The things that remind me of Shane always seem to surprise me. Yes, I think about him almost every minute of the day in one way or another. There are photographs of him all over where I live and I can't speak to either of my parents without thinking of him. Almost all music reminds me of him in one way or another. None of these things ever creep up on me; they're expected and so I deal with the emotions that they bring accordingly.
It's the unexpected things that manage to take my breath away and choke me up. Today, I drove down Woodward Ave., passing the Detroit Artists Market. I drive past DAM at least a couple times a week. But today was the first day that there was snow on the ground. So it wasn't until today that I remembered that Shane and I had done Christmas shopping there for our parents last year. Shane and I visited the Market on a day much like today. Slush in the streets, a gray sky, biting cold air. I remember that I conscientiously didn't put enough money in the meter and left a ticket to chance. We spent about an hour in the Market, walking around, looking at all the art, most of which we couldn't afford. We purchased a handblown glass vase for our mother. We verbalized to one another that it was perfect for her because it was in shades of blue and reminded us of the water. And for our father, we got a painting of a lone wolf with its back to the viewer, staring off into the distance. Shane made a joke about a wolf pack and The Hangover, but from the amount of time that he spent looking at the painting, I know that there was a lot more going on behind his selection.
After picking out gifts for our parents, I took our selections to the desk and realized that Shane wasn't with me. I went back onto the main floor of the Market, finding Shane staring, contemplating, at a photograph. It's entitled "Extraordinary Light" and was taken in Michigan Central Station. The photographer printed the photo on metallic paper, so it has an aged, almost magical quality to it. It's a beautiful photograph that I will not attempt to further describe with words because there are simply things that do not translate between mediums. I didn't say anything to Shane at first, instead watching him stare at the photograph. At the time in December 2009, Shane rarely did things like this. He didn't take quiet moments for himself to reflect, and I knew that I was lucky to be getting to see him like this. That was probably one of the last times I saw him like that -- contemplative, thoughtful, lost in his head. When I look back on it now, I feel like I stole a little piece of him that day. He didn't know how long I was standing behind him. Maybe a few minutes passed, but it felt like much longer. I asked him if he was ready to go and he said yes.
I returned the next day and purchased "Extraordinary Light" for him. That was my last Christmas present to my brother, and I just now realized that. I'm looking at the photograph right now. It resides on top of a chest of drawers in my bedroom, across from my bed. It's one of the first things I see when I wake up in the morning and one of the last I see when I go to sleep at night. Shane was supposed to take it with him to Fort Campbell, but he left it at home, claiming that it would only get damaged with moving around. And he was probably right. So I ended up keeping his last Christmas present for safekeeping, until he would return from his deployment.
And I suppose that I will continue to hold on to it for safekeeping. That's one of the only pieces of comfort I take from Shane being killed in action. For me, I think he will always be deployed. He will never age and we will never grow apart. We just won't have spoken for awhile because, in my mind, I can allow him to just be out on a mission, unable to write or call. Maybe that's all the afterlife is, just not speaking to the ones we love for an extended period of time. Maybe they're always there, always right around a corner, just out of earshot. Maybe they're in our dreams, residing in that thin veil between reality and the unknown. I suppose that, for right now, while the rest of us are still living, they can live where ever we imagine them. Every time I look at photographs from Afghanistan, I imagine that Shane has somehow evaded the camera. That he is right outside of the frame, with his brothers, in his uniform, slightly slouched, making a half smile or grimacing his eyebrows, depending upon his mood. That's where Shane lives for me.
Pfc Shane M. Reifert
Shane during a sweep of the Shuryak Valley, approximately 3 weeks before he was killed. Photo Credit: PFC Sean Stromback
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
ACTS Match; Donations Update
From my dad:
"Home from an amazing day spent with 60+ motivated shooters that showed up to support the PFC Shane M. Reifert Memorial ACTS Match. Thanks to all who came out to support this cause. This match was to support Shane's brothers of the 2nd Platoon, Bravo Co. 1/327 1BCT 101st ABN Bushmasters!
Thanks to USMC Veteran Jon Cross and Barb Stockford, Navy Mom, and all the fine folks that helped to make this match happen!"
My dad was truly impressed with everyone who showed up and all of the money that was raised.
DONATIONS UPDATE:
Shipments of top quality all-terrain boots were sent off to Shane's brothers. We ordered them each a pair of Asolo TPS 520 GV hiking boots from REI.
They will also be receiving sets of Under Armour to protect them from the upcoming cold winter weather in Afghanistan. We're hoping that these things will reach them before Christmas, but it's tough to tell how long it will take for everything to get to them.
