me. I have numerous friends and family on whom short hair looks amazing. They are beautiful women with great faces. The nice thing about having long hair is that you feel you can hide all sorts of flaws underneath. I have always thought of myself as an incredibly flawed creature. So much so that I often could not fathom how I married such perfection (trust me, I know he wasn’t perfect either, but he was perfect for me). I was in awe of Chris’ love for me.

For anyone who knows me fairly well, I am my own worst critic—a perfectionist who sets unreasonable demands for herself. Chris had a way of cutting through that perfectionism, of getting me to just relax and be myself. I didn’t feel like I had to try as hard most of the time. Still, I always wanted to be my best for him—I wanted to mirror all the beauty I saw in Chris. While I tried to be a beautiful wife, what I wanted most was to offer Chris a loving and kind wife, someone he could take pride in (as I took pride in him). 

Somehow, I gave my hair the power to make me beautiful when I often did not feel that way. It is trivial, I know, but it is the reality of how I felt. And I think it is a feeling many women can relate to. I am trying to let that go. For better or worse, this is who I am. I can’t change the ugliness of my circumstance any more than I can change the things I don’t like about my face. Cutting my hair releases me from some of my superficiality and helps me focus on where beauty counts the most.

Frankly, beyond what my hair meant symbolically, I was at a point where I didn’t care if I looked terrible-- which seemed like the best time to take the risk. I am glad I did. I don’t feel the same, I don’t want to look the same. My body feels a little more congruous with my sense of self. At least for the time being. In the end, I think Chris would have applauded the cut—far less maintenance and more practical for running.

The new "do"... a little long (my hair grows really fast).

a poem to my love

Today, a poem by e.e. cummings. I bought a book of his poems today. This one made me think of Chris.

when god lets my body be

from each brave eye shall sprout a tree
fruit that dangles therefrom

the purpled world will dance upon
between my lips which did sing

a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passion wastes

will lay between their little breasts
my strong fingers beneath the snow

into strenuous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass

their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be
with the bulge and nuzzle of the sea

Our trip to Santender... a beautiful day and memory.

Ode to the Schrode

Photo Copyright Kristen Deem Photography.

Over the past two months, I have been thinking about what a blessing our sweet dog has been to both me and Chris. In grieving for Chris, I have found such comfort in our dog. His history is rich with the story of our love, both as a couple and a family.

In April 2012, the weekend Chris and I got engaged, we decided it was time to get a dog. The summer prior we had discussed the idea, but wanted to wait until after Chris’ deployment to Afghanistan to adopt a dog of our own. Like the loving (and nerdy) man he was, Chris wanted to be there to help nurture and train our dog. 

As we drove back from Destin, we explored the possibility of stopping at a shelter en route to Valdosta, but few shelters were open that day. In true Stover family fashion, we decided that day was not the day we were meant to get a dog and that we would continue to look after we got home. We did, however, decide on the potential names for our dog, choosing both a female and male option.

Chris wanted to name our dog something smart, that way s/he could live up to the name. Of course, for Chris, naming the dog something smart meant we had to name our dog after a scientist. Names like Newton, Einstein and Copernicus were thrown out as possibilities (none of which had a great shorter nickname). We both felt that Tesla would make an excellent name for a female dog, but felt a little stumped as to what we would call a male dog. As I was driving (and staring at my new engagement ring), I thought back to an earlier trip we had made to the beach where Chris and I got into a philosophical “conversation” (read: argument) over the concept of Schrodinger’s Cat. I became a little overzealous during that conversation, thanks in part to Chris egging me on. Since we already had a cat, I told Chris that we should name the dog Schrodinger. That way, Izzie (or Killer as Chris liked to call her) would be Schrodinger’s cat. We could call him Schrodie for short. 

Adoption day.

Two weeks later, the morning of Chris’ joint promotion party with five friends, we found ourselves headed to the Lowndes County Animal Shelter interested in checking out a female blue heeler mix. When we arrived at the shelter, they told us that she was at Pet Smart that day for doggie adoption. Chris suggested that we take a look at the dogs at the shelter, especially before driving across town to the store. I walked into the first room and fell in love. A sweet little puppy with a chunk missing from his ear (the shelter had named him Niblet). Without hesitation, I told Chris this was the dog I wanted.

