My Mommy is in Heaven with Jesus

Miss Kim ran out to the car and asked, “What does Linen think when she hears other kids talking about their mommy?” “The other kids were sitting around saying, ‘My mommy (this)’ ‘My mommy (that)’ and Linen was just listening for a while and she finally said; “My mommy is in heaven with Jesus.”

This hurts. I wish I knew how a two year old processes a statement like this. I’m not sure if Linen actually feels hurt over not having a mommy (in the way kids ‘have’ a mommy). She has, on a few occasions, declared, “I need my mommy.” I hurt for her and that is worse than any pain that I have personally endured because I cannot take it from her, hide it for her or deal with it for her. I guess I can coach her and maybe get her to talk about her daddy. Something petty like, “My daddy can cook better than your mommy.”

Seriously, what more truth can be stated than what she has already declared, “My mommy is in heaven with Jesus.” Oh that she could understand what she is indeed saying. Mommy is wrapped in light, consumed by our Lord, perfectly happy and complete, more alive than ever. But, she doesn’t and many times I don’t get it either– I let my selfishness and what she meant to me get in the way of what she is experiencing right now. I wish I could take this from Linen. The feelings of unfairness that have passed in me arise again when I think about this. I don’t want them though- it only takes a drive downtown or flashes of India and Afghanistan to squash the hollow arrogance of my right to Fairness. I guess it is just being a parent and realizing that your child has to fight a battle at such an early age. I know it will only make her stronger, and one day maybe even a blessing to someone else.

Missing What I am missing.

I remember feeling this same feeling a few months after Carla died, even though it felt too soon to start missing what she provided for me. ‘I should be focusing on her, not what she gave me… that’s not real love.’ I’d be willing to bet that it doesn’t take long for anyone to start missing what they are missing, because even in our best attempts at love, which I know we had… there is selfishness, for we are human and are not capable of Love, only love. Yes, I missed her but I began to focus on the things that were severed as “contingent losses.” I had no outlet for sharing concerns or crashing into someone at the end of each day and reciprocally being there for someone to need. I missed being held. I missed affection and passion. I missed being taken care of in all the ways (at risk of sounding sexist) a southern wife cares for her home and family. In all areas of receiving love from someone while also providing love for another, too many to individually describe, I was missing “her”… and “me.” Like a habitual gambler, it was like the losing never ended. Every day, tears would wash and erode to reveal another element I was missing. As much as I wanted to face and fight the battle strongly, I had to smother these things because no matter how strong the mind is, I do not believe it can fight in the complex arena of the heart– perhaps suppress but not fight. And so I did. I focused on what I could; raising my sweet Lady, writing, singing and this worked for some time. I can see how a broken heart is vulnerable and my heart feels more like it has suffered an amputation. Simple recognition of a susceptible heart does not make it impervious, though. Although it feels like my heart has room to echo without the arresting lithium of my head, I feel weaker in the recognition. A wounded heart seems to feel more—writing sad songs and making clumsy choices.

I have lived most of my life, upright, with my head above my heart. This year has caused me to live more from my heart. In most ways, it is freeing and moving. I care less about things that don’t really matter, which is probably much more than I realize even now. I feel things more. I remember the first three or four months of going to church, I could not hold back the tears. I would cry at commercials. I remember thinking on many occasions, “Is this how it feels to be a woman?” I cried a few weeks ago for the first time in while when Linen said, “I need my mommy!” She said it three or four times and I just couldn’t fight it. Sharing that on this black and white just isn’t the same as the face to face, holding someone and sobbing on them, having them just listen and be there. I miss that. Just the same, when Linen does something amazing or funny, there is no talk at the end of the day of what she did. I can only imagine conversations and laughter in the bed as a couple is surprised at something their children said . Shocked at how quickly they are growing up. Amazed at where they are in life. Someone to share dreams with. Someone to grow old with. Someone to look in their eyes and speak without sound. Someone to live life “for.” I know that no one can ever be fulfilled by another human because we have been created to be fulfilled by Him alone- I believe that is why so many relationships fail. Still, I am now again missing what I am missing. It’s funny how fickle the heart can be and I have found that living from it can be tiring. The sense of letting go of control, which I now feel was an illusion, is nice and scary. I find myself elated at this life more- living more, planning life less. I am not as strong as I have told myself I was; another illusion. I do need. I can do much on my own, but it is nice to share life. I am thankful for friends and family that have helped me through this, but I am still missing what I have been missing.

Milestone or Millstone? A Widower’s First Year

I am in disbelief at how the days have puddled into weeks and how, in turn, those have pooled into months and now reflect as a year- a year that will likely be the worst year of life for me. I recall those early days sometimes. Many times, they are vivid like the beeping of the machines that kept her lifeless body working. Often, I get flashes of emotion out of nowhere like waking up the next day after she died and the suffocating weight of reality sitting on my chest. I remember the shower I took that night after 3 long days in the hospital, shaking my head, wondering what I was going to do as what I thought life should be fell into the drain taking the form of my tears. I recall the deep breathing, almost like a nervous tick that I had for a few weeks; what I now feel was a physical manifestation of my disbelief… shock.

