December 28, 2019
Dear Sean,
Nine years ago, you were a couple of short hours away from waking up and going to Arkansas to train. You’d return, and a few days later in early January, you’d deploy for the first and only time to Kandahar where you’d wait until you were home safely to tell me how much danger you were really in.
I know eloping made you nervous for so many reasons, but I’m glad we did, and I know you were, too. I recently revisited some of those Facebook messages and e-mails, the ones where you signed them with transparent enthusiasm, “Your husband, Sean.” It was fun, carrying that secret, the one that we were married for so many months before our actual wedding…selectively telling only a handful of people…parents and best friends. I told Becca at Dahlia’s. We were sitting side-by-side at the bar, and when I told her, she squealed and threw her arms up and around me and squeezed and congratulated me. Boy, we had fun there…our rehearsal dinner after party over half a year later on October 7 was nothing shy of epic. You were right. I know you know that…you were right to want the big, proper wedding, which I still feel is just a big celebration of your love with friends and family; however, I do see it as more than that. It’s also a commitment on the part of everyone who attends to support what you have together. I don’t know if our culture does that anymore. You know this is something we would talk about in depth if you were here, and I think we’d both come to the same conclusion and that we’d walk away from the conversation comforted and contemplative. That was the way we were. I know you remember that.
It felt like no time after new year…and in fact it was no time that you deployed in January 2011. You left, and I was the only one there to see you off. They decided to take off early, so your parents didn’t make it. Looking back, I’m glad. I think you’d have liked a big send off. I feel in my heart your desire to have felt overwhelmingly loved, and after what would’ve been twelve years together come this 2020, I have the hindsight to know why. (Yes, I know you see what I did there, and yes, I did smile.) Just like when said our vows in that church, it was just us on your deployment. Just like it should have been. It did take a long time for us to come together Biblically, for our family to become the main family for both of us, to leave and to cleave, but damn if it wasn’t the best when we did. There’s a reason God advocates for that. JS. I’m glad for the times when our memories were just us, or later, just us and the kids. Just like when we lost Jude five years ago. It was just us in that hospital room. Just us. Like two castaways on a ship, alone on a lonely island of grief, but we had each other to hold onto for dear life, and what Jude gave us was almost five years of learning to be tender and intimate and of finding peace and compatibility together that, while it didn’t erase some of the hurt and growing pains of our past, paved a way for our incredible future, for us to experience unconditional love.
Watching you leave on that plane, I cried. I know you were sad to go, but you were also excited, and I was happy for you. Do you remember that I encouraged you to go? It was an adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity given how rarely your shop was deployed. I know if I had dug my heels in, you’d have not gone, but I didn’t, don’t, and never did, never will, think it’s right to deprive you of that just because I’d miss you terribly. Just because I’d cry. Just because I’d cry the 45-minute drive home and then sit numbly in front of the TV in our house and watch Top Chef and eat my modified Emeril Lagasse recipe of spinach and artichoke dip with Stacy’s pita chips.
I thought I’d be super depressed with you gone, but I wasn’t, because you weren’t gone. We wrote letters, real letters, that took forever and a day to get to one another, and e-mails, and we Skyped (dude, that moustache…Tom Selleck had to go before you got back, and I thank you for complying…shudder. But I know it made you proud, and I understand how much of a man-stamp the ability to grow a full, creepy moustache in a day is. And I’m glad you had that power. You ruled Kandahar, darling. Out of the way, Sultan. This man can grow a ‘stache.). Instead, I gardened. I learned how to mow the lawn. I learned how to use a shovel to dig a garden. Dad helped me plant plants. Dad told me about the time he’d ridden a motorcycle. Once again, I internally lamented how little I knew about the man who helped create me, who provided for our family while I was growing up, who I only finally started to have any semblance of a relationship with after I married you, because of you, I think. They say you marry a man like your father, and you, being hard working, sincere, and full of integrity, embodied some of my dad’s better qualities. You also respected his wisdom and simplistic understanding of what it means to be human. We are just passing through. You really took that to heart, and I think it was a cornerstone in the faith you had when you did pass through the veil.
Early morning Jeep rides with the top down—always the top down, Lord, that drove you nuts—to the grocery store were my favorite. It’d be 6 AM, and I’d have been up since 4, windows open throughout the house, a spring breeze wafting into the yellow kitchen, and then I’d head to the store. Nobody’d be on those quiet back roads at that hour. I can still see misty fog and dew-coated corn crops, little unimaginative houses built decades earlier, expanses of lawn, and the occasional farm animal.
