The Price

(started this a while ago, and finally finished).

With the passage of Memorial Day and the recent loss of a member of the CSAR community,  I have been thinking deeply about the price military members pay in service to our country. In my personal experience, and through observation, the toll of service appears to be one with unforeseen costs.

From my own perspective, I never walked into the life of military partner/spouse feeling a sense of romance and grandeur. I entered with a cautious heart knowing our life together would be filled with challenges and fears. I choose that life because of Chris. I knew there were risks, and I entered anyway. I bear sadness as the price of the immense love and happiness I felt at one time. Though I never understood how devastating this would feel. And yet, I often find it hard to justify my grief because I chose this life. That choice can make it hard to truly acknowledge how I feel.

I see many men and women entering the military weighing similar choices. There are risks, but there is also opportunity. At the start, I would imagine many of the fears feel distant and unlikely. Until they become a reality. So what happens to the men and women who encounter those very tangible costs—the service members who encounter war, loss, moral conflict, physical trauma, sexual trauma. In a system that values courage, strength, and bravery, what is left for the service member who feels sad and/ or scared? What happens to the person grieving friends, or a sense of safety, torn away by war?

My fear is that there is little space for the reality of pain in service member’s everyday lives. Culturally, we worship the valor, we honor the sacrifice, but we do not seem to acknowledge the cost.

I have been reading a lot about masculinity and anger as part of my personal learning. I am curious to discover new thoughts on helping military members understand and deal with the reality of their pain, while operating within a culture of that defines heroes as invincible, rather than honors them for their humanity. In her book on masculinity and love, bell hooks challenges patriarchal notions that I believe often silence military men and women. She writes:

“ When females are in emotional pain, the sexist thinking that says that emotions should and can matter to women makes it possible for most of us to at least voice our heart, to speak it to someone, whether a close friend, a therapist, or the stranger sitting next to us on a plane or bus. Patriarchal mores teach a form of emotional stoicism to men that says they are more manly if they do not feel, but if by chance they should feel and the feelings hurt, the manly response is to stuff them down , to forget about them, to hope they go away.”**

In thinking about service men and women, I would extend what hooks writes beyond “men” to include all those who serve within a masculine culture that can define strength as silence. The terrifying reality is that those emotions—the ones shoved down—do not go away. They live on in what I like to call the “emotional rucksack.” Unseen, they still carry weight. And that weight is heavy without understanding why.

No one ever teaches us how to carry pain. It is a lost art. How many times in childhood did most of our parents sit us down and say, “life is going to be really hard and confusing, and here is how you honor what you feel in the process of moving forward.” That doesn’t happen-- unless maybe your parent is a therapist.

To suffer, then, is to be weak. To struggle is to be alone, because it is honorable to be silent. It is brave to bear the burdens of war, but it is not brave to talk about that burden.

I think about how I have contributed to that belief system—how I demand that others suppress emotion in order to make me feel comfortable. I tell myself to suck it up all the time. I have called male friends pussies for being emotional. I am not proud of that.

What breaks my heart is that people are losing their lives, caught in world that does not acknowledge the full weight of service. A world that silences the struggle and projects a sense of brokenness for experiencing valid, deep emotions. The fear is, what does it say about me to struggle? My counter thought, what does it mean to not struggle on some level?

Pain tells us something is wrong. It does not mean it cannot heal, it means we need to tend to that pain.

Moving forward, I challenge friends to consider how you create space in your world for friends who have served? How do you create an environment that makes it safe for someone to put down the rucksack, just for a moment, and stop pretending it doesn’t hurt? I am not advocating for providing therapy as a friend—rather how can you (and I) support the efforts friends are making? How can we ask, “how are you” and truly mean it?

One of the things I am trying to do within my own life is model what it looks like to acknowledge my own pain—to lay down the tough-woman façade a little and say I need help. I would not be in the place I am today without the support of an amazing network of friends and a loving family. I have needed strength from others to rebuild myself. Speaking that truth, I hope, helps others see that reaching out is an admirable thing to do. My hope is that others do not have to suffer alone.

I pray that as we see others struggle, we can reach out in a way that doesn’t silence and truly offer support. In that way, maybe we can reach beyond the isolation of depression, suicidal ideation, PTSD, to acknowledge the price and let others know they are not alone.

**hooks, bell (2004-01-06). The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love (pp. 5-6). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

Exhale

Exhale

I miss you

like the breath I can’t seem to catch since that night you fell away.

My chest caves

under the weight of your absence,

heaving for reprieve.

I feel I exist in stunted gasps,

trying to hold on

to the life you infused in me.

Though enough to sustain

the halted, shallow rhythm of  surviving,

I am suffocated

Knowing I will never draw you in again.

Instead, I fade,

slowly,

leaking through this gaping hole you have left behind.

A black hole of broken dreams,

As void of life as you have become.