Somehow, it seems that I should be out of a transition stage and into a “new reality”, but I think they may be synonymous. How exactly can one “move on”? Doesn’t that beg for some sort of finality? Closure? Resolve? I’m sure that I could present many words that don’t surgically describe “it” or what “it” “is”.  But, I am convinced there is no finality. Why should there be? Something screams that I cannot both honor her and “arrive” at some destination. I feel as though I am living in a perpetual suitcase, thinking one day I’ll arrive at where ever it is I am to go now. I’ve been in the gatehouse and I am ready for these big black doors to swing open and allow the future come in. But, my future is now.

I have learned to tolerate this reality. Maybe that’s all one can do until the tolerance becomes acceptance and the acceptance becomes permission to let go of some of the pain. The pain that has become a beautiful remembrance, thinking somehow she is honored and that I am being loyal. The truth is she doesn’t need anything from me, anymore. In fact, if I think it through enough, I realize that she would want me to smile more than I ever have and stop being so damned sad. And, if my love for her is real love and not just the way she made me feel, I should be the happiest I have ever been because of where she is and the real joy she is experiencing.

Even so, it’s harder to smile without her. Linen keeps me going though. She has been my salvation through all of this. I realize now that I needed her more than she needed me. Fathering the transition from baby to little 2 year old girl has been tough but has also allowed me to escape this new reality 15 hours a day. The nights catch me lying awake with my questions more often than sleeping. The weight of the grief has stretched my eyes as well as my faith. I have had a few friends that have listened to my questions of faith, existence, providence and sovereignty, and I appreciate their honesty in not having all the answers. I have read the books on grief that all seem to say the same things. In my opinion, they should all be found in the comedy section of the bookstore, not because they are not helpful, as they must be for some… or most, I don’t know? But, when you are living it out and you read it; it’s just ominously droll.

When you are in the hell of grief, you have many friends in numbness, loneliness, hopelessness, emptiness, depression and anger. They all hate me and love me. They take their unsystematic rotation in my home. I loved numbness the best but she doesn’t come around much anymore without manufacturing and I made a promise not to get lost in those things that would keep her with me. I made a decision to go deep, hoping that the healing would be deep and I would come out better for having endured one of life’s toughest punches. The day after Carla died, my friend with which I feel sometimes we share the same brain, drove me to see Dr Rhoades, my old psychology teacher who is now, once again, practicing. He had lost his wife, Sharon two years before. He told me that he made a promise to himself to not lose himself in drugs or alcohol or to hide in another relationship. That was the last time I went to see him. Either he’s that good or I fight alone. Whatever the case, I took his words and made them my own promise. But, this allows no room for hiding from the pain.

Prayer was no help at first either. How could I talk to God about the pain when he put me here to endure it in the first place? How could I ask God for anything when the only thing I asked for was Carla’s life? I still believed in Him. How could I not? The intricacies of life scream design. No, my real problem was “Who is this God?”

After Carla and I had been dating a few months, I went to Ft Leonardwood, Missouri for basic training and AIT, as if that wasn’t enough to endure in one lifetime. Missouri loves company and Carla was a faithful writer. It was there; in our separation that I knew that I loved her and that I would marry her. We used to seal each letter and draw joined puzzle pieces over the seal as a symbol of our “oneness” and “fitness.” This seal continued as I served in Afghanistan 2005-2006. A week after Carla died, I was in Barnes and Nobles buying The Shack (very good fiction), A Grief Observed (my year on paper, love it), 90 minutes in Heaven (less than okay). While there, I wanted to get a journal to start writing. I circled that doubled rack of paper bound by colors and cheap tricks and couldn’t find what I wanted. I needed one black, like my heart at the time. On the third trip around, I saw it. It was hard cover, black with the exact same puzzle pieces with which Carla and I used to seal our letters. This was one of two times that I felt Carla after she died.

It’s a confusing amalgamation of faith and skepticism in which I exist. I don’t believe in coincidence but I believe that most things have a naturalistic explanation. I believe in miracles, but I think, subjectively, God missed a great chance… or maybe that was just the beginning… we’ll see. This made one of my many questions tough to resolve. Besides coming to a (now resolved as wrong) conclusion that God is a scientist, putting us into situations and watching us fight for breath, I had come to the conclusion that I would never be able to know if Carla could “hear” me. And by “hearing,” I mean sensing in whatever capacity she has or would have to sense things from this shadow of earth which she left. I wondered if she could see how miserable I was. I wondered if I could make her proud in the way I raised our baby girl and in how nurturing I had become. I wondered if she could see me press my lips to her two dimensional lips every night or feel the wetness of my tears on her two dimensional cheeks as I told her picture that I loved her and missed her through the sobs until finally my eyes shut down. Of course being who I am, I put it into a system:

September 28

Your parents came by today. They were pretty torn up the first 15minutes. They stayed for a while. Linen woke up from her nap and was showing out for everyone. I told your parents that I wish you could have been here when they arrived. Its painful to see them. I want very much to remain in their lives and them in mine, but it is tough. I think Linen may go stay with them this weekend. I feel like I have given up trying to find out if you can “sense” what is going on with us “down-here.” What would it hurt if I were able to know for sure? Especially if it is an unambiguous “No.” I could begin to heal. I can see the troubles if it is a reassured “Yes.” The yes, itself; if true, great, but the confirmation might cause one to live life a little differently. Should I assume; “Yes”, you can sense our lives here and how much we miss and love you? Because a confirmed “No” is better that a non-confirmed “No” and a confirmed “Yes”, but not better than a non-confirmed “Yes”…what am I saying? Am I only getting my hopes up? I will have to believe or not believe. You died knowing that I love you out of this world. If you can hold that somehow, I am glad for that. I miss you Babe.

