Stay Safe: Epilogue
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.
The events held in memory of the fallen men and the mourning and the just dealing with stuff—house, money, computers, gear—continued on for many, many more months. I know I will never be done mourning and I assume the memorial events will continue for the rest of my life. The other stuff, that business of death, eventually ended, though Dad dealt with all of that after August and I know it was stressful for him.I don’t know if I will ever get to a point where I can think, write or talk about Rob without crying.After August ended, I attempted to move on with regular life. It hasn’t really worked. I think about Rob all the time. I think about what I really want to do with my life. I think about how to live each day to the fullest. I think about not not spending one minute doing anything that makes me unhappy. That is how Rob lived. I feel tremendously alone without my brother.Looking back on that month, I realize how many friends and family members had birthdays in the days following Rob’s death. And I missed every single one of them. I remember thinking how everyone was so selfish during that time, absorbing our grieving time as their own; but upon reflection, I can see how wrong I was. I was focused on anything but my own grief and worked hard to focus on everyone else. But everyone was trying to help us, I just didn’t realize it at the time. Our friends and family were being selfless. And I couldn’t be more grateful for the love and support my Dad and I have received from everyone around us.And looking back on that summer, before tragedy struck, I realize now that Rob acted strangely before this last deployment. Did he somehow know this one would be different? He had been talking to my dad about how things had changed with his deployments over the years and he was looking forward to a career that didn't require him to carry a gun. We always made time to see each other, committing to in-person visits at Christmas and on the Fourth of July if Rob wasn’t on deployment during those holidays. And Rob usually made a visit during his pre-deployment leave. But this time, he didn’t. And he didn’t call from the airport to say goodbye, as he had done every other time. This will always haunt me.I am so glad for the time that we had together, the conversations that we shared and all that he taught me. It wasn’t nearly enough time. We hadn’t experienced enough of life together. But I am glad, very glad for the time that we had. Though I still worry that I didn't spend enough time with my brother while he was alive. I feel guilty about a last minute trip cancellation to spend the weekend with him that last year because work got in the way. I could hear the disappointment in his voice when I called to back out. And I hate myself for that. Rob and I talked about working together some day. We were trying to figure out a way to do that. We made good partners in the endeavors we took on together and just somehow knew that working together would be both successful and gratifying. We were getting close to that.I always had a hard time saying "I love you" to Rob. He never had trouble saying it to me; in fact, he said it every time we talked or saw each other. I have a hard time admitting love to anyone for anyone. I don't know why this is. Perhaps I am afraid of feeling the loss when they are gone if I admit that I love. But the loss is just as painful, regardless of whether I've given my love a voice or not. Rob always knew that I loved him, though I wish I had voiced that more.In fact, I don't like many people. I never feel compelled to like people, for any reason, even if they are family. But I genuinely liked Rob. He was a likable person. I was not alone in this: everyone that met him almost instantly loved him. He had a marked facility for making friends. He was funny, generous, and nice to everyone. He wanted everyone to feel welcomed and comfortable in his presence. Even when he didn't like someone, which he admitted very infrequently and only in select company, he was still nice so that the person never knew how he really felt. Truly an admirable trait. Even if Rob were not my brother, I would genuinely like him.The walls of my house are lined with pictures of my brother and pictures of all my family. It has been that way since I divorced and finally felt at liberty to personalize the house with images of those whom I love most. It was after my mom died and I wanted to see her face still regularly—and with my mom came the rest of my family, Dad and Rob. Now with Rob gone, the images are all that more painful, but more meaningful, too. Each image tells me a different story and though I've spent months staring at his image—in papers, on TV, online, in specially produced remembrance videos—those pictures I selected for my home are still special.And now we have a roomful of Rob's stuff. Everything he owned fit into the sunroom of the house where we grew up. And we don't know what to do with this stuff. But we don't want to rid ourselves of any of it. Though that is exactly what Rob would tell us to do with it. He was a minimalist, as evident by the fact that all his possessions fit in this tiny room. But it is overwhelming to stand at the threshold of that room and think about the emotional trauma that will ensue upon diving into the bags, cases and boxes. It is the same sense of overwhelm that I get when I look at all of my mom's valued possessions boxed up in the same house, where we all lived and grew up together. I want all of this stuff that others may see as just taking up space. I still think that a piece of my mom and a piece of my brother is with each and every one of those items. Which is why I still can't bring myself to look through and touch each thing, knowing a piece of my mom and my brother are a part of each item. These things don’t hold the memories. They just remind me to remember. But do I really need reminding? No. These are just things that hold no value but emotions.I’ve continued writing letters to Rob, sharing my life, and when I just need someone who really understands me. There are so many things I want to tell him about. I am just not done with needing him yet and don’t think that I ever will be. I still believe he can help me through this life, so I’ll continue writing to him.
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