Stay Safe: Chapter Two
What follows is a chapter from "Stay Safe: Life After Loss," a book that I wrote following the death of my brother, Robert James Reeves. Rob, only 14-months younger than me and 32 years old at the time of his death, was a Navy SEAL on the prestigious SEAL Team 6. On August 6, 2011, while on a mission in Afghanistan, he and too many of his teammates and other servicemen, lost their lives when their helicopter was shot down by enemy fire. It was the single largest loss of American life in the Afghan war. And because of the high profile nature of this event–being on the cusp of the Bin Laden mission and the number of those lost–my dad and I were part of many, many memorials and events, and the recipients of much outreach, and the point of contact for all those wanting to do something in Rob’s memory. This book chronicles the first month after his death. I am releasing a chapter a day starting August 5th as we mark the fourth anniversary of life without him.
On the morning of August 6, 2011 news stations were reporting that a helicopter full of special forces was shot down in Afghanistan. I was still in bed groggily trying to coax my feet to the floor when I got a text message from my dad. He was asking if I had heard from my brother that morning. He was worried as Rob was currently in Afghanistan, on his regularly scheduled four-month deployment serving as a Navy SEAL. He had been there less than a month. I had not heard from Rob, and told my dad so, "Dad, Rob is fine. We would know if something had happened." He was always fine. Dad obviously had a bad feeling about this one, because his response didn't sound as confident. "It sounds like there were a lot of people involved in this accident and it was right where Rob is stationed, if the news was reporting accurately." I could hear the worry in the tone of the message. It was like he already knew, a parent’s sixth sense that their child has been harmed.
I live in Little Rock, Arkansas but was planning a trip to Shreveport, Louisiana that day to visit Dad. I had just gotten home the night before from a week long trip for work and was still tired and not really looking forward to re-packing for yet another trip so soon. But Dad had been keeping my dogs—a black Lab named Betty and a blonde Lab/Husky mix named Blanche—for several months and I needed to relieve him of that duty. So I reluctantly got out of bed and into the shower. While I was in the shower, my phone pinged with a new message that I expected to be a message confirming that Rob was safe. I reached out, my arm dripping with water, to check the phone for this anticipated confirmation. Instead I received a text from Bethard, a close friend living in Dallas, with whom Rob and I grew up and would always be in our lives, with a picture of her little son that made me smile. She was either unaware of the news that we were currently hearing and question that we were awaiting an answer to, or was aware and was just generally hoping for the best by being positive and making me smile on this Saturday morning. Dad called a little later, still worried and asked me to call Rob's girlfriend to see if she had heard anything. I sent Rob a quick email to see if I might get a response directly from him and then I sent his girlfriend a text message. She never responded.
I got another text message from Dad saying he was very worried. I continued getting dressed, refusing to be worried about this. We spent a lot of years with Rob in the Navy and there was always something to worry about, regardless of whether he was home or on deployment. I forced myself to stop thinking about the bad stuff that could happen a long time ago.
Rob was on that helicopter.
I was packing my suitcase when I got the call from Dad. He was so straightforward and matter-of-fact: he had just gotten off the phone with Jerritt, one of Rob's friends in the SEALs. I had to ask if Rob was okay because Dad hadn't actually used the words. “Emily. I just got a call. Rob was on that helicopter.” I lost my breath, but not wanting to assume the worst, I had to ask: “And, he’s…?” Dad: “Gone. Rob died. Are you ok?” Me, barely breathing: “I. I. I don’t know.” Dad: “Can you please call Grammie and Michelle? There are guys from the Navy who are getting on a plane and will be landing in Shreveport at six o’clock tonight.” This information was so direct—flying at me too fast. I was in shock and remained quiet. Dad: “Emily?” Me: “Yes?” Dad: “Can you do that? And are you coming to Shreveport now?” Me: “Yes.” Dad: “ Ok. See you soon. I love you.”
Rob was dead. One minute he existed. The next minute he didn’t. Time didn’t stop, the rest of our lives didn’t cease to exist. But it felt that way in that moment.