I remember the feeling that I had decided that she cannot sense me and when I go back and read it now, it’s almost comical and my self-awareness makes me aware that it still has room to grow.

September 29

I opened that book that you and I never finished reading by Alcorn, Heaven. For some reason, I found that book in one of the ten boxes I unpacked on Saturday and placed it on my bathroom counter. One night after drawing the 2X2 box of confirmed Yes/No, I opened that book and found an anniversary card from you. It had to have been from 2007 or 2006. After smiling over the card, my eyes fell to the words on the page where that card had made its home for at least a year. It was entitled “Do people in the present Heaven see what is happening on Earth?” After I read the chapter, I laid in bed, looked up at the ceiling and laughed. I trust you were laughing too. I believe now that you can “sense” me. Now, I am not really sure how or what or to what extent but I believe you can talk to God about us and for us and maybe somehow “talk” to me and Linen and perhaps even “feel” our love permeating through my grief, like some filtered aroma or warmth. At any rate, I love you Carla and I miss you. I do wish that we could still be together but I am happy for you and where you are. You are still my bestest. Can you believe how much Linen is growing up? I know you can see her. I wish I could see your face as you watch her and laugh. Do you like the song I wrote for her? I bet you do like it. I sing it to her every night, before she goes to sleep, but I bet you see that too. I love you babe.

I don’t talk to her much anymore. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I really cried. I guess it was our anniversary, one month ago today. I do feel the urge to cry well up in me often, but real sobbing hasn’t happened like it used to. I have begun to remove some pictures off the wall. They really do seem like images framed in pain; all those smiles smiled in vain. They tell me of another life, and I can feel the sullenness enter my veins where the sadness used to cloud. There is no secret formula for conquering grief. You cannot know that taking 21% of the pictures down at one year does the trick. But, I am staring at these stills of a great life with less of an enduring sadness and more with a smoldering exasperation. I know that no smiles were in vain- I am just tired of carrying weight. One can only endure so much- I miss her terribly and I am beginning to miss myself. Diving into  becoming the best father the world has ever known was a great place to hide but I realize that this is not healthy for a long period of time. Sure, I can still earn my place as the best dad but I am so much more.

With God, through something like this especially, there is no standing still. I remember yelling at Him and fighting to believe in Him in spite of the dark silence. All those infinite “why’s” still have not found their home, but I believe now more than ever that God has no reasons. He needs none for He knows all. He simply is. I am small, and that is hard to admit; but, man is not the measure of his maker. And, it is only because of Him that I have made it to this day, alive. I do look forward to the day when I can know as I am known and see clearly, but for now, I am bound by my small understanding, longing for my intended home. As hard as it is to say, God has put me through this in order for me to point towards Him. In losing my wife, I must count it as gain. To have nothing is to have everything.

I am not saying this in some sort of chritianese. In fact, I cannot stand the regurgitated sayings that float around. Early on, when I could barely manage the pain, I wanted to punch many people in the face for their “encouraging” words. I wanted to let them know how their easy words made me feel. “Don’t talk to me about God’s plan or being in His hands or restoration or any of those tired sayings. Just, be real for one second of your life.” Of course, I never said this out loud. I haven’t ever had much patience for clumsy and/or borrowed words; but, in spite of feeling like I had “earned” a platform for saying whatever I wanted to say, I had to force myself to look past their words and into their intentions. No one meant to sound like a crashing cymbal- that’s just what I heard.

I struggled with losing God more than I struggled with losing Carla. I am glad now that God shattered the house I built for him in my mind. I hope I never begin construction on another. No amount of pain, although crippling at times, or amount of happiness, although distracting at times, can compare with knowing and trusting in God. Nothing in this life compares to knowing my God, through Jesus Christ. I know He is big enough for my questions for He created and keeps this large chunk of matter spinning around a huge ball of fire, which is insane if I think about it for more than a few minutes. I know He is loving enough to endure my anger for He endured the margins of manhood to let me know of Himself and His love for me, which is unfathomable no matter how long I reflect.

Today is both milestone and millstone. The weight I wear and the year I have worn it are dear and dreadful, but I believe that I will be a better man for having endured.

The Anniversary Of Truth

We would have been married 7 years today. I have been married 7 years today. Which is true? Either way, I have been married to something, if not Carla, something I have replaced her with, some flashes of memory, some black and white images, some ideal of “what she would want”. Its really not her. No matter how intentional I am of not replacing her with some function of myself and/or the feelings, it happens. The truth is, she needs nothing from me and any sort of picture or memory or ideal cannot do justice to her. Like she needs “justice.” She was unpredictable, an enormous element in my absolute adoration of her. Anything I dwell on now is some form of me trying to create the past in the present. I cannot live in the past. Even if I could live in the past and therefore make it my present, I would have to endure wind that blows right through me and sun that doesn’t warm me because nothing can be changed. I would live with the weight of knowing and I would be less than I am.