Where once you rushed in

 like oxygen,

igniting a brilliant flame

All that is left are the chars,

the scars,

and air.

Authenticity

Authenticity has been a struggle throughout the last year (or life time, as a people pleaser, if I am honest). Fifteen months ago, my authenticity was tied up in one person: my life partner, my love.  Not that I was inauthentic with others, but my guarded heart has always kept most people at arm’s length. Chris was different.  As his wife, I needed him to know me completely. My priority for authenticity was satisfied in him. 

He made it easy. He accepted me. He embraced my weirdness and never seemed to take it personally when I had one of my quirky, anxiety-ridden moments. 

Now that Chris is gone, I grapple with what it means to be authentic in a more universal sense. I find myself in an impossible situation: fearing that grieving too much will make me pathetic, and that not grieving openly enough will imply that I don’t love Chris. I want everyone to trust my capacity for resiliency, yet I feel like that often comes at the expense of mitigating how painfully I miss Chris.  

Grief is so messy. I have wanted so badly to grieve well, despite knowing that there is no such thing. The people-pleasing, perfectionist in me wants everyone to see my strength. I want to live up to everything beautiful that Chris was in life—to embrace his mirth and determination. The truth is, I fail at those things daily.

There is power in saying that this is hard—in wanting to communicate that openly. I want people to know that it’s okay to struggle, to wrestle with pulling together a broken heart,  to weep farewell to dreams. Those are real emotions that come at the cost of loving someone as much as I loved (and still love) Chris. And I know I am not alone in sorrow, or silence. 

Great quote from one of my favorite authors, Dr. Brene Brown.

For me, it is difficult to articulate my sadness because I fear the burden I place on others. I don’t want anyone to worry about me—I cannot control that worry when my struggles are so openly acknowledged, so I hold back. I feel these things because they are mine to feel, not because I desire affirmation or protection from anyone else. I will be okay, my worst moment is behind me.

The problem with being authentic is it leaves me vulnerable—even to the best intentions. Sometimes I post lyrics or photos that make me think of Chris. I fear being coddled because I am the sad, young widow. I am undoubtedly self-conscious about people trying to offer encouragement. My expressions are not cries for help, rather statements that I hope connect my experience with others. 

Connection is what all of this boils down to. I want other people to know their strength through hearing that this is really difficult, but I am surviving. I am thriving in a new kind of normal. And it’s okay to be messy. The more I learn about pain, the more I realize that most of the time people are uncomfortable with pain because it cannot be fixed. Grief is painful, but it is also immensely beautiful in all the love it holds. Trying to fix the pain takes away from the realness of the love. It’s okay to just let it be. The greatest gift (in my opinion) is allowing someone to genuinely experience emotion without trying to take something away. I am guilty of trying to help others feel better too, but I am working toward just honoring that pain for what it is.

When I met Chris, something in me wanted to be known for all my complexity. I craved authenticity. My ability to let someone else see me for me allowed me to experience genuine happiness. In the present, I am trying to rediscover that desire for authenticity in a new way. I am trying to let go of judgment and concern myself more with what matters most to me.  It is another way for me to keep Chris’s spirit alive, and make our story more than a memory.

Note: For more eloquent, coherent thoughts on authenticity and vulnerability, check out brenebrown.com-- her books are fantastic and have been very helpful to me.

Me Reading the Signs

I love the movie Silver Linings Playbook. I love how messy the characters are, how beautifully they portray real life. Tiffany, the young widow of a police officer, encapsulates the immense messiness and confusion of grief that is exceptionally raw. She is a person trying to claw her way out of an awful situation, finding both mistakes and resiliency along the way. Her “crazy" counterpart, Pat, is concerned with reading the signs, finding the meaning in situations. He is trying to grasp some semblance of control over a chaotic world that can feel senseless.

I can relate to both characters in different ways. Their sadness, their rage, their attempts to make life better-- I see those things in myself.  I often find myself looking for the signs too. 

I recently read about another widow’s encounter with signs on one of my favorite blogs, One Fit Widow. She speaks of being awakened to the signs around her after her husband’s death, little moments that seem far too meaningful for coincidence. While I am actively struggling with God’s will, I have not lost faith in the signs that serve as a powerful reminder that Chris is not so far away. 

Chris in Leavenworth

The sign most significant, especially right now, is snow. Chris had a fondness for cool weather, and the beauty of snow. One of my favorite memories of our time together was cross country skiing in the little town of Leavenworth, surrounded by feet of snow (and some really great beer). Neither one of us really knew how to cross country ski, but we gave it a shot anyway. I had to borrow a too large puffy coat from the family coat closet for the trip, which I wore over my other winter gear as we walked around town apres ski. Chris had a good laugh at my cold intolerance and the ridiculous sight of me. It was a perfect winter adventure.