I am privileged to communicate with some of Shane's brothers in Bravo Company online. They are humble, kind, gracious men. They never ask for anything; there's never anything that they want or need, even though I tell them that, legally, the money we have raised cannot be spent on anyone but them. I'm sure it cannot be easy for them to contact my family and me, but they do. They check in and ask if we're doing okay and genuinely care about my response. They are planning trips to Michigan to visit after they come home from deployment. I'm honored that they spend some of their precious time speaking with me, when they could be speaking with family or friends instead. Each one of them holds a special place in my heart and I'm glad that I am able to get to know them. I'm even more glad that we're able to help them.
OPERATION BULLDOG:
If anyone is interested in seeing some of the men with whom Shane fought, please watch this YouTube video of Operation Bulldog.
"Home from an amazing day spent with 60+ motivated shooters that showed up to support the PFC Shane M. Reifert Memorial ACTS Match. Thanks to all who came out to support this cause. This match was to support Shane's brothers of the 2nd Platoon, Bravo Co. 1/327 1BCT 101st ABN Bushmasters!
Thanks to USMC Veteran Jon Cross and Barb Stockford, Navy Mom, and all the fine folks that helped to make this match happen!"
My dad was truly impressed with everyone who showed up and all of the money that was raised.
DONATIONS UPDATE:
Shipments of top quality all-terrain boots were sent off to Shane's brothers. We ordered them each a pair of Asolo TPS 520 GV hiking boots from REI.
They will also be receiving sets of Under Armour to protect them from the upcoming cold winter weather in Afghanistan. We're hoping that these things will reach them before Christmas, but it's tough to tell how long it will take for everything to get to them.
I am privileged to communicate with some of Shane's brothers in Bravo Company online. They are humble, kind, gracious men. They never ask for anything; there's never anything that they want or need, even though I tell them that, legally, the money we have raised cannot be spent on anyone but them. I'm sure it cannot be easy for them to contact my family and me, but they do. They check in and ask if we're doing okay and genuinely care about my response. They are planning trips to Michigan to visit after they come home from deployment. I'm honored that they spend some of their precious time speaking with me, when they could be speaking with family or friends instead. Each one of them holds a special place in my heart and I'm glad that I am able to get to know them. I'm even more glad that we're able to help them.
OPERATION BULLDOG:
If anyone is interested in seeing some of the men with whom Shane fought, please watch this YouTube video of Operation Bulldog.
Signs
"What you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way. Is it possible that there are no coincidences?"
-- Signs
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Pearl Harbor
Today is the 69th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Please take a moment out of your day to remember those who died in the attack and the many others who were left with holes in their hearts as a result of the attack.
If you're interested in learning more, National Geographic has a comprehensive page dedicated to Pearl Harbor.
Thank you to everyone who died on that fateful day 69 years ago. Thank you to those who keep their memories alive.
If you're interested in learning more, National Geographic has a comprehensive page dedicated to Pearl Harbor.
Thank you to everyone who died on that fateful day 69 years ago. Thank you to those who keep their memories alive.
Because They Don't Make Hallmark Cards for This
Attempting to learn from every experience that comes my way, I will take this much from Anonymous -- to be more openly thankful and grateful to those who love and care for me. So I'm going to thank 5 people today on my blog, because they are the 5 people in my head right now, regardless of whether I think they will actually be reading.
Thank you to Julianne, who was at school studying on November 6. Thank you for being at school, for allowing me to get us Starbucks, for sitting in that classroom with horrible temperature control, for that conversation we had about your moot court problem right before I got a phone call that would change both of our lives. Thank you for being there and for allowing me to be there with you when I got that phone call. A side thank you to whatever in the universe made me go to school that day so that I wouldn't be alone when I got that phone call. Thank you for pulling me to the ground and holding me when I started shaking and kept asking you, "what are we going to do" and repeating "no." Thank you for being strong for both of us that day.
Thank you to Scott Ramon Seguro Mescudi, a/k/a Kid Cudi, whom I will probably never meet in my real life and who most certainly will never read this. Your music has given me wonderful moments with Shane during his life and his death. Your new album was the only music that I could listen to after Shane was killed. I know you never met Shane and you couldn't have known that your music would speak to me so much, but I will always feel like you wrote that album for me to help me get through all of this. I do know that you know grief and loss and I hear that every time I listen to your music. Thank you for writing the line "birds seen flying around, you never see them too long on the ground," because I keep that in my heart and say it everyday.