The truth is that this anniversary will be spent alone. There will be no romantic dinner, no smiles exchanged, no flowers delivered, no cards filled with expressive words, no passion shared, no talks of the future, no holding hands, no “I love You” whispered in ears. The truth is that my wife is dead. No matter how many pictures I keep or songs I sing, she is gone forever. The truth is that I am tired of missing her. The weight of it is agonizing. She doesn’t need me to miss her. The truth is that my misery is my selfishness with its face painted. I never wanted to be the victim and have refused most help, but the truth is that I have told myself a lie and have played the victim in my own head. While “Get over it!” or “Suck it up!” doesn’t quite do it, I must remember where she is now and that she is better off. I just need to get over myself.

The truth is that Carla is gone and I am not. The truth is that I am left to raise Linen alone. The truth is that she will never know Carla, only a collection of memories and no matter how complete I make that collection; it could never be her or even a worthy depiction of her. Mostly likely, although equal parts heartbreaking and hopeful, Linen will know a mother who is not Carla. She will love another, take instruction from another, trust and confide in another and want to model another mama who is not Carla. The implications for me and the delicate balance required for my feelings and another’s, because of my beautiful scar, seem impossible right now no matter how hopeful.

The truth is that Carla is alive finally, awakened and aware of her created intention, her planned perfection before there was time and I am left here with more growing to do. The truth is that I must take what I have been given and become stronger. A friend that I have shared some thoughts with told me that we are all alone here, transient strangers. I think that is such a sad view of this life. I believe we are eternal and that we were made for community, which is somewhat of a bizarre declaration for me since I have a tendency to be a loner. I have seen so much damage being committed in community but I know that giving up on it is the easy road. I believe that Carla is experiencing all that she was made for. Why can’t I be happy in that? No amount of reasoning or logic in what I believe to be true can take away the sting of death. The truth is that in all my attempts to understand why, both physically and big picture, I cannot comprehend.

Carla was, in so many ways, the link to a world going on outside my head. She made most of the plans, at least the ones that mattered. She got us involved with friends. I never had to remember a birthday, and hopefully I get a free pass on that this year. She made me aware of my blindness to so much that really matters. I know, at first, this is why the world seemed strange and I just floated, numb. I know that I created my life around her and that is why I was so infuriated at God for taking her away. It sounds so selfish on this side of things. My happiness was totally contingent on hers and without seeing her happiness, physically, I had none.

The truth of this day is that I have hope for myself and my remaining earthly days. The absolute truth is that God has allowed me to endure this for a reason. I surrender my attempts at knowing why. I hope that through it all, He is increased in me. I know that would make Carla smile. I know that she would want Linen to have a mother to nurture and raise her. I know that Carla would want me to marry again. I know that whoever “she” ends up being, she will have to be extraordinary, not only to handle this with grace but just to put up with me at all.

I believe that we will look back and find that specific days are insignificant, for time doesn’t exist, for we are all eternal.  This day is a grain of sand that I pulled from the bottom of the ocean- so focused on it, I hold it in my hand feeling its texture and noting its color and size, closing my eyes as I embrace how it makes me feel while I float in the deep of life. The truth is that I will eventually let go of this piece of sand and watch it fall as I embrace the sun on the surface.

My Dream

I’ll pull down the sky for you

And I’ll wrap the moon in a bow too

Now we’re covered in stars

Like adornment covering scars

It’s you

And me

In a canoe

On Jerusalem’s sea

With no shore in sight

And no lighthouse light

In my dream

And love is something we can see

Like truth, faith and eternity

And we don’t need to cry

Cause we’ll never say goodbye

You and I

No one else

Beneath the sky

Our love is wealth

With no night at day’s end

And infinity to comprehend

In my dream

I’ll pull down the sky for you.

What Happened?

I realize that after many words exposing my grief and the consequential emotions and thoughts, I haven’t explained what happened. Some have asked verbally but most ask with their eyes and tilt of the head. I have used this avenue of words on a screen as my therapy. If I were to tell you I don’t know, it would only prompt more questions or more furrowed brows and an additional degree of head tilt. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want compassion, but I am just as likely to fumble condolences as I am a deserved compliment; hands in pockets, eyes downward touching my right foot to the left- and that I don’t want. The thought of unknown eyes reading about my tragedy and some genuine feeling being evoked has been a comfortable prescription.

On my 32nd birthday, August 11th of 2008, around 3am, my wife of 6 1/2 years and best friend of 9 years collapsed in our bathroom. The noise woke me and I ran into the bathroom to find her in a “seizure-like” state. This lasted only a few seconds but I started the car and took her to the emergency room. She was dry heaving and sweating terribly. When we arrived at the emergency room, she was taken back and I had to stay in the lobby. Luckily our daughter, Linen, who turned two in February was staying at my mom’s house. When I was able to go see Carla, my wife, the doctor told me that she had “thrown” a blood clot into her lungs and that caused the “episode” at home. It seemed like the problem had been diagnosed and everything was going to be taken care of. I called her parents and mine, both which live about an hour and a half away from where we were in Davidson, NC. As her parents made the trip to NC from SC, I kneeled by her bed and prayed and cried, but always believed that she would be okay. She was a 28 year old group fitness instructor and personal trainer, crazy about nutrition, vegetarian. How could something be wrong with her?

The Olympics were going on and it was the night after the US men’s swim team had that crazy win in the 4 X 100 relay. I can still hear the emergency room doctor telling the story of how he and his wife and kids were watching it and cheering. The Olympics will never be the same. My birthday will never be the same.