Of course, Chris was a little more discerning and wanted to see how the dog would play and run. One of the volunteers helped us take him outside so he could frolic around the yard, following Chris. Watching our dog chase after Chris for the first time is a precious memory I will cherish. They both looked so happy. A sign of many blissful runs to come. Chris was sold too. 

We adopted our sweet little Schrodinger on a Saturday morning, but had to wait to bring him home until Monday afternoon. After cooking some sausage and biscuits (hangover breakfast for Chris), and cleaning up from the party, we went to Pet Smart to stock up on dog supplies like the crazy pet owners we had already become. 

That Monday morning, as I was driving to work, I remember thinking about how scared I was to have a dog. While I was genuinely excited to share this adventure with Chris, I was nervous about being a good dog parent. I was scared of being too selfish. Picking him up from the vet later that day, I realized that my love for Schrodie was bigger than my fear and we embarked on one of our best missions, raising Schrodie.

Chris truly loved the challenge of teaching Schrodie new tricks. Figuring out how to use Schrodie’s understanding of “language” was a problem Chris was eager to solve. Many of Schrodie’s first commands are in rough Dutch (I am pretty sure none of the words we use are imperatives, just the rough noun translation). While Chris was in Afghanistan, he got to see some of the military dogs at work. He wrote to me after the demonstration to tell me he wanted our future dog to “speak” Dutch. He was learning Dutch thanks to Rosetta Stone and wanted the dog to respond to our commands. How could I say no? I didn’t even know how to in Dutch.

My boys, morning snuggle.

We agreed, as doggie parents, that we would love Schrodie but that we would not let him become the center of our relationship. While we prioritized our couple-hood, we found that we expanded our love by bringing Schrodie into our family. We went for more family walks after bringing Schrodie home. There were many evenings where we would walk Schrodie around the neighborhood hand in hand, talking about our day. After Chris’ deployment to Italy, Schrodie was finally permitted to sleep in the bed with both of us, which allowed for great night time snuggles. My only rule, Schrodie couldn’t sleep between Chris and I… that was our snuggle time too.

Chris was more patient running with me and Schrodie. Especially once we moved to England, we went for plenty of family runs through the woods, enjoying the beautiful scenery. Schrodie and Chris would let me run ahead, and then sprint to catch up… just to make things more interesting since they were much faster. Schrodie never leaves a man behind, so running too far ahead of me was never an option. Still, when they managed to run ahead of me, I loved watching the two of them run together, Schrodie casting adoring glances at his dad as they ran down a trail. I literally thanked God for those moments.

Schrodie and Izzie on the train from Norwich to Bury.

Taking Schrodinger and his cat overseas proved to be an adventure for all of us. Instead of shipping our pets separately, we opted to travel with them on an epic journey through four countries. The Stover pets endured driving from Georgia up to Michigan, then from Michigan to Maryland. They flew from the US to Germany on a rotator with us, spending two nights acclimating to the new time zone at Ramstein. They traveled with us from Germany, by train, up to Hoek van Holland, where we were stranded for an extra night thanks to a deworming treatment. Izzie got her first taste of the beach as we waited for our ferry the next day. From the Netherlands, we all took a ship overnight to England, where more trains took us to our final stop at Bury St. Edmunds. Chris and I managed to pack basic necessities in two camping packs so we could be hands free to wrangle a dog on leash and carry the cat in a small duffle carrier. Our lack of warm clothes made our arrival a little more interesting as we tried to wait out the arrival of our luggage. But, we had the most important things with us, our pets (our family). 

Raising Schrodie has not come without issues. We adopted Schrodie when he was between 4 and 5 months old, with an obvious scar (his ear) that we were unsure how he obtained. Taking him to the dog park for the first time, while Chris was TDY, illustrated that Schrodie did not have the best social skills, to say the least. We realized quickly that our dog has some special needs in learning how to get along with other dogs. It has been a slow road, with breakthroughs and setbacks. He has made some good dog friends along the way, but has also upset a few sweet dogs in his time. He is also incredibly stubborn on leash, and still pulls quite frequently. While in England, we enrolled the family in training classes to work on his challenges. Sadly, those lessons were cut short. 

Schrodie with his fellow rescue pals Neptune and Tally.

