A friend of my mom's recently lost her husband of many years. In fact, they were lifelong sweethearts. My heart was aching for her as I sent her a pitiful excuse of a condolence message, hoping she would be able to read my heart in my words. What do you say in a moment like that? Most people struggle with the right words. It's so human to want to find a way to make things better, to take away the pain or at the very least dull the rawness. If there is one thing I've learned it's that I am not responsible for taking away another person's pain, nor is it possible. The only thing required of me, of any of us, is to open ourselves to being in that vulnerable place with that person we love - to walk with them as they experience the pain. Most of us have experienced the need for someone to reach out to us like that.
The date was March 5, 1997. I had been married only 10 weeks and 4 days. I was playing pool with friends at the club/dining facility on base. Over the sound of the music someone called my name. Who would've been calling the club asking for me? I got to the phone convinced it was probably my husband calling me. He was stationed in California and I was stationed in Maine and we were trying to work the system to get us stationed together.
The voice on the line was my division officer, summoning me to my quarters and making me incredibly nervous. Had I done something wrong? Was I in some sort of trouble? What a minute...he called me after duty hours. Hey, he told me to meet him at my quarters. It was shortly after 9 pm. As I walked to toward my car, trying to put two-and-two together, I realized it must be serious otherwise he would've waited for the next day. I broke into a run...
Whipping my car into the parking lot was a reflection of my state of mind. I felt a sense of dread. Something told me it was bad news and I began to pray before my foot ever hit the first step up to the third floor of my building. "Please don't let the Chaplain be with him. Please don't the Chaplain be with him!" I bolted up the stairs two-at-a-time. Rounding the landing and heading up the third flight I caught my first glimpse of the dress blue uniforms and patent leather shoes. My division officer had an intense, sad, and strained look on his face. Standing to his left was the Chaplain. Oh God!
The Lieutenant said, "Let's go to your room," and we began the long walk down the hallway. The world seemed to be going in slow motion all around me, even though my mind was going wild. I kept repeating, "Who is it? Who is it?" I was scared to death he would tell me my Mom had died. She was the first person on my mind. He refused to tell me anything until we reached my room. As the door closed behind the three of us, he said I might want to sit down. I vividly recall saying, "I don't want to sit down. Just tell me who it is." My breathing was heavy and I felt slightly as if I would pass-out from the anticipation before he said the words that would shatter me. I would like to recall his exact wording. Maybe it would reflect what you always hear in the movies, "I regret to inform you, etc." In reality, he had never done this before. Being the Casualty Assistance Calls Officer (CACO) is an extra duty for him and he only has a manual to go by. I'm certain he didn't follow the manual exactly. Could every loss be that cookie-cutter?
The truth is the rest of the next three days was a blur. LT was not informing me of the death of my mom or any other member of my immediate family. In hind sight I felt silly ever thinking that in the first place. Family deaths in the military don't warrant a late evening visit from your upper chain-of-command. Very few details were abundantly clear in those first few moments. First, my husband was missing from the ship. He was DUSTWUN (Duty Status Whereabouts Unknown). Second, the ship was out at sea and he had been accounted for prior to leaving their last port. Third, there was a massive search-and-rescue mission on that would involve the U.S. Navy, Coast Guard, and Mexican Navy, as well as civilian vessels. They had been combing the Pacific Ocean for approximately 12 hours already with no sign of Jason. I sent them away even as they protested that I needed someone with me. Then, I cried myself to sleep...alone in my room. How could I be in a room with anyone and share this moment? It was too raw. My soul was vacant, numb. Was this really happening? What if they didn't find him? I pushed that thought from my mind, convincing myself of what hope still lingered.
For a split-second when I awoke the next morning, I thought I was crying from having had a bad dream. I wonder if I cried all night in my sleep. I'll never know because I was alone, inside and out. The next visit from my LT was to inform me that the Navy had called off the search after 23 hours. I was livid! They couldn't even search for a full day? He would be designated as lost-at-sea. Two days after he went missing, he was declared dead and I was a widow at 24 years-old.
The story doesn't end there. It was only the beginning of a journey. There is so much life between that day and this that cannot be told at this moment. It's been more than 13 years since Jason died and today it's rushing back to me as I write to my mom's friend. I too lost my husband, though my loss was so different from hers. We were not lifelong sweethearts. Our story had hardly begun. I just needed to let her know I felt a glimmer of her pain and could walk with her if she needed a hand to hold either literally or figuratively.
As I closed my condolence letter to her, I included a note about my 1 year-old son, Karter. She has spent plenty quality time with my kids and is a doting grandmother figure for them. I told her that Karter started walking two days ago and he laughs every time he lets go and stands on his own. His face says to me, "I'm treading into new territory and I'm scared." With a long pause, he finally took that first step in spite of his uncertainty of the consequences. He has no idea what to expect of himself or the situation. He only knows it's awkward and he's fearful. I wonder if in this moment my mom's friend can relate to his fear of taking that first step.
Once he let's go, Karter realizes there are only two options, going down or going forward. He chooses to go forward. I chose the same and I know this lovely, faith-filled woman will do the same.
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