Opening Pandora's Box

I received the remainder of Chris’ belongings. 5 large black containers full of items that had been inventoried countless times and sorted into plastic zip-locked bags. The majority of items were tactical gear that he had purchased out of pocket. Instead of reading heartfelt notes, I sorted through memories of countless trips to REI and hours of internet research to find the best gear for both abominable cold and sweltering heat. There is a sterile feeling to the boxes. Everything arrived squeaky clean, purged of Chris’ scent and the living breathing person who wore those t-shirts. Chris’ passports and IDs have been hole-punched to prove they are no longer valid. Just another reminder that this is real and Chris will never return home. The military had painstakingly inventoried every item down to the rubber bands in his pockets, and yet the few items that I’ve waited so desperately for are noticeably absent. Where are the Navy Jack patch that he wore on his right arm with the infamous words “don’t tread on me” and the name patch from the front of his kit? Why is there nothing retrievable from his external hard-drive? The three items that I had waited so anxiously to receive have left me empty.

There are a few personal items; the pictures that his parents and I sent him of family and friends. I recognize 3 pictures of Bailey and I from emails that I sent. He had printed and hung them up despite their poor quality. In his wallet is a valentine that I gave him 5 years ago, a silly, ridiculous card of the variety that school children give out, but at the time I grabbed it and wrote the words “I Love You!”  I never could have imagined at the time that he would carry it with him the rest of his life. Though if I had known, I don’t know that I could have summed up a better message for him.

There was one more item that I knew I would find among his things; my goodbye card. A note that I had put off writing until the day he left. I wrote from the heart, leaving no time for me to fine-tune what I wanted to say or check my grammar. There is nothing poetic or beautiful about my language.  I didn’t want to think about goodbye until I absolutely had to. Instead, I waited until the last minute and hastily transposed my heart on to a piece of stationary and tucked it into a book he would not open until he was on the plane.

There is no closure in these boxes. There is no good-bye from Chris. There is no love letter that begins “if you’re reading this…” Those things only exist in Hollywood. This is reality.  Yet it dawned on me that I’m okay with not receiving a letter. Chris wasn’t planning on dying. Writing a letter would have opened the door to the possibility of him not coming home and that was something Chris refused to accept. Chris did not leave “willing to die for his country” as the cliché goes; he left to serve his country and accepted those risks but he was not “willing to die.” The idea that he was “willing” feels offensive; he loved me far too much for that. Chris left with every intention of coming home to me. Just as Chris had studied furiously to be at the top of his class in EOD School so that he could choose San Diego to be with me, he worked tirelessly to be at the top of his job to come home from this deployment for me. That is the reason we spent countless weekends and holidays together at the mobile unit. It is why we spent free weekends shopping for gear and spent thousands of dollars to make sure he had everything he would need. It is the reason that we never argued over Chris staying late at work or leaving for training exercises. We desperately missed each other but we were both willing to do anything to make Chris better at his job and to keep him alive. To be sure, Chris loved his job and his community but I can’t even begin to count the number of times he told me “I hate being away from home” or “I can’t wait to be home and to finally be able to spend more time with you.”

 If you knew Chris well, maybe you can see the truth in this instead of a self-absorbed girl putting herself above her country. Chris lived on the positive side of life and refused to even talk about the negative. He had overcome so many hurdles through his hard work and perseverance that it was only natural to believe that this deployment was just another road block for us that Chris would overcome with grace and poise. The future was always on Chris’ mind, it’s what brought him through the present. Why else would we have plane tickets and hotel rooms booked for his sister’s wedding in November? He was so excited to be a part of her special day that he would pester her with inquiries, even planning for his tux. Why else would he ask me to mark the calendar for weddings of close friends in February and April of 2013? Why else would he tell me that he wanted me to have nice jewelry so that we could pass it on to our children?  He was 28 years old and investing in family heirlooms for children we didn’t even have yet. Chris had plans for our future; he went to Afghanistan to fight for life.

Family always came first in his life. Chris was an amazing EOD tech and even better officer, but he was so much more than that. He was driven in everything he did and could have done anything he wanted. He was a loving husband, a devoted son and a proud brother.  He was the love of my life but also my best friend, the person I told everything.  He dreamed of a year of relaxing and traveling together and then settling down to have beautiful blue-eyed babies that he would inevitably spoil while I was left with the role of disciplinarian. He was the man who wanted to protect me from any hurt. I am a pediatric nurse and I remember the day a chronic patient of mine, just a baby, passed away. I called Chris, something I tried never to do during work hours. All I had to do was tell him and immediately Chris said “I’m coming home.” He knew I needed him and he came and held me and let me sob. I could feel his pain and compassion and I knew how lucky I was to have those arms around me. His strength gave me strength and I could handle everything through that. This time Chris isn’t here to hold me.

My last letter to Chris:

                                                                                                                            December 28^th, 2011

Chris,

The time has finally come and all the strength I had during training seems to be vanishing. You are my world. I love you so much. I’ll be thinking of you and praying for you every moment of every day that you are gone. I can’t wait until you walk back through our front door. Until then, Bailey and I will hold down the fort. You don’t need to worry about me (I have a wonderful puppy to keep me company.) Worry only about what is important there and come home safe to me. I’d be so lost without you. You have made me so incredibly happy! Though I’ll miss you til it hurts, I am so proud of you and the person you are. Even in the darkest times remember that God is with you and hopefully faith can ease some of the atrocities you will encounter. You are in the prayers of so many people – you will never be alone!

                This will be an incredibly hard 9 months but just think of it as training for the day I get pregnant – that will be the real challenge!

                                                                                                                                You are so loved!

                                                                                                                                               Amanda