On that fateful day, two men approached our home, marked by the white picket fence that encircled it. Their presence sent my dogs into a frenzy, prompting me to step out from the kitchen. As I peered through the window of our front door, I recognized the berets: one deep red, signifying an Airborne chaplain, and the other green, reminiscent of the one my late husband, Jake, had worn. This was the same green beret I had placed on the dashboard of our car, and the same shade my son, Ben, would wear around the house. They rang the doorbell, knocked on our old wooden door, and although I knew they were there, my body felt frozen.
Standing on the century-old hardwood floors, which we had painstakingly refinished in the dream home Jake and I had purchased to raise our son, I felt the weight of an unbearable reality. Ben, just a baby, was sleeping in his car seat mere feet away, oblivious to the storm that was about to crash into our lives. My heart raced as I realized I would do anything to shield him from the devastation that was about to unfold.
That morning had begun like any other. I was the wife of a Green Beret, a new mother battling severe postpartum depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. I hadn’t even understood the gravity of my mental health struggles until I sat in front of a specialist, tears streaming down my face after days of fear and sleepless nights, terrified of harming the tiny being who had become my everything.
Days can feel insurmountable, and just when you think things can’t get worse, life has a way of proving you wrong. I had just been given the go-ahead to spend more time alone with Ben after a month of support from my father. With my morning coffee in hand, I prepared for a therapy appointment.
The drive through the misty Seattle weather felt routine, but after my appointment, I felt a sense of accomplishment. My therapist had praised my progress and we arranged for future check-ins. I dropped my father off at home, but a sinking feeling grew within me. I called a friend, convinced I was overreacting, but it turned out to be one of the biggest understatements I’d ever made.
Upon arriving home, I found Ben peacefully asleep in his car seat. I set him down and went to clear an empty coffee cup from the living room. And then the shot rang out.
Over the past year, despite the pain, we have somehow managed to survive—sometimes moving forward, sometimes retreating, but always buoyed by the love surrounding us. We faced each day, sometimes simply getting out of bed was a victory. I’ve spent countless hours on those very same hardwood floors, crying, playing with Ben, and cherishing every moment of his growth. We’ve celebrated milestones, hosted loved ones, and navigated through grief together.
The anniversary of Jake’s death felt like another echo, a reminder of the pain we carry. Yet, it also became a day of remembrance, where friends and family spoke his name, ensuring he would never truly be gone from our hearts.
On the anniversary, Ben and I visited Jake’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery, accompanied by those closest to us. As we arrived, “Eye of the Tiger” played on the radio—a reminder that Jake’s spirit remains with us. To everyone who supported us, who heard our story, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your love makes these difficult days bearable.
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In summary, resilience in the face of tragedy is possible with the love and support of family and friends. The journey of grief is ongoing, but the memories of those we’ve lost keep their spirit alive.