I had my one and only dinner party with the girls who’d be my bridesmaids (barring those who lived out of town) while you were gone. I should find my e-mails and look through the letters you saved to see exactly what I said about that. I know how I remember it, which is interesting because now, too, I know that our realities, particularly those pursuant to the past, are constructs comprised of experience, beliefs about those experiences, and the yellowing effect of time. This is why I very much like journaling, and, too, why I am glad I still have our correspondences. It is not because I want to relive something. That isn’t possible. But I like to see the discrepancy between how I remember and what is real. Yesterday, while I sat on the beach, I listened to that video, the one where you had that vision of Jude on August 4. My memory has changed the discourse, and while the essence of the conversation is the same, the exact words, how the conversation transpired, is vastly different from what I chose to commit to memory and ipso facto, make my experience. The video is harder to endure than my actual memories.
I have learned with losing you just how powerful our brains are. My therapist explained that the numbness that comes after a traumatic loss is like when you get cut…before you start bleeding, your brain has to process what happened and then be sure that you will not die from the trauma, then and only then, it can let you hurt. My brain still hasn’t processed the trauma, not fully. I still feel numb, like when the dentist pumps you full of Novocain and you could stab yourself in the cheek with an ice pick (generally ill-advised as far as self-care goes) and you wouldn’t feel a thing. That’s kind of how I still feel. I liken this to when someone gets shot or loses a limb, and at first they’re looking at the wound going, “Well, damn. Look at that. I can’t believe this doesn’t hurt more.” But then when the pain does come, it’s excruciating. For the record, I’ve decided to just sit back and let it happen. Like, I’m ready. Bring it on. Consciously, I know I won’t die. I’m just waiting for my subconscious to finish the intake paperwork and to release me to suffer through it.
And maybe it won’t happen like that. I mean, we had something truly incredible together. I meant it when I told people you didn’t leave me broken hearted or damaged as far as love goes. In our short time together and particularly in those years since losing Jude, you helped strip away layers upon layers of hurt and damage, of insecurity and lack of confidence. You read my writing. You talked to me. You supported me. You pushed me to get a second Master’s. You shared your ideas with me.
I know you know that I have already apologized so many times. Because it did take years for me to realize that my desire for you to plan things was more of a reflection of my need to have evidence that I mattered, that I mattered to you, that I mattered at all, than it was at any deficiency of yours. Never was that more apparent than that Valentine’s Day we went to NOJA. Never again. I swore that never again would I want to…would I need to…be validated through something like that, and that was the thing. I didn’t need it to be ridiculous or expensive, just personal and intimate. After a while, the best gift you could give me was to read a book I loved, so we could share the experience of talking about it.
And then in 2017, when you got sick on my birthday with what would end up being a three-week hospital stay and ulcerative colitis, I just asked for a note, for a short letter, something with your words, so that one day, I could go back and watch our narrative unfurl, to remember where we were in life just by how you felt and by what you were thinking about at the time. Words, stories, and experiences carry memories, and now, they are what I have to keep you alive. Yes, we will have new conversations, but they will never be the same.
I am getting ahead of my story about what happened this past summer, the way it all unfurled, but I will never forget the struggle to be strong and the selfish need to apologize. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry it took me so long to get it, it learn how to be loved. While I will never regret what we had, I am sorry for what we could’ve had if I had gotten it sooner. I know why now, and I know you know that, too, but none the less.
After you died, I wondered…and then I went through your phone, and I found the letter you wrote on October 31, 2018, nearly 14 months ago. I remember you saying you wanted to start a journal, a series of letters to us…to me and then to the girls…just in case. I know in those feverish months before you had a diagnosis, you feared dying. On this night in particular, I know that you did. And so you opened up your heart, and you said everything. A lifetime of love in a phone note that I wouldn’t open until the close.
Amy my dear,
Oh my darling,
How do I start a letter to the most influential person in my life? My love for you exceeds any squabbles or darkness that we’ve had between us. I wish I could erase the old dark memories, but as I see clearly now, we’ve come so far together and are filling our memory bank with so many new and joyful experiences together. One recently was sitting with you at church, my sweet loving wife, listening to a sermon from Dr. Terry together, just you and my, my one gift from God. I kept looking at you wondering how I arrived at such a place of such grace and strength, and I can always point to you. You have guided me and prayed for me and allowed me to arrive at a place where I always wanted to be but would’ve never done so by myself. I want to spend the rest of my life being this new Saved man in Christ that you so well deserve.
Do you remember when I turned 33? I told you that I was a little overwhelmed by it, by being the age of Jesus. I’d wondered what was in store for me, what would change in my heart. Though the year isn’t over now, I can see things that have changed. My acceptance of the Lord in my heart, officially, gives me so much hope for us and for life! My joy for everything has increased. I look forward to learning more this year with you as The Lord is continuing to change and inspire me.