About an hour after her parents arrived, we were told that we were going to get a room in the hospital. Although the doctor’s recognized what seemed to be the problem, Carla’s blood started showing irregularities. An oncologist/ hematologist and a GI specialist were brought in to take a look at her. Carla’s organs began to swell and her blood began to show some toxicity because her organs weren’t working properly. She began to say that she was feeling some pain. This is the same woman who delivered Linen naturally and who has a high pain tolerance. I really began to worry. She never seemed to worry that much though. That day was frustrating. They began to take her blood and test it almost every 30 minutes. Her blood pressure began to drop late that night and she was moved to the intensive care area of the hospital. She had been through MRIs, CTs, and all kinds of tests… but the doctors were still puzzled. That night her mother and I took shifts beside Carla’s bed. Around 5am on the 12^th, Carla looked up at me and asked me a question as if she and I had been talking about something. I thought that she had been dreaming or was in a semi-conscious state, so I entertained it and answered, “Yes.” She opened her eyes and looked at me, puzzled; “Were we just talking?” I said, “Yes, baby.” She closed her eyes and her blood pressure plunged. I grabbed the RN and he paged a doctor. Carla’s heart stopped in front of me. They kicked me out of the ICU and I was passed by running doctors nurses. I collapsed in the hallway and broke down, while men and women in blue scrubs blurred past me crumpled in the hall.

A few minutes later, they said that they were able to bring her back, but she never regained consciousness. That morning, I had her airlifted to Carolina’s Medical Center, after debating with doctors about whether it was a GI or Hemo problem. (I am getting frustrated as I type, thinking about that ‘wasted’ time). If it was a blood problem, she would be going to Wake Forest; and if GI, CMC was the best place in the Southeast. She survived the helicopter ride and got tons and tons of attention at CMC, but she never regained consciousness. I can’t say enough positive things about the care and attention she received while still fighting at CMC. Carla had a dedicated team of RNs, residents, 5 different specialists and tons of cutting edge care. She went on and off of dialysis. She was put on an oscillator, a breathing machine on steroids; which, I believe kept her body functioning because it pumped clean oxygen into her, by-now, toxic blood. I remember whispering in her ear every time I got a bit of good news; “You’re doing so good” and “When we get home…” and “Linen is on her way to see you” and countless I love you’s.  Carla made it through one night there but around 3pm the next day, her stopped again, in spite of being on full support. She fought back again and around 4pm, the doctors told me that was it. Carla, my wife, my life, my breath, my reason, the mother of my child, and everything that makes the sun shine was gone.  I authorized a full microscopic autopsy and I still don’t have a clue as to the root cause of her death… multi-organ failure is the best I can get. For 3 months after Carla’s death, a team of specialists met to talk about her case and review all treatment and autopsy results. They are baffled. To this day, I don’t know what happened. I believe that it really doesn’t matter because when we are through with what God has for us to do; we can really begin to live. That was and still is tough, at times, for someone who wants all the answers. I am not sure if I will ever know why; physically or spiritually. I know that I would not be a quarter of the man I am without her and the beautiful gift she left me… my little lady, Linen. I still zone out sometimes and end up in the hospital, living out the details of those days. I will never forget the hopelessness that immediately sucked all the air out of my lungs. I have to snap myself out of it and realize that I must take advantage of the air I have been given to breath today- I will make the most of it.

Babe

I used to call your mother that, and I still do sometimes, when I talk to her. I often wonder if it confuses you that I call you babe but turn around and praise you as a “big girl” for an arbitrary chew of food or because you drew what looked loosely like a cow,on your paper, with a marker that curiously looks as through the tip has been bitten off. I know that when you realize what I am saying, you will be close to understanding. In fact, every day it seems you get closer and closer. The day hangs like a shadow in some horizon, which I cannot see; but the long reach of it appears daily and it brings company. I wonder how you will get “perspective?” How will I tell you? Will you remember her? What will I say? How can I ever communicate what she means to me? How she fixed me? How she unlocked me? How she filled the corners, painted the rough edges, built me up…? I cannot. Even after you read all of our letters to each other from Fort Leonardwood and Afghanistan, seen all the lil notes and cards and photos – Even after you have seen all the home movies, eaten off her China, held her clothes, eyes closed and taken her in; I will not be able to communicate what she is to me.

I see her in you sometimes and it makes me genuinely laugh. You are now noticing roles and refer to people in them… mommies and daddies. You sometimes act like a mommy to your babies. You look at your feet and say, “I got mama’s feet.” You asked me the other day, “When’s mama coming back?” I just held you close so you couldn’t see my tears. How can I even begin to respond to that? I am sure the questions only get tougher. You say, “Mama’s in heaven with Jesus!” and I believe that to be true. I believe that we all have things to accomplish here; and if we could really see what it is like there, in heaven, we would get on with whatever we had to do. Your mama was just finished. And for some reason, we are supposed to make it without her. It has been tough, but I am glad that we have had each other to get through it. I believe that your mama sees you and she smiles when we kiss her picture every night. I believe that when you say, “Mama’s so pretty” that she smiles and tells you the same. I wish that she could be here for you, hold you, paint your toenails, build tents with blankets and pillows, snuggle with you, sing you to sleep, have tea parties with you and your bears, and so much more. I hope that I am doing okay. Maybe by the time you can comprenhend this, you can let me know if I did okay. I love you Babe.

