Four years ago today, on November 13, 2004, our world changed forever. Four years ago today Byron made the brave decision to assist in rescuing 7 fellow Marines who were wounded and trapped in a house with insurgents in Fallujah. Four years ago today he took his last breath as he sacrificed his life for this country, for our freedoms and for the good people of Iraq. I cannot believe it has been four years since Byron left us. I am posting something I wrote several years ago while we were on the Freedom Journey. I was hoping that someday it would be the beginning for a book about our experiences...we'll see.
I’ve often wondered what I was doing at that exact moment. It was Saturday, November 13, 2004 at 3:06 AM, Pflugerville time. It was 12:06 PM in Fallujah, Iraq. Six minutes past three o’clock, but what was the exact second? I know I was sleeping, but was I on my back or my side? Was I dreaming, and if so, what dream could I possibly be having as my nightmare was taking place in reality? Did my eyes flutter or my body flinch? Surely I must have felt something at that moment, the moment when my brother drew his last breath and closed his eyes for the last time. The moment when he moved to the next world and left behind a world that would be forever changed for our family. I have to believe that there was at least some small reaction in my subconscious mind that night. I cannot accept the guilt that I have for sleeping through that moment. I should have woken up screaming, my whole body shaking, my heart feeling the sudden darkness and emptiness. I should have felt it.
That Saturday went on as normal. I watched Texas Longhorn football with my husband, David. Later that evening, I took my father to a performance of the Austin Symphony. I had promised him a “Daddy-Daughter date” earlier that year on Father’s Day, like the many dates to the symphony we had when I was a little girl. I would get all dressed up in my best dress, my father in a suit, and I would mingle with the grown-ups. They would drink their wine and champagne, and my dad would buy me a ginger ale during the intermission. Usually, I fell asleep on his shoulder during the second half of the performance. It’s one of my favorite memories of time spent with my father, and now the memory is even more precious considering what the symphony has come to represent in my mind.
On this November evening, my dad and I discussed our fears for my brother’s safety in Iraq. We knew that his unit was in Fallujah, and we knew from watching the news that it was some of the most intense fighting yet. I had literally been feeling sick all week from worry. I had many small episodes of nausea, shortness of breath, hot flashes and heart palpitations. I had considered the possibility that I was coming down with something, but as a nurse I knew that my symptoms were all caused by the worry and anxiety I was having while Byron was in Fallujah. I just felt something was wrong, something bad was going to happen. I still never considered the situation which would become my reality.
While at the symphony, my father asked me to put my cell phone on vibrate and he put it in his dress shirt pocket. “I hate leaving Mom alone. I just want her to be able to get in touch with me in case the Marines come to the door.” It was like we knew what was going to happen.
The symphony was incredibly beautiful. We sat in the dark auditorium, filled with the sounds of the music. It was calming, soothing, relaxing and so peaceful. At one point, I looked over to my dad and saw that he was sitting there with his eyes closed. After days of anxiety and fear, I finally felt relaxed. I was filled with the beauty that each instrument, each note, sang to my heart. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. I thought of Byron and his unit in Fallujah. It was like a movie in my mind, images of war and battles set to the classical music of an orchestra. A part of me felt very guilty for being at the symphony filled with such tranquility and peace while I knew that Byron was in the middle of a war. I tried to “send” him some of the peaceful feelings I was having, some of the serenity. How could I not have known that he was already gone by then? In retrospect, I understand why I felt him so closely and so intensely with me that evening. He was with me, surrounding my father and I with all the peace and stillness that I thought was coming from the music. We walked to the car commenting to each other on the calmness we both felt now. Those would be our last hours of calm, as our lives would change forever with a quiet knock on the door.
