American Wife (35 page)

It
'
s a societal problem, I suppose. Taking the high road sounds good, but is it possible? More importantly, does it work?

You hear people ranting and you wonder, how can we have a fair society at all?

CHAIN-SMOKING

After the verdict was announced, I took a few days off to recover, but then had to get back to work. I'd agreed to a speaking engagement in California, and while they offered to cancel it, I felt I would be better off keeping it.

Slog on, Taya. Push through the mud.

There were other things to focus on besides lawsuits. Losing the trial was heartbreaking, but if you really want to hurt a mom, tell her the babysitter she has counted on for years is going off to college. That is a crisis to beat any lawsuit.

Honestly, losing our babysitter Rea at the end of the summer was a difficult blow. She'd been really like one of the family, and the kids and I missed her instantly. Her loss did more to unbalance us than a thousand Jesses could have.

Not that she or Jesse or anyone but myself was to blame for my smoking, which escalated at the very end of the summer.

I might have stopped after the first cigarette, or the first day, or the first week. But I didn't. Instead, I found myself smoking more and more. I couldn't get enough nicotine.

I could easily rationalize it. In the scheme of things, it wasn't the worse vice in the world. It was better than drinking, which would mean I couldn't drive the kids and surely could have horrible consequences. I didn't want to take tranquilizers, because they would leave me tired. There are hundreds of things worse than cigarettes.

Smoking was something I could get away with, and why not?

It spiraled. I couldn't sleep because I'd smoked so much during the day—so to calm down, I smoked. Then I needed to smoke more during the day to stay awake.

I tried to hide it from the kids, even turning off the security cameras so they couldn't see me when I'd go outside. But they were on to me, Bubba especially.

The little sneak caught me one day, coming around the car when I was outside puffing away.

“I was wondering what you were doing,” he said, spying me squatting behind the truck.

He'd nailed me, but the look on his face made it seem as if our roles were reversed—he looked as if he were in shock, as if I'd just slapped him.

When I went back inside, I found he'd taped signs to the walls:

DON
'
T
SMOKE
!

I laugh about it now, but not then.

“Why are you so devastated that I'm smoking?” I asked when I found him.

“Because. I already lost one parent. I don't want to lose you, too.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I told him. “I'm going to stop.”

But of course it wasn't nearly that easy. As horrible as I felt, I was deep into the habit. I would quit for a while—a day, an hour—then somehow a cigarette would find its way to my mouth.

I continued to rationalize, continued to struggle—and Bubba continued to call me out.

“I'm trying,” I told him. “I'm trying.”

He'd come up and give me a hug—and smell the cigarette still on me.

“Did you have one?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm . . .” Instant tears.

“I'm trying, I'm trying.”

One day I went out to the patio to take what turned out to be a super stressful call—and I started to smoke, almost unconsciously. In the middle of the conversation, Bubba came out and threw a paper airplane at me.

What!!!

My son scrambled back inside. I was furious, but the call was too important to cut short.

Wait until I get you, mister!

Just as I hung up, Bubba appeared at the window and pointed at the airplane at my feet.

I opened it up and read his message:

YOU
SUCK
AT
TRYING
.

That hurt, not least of all because it was true.

I tried harder. I switched to organic cigarettes—those can't be that bad for you, right? They're organic!

Turns out organic tars and nicotine are still tars and nicotine. I quit for a day, then started again. I resolved not to go to the store so I couldn't be tempted . . . then found myself hunting through my jacket for an old packet, rifling around in my hiding places for a cigarette I'd forgotten.

Was that a half-smoked butt I saw on the ground?

Finally, I remembered one of the sayings SEALs live by:
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

Not exactly the conventional advice one uses to stop smoking, but the conventional advice had failed me. For some reason I took the words and tried applying them to my heartbeat, slowing my pulse as it ramped up. It was a kind of mini-meditation, meant to take the place of a cigarette.

The mantra helped me take control. I focused on the thoughts that were making me panic, or at least getting my heart racing.

Slow is smooth. Slow down, heart. Slow down—and don't smoke.

I worked on my breathing.
Slow is smooth. Slow is smooth. And don't smoke.

It worked, for a few days. Then I was right back into it, smoking more than ever.

One day I was out on the back patio—smoking—and a strange feeling came over me. I tried to pray, but couldn't.

You cannot smoke! You personally are going to pay!

It wasn't God talking to me in the literal sense—I wasn't hearing voices or anything—but the thought was so strong that it felt like a prayer, or more accurately an answer to one.

It was a moment of understanding, one of many. And it was a warning, also one of many:

If I could not pray, then I really was out of control.

My life was so crazed—and my cigarette addiction so deep—that my lifelong habit of talking directly to God was choked off. I felt so guilty about smoking that I had turned away not just from myself and my goals of being healthy, but from God. He was a friend I was ashamed to look at.

The only thing to do is quit. Quit!

A year before, I had heard a sermon about the walls we build, brick by brick, between ourselves and God. Everything we do that goes against His wishes puts another brick in that wall. Our shame makes it harder for us to reach Him.

I thought the sermon was silly at the time. I've never been the perfect person, but I've always been able to reach God. I could
always
pray.

But now I literally couldn't, because of the cigarettes.

Time to try again. And harder.

Gradually, over weeks and months, I was able to cut back. I still have a craving, and I still occasionally give in. But I know I've gotten a lot better at
trying;
if I'm not entirely prepared to say I've won—you always worry you'll slip back—I have definitely turned a corner.

Still, it's a battle I wish I didn't have to have.