Memorial

I never was patriotic, even after I endured the cruelty of basic training in the frosty Missouri winter or even after that September morning in 200l when our whole nation stood speechless. In fact, in spite of my fairly pedestrian political stance, I feel strongly we, as a people, have drifted from the intentions of our fathers. But after coming home from Afghanistan and watching my brothers in arms killed for “freedom”, I fight tears every time I hear the National Anthem and mean every word in my Pledge.

I remember getting back to that Marine FOB in Jalalabad and seeing Ben, my brother. We hugged like never before or since. I couldn’t hold back the tears, and the memory of that embrace is causing my eyes to well as I type this. Ben didn’t go on that mission with us, thankfully. I remember when we left Jbad for Asadabad. It was going to be a quick trip to Abad, and the next day would involve a quick recon of an obstacle on what we called “IED Alley.”

Asadabad is about as close as you can get to the border of Pakistan without being in it and we knew that IEDs had been found around that area. At the time, that was the hot point in the north. That’s why we had our RCP (route clearance package) leading the way. When we first got to Jbad, I remember meeting SSG Ray. He had a quiet swagger about him and I could tell his men respected him. I had heard good things about Ray and he had received his E6 not long after we deployed to Afghanistan. In my opinion, a SSG (E6) has the hardest job in the Army. He is in charge of about 8-10 men and has to lock up the respect of the soldiers he is leading, some of which he has been selected over, and earn the respect of his platoon leader.  The best ones can balance both and the worst ones focus too much on one or the other and end up a puppet and not a leader. I liked Ray from the first time I met him because he had both. He was in charge of the 391^st RCP in Jbad. His team was Sgt Hill, SPC Atkins and attached to them was Sgt Hiett, a medic who had volunteered to go with our Battalion when his wasn’t deploying.

I remember that night in Abad, before we left for our recon. One of my soldiers and I ended up finding a poker game with a group of marines. Hiett played with us. I can still see his big full smile and hear his deep genuine laugh. After playing poker, we sneaked back into the hooch where the rest of our joint team was sleeping, except for Tom, who slept outside on the ground about 20 meters from our door. Tom, a contract specialist and retired Special Forces, was like our guide. You could tell he had seen a lot of enemy contact. He didn’t act like a tough guy because he didn’t have to, but he was the baddest man I have ever met in person. He would go out with the Afghan Special Forces on ‘hiking’ trips over the demanding and dangerous Afghan terrain near the Pak border. I am glad that he was with us for what turned into the longest 48 hours of my life (at that time).

On March 12^th (March 11^th back in the states-Carla’s birthday) we left the marine FOB in Abad and headed out for our recon. I knew, besides the route we to took to the US Special Forces camp the month before that this would be the most dangerous trip I had taken, but after being in Afghanistan for over 300 days, I had a feeling of invincibility (which would be shattered and replaced with fear very soon). We had a great trip up the mountain and stopped by another Marine camp about 3 km from our turn around point. The marines, with their 50 cal gunner in the turret had been leading the way on the trip up. We stopped a few times so our RCP and theirs could get out and manually check a few “tight” spots. Of course, we had our various “signal jammers” like Acorns, MMBJ and Warlocks and were following all our training. After checking a fording area on the river, we turned around and headed down the mountain. We stopped again at the Marine camp and again at our recon area to take pictures and discuss obstacle blasting and removal.

For some reason, I didn’t take my Sat phone because it was just supposed to be a quick day trip and then back to the FOB for some chow and rest before we headed back to Jbad the next day. We had been having a few troubles with our TACSET that proved to be very memorable to me. A few km down from our recon spot, we rounded a turn and I heard a loud blast immediately followed by a black cloud. It’s hard to remember what came over the radio but I do remember how time was suspended and how adrenaline burned my veins. It was like time stopped and then sprinted to catch back up to itself. I was the TC in my vehicle and I had two LTs in the back with another SSG. SGT Coles, one of my soldiers was driving. We all jumped out of the vehicle and headed in different directions.

About an hour previous, after we crossed the river at our turn around point, the marines had taken the rear and our guys, SSG Ray’s vehicle had taken the lead. For some reason, Hiett, one of our two, and best medic, had switched vehicles and was riding in the front vehicle with Ray. Atkins was the driver and Hill was in the turret. When we found them, all of them had been thrown from the vehicle. Atkins was under the HMMWV and it had landed on its side. He had no vitals when he was found and it was difficult getting the vehicle off of him. Ray’s door had been thrown over 100m into the field on the right, a door that is covered with 3/4in armor plating and double pane bullet proof glass. The IED had detonated right behind his seat. Hiett was ejected out of the vehicle on the left into a tree. Hill, because he was in the turret was propelled upward by the chunks of metal peeled from the floor of the vehicle and thrust into his legs.

While I was trying to get a good signal on our radio to call in the 9 line, Coles and the Navy medic were trying to save Hill’s life. Coles told me later that night that as soon as the medic saw Hill that he went into shock. So, now we have no medics; fortunately, Coles had taken a 2 day combat life saver course. While he was performing CPR on Hill, his mouth would fill with blood from Hill’s. Hill’s legs were just raw meat- he was bleeding out fast. I will never forget the image of Coles straddling Hill and performing chest compressions, and the  red mass that was once Hill’s legs. By the time the Blackhawk touched down in a tornado of red smoke, we had lost the lives of four warriors and defenders of freedom.