I’m sorry that I don’t send you love notes as you so well deserve. You know how much I love and desire and appreciate you, but I will articulate it better and more often rather than our daily “I love you” and such. You say you love our hugs and you have to know how I do, too. I take for granted that you’re home with me every day and that you love me and hug me and treat me so well. I think back to the twenty somethings that we were when we met. I didn’t feel it at the time, but my gosh, we needed to grow! And here we are, today, this year, watching our kids grow, churning through this sickness of mine, and talking about our hopes and dreams for our future together. I have always wanted to be with you our whole lives; what a special soul you are. You’ve imparted me with so much wisdom and love and strength, my gosh, I don’t even know how to articulate it! Thinking of the conversations we’ve had about my life and feelings and how you’ve made me such a better man. That! Was God’s plan. We were made to be together. I’d have been so lost without you or with the wrong person. I appreciate where we are today and all the memories looking back. I remember being at my Grandpa’s funeral and feeling your love and seeing you cry for this man you’d hardly known, and oh, how I wish he could have known you more! But you knew how important he was to me. I remember the trip to the craft store and how I was in a grumpy mood. Little did I know how sweet you were and that you had a plan to frame some pictures of me and grandpa, which you presented to me later that week. I knew that the funeral that day that I Had to marry you, that I had to keep you and grow old with you. I’ll always remember that first trip to Atlanta in your Scion, 5th wheel at bay, how pretty you were, Ms. Scarlett, and the verbal lashing I received for bringing a bag for a one-day trip. Ha! That night ended up with a new dress and a nice dinner and a lovely overnight stay; though, we missed your exhibit, I’ll never forget that weekend with you. As I sit here thinking about it, I think my favorite memories with you are of our trips together. My gosh, the Tennessee trip in your black Jeep was wonderful, and I could spend pages reminiscing about your honeymoon.
I don’t think I tell you enough, my darling, how special and strong and loved you are. IT’s not just what you do for me, but rather, how much I love about you. My gosh, your beautiful brown hair, your smile when you smile at me, your wit and little grin when you tell a zinger that you’re really proud of, the way your voice soothes me when you say “hi hon”, the way I feel when we are together (how I wish you’d have been my only one, but you’re the one God gave to me, and I shall cherish what that means always), and my gosh, your strength in writing about Jude and how we have ridden that wave together, how your hands make me feel comfort and love when we’re in bed and there are little monkeys between us and all we can do is hold hands. Our lives are so much one now; I can’t imagine an existence without you and what we’ve built together. Sometimes I fear that you will burn out one day and lose faith in me; I have insecurities, too, you know. I hope I never push you to such a degree.
I want you to do things that make you happy, too. Though I’d be admittedly jealous of a dance partner, I’d like for you to be able to do that for yourself because you were good at it, and I know the burning in your heart for it, and you’ve always encouraged me to pursue my dreams. I’d like for you to be able to sit at Bellingrath one day and read and take in the nature and recharge, whatever it is that you need to do when this season we are in is over, I want you to start doing it. You’ve lived so much for us the last years, and I want you to do something for yourself. I’d love to work from home and help you keep your sanity and be together. I love being with you and driving around together; maybe we can figure out how to work from home together.
You’re my one, my darling. God’s true gift to me. The woman I’ve been able to build a basis of life with. I can’t imagine anyone else, I think we’re so perfect together.
With all my heart,
Manny
Thank you for saying all of that. I know there’s no way for either of us to have known how this season would end, but I appreciate that you had this hidden away for me, so that I could at least not have any questions or doubts, so I could at least be at peace. I hope you know I’d have never burned out. You only ever made me burn brighter than I had the day before that and the day before that. After you left, yes, I did burn out. I know, though, as with every other time I have burned apart before, there’s a new life gestating in the ashes, and I know from experience that spring always comes. Never has it been this hard, but you gave me hope and unconditional love. Thank you for giving me permission to love and to take care of myself. I’m learning.
As were my last words to you,
I like you forever
I love you for always
As long as I’m living,
My husband you’ll be.
And that’s true. No matter what happens, when you left, you were my husband. I became a widow. Not a divorcee, not a single woman. A widow, and like you said, and as I’m sure you’d expect, not a conventional widow. Like you said in your letter…a Ms. Scarlett, the widow who wears black and dances with a blockade runner at the charity auction, the kind of woman who digs in the dirt to plant seeds so she can rise again, the consummate survivor. I know you’d want and expect nothing less for me or the girls. I won’t let you down. I’ll be the next greatest scandal of a southern belle this world has ever known. I hope I make you proud. More than that, I hope I make you laugh.