I Did. Now What?

8/30/00

Hi Hi Hi Hi hi hi;

Still in Okinawa, our flight has been delayed, we leave on the 2nd now. Well, the typhoon passed around us! Frank and I surfed the last three days till we were dead tired. One day the surf was so perfect, it looked like out of a magazine!! Life is good!! I actually sold two boards. I have one left, for big waves. It worked perfect for me this week. We are in limbo right now, just waiting for a ride. Just playing all day, no worries!! Have you kept to your program? Every day that passes and you are not active, it takes hours off your life, you selfish girl. You better outlive me!! How is the employment business treating you? Any more luck? Gonna go eat lunch. I am thin, like a pencil. But my hair is better than an eraser!!

Love, Chris
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A few months ago, I shared a very private experience with members of the Project Campbell’s Call team. I’ve debated internally about sharing it publicly. Today seemed to be the day to do it. The moments are etched in my brain. For a very long time, the calendar moved forward, but I couldn’t. It was always “the day before”, and I desperately wanted the clock to stop. That’s not how living works. Now, here I am, eleven years later, and I don’t know how that can be. The day before was August 5th 2011. I was attending a concert and stayed overnight at a hotel. Heading out of the lobby the next morning, I glanced over at the t.v. and saw ‘Breaking News’. The media got to me before my parents could. When I called them, my father answered and quickly handed the phone to my mom. I can only tell you that it felt like someone punched me in the throat, gut and knees at the same time. My partner, who was standing next to me, prevented me from crumbling to the ground and helped me make it to a bench. We had been in the process of checking out of the hotel, so he proceeded with that. I remember hearing a guttural howling and thinking how bizarre. A very kind man walked up and gave me a box of Kleenex, and it was then I realized the sound was coming from me.

I’m not a loud or boisterous person, and this momentary outburst was completely unexpected. Outwardly, I regained my composure, resumed my logical manner and presented a stoic demeanor. Internally, I was crumbling. I know Chris was being silly and serious in his email to me when I received it so many years ago. Reading his admonition after he died… it took my breath away. I did outlive him. Now what? I grew accustomed to hearing that everyone else’s pain was so much worse because I was “just a sister”, so I stifled my grief. Over a year after Chris was killed, a neighbor kindly made a referral to an event happening at a nearby Army post. At the last minute, I opted to go. Sitting in the last row in the back of the auditorium I heard the term “survivor”, for the first time, in reference to family members whose loved ones had died in service to our country. The tears began to flow down my cheeks. I didn’t want to be a survivor. I wanted my brother to be alive.

Getting a gold star usually indicates one has done exceptionally well. When in elementary school, I was elated if a homework assignment or test was returned to me with the coveted shiny gold star sticker. It was an indication that my hard work had been rewarded, and I had risen to the pinnacle of grade school glory. As a consumer, there are products with gold star labels. In work environments, the term is casually tossed about to acknowledge good work. I did not realize a serious label existed with severe significance and unbeknownst to me, I had joined the Gold Star Club. When I learned that I would be awarded a pin, I didn’t want it! It made my stomach turn, and I wanted to not just give it back but throw it back. Maybe, if I could throw it fast enough… hard enough… it would reverse my membership. This time, I did nothing to deserve a gold star. It was my brother who should receive all the honor and glory, for it was his courageous and valiant service to our country that warranted recognition. It was his death that made me a Gold Star Sister.

I adored Chris as a baby, argued with him as a teenager, and admired him as an adult. My life was made complete by his presence. Now that he is gone, my heart is irreparably broken and a reminder I will never be the same. I’ll love my brother forever and miss him for a lifetime. I’m not telling you this for sympathy but to let you know that Chris, the person who left a crazy, over-the-top request hoping that 100,000 people would donate to Wounded Warrior Project was not only my “baby” brother but the heartbeat of our family. Achieving his final mission has been overwhelming to consider as the years have passed. Although his heart stopped beating when he was killed in Afghanistan eleven years ago today on August 6, 2011, the unspoken message Chris left behind is one of intense love and heart. 

I know my brother well enough to know that it was about more than the count. His request is about the connection to the men and women who have selflessly served our country and have returned home to their families. No, it doesn’t mean our military service members are perfect – no one is. It’s seeing the humanity beyond the uniform and acknowledging that there are individuals who signed up to train to protect and defend our country, should they ever be called upon to do so. That comes with a price. From my limited and personal perspective, I can assure you, there are no winners in war. Wounded Warrior Project was created and exists to “pick up the pieces” and not everyone will need to utilize the services and programs they offer! If a military member does, they have a safety net waiting in WWP. The logo of this organization is a living one! Beyond his grave and through his last request, Chris bequeathed this solemn mission not only to our family but also to every citizen in the United States to take action by becoming 1 donor of 100,000 donors as a show of support to his military brothers and sisters who come home. My brother’s death didn’t give me a purpose, but it did give me a voice. It’s taken me a long while to find it.