When the blast occurred, there were 2 vehicles full of about 15 local nationals locked into our perimeter. We made them all get out and get on the ground. I remember a young marine about to lose it because one of the locals was digging into his pocket and not doing what we had instructed them to do, which was to lie on the ground face down with their hands in front of them. Through some broken Pashto and hand motions, I came to understand that this particular local was either deaf or ‘slow’. I have very little doubt that he would be dead if I wouldn’t have been in that spot at that time. Of course, we were all angry, shocked, scared, and ready to fire at anything. Our situation was that we had lost 4 men, 4 friends, 4 precious lives. So much happened, so fast before the sun went down that night, and the images still burn all my senses. The sights, the smells, the ringing, the angst and the rigid muscles still come back occasionally.

We were now 12 men that had to spend the night on IED alley, not knowing what to expect, but anything. We were in a terrible location, in the valley with mountains on both sides. Somewhere on our right or left, there was someone watching, praising their God for the loss we incurred. Several images of that area are branded on my brain. I remember my position for the night was on the left, in between two houses. Of course, there was much discussion about how those people in one of those homes had to see something. We had driven right over the same area on the way up; so, either someone placed the device within a two hour time period with a pressure plate or it was command detonated through some frequency that our jammers didn’t cover. Either way, they had to know something. But, whether those that lived in that house hated us or not, they couldn’t have stopped whoever planted that device. I remember suspecting the local police in that area. I never did trust them in all my experience there. Corruption thrives in poverty, fear and ignorance. Fortunately, Tom kept them out of our perimeter for the most part.

I remember the light show of artillery on both sides of us as our A10 brothers in the sky lit up the mountains around us. I remember how nothing felt real. Our senses were on edge but inside was a continual shaking of the head, partly in disbelief and partly in reaction to the screaming of our present reality. Coles and I were the only ones that brought our night vision. All your training comes back to you, you finally realize why you wear the weight of all this ridiculous gear, you wonder if the sun will warm your dead body or your eyes will process its light, you question why you joined the fight and remember the faces of those you are protecting at home. Something about adrenaline makes you cold and tired as it eases off. I remember being cold and I remember my body feeling heavy. My mind was a vigilant but my legs were fighting atrophy. The smell of the blast and blood seemed to claim that area, long after the smoke had cleared and the earth had soaked in the red. The back of my tongue tightens as I recall that metallic scent. I thought of Carla standing in black, weeping, her tears reflecting the colors of the flag draped over my casket. I thought of the wives and children of those friends we had placed on that sad black bird not 6 hours ago. What will they do when they find out? I can’t think of a better way to die than on the battlefield, as a sacrifice for something greater than you, as a sacrifice not only for the lives of others, but a way of life for others, for principles and values.

The 12 of us did see the sun that next morning. By lunch we were rationing MREs and talking about how many times you could drink your urine and survive. Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Another team made its way up the road and got us out of there around 2200 hrs that night. The sight of the mangled HMMWV being lifted onto that truck was an exclamation point on what had happened. The vehicle was nothing more than a mass of metal, barely resembling its intentional form. The hole in the ground was waist high and wide enough for two ordnance experts inspecting the blast. For some reason, the tree that Hiett was found in and under presses on me. I wonder what it looks like now. I have been on satellite sites and tried to find the exact point of our encounter, but I can’t zoom in far enough. I wonder what good it would do for me anyway. I guess I just expect that tree to be there, standing tall and sad, remembering, as I do.

A few days later, we had a ceremony for our fallen comrades in Jbad. I stood behind the boots of Hiett while the entire population of the FOB line up to salute and honor our fallen brothers.

Sgt. Kevin D. Akins was deployed to Iraq in 2003and then went to Afghanistan in February 2005.

Ray’s wife had a 5-year-old son who lost his father in a vehicle accident in 2002. Ray had filled the paternal role since he married the boy’s mother, Annastasia, on July 4, 2004. “I just miss him every day,” the boy, Desmond, said at Ray’s funeral in the states. “I love him. He was the only one like my daddy.” Desmond then offered a slow, formal salute while standing beside Ray’s flag-draped casket, according to an article I found later.

“I never knew I could be loved the way Joe Ray loved me so completely and so true,” Ray’s wife declared stateside. “I am so blessed to have been Joe Ray’s wife. I just want to say, now and forever, I love this man.” Ray also had a 2 year old daughter.

Hiett left behind a wife, Misty, and a 2 year old daughter, Kyra which he saw for the final time during his leave in September.

Hill left behind his wife, Alexis, and two daughters, ages 6 and 1.

They were 30 days away from seeing their families again.

A few months after getting back home, I remember telling Carla about it and balling. I never spoke much about this experience, but in the light of losing Carla, it feels easier to talk about now. She just held me and listened. In fact, I often envy Ray, Hill, Atkins and Hiett. They died a hero’s death on the battlefield fighting for freedom, a sacrifice for the life of others. I’ll probably die in some sad nursing home somewhere. I have wondered often if Carla and I would be together if I would have died that day. Regardless, it is because of their lives and deaths that I am patriotic. It is because of their sacrifice that freedom continues. I think of them when my eyes pool with pride over our flag. I think of their children, sons and daughters of patriots, who can one day tell the story to their children of their grandfather’s bravery and blood as a purchase for their freedom.