We are not supposed to be notified by phone. Jerritt broke from procedure and called us because the Navy’s notification team—of which Jerritt was a part—was having trouble getting a flight to Shreveport and he knew that Dad would be worried. The significant loss of SEALs had hit the news stream. Dad said Jerritt was crying when he called. Numbness. That is what I felt. Overwhelming sadness that froze me. Everything I saw was fuzzy around the edges. My chest was heavy and I had to concentrate to breathe and not panic.
I allowed myself a few minutes of crying. What I really wanted to do was curl up on my closet floor, close the door and cry and never, ever leave. But there was no one to take care of me or the business that needed to happen, so I created spaces in my head and put Rob, with all the associated thoughts and emotions in one space and placed my consciousness in another space, then set about my accomplishing my task list of things that needed to happen before I could get in the car and drive to Shreveport. I couldn’t mourn yet. I was not ready to face the fact that I would never see Rob or hear from Rob again. I nursed fantasies that it was all a mistake and we would soon learn that all was well.
My first call was to a person I consider a best friend and someone who seems to always know what to say. He answered the phone, was stunned by what I had to say, and really didn't know how to respond. I think the phone call lasted under one minute. I should have expected that. Why would anyone know how to respond to that kind of news? Though truly, I couldn’t speak. To actually say the words—Rob is dead—took too much effort. I still can’t say those words. I avoid those words. I talk around those words. Because I don’t trust the reaction my brain, emotions and voice will have by just saying those words. I could not write
“My brother is dead.” I decided there was no way I could make another call like that. I texted my other friends. Still, I was vague in the text messages because I wasn't quite ready to accept the reality of even writing those words. I said something about wanting them to know that Rob was on the helicopter that crashed and that I was headed to Shreveport to be with Dad. The Navy would be coming that afternoon, I wrote to them. I texted my employers—though after 10 years of working for them at the time, I consider them friends and even family—to let them know that I would be out of the office for an unidentified time. Then, I calmly, too calmly, finished packing, loaded the car and ran my planned errands before getting on the road to Shreveport.
I sat at the car dealership while my tires were checked.
I bought a new toiletries bag.
I put gas in my car.
I did all of this without revealing to those around me that my life had just been turned upside down. In a survival mode, I compartmentalized thoughts, emotions and general being.
Though I told people I didn't want to talk, friends called anyway. Though if I answered, they didn’t really know what to say and most started crying. They were calling to give condolences if they had heard the news that Rob was involved. They were calling to see if Rob was okay if they were just hearing the story on the news. They were calling to check on me. They were calling to find out what they could do for me. Offers to drive me to Shreveport abounded, thinking I couldn't and shouldn't do it by myself. I didn't want help and I didn't want to be with anyone. I stopped answering the phone at all. And just drove alone with my thoughts. I had an audio book playing, hoping that would distract me. But I wasn’t listening to the book at all. I felt like I was on autopilot. I had driven this road many times over the years, so I didn’t have to think about where I was going. And traffic was light that Saturday morning. I drove in a daze. Every once in a while, tears would well up in my eyes, blurring my vision, and I would swallow hard, then take a deep breath and refocus on the road. I bounced back and forth between attempts to listen to the audio book and wallowing in my thoughts and memories of Rob that were bubbling up.
I have two good friends from high school, Crista and Mindy, the two that had recently moved back to Shreveport with their families. I met both Crista and Mindy when we were freshmen in high school. Back then, Crista was an outgoing troublemaker and we clicked instantly. She was the perfect balance to me. I was introverted, yet curious and always ready-for-adventure. Crista could usually find an adventure and I would willingly take part. We were inseparable in high school and stayed close throughout college and after. Our friendship and need for adventure had even led us on a cross-country road trip just after college graduation to deliver Rob’s car to him in San Diego. The trip included several needs for roadside assistance in a car that wasn’t up for the trip, a visit to a professional karaoke bar in west Texas, a cumbersome boarder crossing to and from Mexico and an unfortunate vomiting event in the freshly delivered car. It was on that trip that we met Jerritt, who would be arriving in Shreveport later that evening to give us our official notification that Rob was dead. And it was about that trip that we would reminisce with Jerritt later that evening.
