āSo this one time, when I was in Afghanistan . . .ā
āWhile I was vacationing in Afghanistan . . .ā
āI was visiting the place where my brother was killed and . . .ā
Yeah, it has been like that for two years now. How do I begin?
Deep breath. Eyes open. Chin up.
Two years ago I journeyed to Afghanistan with a group of amazing people. We all had our reasons for going. Some were going with the express purpose of leaving, but on their own terms. Some were there to help along the way, because they knew the path. And some of us, we were taking first steps in a foreign land because it was the last place our loved one stood.
I wore a uniform, I covered my crazy hair, and I saw the last place my brother lived. I would call it the smallest taste I could have of his life in the army. I went where I was told, I hurried up so I could wait. I shook hands and received challenge coins. I met with Generals and with the enlisted.
They asked me about roller derby, they asked about my catering work, and they asked me about my brother.
And mostly, I was dazzled by it all. I was fully aware that I was a tourist in this world; that I was getting the best of the best of what the military life could be. I never slept rough, my meals were hot, frequent and often and I showered every day. I rode in a Black-hawk, I was taken to a firing range and allowed to shoot a machine gun that sounded like the aliens in War of the Worlds. They let me fire a 777 Howitzer!
They let me fire a 777 Howitzer.
I remember every moment up to this so clearly. I really was just having a good time. Learning about army life and sharing the story of my brother, of my grief and the wonderful support I had from 10th Mountain. Then we were told we were going to an artillery unit. I was told they knew I was coming. That they knew Josh was artillery and that we were going to pull the cord on a Howitzer.
Everything got a little blurry.
I donāt want to say that I donāt remember it all perfectly. Because I do. I just need you to understand the raw nerves that were practically vibrating my body.
I am not a big person, or a strong person. In my mind I am a terribly tiny person, but Iām actually average height and build. But since Josh grew taller than me at about age 13, I have never stopped thinking of myself as small.
I have watched videos of my brother and his crew loading and firing artillery during training exercises. It isnāt easy. It is a carefully coordinated dance of multiple people all doing a very specific job. If you mess up your job, something really bad can happen. Artillery is no joke.
When they asked who wants to go next, I raised my hand without thinking. I mean, I was thinking but I was thinking that if I mess this up, I would never forgive myself.
They told me to plant my feet, hold the cord around my back and hand on my hip and when I pull, throw my hip into it. At the time I could barely move another blocker with a hip check. I didnāt think what would happen if I couldnāt pull hard enough.
When they gave me the signal, I held that cord tight and I threw my hip and I pulled with everything I had. I fired the Howitzer.
There is a small snap and then this calm. The air is still but a moment which is suddenly broken by the full body boom of sound. Itās like standing by the speakers at a concert. You feel the bass in your sternum. I felt the boom in my bones.
I am very vocal about my grief. It isnāt always popular, but the studies show that what I am doing is right. I am not bottling in my feelings, or ignoring them. I always felt like I was doing really well with my grief journey.
I felt the boom in my bones. And I was acutely aware of all the places I was broken. All the pieces inside me that I had been holding onto in the hopes that everything would be ok one day, if I just held it together long enough.
I felt the boom in my bones and I was filled with joy. I knew something I did not know the moment before. My brother loved his job. I knew that now. I could feel the most amazing high from that powerful blast and knowing that Josh would have gotten a singular satisfaction from that every time.
But with all these pieces inside me so raw and sharp I needed to do something. So I asked for a favor. āMy brother was the loader,ā I said. āI want to load the roundā.
My gawd that poor man, staring down at this woman who I imagine looked like a little girl about to cry and the struggle he must have had inside.
I need you to understand what I was asking. I was asking to carry a 90lb round three yards and place it carefully into its chamber. Even at average height and build for a woman, this wasnāt realistic. Artillery is no joke. This is easily the part where stuff could go very wrong and I was the exact type of person that would make this go very bad. Ā I was asking for the impossible.
āI can help youā he said. And I hope my face lit up like a kid in a candy store who just found the Golden Ticket.
So, they set it up, and I picked up the round. I didnāt really, he did but my hands were on it. I felt enough of its weight to feel like I was there, and then it was in the cradle and off it went. And just like that I was whole again.
With that feeling so powerful, like nothing else I have ever felt, I did the only thing I possibly could. I went behind a bus so I could sob privately. But of course, privately in the army is not really a thing and a wonderful Sergeant Major came over and gave me hug. He told me, āYour brother didnāt die alone, this was his family and he was not aloneā.
I really thought I was doing ok with my grief. I figured I missed him terribly, but that was ok. Missing him is part of loving him. But that day, I felt like I knew my brother in a way I never could.
I thought I was going to Afghanistan to learn about how he died. But really, I learned how he lived.
Special thanks always to Operation Proper Exit of the Troops First Foundation http://www.troopsfirstfoundation.org/initiatives/operation-proper-exit
