My Heroes

Powerwashed into the Concrete. I sent to Ryan.

From the earliest I could remember my Dad was always my hero.

Panama // Desert Shield/Desert Storm // Korea (x3) // Bosnia // Kosovo // Iraq (x?) // Afghanistan (x?)

As a UH-60 maintenance test pilot he spent more years deployed than home in our lives growing up. Yellow Ribbons, Handwritten Letters scrawled on yellow legal notepads sent through no-stamp-needed envelopes, Flags & Poster Board Signs on a parade field or hangar or outside an airline gate (back when you could still do that), acronyms which needed no explanation but belonged to a small club of kids (PX, TDY, PCS, etc.) all of these pieces were our normal. I loved trips to the air field, climbing up in the back or into the cockpit of this crazy piece of equipment. I loved listening to his stories; I loved opening his maps and learning how to read them; I loved the budgeting lessons sitting next to him at the secretary; I loved sitting on the garage floor with the smell of sawdust as he improved our house with his own hands; I loved trips to the range since age 8 for target practice.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my mom also. I am just a mirror image of my father.

I inherited his intelligence (cultivated by a mom who taught professionally and always found time to continue that with her kids at home), his work ethic, his scientifically-inquisitive mind, his stubbornness, his drive to succeed, his no-nonsense approach to others. He was my hero.

From 2001-2011 I lost track of when and where he was going. Those years just jumble together partly because I was in college for half that time and it became hard to separate the years and locations when you’re no longer living at home. Couple that with 3 deployments in 5 years by my oldest brother who went in 18X to the SF-baby program and recycled to llB and was sent to Ft Hood. Another hero of mine: who earned his Purple Heart in 2007 after his first tour in Iraq. He still went back 2 more times, extending his contract the 3rd time just so he would finish out the full tour with his unit.

My brother came back different. There were times where I wondered if I was going to have to be driving up to Killeen to ID his body; I was the only family member in Texas so I would have been the closest physically. He self-described as a “bum” the year after he returned. The country asked both old men and young boys to live through experiences of combat that they should never have to know. My brother lost friends to war and at least 2 other buddies to suicide.

For some reason, it was only on the last tour to Afghanistan that I worried about my father. As a military brat, you know what men in uniform walking up to your front porch means, though it never seemed like that could be our reality. My father seemed indestructible up until his last tour, where brevity of life because much more of an option. With my brother, that option seemed possible every day he woke up in Iraq, for me.

I remember that day in 2009 well…ultimately it was 36 hours before my brother landed back at Ft. Hood. We knew he was on his way back. I was waiting for a call from Maine so I could get an ETA on picking him up when they landed. I hadn’t gotten a call but I saw the headline scroll across every TV… Please no, please don’t let him be back at Hood right now.  

I have an MO, it seems, when it comes to dating. I have stuck with soldiers (incl. prior service) and those in public service. They say women have a thing for guys in uniform – I suppose I have a thing for strong sacrificial men. Some of those ended amicably and others were mistakes that I absolutely chose wrong, they were not men that knew how to treat a woman. In 2011 I met for the first time a man that I felt embodied the qualities of a hero that I saw from my dad and brothers.

Ryan was incredible. I was in awe of his intelligence, his analytical mind, the way he kept in touch with friends and family, the love for his mom that was so evident from day 1; I was amazed by his raw honesty. I appreciated his compassion, his service to others, his affection toward me. He was capable, and he showed me, of a unique level of selflessness. He had taken over the role of the most important Hero in my life.

Watching him practice as a Paramedic, he was my role model for what not just a mediocre but an outstanding EMT I should and could be. I appreciated that he cared more about doing what was right for his patients than what was standard or lazy. I appreciated that he could have all of the book knowledge in the world, but he could look them someone the eyes and tell each one what was best for them. It broke my heart to hear about him being lectured and threatened for treating a patient like a person – for not “selling” the ambulance ride to the hospital to a young mother whose sick child did not need a $1000 EMS bill for an ER trip at 1am, but a visit to the pediatrician the next morning. He was doing his job as a provider and a human being and yet criticized for that.

Compassion took its toll. He would ask me "Just remind me that you need me". I'd sit on his lap and wrap my body around him in silence, kissing his forehead or resting my chin on his shoulder, whispering "I love you; we're going to get through this" on those really bad days. I'd walk up behind him and rub his shoulders when, woken up in the middle of the night to find the space empty beside me, he was sitting at the computer unable to sleep. He'd kiss my hands and promise me "Sleep schedule is just off Baby". You get used to missing holidays and anniversaries, special events and dinner plans. 

You don't ever get used to seeing the other half of your heart broken and hurting, turning to vices to sleep and crushed under the weight of "what if?" Terrified that the compassion they showed, the honesty they gave to their patient would result in losing their job.