Faith continued to prop me up, and in different ways than before. That fall, friends of mine invited me to a small church they attended not far from my home. It was comfortable and informal—there were actually couches and stuffed chairs instead of pews at the back of the nave. The pastor was amazing, down to earth and humble, yet inspirational at the same time. A family man with five kids, he had a knack for relating the Bible to everyday life. People mingled after services.

I was taken by the family atmosphere, and began attending as regularly as possible. Eventually I was moved to tithe, something I'd never done in my life. I'd always felt that helping individuals and giving to charity was enough. But tithing is specifically outlined in the Bible; as a friend put it, these financial commitments help build the church and its mission. This church's outreach to the poor as well as the congregation as a whole has had a continuing and lasting impact in the community. And just being a member has had a profound impact on me.

To be absolutely honest, I still don't go to services
every
Sunday. But I can also truthfully say that there hasn't been a time that the sermon I've heard hasn't directly related to something going on in my life.

FAMILIES IN GRIEF

It took the death of my close friends V and Jennifer's nephew to help me realize I was moving away from the deepest depths of my own grief. Being there for them was, in many ways, more therapeutic for me than it ever could be for them.

LT was the son of V's identical twin brother. The twins are so close that they share everything—including LT, who was in all but name V's son. A high school honor student who joined the Marines upon graduation, LT was a strong, polite young man with a huge future ahead of him when he died at age twenty-five during a workout. His heart failed; his time on earth was up.

As soon as I heard, I drove out to their house. I ended up going over every day for a week, helping any way I could. Small things, mostly—the dishes, cooking. Mainly, I just showed up, which often is what is most important.

Though I still wish there was more that I could do.

Seeing their grief put mine in perspective. My mourning was hard and deep. Yet it didn't rob me of everything. It didn't take away who I was, or who I could be.

Yes, I was pushing through what seemed like endless mud. But I was pushing, and that was something.

Grief is a simple emotion, but its complications can be endless. I've seen more than one family broken apart by the loss of a loved one.

One of the saddest things is to see the separation that can develop between in-laws and the remaining spouse or other surviving relatives. I haven't lost a child, so it's difficult for me to step out and see things from that side. Maybe parents feel that, when death has ended a marriage, the dead son or daughter “reverts” back to them—the spouse, after all, goes on with his or her life. They can remarry, they can build something new. And that's doubly true for a brother or cousin, aunt or uncle.

From my perspective, the widow or widower does have to move forward. But they do so without losing the love they had for their spouse. In my case, I'll always love Chris, no matter what. I don't move away from grief, but rather through it.

My relationship with Chris's family has not always been easy. We struggle to get beyond the difficulties and misunderstandings. Unfortunately, with Chris gone, things will never be the same. There will always be heartache at the center of our relationship.

I think in some cases, the heartache can be so deep that it becomes an obstacle. Maybe the strength of the relationship beforehand can ease not the pain, but at least the transition.

Then again, I don't know. Grief is still an open chapter in my life, and in the lives of everyone who knew and was close to Chris, his family most especially. The final story has yet to be written.

There was a day in autumn when every battle and every struggle came to a critical point at the same time: a decision on the Jesse appeal had to be finalized, a decision on the Craft disputes had to be made, important work for the foundation had to be squared away, and on and on. I spent the day driving from one attorney to another. I was constantly on my phone making child-care arrangements, arranging care for the dogs, finding help for household chores.

It was chaotic and crazy. And it was good. Everything was moving forward. Things that had been started before Chris died were finally getting settled and I was moving on: not yet beyond them, but at least the possibility was there.

Somewhere on one of the drives, the tears started to come.

Nope, I told them. I'm moving forward.

They went away. I wish it were always that easy.

THE WEDDING RING

A few days later, I saw my psychiatrist to check on my progress.

“I notice that you're wearing your wedding ring,” he said after I sat down. “Do you think you might be in denial?”

I guess it was a fair question, but it caught me off guard.

“I know Chris is gone,” I said. “But I do feel as if I'm still married to him.”

I looked at my ring. It didn't mean I was in denial; it meant I loved Chris. Yet the question bothered me.

My husband is dead, and of course I acknowledge it. But that's different than shouting about it.

The ring is a symbol of our love as well as our marriage. How should I treat that symbol?

Do I have a problem?

I left the office in a quandary.

The Bible says “until death do you part.” I know that means that marriage lasts only until one death, and that it's okay for me to marry again. I know good friends who are widows, and I've encouraged them to marry, feeling it was right for them. One of my dearest friends decided to do just that this past summer. It hadn't been that long since her husband had died, but things had just come together, and her new love deserved to be acknowledged. It was another case, to me, of finding beauty through the ashes.

“I kept asking God, why now? Why so soon?” she confessed. “The answer that came back was, timing doesn't matter. Accept the gift.”

She's right. People may judge her, but she had the courage and strength to admit that she had something beautiful, and that the right thing to do was act on it. I know with certainty that not only was the man right but the timing was as well. They have strengthened each other, and I'm sure will have a life together many can only dream of.

Not long after my session with the doctor, I met a married friend of Chris's who'd been a SEAL. We talked about some of the things he and Chris had done together. The memories were fun, and we laughed quite hard.

Suddenly his tone became very serious.

“You know what a Team guy's biggest fear is?” he asked.

“What?”

“That he'll die and his wife will never let herself be loved again.”

I didn't know what to say.

“Yup,” he continued. “I got a guy all picked out for my wife if I die. He's not quite as cool as me, but he'd make a good husband.”