I miss you. I love you. I honor you today.

Silence

The unspeakable silence cannot be known without experiencing it. I learned early that yelling doesn’t break it, even though that did not stop me from trying it over and over again. She occasionally asked me if I was angry at something. I explained to her that she had never seen me angry. Losing her allowed her to see me angry. I would ask her at night, when the silence was the loudest, if she had seen me yelling at God that day. I recall my lowest day, one of many, but definitely the lowest. For me, it was the saddest day of my life, even though it happened 92 days after her death. I had moved back to my home town of Greenville, SC in order to get support from family and friends. I had moved into a rental house on the northeast side of town because living with my mother for two weeks was about a week too long. My mother is an amazing, strong woman and a great help. But, I wanted no condolences and her mother’s heart could not conceal her wanting to express her love and needing to nurture her first born child. My pushing and her attempts at engaging were not good for either of us. On the morning of my worst day, I dropped my daughter off at a friend’s house as I had to endure the practical issues of getting my cars registered and paying taxes. It would have been extremely nice if I could have had someone that would have completed all the practical necessities of life for me. After driving 30 minutes to downtown and standing in line, it became apparent to me that I didn’t have anything that proved my new address. When it was my turn to present my documents and receive my okay from the Tax office, I had to explain to a very nice older woman what had happened to me. Somehow, I kept the tears only flowing on the inside as I tolerated her questions of “What happened…?” “How long were you married?” “A little girl… How old?” She was nice enough to let me use my Select Comfort return form as proof of my residence, in spite of the large print on the sign in front of me indicating otherwise. Of course, you cannot accomplish all your needs at one window, so I received more documents from her and went to wait in another line in order to submit payment. After payment, I had to go to another building and wait in line to get SC tags. A few hours later, I was heading home. About 20 minutes from home, I began crying and that turned to sobbing and talking to her and asking God to comfort me and begging him to talk to me. I was crying so hard that I had to pull off Wade Hampton Blvd onto a back road in Taylors. My intent was to pull over on the side of the road, because I could not see through the tears; instead, as I continued to drive, my sobbing turned to rage and tears. I yelled at God to speak to me and asked him why. I hit the steering wheel and dash. I was shaking. I yelled, “Silence?” “Are You freaking kidding me?” I passed by the train tracks that float 60 or so feet above that field of kudzu and I pictured my lifeless body hanging from the arch. I have thought of death much since she died but no time was as dark as this one. No other time was it at my own hand. “Isn’t she more alive than me now?”  Shocked at what had come out of my mouth towards God and thoughts in my mind, the rage again turned to sadness and bottomless tears. I made it home, only to sit in the driveway weeping. When I finally went inside, I collapsed on the couch where I cried myself to sleep.

I’ve had a few tough days, weeks, hours since that day, but none as feral. There is nothing but silence now and I am not sure what is more pathetic … fighting for its finale, yelling for its end or accepting its embrace.

9 months

8 days… am I creating another you? I will never feel you. I will never kiss you. I will never hold you again. Four or five times a day, I find myself saying, “Carla is doing [this]” or “Carla would want me to do [that]” or “She would like [such]”. My mind questions if I am creating an imaginary friend, a refurbished compass, part of my conscious, My love for you screams, “NO!” my love sees you laughing, sees you guiding me. Which is more driven by my fear? My love  or my mind?

It’s been 24 days. How can this world keep spinning if you are not in it? I am on my face, beneath the floor. This is worse than never knowing love. To have had what we had and for it to be gone now… this is hell. To have known you for a finite infinity and for you to be ripped from everything in me… this is cruel. We were one. My life was yours. I have no personal meaning. Yes, Linen is life to me and I love every second with her but you made me overflow. You built me. I cannot accept that I will never hold your hand again. My fingers will never wear the strands of your hair. I will never hold you again. I will never wake up with you again. PLEASE GOD, let me dream of her! Let her meet me there. I just want to say goodbye and tell her I love her and that I want to make her proud. Can that hurt anything? Why would you not let it happen? I am in a pool of bottomless agony with the weights of emptiness and loneliness secured about my ankles. Baby, I love you.

Day 26

Life is asking me to keep moving but my world has stopped. It has collided with plans from the unseen hands, without reasons known to me. I wonder what you saw when your heart stopped. I bet you did not want to come back. Could you hear me all those times I spoke to you in the hospital? I remember your body being so cold. Your hands, arms, legs and feet were like rigid ice. They could no longer draw blood from your extremities. They had to get blood from the main line plunged into your chest, near your right collar bone. Those hours, days, minutes of memories in the hospital haunt me. I can’t believe so much has changed. We should be asleep together in our bed in NC. Instead, I fill my nights with as much interaction as I can without intruding on the lives of others until finally, I’m alone. Alone with my thoughts, my emotions, my grief, my questions. I end and begin everyday alone. I am glad that every morning when I left for work that I kissed you and hugged you. I am glad that we ended everyday holding each other. It is cruel that it is gone now. Linen is singing songs now. She is singing and doing the motions of the itsy bitsy spider. She sings row, row, row your boat too. I wish you could see her and we could talk about how amazed we are. I have no one to share my amazement with. I miss you. Babe, I love you.