My brothers are here. My father is here. The Hero I chose to love is not. For me, this still seems inconceivable. The stigma of suicide among soldiers and by first responders feels, to me, like this gaping silence of heroes forgotten and cast off by the communities and the society that they served. Why?

5 Ways to Help Someone Grieving

In the last few months I have alternated between anger and apathy toward people that walked away after Ryan's funeral. The ones that haven't even bothered to reach out. I appreciate so much more the attempt to be helpful, even though it is occasionally hurtful. I do recognize that most people have no idea what to do and we naturally withdraw from uncomfortable situations.

You can find oodles of lists in a quick search. What has been most helpful to me?

1. Checking in

"Just thinking about you."

"How is today?"

I have never experienced such loneliness in my life. I've never felt as abandoned as I have since January. Checking in reminds me that I am valuable to someone. As a widow to suicide, value is not one thing I would attribute to myself, which makes me staying alive so much harder.

2. Anticipating needs

There are many things you don't realize will happen after a loss. I hit my lowest weight (losing 20% of my body weight) at 4 months and 1 day. Underwear doesn't fit when this happens. Clothes obviously fit looser, but it's frustrating to not even have a bra or underwear that is comfortable - it messes with everything. A Victoria's Secret gift card (because underwear shopping hasn't been high on my list of things to do/spend money on) is such a thoughtful and helpful way to notice and lend a hand.

A coworker brought soup in the winter and put it in the fridge for me and another vacuum wrapped and froze smoked turkey breast and brisket and left a card saying "food is in a bag for you in the freezer". I didn't have to think, I didn't have to come up with something that sounded yummy, because honestly, not much sounds yummy nowadays. It was perfect. Just do it. "I'm making extra enchiladas and was going to bring some up tomorrow, ok?"

3. Listening

I am a pariah. I was a contagious vat of Ebola after Ryan died. EVERYONE left. There were times where I'd schedule time with my therapist just so I could talk to someone. I wanted somewhere safe where I could have a person just listen to what I was thinking and feeling without shocked looks in response, without disruption, without judgment. Life is very silent after death - perhaps folks are around to help immediately after and to dote and perhaps they are not. You would be surprised who stays around and who does not and family is not a guaranteed support system. So ask to come over and just sit and hold their hand. They may not be ready to talk. They may be scared about your reaction to what they say. Really listen. Follow up with them in a note that reminds them you heard what they said or you notice them. Nothing is stable after death. Nothing. (related: Please Let Me Have My Meltdowns) A friend that saw a photo I posted (Glitter for the Stupid) sent me a vial of green (my favorite color) glitter with a small unsigned note that said "In case you need it..." I cried. Thank you for listening.

4. Sharing

Please tell me stories about Ryan. "Did you know him?" I've asked people... Please share pieces of his life that you knew. Share your interactions with him. Remind me that he's not forgotten. I remember him every day, but it hurts to feel like others don't.

 5. No Cliches 

There is nothing you can do to "fix this"

This is actually perfect, because it releases you from the obligation to find the "right" things to do or say. The most reflective person on the planet will not draft some great speech that "cures" me of this overwhelming pot of emotions. There are countless places you can go to find the What Not to Say (related: The "Worst" Loss) but it all boils down to: "I do not know what you are going through or what to say, but I love/care about you."  If you have experienced loss and want to share your loss with me, share your personal story. Mine may not look like yours. Remember the "fixing" thing? Expecting my journey to look like yours is a mistake. It may? It may not...

((Hugs))

Philosophy Friday: When We Are Fighting Our Hardest

I think it applies to anyone that kindness makes a much bigger difference when someone is at at their lowest -- and perhaps most unlovely -- versus when they're on top -- or easiest to love.

Alternately, on my "good" or "not bad" days, I'm still fighting. It's still exhausting.

They Don't Want to Know

A lesson I was not ready to learn. For me, it was less than 3 months.
Whatever you do, release them from the obligation they so obviously don't want...
for it will protect you more than false promises and pain of secondary loss right at the
point that your shock begins to wear off and the initial fog breaks.

You Don't Realize

You don't realize how lonely you are until it's the end of the day 

and you have a bunch of things to talk about, 

but no one to tell them to...

When It Just Hits You

Sometimes, when my day is going along "normally" - including my new norm associating with others who have lost, taking the dogs out myself, living in a place that is not my true home - I suddenly am slammed down to earth with the thought

Ryan is gone. He is dead.

I am not running around actively denying to people that I will see Ryan again, that I will get a text or a phone call or he will wake up in bed next to me (or I'll be woken up from him snoring while snuggled into the back of my neck...) I know, ok? My head knows that he's gone - it's not like a secret or any possibility. Sure, sometimes I still have the reaction to call him, to walk into a room and look for him. These are .001 seconds in time which used to cause break downs and now I chastise myself and shake it off.

The sobering moments are the ones where your heart just figured out the finality of what happened. 