Mindy was a gymnast and cheerleader, naive and cheery. Her dark hair, freckles and petite frame perfectly complement her girl-next-door demeanor. Always up for a good time and usually willing to be our designated driver, Mindy was the girl that met the man she would marry in high school and was still with to this day. Faithful, persistent and optimistic, she usually worked hard to keep us out of trouble growing up. She has always had a mom-like personality and it was shining through strongly on this dreadful day.
Crista and Mindy each dropped everything they were doing and immediately went to Dad’s house after I sent them the text message about Rob. Via text, they started reporting back to me on how he was doing, who was there and steps they were taking to make sure he was being taken care of while I was en route home. My drive was frequently interrupted by their text updates, as well as from others checking in on me, leaving messages and texting when I didn’t answer. But the greatest upset was the interruption from my grandmother, my mom’s mom, who we referred to as Grammie, calling me. I hadn’t called her yet. I talked to my aunt Michelle, my mom’s sister, who had agreed to call Grammie. I didn’t think I could get through that call. But Grammie watches the news 24/7. She knew a group of SEALs were dead. She knew Rob was in Afghanistan. And it turns out that amongst those my dad had called there was one of those people who just has to be the one to say they knew something first—a “friend” of my dad—that got the news to Grammie before we could get it to her ourselves. My aunt was traveling and was trying to get someone to be there with Grammie when the news officially arrived. Grammie did not need to be alone when receiving the news, especially since her husband had died only a few months prior—which had been the last time I had actually seen Rob in person, that final visit with Bawpaw, our grandfather, when we knew he was dying that previous March. But we couldn’t control the information distribution, even to our own family.
The call did not go well. My grandmother, in her lifetime, had now lost two grandsons, a daughter and her husband. She was understandably distraught. And it broke my heart even further that she had to find out the way that she did. It is one thing to receive bad news. It is another entirely to have to deliver bad news, that a “friend” claimed the task before family could carry it out.
I arrived in Shreveport and pulled in my dad’s driveway at the house where I grew up. Even before going inside, I could tell there were a lot of people at the house. The street was lined with cars and there were a few cars in the driveway that I didn’t recognize. I put the car in park and took a deep breath. I knew all these people in the house were waiting for me to arrive and I sat there trying to gain composure to face people who knew that Rob was dead.
This would be my first time to see someone face-to-face, us both knowing the news. Up until this point, I had mainly been text messaging, with only a few brief phone calls. Dad saw my car pull up and walked outside to greet me, separate from the rest of the people in the house. He walked over to the driver’s side of my car as I got out and gave me a tight hug. I momentarily lost my composure. We separated and I wiped my eyes, conscious that there were people watching us from the windows of our house.
It was hot and sticky outside. I was already sweating after just a couple of minutes out of the air conditioned car and my nerves were making it worse as I knew all the face-to-face sorrow that was awaiting me. Dad and I walked through the backdoor, into the kitchen.
Inside I found a roomful of people, which really made everything worse. I walked in the back door to sad, pitiful faces waiting for me to cry. Everyone wanted to hug me and tell me they were sorry. I felt like what they really wanted was to make themselves feel better. This was my first taste of the weeks to come: I felt like I was comforting everyone else more than they are comforting me. I was angry. Angry at everyone and everything. I didn’t know it yet, but it was going to be a long time before I actually allowed myself to grieve.
The kitchen table was covered in food and the back porch filled with ice chests. It reminded me of my mom’s death, the way people reacted was to bring food and drink and I remembered how much I love the South. I instantly felt very southern.
I would have thought that we barely had time to disseminate the news in the five hours since Jerritt called Dad, and would have never imagined that people would react so quickly with these acts of kindness and sympathy—showing up to find out what we needed and how they could help, delivering food, setting up drinks on the back porch—our friends were preparing our house for the onslaught of visitors that would be coming through the house soon. There was such an outpouring of love and sorrow. Though at the same time, I didn’t appreciate the fact that all these people were here already. I really struggled with feeling both appreciation and resentment. I just hadn’t had time to process the fact that Rob was gone. We hadn’t even gotten our “official” notification from the Navy. And I don’t like a big show of emotion; it makes me uncomfortable. I locked my face into what I thought was a position of concerned, but peaceful grief, and began comforting those that walked through the door to share their own grief and pain in an attempt to turn myself into a perfect Southern hostess. It was a mask I was wearing; I was showing people what I thought they wanted to see from me. Or I thought I was.