Over the holidays, after we started training classes, Chris and I had a great conversation about Schrodie that I treasure. I told him that I was grateful Schrodie presented us with some challenges, because it illustrates our capacity to love in spite of difficulty. I told him that I did not think Schrodie would ever be the sort of dog that we could take to the dog park without concern, but that we could continue to help him improve his doggie skills as best we could. Chris, ever the optimist, believed that Schrodie could be a social dog as long as we kept up our training. We talked about the importance of having realistic expectations while trying to give Schrodie our best. It was the sort of conversation that lent itself to thinking about what kind of parents we wanted to be.

Chris was laughing so hard the night we took this that he was crying.

 What Schrodie taught both of us was the value of unconditional love. His adoration is the most humbling love. Even when we haven’t deserved it. Where I once worried about how owning a dog would change our lifestyle, I knew within the first few weeks that Schrodie’s love outweighed any changes we had to make. Yes, going away for a weekend or short trip required more planning than before, but the planning was worth it. And while we enjoyed our little vacations away, we would spend every night talking about how much we missed our puppy and how we couldn’t wait to get back to him. Even over our wedding weekend.

Schrodie on the main square in Brugges, looking regal.

 The best vacations were the ones where Schrodie came along. One of our favorite vacations was taking him to Brugges. Chris even took him out for a beer (he is underage and didn’t drink). 

One of the things I miss the most is watching Schrodie’s joy as Chris would come home from work. In England, Schrodie knew the sound of Chris’ car and would excitedly wait at the back door for Chris to come in. Schrodie would look like he was going to explode with happiness, but would manage to sit patiently until Chris entered the house. Then came the doggie smiles. Chris would say “show me your teeth” as Schrodie grinned with excitement and greeted him with kisses. I wish I could give Schrodie that joy back every day.

 Apart from grieving for Schrodie’s loss, he brings such immense joy on the days I need it most. He greets me every morning with such excitement, it is difficult not to feel some happiness. He gets me out of bed, and helps me start the day. His loving nature and sweet brown eyes remind me of Chris. In that way, I feel like I have a part of Chris with me in Schrodie. My love for him is filled with memories of Chris and that helps to keep me going. He is also the best cuddle buddy a lonely girl could ask for. 

While I know he will never understand what has happened, I know that Schrodie looks for Chris in his own way. I feel myself doing the same, even though I know he isn’t coming back. Without Chris, Schrodie doesn’t want to run with me like he used to. I don’t know how to help him change that. Schrodie loved family time the most. Even though Schrodie was able to say goodbye in England, and give his dad a wave, I think we will always look for him in some way. Perhaps Schrodie understands better than I that death is not truly the end.

Dancing with a Limp

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” ― Anne Lamott

I am praying I learn to dance again. Losing Chris feels like an amputation—an extension of my “self” is gone. I no longer feel like my full self, and that makes me sad. 

I am certain there are people who would criticize me for saying that I should be complete on my own. But I don’t think that is a fair way to view marriage. My heart wanted more than me. Was I enough on my own, yes. If I had not been, I don’t think Chris and I would have had a successful relationship. However, in loving Chris, I became something more. I was happier, I was more loving, I was free to be myself because I felt secure in his love. More importantly, I existed outside myself by loving him. In finding him, I was complete.

That is what makes missing him so difficult. I built my life around sharing a life together. “We” replaced “I.” Moving back to “I” and “my” feels so small and lonely. I know I am surrounded by people who love me. There are many “we’s” in my life. It’s just that Chris was the most significant “we.” Without him, life is off-kilter.

As I ran through the Garden of Gods today, the profoundness of Chris’ absence tore me open. How is it real that he isn’t with me right now? He should be running these trails, telling me how he used to do this at the academy. Shame me for my intolerance of high altitude running. But there was nothing. Just me, and the rocks. Which should have been enough, but it wasn’t. 

Traversing a place of immense beauty, I felt sorrow. I hate that part of grief. It has taken away my joy, everything feels lackluster. That is not how I want to live. It is not how Chris wants me to live. But I have a feeling it will take me a long time to feel true joy for myself because I cannot share it with him. 

I lost my best friend and my lover-- the person with whom I shared my entire self. I have to wonder if this is what people feel like when they lose a limb. How can things ever feel normal again?

