Those were my husband's words as we sat face-to-face last Sunday a couple of hours before he got on a plane to return to Afghanistan. Without Dave. He had been at his brother's side from hours after the IED ended Dave's life until the casket was lowered into the ground.I get exactly what he meant. I felt like I had been in some parallel universe watching my own husband's funeral. It was bizarre and a hellish nightmare that I can't fully begin to explain.
I have no words for how horrific the last three weeks have been. No words.
Grief is exhausting. And it's lonely. The funeral is over. And people start to go back to their daily routine. You have to. But the memories of the last weeks' events have not faded. They've changed my husband. They've changed my marriage. They've altered the fabric of our life.
Philip had accompanied Dana and Dave from Afghanstian to Germany to Dover. Dana and Dave's family met Dana with open arms, Philip with a thousand questions, and Dave's casket with horrified grief when they arrived at Dover Air Force Base in Deleware. Philip was designated to remain with Dave at Dover while they prepared his body for the funeral. It was a bizarre whirlwind of a week. I had gotten the news on Friday night the 27th; spent Saturday in a numb, nauseated twilight zone; drove down to DC to collect Philip's uniform for the funeral; and returned to NJ to finally find out that Philip, Dave, and Dana would land on US soil on Monday. After work on Monday, I drove down to Delaware to see Philip and returned to NJ early on Tuesday morning. Again, I don't have any words that I can attach to that night or leaving my husband laying in bed that morning. Just horrendous. Philip and I were able to have some time together during the week as arrangements begin to materialize for the funeral. But, naturally, life was not without challenges. When it rains, it pours. This-really-cannot-be-happening-right-now highlights included-but were not limited to): my flight to CO being cancelled 36 hours before I was supposed to leave (the one that had taken 3 hours to book and subsequently took another 3+ hours to reschedule [so blessed to have the world's most incredible inlaws to fight this battle over the phone with United for me]), huge snag w/ a postdoc application due the week of the funeral, and on Monday the landing gear on the plane carrying Philip and Dave to CO broke and they ended up being delayed most of the day in MO.
I blogged Monday about the transfer ceremony.
Tuesday was visitation. I continued to stand at Philip's side amazed at how he was serving Dave's family and standing on point for the myriad military officials he was working with in the US and back in Afghanistan.
Wednesday. Thinking about Wednesday still makes me feel as thought I am going to vomit. I woke up, got dressed, and tried to rally my defenses for what I knew would be an emotional onslaught of complex sorrow, terror, and survivor's guilt.
These are the things about that horrible Wednesday that will be seared in my memory for a lifetime:
* hearing the bagpipes as Philip and the rest of the honor guard took their place as Dana, her parents, her brothers, her nephews, Dave's parents, and Dave's brother took their seats at the front of the church
* being pissed off at the colonel who took my chair
* watching horrified as Dave's flag-draped coffin come into view in the front of the church
* watching Dana as Dave's casket came into view in the front of the church
* watching Dave's casket pass in front of Philip at the front of the church
* observing Philip put his arm around Dave's stepfather as he began to sob during the service as one of the speakers talked about his adopting Dave
* listening to Lt Col Lovewell deliver an incredible tribute to Dave as he provided a wonderful summation of Dave's legacy as a leader and an officer
* feeling nauseated as I listened to Lt Col Lovewell talk about Dave's career because it was so similar to Philip's
* listening to Lt Col Lovewell speak directly to Philip during the funeral address
* watching Dana and her family worship as the sound of "I See the Lord" filled the sanctuary
* wondering what was going through the minds of a huge room full of high-powered, high-ranking military officials as they listened to Dave's testimony and observed Dana and her family unapologetically point to Christ
* an incredible time of worship as "Revelation Song" played toward the end of the ceremony
* Roll Call
* walking out of the sanctuary, clinging to Aaron's arm (really close friend of Philip's from the first half of the deployment --- Aaron was to Philip in Nejarab what Dave was to Philip in Kabul)
And then the part I had really been dreading. . . we arrived at the cemetery at the Air Force Academy. . .The most painful, horrific thing I have ever witnessed in my life. . .
* watching the humvee come in to view with Philip sitting next to Dave's casket
* watching Philip place his hand on the casket one final time
* watching Philip walk Dana to her seat
* watching the honor guard carry Dave's casket to his final resting place
* melting into sobs as I heard the 21 Gun Salute and watching the puff of smoke that hung in the air after the final shots were fired
* watching Dana be presented with Dave's Bronze Star, Combat Action Medal, and Purple Heart
* watching a flag be placed in the hands of 29 year-old widow as she listened to these words--the words that are my own worst nightmare--"On behalf of the President of the United States of American, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation, we offer this flag for the faithful and dedicated service of Captain David Lyon."
* watching Dana kiss Dave's casket
* standing two feet behind Dana as she stared at her husband's grave as people begin to clear from the cemetery
* leaving the church in darkness that night, emotionally exhausted, and walking back to the car with Philip. As soon as the door closed, I melted into sobs. Not because my husband was returning to theater in the coming days to continue to carry on the mission that he and Dave shared and are deeply committed to--but because I was painfully aware that while I drove away from the funeral with Philip, Dana did not get to go home with Dave. And there are no words to even begin to describe the pain and grief her loss creates in my heart.
We are putting one foot in front of the other. But grief is exhausting. I just want to bury myself in bed all day long. I can't. And I don't. But not a single hour goes by that I don't think about Dana. And Dave. And Philip. Because the thing is, people know that I was at a funeral a couple of weeks ago, but that fact begins to fade from peoples' minds. But the reality is that the real journey of grief beings after the funeral. And I guess that's why Dana is on my mind so much. Over time the outpouring of support begins to taper -- but that doesn't mean the pain that accompanies the reality of loss does.
This war is not political; it is personal. It only takes one glimpse into my husband's eyes and one moment of taking in the haunted look on his face to recognize this.
The cost of freedom is exorbitant.
War is an ugly thing but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which things that nothing is worth war is much worse. The persons ho has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better man than himself. - John Stuart Mill
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