I had a part to play, and I was attempting to play that part with confidence. People asked how I was doing, but how was I really supposed to answer that? To say how I really felt—overwhelmed, depressed, sick, sad beyond words—would make them uncomfortable. I have been through this before; people ask how you are doing and want you to respond that you are doing ok because they don’t really know how to deal with the truth. Having people look at me with more pity wouldn’t make conversation any easier for me. So I avoided the answer to that question and instead diverted attention to the things that needed to be done and how to divvy out roles and responsibilities. I focused on keeping people fed and glasses full and encouraged story telling about Rob and asked people about their own families, jobs and lives. I asked after their children and their grandchildren, sometimes struggling to remember the names and occupations of those that I grew up with. It was hard and felt like intense work without an end to the workday or workweek in sight. I felt that wouldn’t be able to keep this front up for long just because it was physically and mentally exhausting.
This went on all afternoon. A constant stream of people through the door, the phone ringing. People wanted to be there for me and for Dad and wanted to express their condolences, but I don’t think that they realized how much it took out of us to have each and every conversation. Each person felt personally affected by Rob’s death. I wanted to scream “It is not about you!” I wanted to be selfish and wanted all of these visitors and callers to know it was about me. My life had been fundamentally altered. They wouldn’t think about him every day for the rest of their lives like I knew that I would. This is small part of their history and a large part of mine. But I didn’t do that. I was polite all day.
On a normal day, I check my Twitter and Facebook feeds before even getting out of bed, turn on the news as soon as I am moving in the morning, and read blog feeds before changing out of pajamas. That routine did not happen on this day. I was avoiding news channels; I didn’t want to hear others talking about this news. Looking back on it now, I don’t think I did any of those things for the entire month of August. But the news media found us. By the time I arrived in Shreveport, Dad had already talked to two reporters about Rob, his service and his death. He was—correction, is—so proud of Rob and proud to have him as a son, he just couldn’t resist talking when they called. The first request he had when I walked in the door was to get a picture of Rob to the local paper. I reacted quickly because it was important to Dad to get this done and he needed my help to do, though I didn’t agree with information going to the media so quickly, before we even knew the full extent of what had happened. I found a picture on my phone, cropped it and sent it on, not realizing that this photo would be the one picked up and used across all media outlets throughout the month of August—and beyond—as they all reported on the men lost in the crash. It was a beautiful picture of Rob, but I didn’t know I was presenting Rob to the world with that one photo. Dad was granting all requests of him. It gave him something to focus on, actions to take. He thought that was what he was supposed to do. He hadn’t yet realized the impact a conversation with the media can have when he talked to reporters as they called. A New York Times article and a Shreveport Times article, both quoting him, were published the next day.
Once I realized that he had talked to reporters and more were calling, I asked that he stop. Maybe it was not important, but I was just not ready to share Rob with the world yet. Perhaps I don’t have a choice when an American hero dies. I know that Rob would not want to referred to as a hero. I also know he would say he was just doing job and that it took the full team to accomplish any task. He was always so humble. I had always admired that in him. When strangers found out he was in the service, which he avoided mentioning at all costs usually, the strangers would typically say “thank you for your service.” My brother would smile and kindly say, “thank you for paying your taxes.” It always made me giggle. It was his humble way of just saying that we are all doing our parts for the country and his was no better than the stranger standing across from him and thanking him. In his opinion, anyway.
Though I have much respect for the media, I also knew that they would ask questions that we shouldn’t have been answering, given the secretive nature of Rob’s job. Dad couldn’t help but share this information; he was proud. But at the time, he was sharing information that he hadn’t even confirmed yet. Later that evening, the Navy would provide us with a standard statement to read to the media over the phone, directing them to a Navy representative for more information.