Shortly after three o’clock in the morning, just a few hours after the symphony and a full 24 hours after he actually died, the phone rang. It was early Sunday morning, and I was used to the hospital calling me on Sunday mornings looking for nurses to come in and work. For some reason, I did not answer the phone in our bedroom. I went into the study so I could see the Caller ID and confirm it was the hospital. The Caller ID showed my father’s name and time seemed to slow down. A thousand thoughts went through my mind in the moment it took for me to stretch out my arm and answer the phone. Did something happen to one of my parents? My grandparents? A heart attack? A car accident? I could feel my heart speed up and my breathing quicken. I answered the phone and heard my father say, “Kristen, we lost Byron.” I don’t think I can really describe all I felt in that moment. I don’t really remember what I said back to my dad, just that we were on our way. I just saw my dad a few hours ago, how could all of this have happened in that short time? All I could think of was that he was right to keep the cell phone in his pocket, because the Marines were coming to the door that night, but thankfully it wasn’t when my mother was alone.
I could feel my head spinning and my legs start to collapse. David was standing next to me, but still didn’t know exactly what had happened. “Is he hurt? What happened?”
“He’s dead!” I screamed the words at him and started to fall to the floor. David was trying to hold me up, but I just couldn’t feel my legs. I heard somebody screaming, releasing the most primal wails I had ever heard. I realized that it was me screaming, but the noises sounded completely detached from my own mouth. The cats started to make that horrible sound that cats make when they feel threatened and are about to attack. David closed them out of the study and we just stood there sobbing, feeling our lives being snatched away from us.
How can so much change in one small moment in time? It’s one second, like the millions of seconds I’ve lived through all my life, but this one’s different. This was the last second of my first life, and the next second belonged to the new life known as “after.” This is how I designate time, events and memories now, as “before” and “after.” My two lives, completely separate yet mangled together, like two cars that met in a head-on collision. The first life was full of happiness and innocence. The second life is confusion, loss and grief.I've been thinking all week about how I wanted to spend my day today. David stayed home with me so that I wouldn't be alone. We went out to breakfast, then eventually headed over to the cemetery with blankets, the IPOD, and a project. I had been reading on another blog about a mother whose 4th child died just a few hours after she had been born. (Check out her blog, "Bring The Rain.") One of the things she did to cope was to break a piece of pottery, then piece it back together in symbolism for piecing her life back together. I thought it would be a great thing to do today, so we bought a large white pitcher and took it to the cemetery. Now, for years I have been wanting to break something during my moments of rage! Finally this was my chance! I put the pitcher in a plastic bag so that the pieces would stay together, raised it above my head and threw it down on the sidewalk! It felt great! David and I took the pieces over to where Byron is buried and sat on blankets while we listened to relaxing music and attempted to piece our lives back together again. It was a really great experience and it was interesting as we continued to come up with metaphors for our lives and this broken pitcher. Here is a list of what we came up with:
*We feel broken in a thousand pieces after we lose someone we love tragically, but we CAN be pieced back together.
*Piecing your life back together takes time and patience, it is not easy.
*Sometimes you think the piecing is going well, but occasionally the pieces are not glued together well and will fall apart again. You are fragile, but the more pieces you glue together, the stronger you will become.
*You may occasionally get angry that this happened, that you are broken and that the pieces don't go together easily. It's ok to get angry, which brings me to my next point...
*There may be curse words and improper outbursts. This is normal.
*Being broken is painful. It hurts when the pitcher, or your heart, is smashed into a thousand little pieces. Even fitting the pieces back together is painful - there are sharp edges that may cut you when you aren't expecting it.
*Even though you are pieced back together and somewhat recognizable to others, there are still small holes and cracks. You will never be perfectly whole again.
*Something beautiful can still come from something broken. Once pieced back together, a broken pitcher can still be a piece of art or hold some beautiful silk flowers.
I think that I might break something every year! It was a peaceful and therapeutic way to spend the day remembering Byron. Here are some pics of our experience at the cemetery:
OK, last thing, because I know this post is long. Have you ever seen the commercials for the Marine Corps? They make me cry every single time. This is my favorite one:
Byron, I love you and miss you every moment of every day. I'm so proud to be your sister, and I can't wait to see you again someday. Families are forever.
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