I try every day to not hide from the things we shared together. I have a good craft beer in loving memory. I go for runs and think of Chris. I take comfort in the things we shared, and feel close to him in keeping those things as part of my life. But I have yet to dance again. Right now, I am not sure if I can. 

Relearning happiness is going to take time and strength. For my impatient heart, that feels like an eternity.

From my run today. So much beauty and all I wanted was to share it with my love.

Why

“He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen and it's not about his face, but the life force I can see in him. It's the smile and the pure promise of everything he has to offer. Like he's saying, 'Here I am world, are you ready for so much passion and beauty and goodness and love and every other word that should be in the dictionary under the word life?' Except this boy is dead, and the unnaturalness of it makes me want to pull my hair out... It makes me want to yell at the God that I wish I didn't believe in. For hogging him all to himself. I want to say, 'You greedy God. Give him back. I needed him here.”
― Melina Marchetta, On the Jellicoe Road

For me, this is one of the most difficult and honest entries I will write. When I read the quote above, I cried. It was like someone knew my heart and how I felt about my beautiful Chris. Even in the midst of many prayers, I must admit that my faith has been shaken. In my own, flawed, understanding of the world, I struggle with the “why.” While I do not doubt God’s existence, or his love, my heart cannot reconcile the loss of four beautiful people. 

I will be the first person to acknowledge that my struggle is selfish, wrought of my desire to have Chris with me, here. I know that I cannot fathom the vastness of God’s plans, his omnipotence. But knowing these things does not change the pain in my heart, and that is the honest prayer that I must cry. 

In life, I thanked God every day for bringing Chris to me, for revealing the person I was meant to marry at the perfect time. When I met Chris, I felt like I could breath. The restlessness within me disappeared. Loving him came so easily. The happiness and love he brought into my life humbled me deeply. I honestly thought, how do people get this lucky?

From what I have read of grief, it is common for the bereaved to feel a sense of guilt and blame. My fear is that I loved Chris too much, that I put him first. And now he has been taken away. At first, it felt like a punishment (a selfish viewpoint, I am aware). The more that I have prayed, and reflected, the more that I feel this is not true. The God I believe in does not punish us for love. I do not get the sense that what God wants from us is to grovel in his holiness at all times. Nor does he manipulate our faithfulness with punishment; rather he compels us through love. I know God brought Chris and I together, but I struggle with why he broke us apart so soon.

He was a man of such compassion, love, and mirth. Yes, he was a smart-ass too, but he had the most beautiful heart underneath all that wit. While Chris was brilliant beyond his years, he also had a child-like wonder and curiosity that fed his passion for learning. He wasn’t full of malice; his intentions were always genuine and good. He loved so honestly and simply. In short, he was beautiful. He loved life, he lived it well. How can a world that is in need of beauty and goodness be robbed of not just his beauty, but that of the three other members of the crew? There were four amazing and beautiful people aboard that flight, four brilliant lights no longer here to brighten this world. 

When I face Chris’ death alone, my mind tries to create answers that do nothing to reconcile the loss of four lives. As one person, I think of what Chris was spared from. How his death may have been a tragic mercy from something far worse-- a fate that may have killed his spirit in a way that would have tortured him. This is the sort of rational a grieving widow gives herself to create meaning when none exists. But such an “answer” does not fit the senselessness of losing an entire crew.

What I am facing is the truth that I will never understand why. Even when the reports are completed and we face the knowledge of what happened in those last few moments, that “why” will always cast its shadow. That is where I struggle with my faith most, because the accident clashes with my understanding of God’s benevolence. I find it difficult to articulate how I both believe in God’s wisdom and struggle against it. Because, honestly, this does not feel like wisdom. It feels meaningless. 

I do not feel spite. What I feel is lost. 

I have welcomed the prayers of so many into my life and heart. And I trust that they have kept me afloat through all of this. I hope my struggle does not imply that I am not grateful for all those who have prayed on behalf of my family and the families of the Jolly 22 crew. I am relearning how to feel God’s grace for myself, even as I ask him to extend his grace to others. 

I share these thoughts because I think it is important to acknowledge my flawed faith and my humanity. I know that I am not alone in feeling hurt and questioning God’s plan. I’d rather be honest and say “I don’t get it” than say “he is in a better place.” In my heart, there will never be a better place than with me. As perfect as heaven is, my selfish heart will always want Chris by my side. And I pray God forgives me for loving Chris that much.