The notification team from the Navy, S., M., and Jerritt, arrived at our house later that evening, dressed in their full dress blues uniforms. Though we were expecting them and already knew the news they were there to deliver, actually seeing them standing on the front porch through the glass windows on either side of the door in their uniforms, hats perched atop their heads, waiting patiently for us to answer the door, I felt the lump in my throat and had a catch in my breath. Until this point, beneath the surface of the reality in my head, I had let myself think it could be a mistake. Rob’s death was about to become official.
I immediately felt sorry for these men to have be dressed that way in the staggering August heat of Louisiana and having to deliver this official news, the worst news in the world, to us tonight. Worrying about them and thinking of their well-being kept me from focusing on mine, which was how I was avoiding a total breakdown. We all introduced ourselves to each other and I offered them drinks, which they politely declined, as if this was a normal visit to our house. But it wasn’t. They had business to conduct.
We all sat down in the living room, while the rest of the people in the house holed themselves up in the kitchen and whispered among themselves. The guys took off their hats and Jerritt was the one to deliver the official news. He started with “at XX time of day, Rob was aboard a XX helicopter in Afghanistan when an RPG hit the helicopter sending it down with no survivors.”
I detached myself in this moment. I was looking down at their hats sitting carefully on the coffee table and focusing on the details of each hat and the differences between them. Jerritt was talking, but I couldn’t hear his words, didn’t want to hear his words. Those Navy hats became the most interesting thing in the world to me at that moment. I noticed everything about them: the stark white top, the shiny black brim, the intricate metal emblems on the front each. If I processed what he was saying, I would break down in front of these guys and I wanted to be strong for Dad. I knew he would break if he saw me break. He was probably thinking the same thing of me. I think Dad and I tried to make their jobs that night a little easier; neither of us cried, got angry or shut them out. We accepted the official notification, asked a few questions and invited them to take off their jackets and join us for food and drink.
And they accepted. They rolled up their sleeves and joined friends and family they had never met before and it was like we had known them forever. All around our kitchen table.
That evening, when they were speaking to us, I wondered if Rob had ever had to do this. Did he ever have to tell a family that their soldier was dead? I don’t think that he did, because I don’t recall him talking about it. But I also realize how painful it must be to have to be the person assigned to a family in grief and I can imagine Rob wanting to shield us from that experience by not telling us of his role in something like this. I hope that he never had to do it.
The friends that stuck around, along with Dad and me, spent the remainder of the evening drinking, eating, laughing, telling stories, sweating and getting to know each other. It was just as Rob would have wanted it, I think: a party. The Navy guys, Shreveport friends, Crista and Mindy who refused to leave my side (and I was so grateful for their stubbornness on that point), and our family, together around the kitchen table. Our iconic kitchen table, the heart of the house that we grew up in. Rob and I used to playfully argue over which of us would get that kitchen table one day. I remember Rob said it was the only thing in the house that he wanted, but I wanted it too. Though I think I would have eventually let him win, I always did.
I like that Jerritt was there because I feel like he is my friend, too. Although it has been a long time since I had seen him, at least I had met him before and we had some good times to reflect on from that visit I made to San Diego in 2000. Jerritt and Rob met during BUD/S and were ultimately put on the same SEAL team after graduation. They started as roommates and eventually became business partners, investing in real estate together in San Diego and then again in Virginia Beach when they were joined SEAL Team 6. I know that Rob and he had a bit of a rough patch in their friendship, and he was open with us about that. But I felt, and perhaps this wasn’t true and I just needed it to be, that Rob and Jerritt were still friends along the way. Perhaps Rob would have chosen someone else to do the official notification and become a de facto member of our family, like all three of these guys would soon become, but I was glad it was Jerritt that was there that night.
I really need Rob. I wasn’t ready for him to leave my life. I like to believe that I need no one, but it is not true. And the sudden blow of someone I need leaving my life forever felt like a ton of bricks landing on my stomach.That night I wrote Rob a letter. It made me feel better to believe that I could still talk to him. I wrote him every day for a long time after that. I signed every letter how I how signed every email to him when he was on deployment: “Stay safe.” I can’t explain why, but it felt like the best way to sign off, as if nothing had changed and I was writing him as I normally would.Read other chapters of this book.
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