 

Cadet Chapel, January 27th, photo by Kristen Deem

The day we buried Chris, those memories came flooding back to me as I awoke to beautiful pristine snow covering the mountains near the Academy.  I should note, it had been in the 50s the days before, but had snowed through most of the night and stopped shortly before the service and burial, clearing up long enough for the HH60 flyover.  At the time, we joked about how funny Chris must find the snow and the freezing temperatures. Never one for much pomp and circumstance, the snow felt like his way of trying to thwart to ceremony of it all. The joke was not lost on us. 

Following the funeral, I flew out to Vancouver to be with his (my) family surrounding a celebration life service in his honor. Some of his high school friends organized a memorial run in honor of Chris the day before the service—a perfect tribute. The day of the run, it snowed, and snowed and snowed. We ran around the track at his old high school in roughly a foot of snow (after a mysterious wind gently opened the gate surrounding the track). While the PNW is known for cool, wet weather, the snowfall was a bit of an anomaly. Shortly after we were finished, the snow turned to freezing rain that didn't relent until the next day. Again, Chris thwarting too much ceremony. Miraculously, the sun started to break through the clouds immediately following the service.

Post memorial run photo

Throughout the spring, on my multiple trips to Colorado in March and April, it snowed during every visit. It also snowed on Veteran’s Day, our wedding anniversary, Christmas day (in Taos where I was staying), on New Year’s Day (Chris’s birthday) and on January 7^th, the day we lost Jolly 22. 

It is snowing today.

It snowed the day I left for Las Vegas (mid November) to run my first marathon post-Chris. My heart ached with sadness, wishing he could offer his usual encouragement, feeling a little defeated. That morning I saw a beautiful rainbow emerging from the snow covered horizon. A reminder that is he was watching.

Rainbows are the other big sign. We danced to Rainbow Connection as our first dance. The words, “someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” take on a new meaning now. Until that someday appears, rainbows are a little hello when I need it most. 

       

The first lines of a poem by e.e. cummings are tattooed on my back, "except in your honour, my loveliest, nothing may move may rest." Further along the poem reads:

post hike, missing Chris, wishing for a sign

"so is your heart
alert,
of languages
there’s none
but well she knows;
and can
perfectly speak
(snowflake
and rainbow mind
and soul
november and
april)"

The language of snowflakes and rainbows is our language in a strange world, separated by death. It's like that poem was written for us.  

There are other strange things as well. The squawking bird before the accident briefing, the robin that lurked around my new house in Colorado throughout the summer, the HH60s that flew over my house shortly after moving in, getting lost during a race-- all little moments that make me feel less alone.

If it’s me reading the signs, I think it takes more than death to fully separate us from the people we love most. Some of Chris’s magic lingers in this world, reminding me of his love… and his sense of humor.  Those little moments are my silver lining in the face of grief. 

One of my favorite random signs-- so literal.

Farewell to 2014

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne? …

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne…

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne…

We twa hae paidled i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin' auld lang syne…

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.”

-Robert Frost

Bidding farewell to the most difficult year of my life is bittersweet. Almost one year ago, I could barely fathom how I would make it through the year, believing my heart would implode with grief. I am both grateful at the idea of ringing in a new season of life (a muddled combination of sadness and thriving in spite of the circumstances) and greatly saddened that I am letting go of the last year that Chris was a part of this (my) world, however briefly.

Instead of ushering in the hope of a new year, the season now stands as a reminder of the age Chris will never be. Each first of January will be another birthday he never reached. Nearly a year ago, the thought of observing the day was incomprehensible. But the day has come and gone, and I am still standing.

One of the greatest pieces of advice someone gave me was to not attach too much expectation to any given day or event. Don’t assign emotions to something that has yet to transpire. Chris inherently knew how to do this—I had to go through therapy and the grieving process to learn it. Even now, almost a year later, it’s still a day by day process in learning to be gracious toward myself and the way that I am grieving.

 Rather than create a day of sorrow for myself, I sought moments that made me feel connected to Chris—things he would have done. I ran a race that morning. And got lost. A feat Chris managed years earlier in his cross-country days. The moment I realized I had run the wrong direction (4 miles into what was supposed to be a 5k), I could only laugh and think of Chris.

I reveled at the snow that kept me from driving out to the cemetery that day. Snow has become one of the ways I feel Chris. It snowed at his funeral. It snowed every time I visited Colorado before I moved. It snowed on Veteran’s Day, on Christmas. It snowed the day I left for my marathon, when I longed the most for his encouragement. And it snowed on his birthday.

I drank a craft beer with his best friend and his wife that evening in honor of Chris. My own cup of kindness raised to the person who continues to inspire the best in me.

I am not certain what 2015 will hold. I am not holding any expectation other than to give it my best, grounded in the knowledge that I am just one of many people I know who have survived one of the most challenging and demanding years of our lives. Like a bad romance, we had our moment 2014, but I am glad to see you go.