I will move back to going through the motions of the day, taking care of what needs to be done and staying busy when I can. I will still spend time lying in bed, sometimes with sometimes without tears, but most definitely in sorrow and loneliness. There are no triggers for these events and their frequency is unpredictable but without a doubt there is no way to describe the feeling when you're smacked with that reality that he is completely and utterly gone.

Glimpse at Grief

This week wrapped up in a photo:

I think people are confused sometimes thinking a breakdown or

"grief attack"/emotional episode is what grief actually is. They really can't

know, but that's not in any way what it's like. That's the teaser

trailer of grief. Real grief is much much worse. 

I am very much missing your hugs this week. It's rough.
I just want your arms wrapped around me and you telling me it's going to be ok.

Nailed It

I've copied posts from the folks at What's Your Grief? before and ran across a moderately humorous but spot on "Grief & Loneliness" post which really needs no additional commentary:

The shift caused by significant loss can lead you to feel more isolated than you’re accustomed to. While you try to adjust to life in the wake of major change, it’s business as usual for those around you and it’s easy to feel cut off from family and friends, left out, alienated and misunderstood.  Not to mention, many people intentionally isolate due to feelings of anger, sadness, mistrust, helplessness, anxiety, and depression.  Grief and loneliness go hand in hand for a number of reasons but I’ll name just a few…

• The person who died was one of your closest confidants or best friends.

• Your friends stop calling because they feel uncomfortable and don’t know what to say.

• Your partner has died and everywhere you go you feel like a 3rd, 5th, or 7th wheel.

• You don’t feel like those around you are tolerant of your grief.

• Every interaction you have is filled with superficial condolences.

• You don’t want to leave the house because you’re tired of making everyone else feel better about the death.

• You don’t want to leave the house because you’re tired of having to reassure everyone you’re doing okay.

• You don’t want to leave the house because you’re afraid something will trigger your grief and you’ll become emotional in public.

• The things that used to seem important now seem pretty unimportant.

• You don’t feel like you have anyone to really talk to.

• People are pushing you to feel better and you don’t want to admit you still feel bad.

• You don’t want to admit you’re lonely.

• You don’t care.

• You’re struggling with anxiety or depression.

• An illness or disability makes it difficult to get out of the house without your deceased loved one.

• You can’t possibly think of where you would go.

I think so many people are also confused by what grief actually is such that seeing an emotional release or agreeing to go out, even if it's the only time the entire dang week, leads them to believe that you're "doing ok". This awfulness (for lack of any real word) - it's not an event or a single place in time. It's this modification of all things life - from staring at a wall at 2:45 in the morning to begging your phone to show a missed text or call from him to realizing the only thing I've eaten is a thing of yogurt and not really caring anyways. To hurting every. single. time. I go out and do anything or getting reminded of what no longer "is" by triggers throughout the day. It's the thoughts and feelings inside your head that sometimes stay trapped and other times manifest. It's knowing that it's bad but knowing that it will get worse. It's a loss of his life and mine. Looking back on the previous weeks and recognizing that even attempts at self care were pointless: I go for a run and am overwhelmed with hopes that a car will jump the curb and I won't have to worry any more, it's buying a ticket to a concert and then having a break down the night before and selling the ticket on Craigslist because there's no way I can go, it's leaving a movie early and deciding to never go back because there's too much to deal with in a 2 hour movie that should have been "safe". It's lying every single day that things are ok.

Wordless Wednesdays: Never the Same

What No One Tells You: It Gets Worse

Oddly enough I ran across a "What would you tell your younger self about grief" post on WYG just an hour after posting. (http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/what-would-you-tell-your-younger-self/)

"Time heals all things"

"Just give it time, things will get better"

Closing in on 3 months and I can say with absolute certainty, at this point, it doesn't get better with time. I was lucky enough to float through a solid 2 weeks that were absolutely my period of shock.

Shock is great. It allowed me to get up at the service to deliver a eulogy. It's great because it let me take care of my mother-in-law who was an absolute wreck. It allowed just enough clarity to try keeping things in order and to experience things without breaking that I doubt I could now.

But it wears off. Grief gets worse. Day 1 was awful but it is far from the worsWith time you gain the ability to reflect back on the things that you experienced, to relive the event itself and to start processing what you saw and heard and what happened. And it's awful.

I know what I thought and felt at week 1, week 2, month 1... I have a morbid running count of days I haven't seen my Sweetie: 79 days today. It becomes overwhelming because I know how I feel now and I know that I have the buffer of denial still. Depression is still down the road. If there's a worse to come, how the heck do I deal with that? I had assumed in the immediate days after that maybe putting something on the schedule to "enjoy myself" in April, May, or over the summer would give me enough time. I can't believe I'm this far and at the same time so short. I can't imagine attempting to enjoy life on a vacation or adventure in the next month or the next 2, 3 or 6 months even.

Losing Ryan froze my life.

Maybe time applies to a much longer period. Or maybe those are just stupid catch phrases used by people that have never experienced loss.