Kid Cudi's "Mr. Rager"
Thank you to Patty, the director at Gendernalik Funeral Home in New Baltimore, Michigan. Thank you for knowing when I needed a hug and when I did not. Thank you for being magical, in that you are a strong woman and a kind woman at the same time. Thank you for making a really shitty time in my family's life as not shitty as possible. Thank you for allowing us to play rap music during Shane's viewing. I told you that I hoped I never had to see you again, and I mean that in the best way possible. But if I ever do have to be at a funeral home again, I wouldn't mind being around you, because you care and you take care of people and I wish that I could be more like you.
Thank you to my big brother, Garrett. I know that you didn't have to do anything that you have done for my family. You didn't know if we would love you or hate you, but you were there, anyways. You didn't have to be at the funeral home every day, all day. You didn't have to be at the funeral. You didn't have to stick around afterward for my family and me. I know that you don't have to be my new big brother but I'm so glad that you are. You remind me that family isn't just the one into which you are born, but the one you make yourself. Thank you for making me happy and sad at the same time when you talk about the Army and war and life, because sometimes I allow myself to pretend that I'm listening to Shane instead of you. You were the source material for many of Shane's opinions on those topics, and I'm so glad that he learned from you and that I get to have you in my life if I can't have Shane. My mom says that she can see how good of a soul you have. I don't have the ability to see that, but I feel it every time you check on me and make sure that I'm doing okay and studying and not falling off the face of the planet. I hope that I'm as decent of a little sister as I was of a big sister, because you're going to be stuck with me for awhile.
Thank you to my mom's cousin, Peggy. Thank you for sitting with me before the funeral started, even though we didn't know one another. Thank you for not being religious and for not telling me that Shane was in a better place and for not telling me that you were praying for my family and me. Thank you for being a real person and for understanding without me having to say much. Thank you for being one of the few people that I could talk to inside of the church and for finding me where I was hiding and for just sitting with me.
Thank you to Julianne, who was at school studying on November 6. Thank you for being at school, for allowing me to get us Starbucks, for sitting in that classroom with horrible temperature control, for that conversation we had about your moot court problem right before I got a phone call that would change both of our lives. Thank you for being there and for allowing me to be there with you when I got that phone call. A side thank you to whatever in the universe made me go to school that day so that I wouldn't be alone when I got that phone call. Thank you for pulling me to the ground and holding me when I started shaking and kept asking you, "what are we going to do" and repeating "no." Thank you for being strong for both of us that day.
Thank you to Scott Ramon Seguro Mescudi, a/k/a Kid Cudi, whom I will probably never meet in my real life and who most certainly will never read this. Your music has given me wonderful moments with Shane during his life and his death. Your new album was the only music that I could listen to after Shane was killed. I know you never met Shane and you couldn't have known that your music would speak to me so much, but I will always feel like you wrote that album for me to help me get through all of this. I do know that you know grief and loss and I hear that every time I listen to your music. Thank you for writing the line "birds seen flying around, you never see them too long on the ground," because I keep that in my heart and say it everyday.
Kid Cudi's "Mr. Rager"
Thank you to Patty, the director at Gendernalik Funeral Home in New Baltimore, Michigan. Thank you for knowing when I needed a hug and when I did not. Thank you for being magical, in that you are a strong woman and a kind woman at the same time. Thank you for making a really shitty time in my family's life as not shitty as possible. Thank you for allowing us to play rap music during Shane's viewing. I told you that I hoped I never had to see you again, and I mean that in the best way possible. But if I ever do have to be at a funeral home again, I wouldn't mind being around you, because you care and you take care of people and I wish that I could be more like you.
Thank you to my big brother, Garrett. I know that you didn't have to do anything that you have done for my family. You didn't know if we would love you or hate you, but you were there, anyways. You didn't have to be at the funeral home every day, all day. You didn't have to be at the funeral. You didn't have to stick around afterward for my family and me. I know that you don't have to be my new big brother but I'm so glad that you are. You remind me that family isn't just the one into which you are born, but the one you make yourself. Thank you for making me happy and sad at the same time when you talk about the Army and war and life, because sometimes I allow myself to pretend that I'm listening to Shane instead of you. You were the source material for many of Shane's opinions on those topics, and I'm so glad that he learned from you and that I get to have you in my life if I can't have Shane. My mom says that she can see how good of a soul you have. I don't have the ability to see that, but I feel it every time you check on me and make sure that I'm doing okay and studying and not falling off the face of the planet. I hope that I'm as decent of a little sister as I was of a big sister, because you're going to be stuck with me for awhile.
Thank you to my mom's cousin, Peggy. Thank you for sitting with me before the funeral started, even though we didn't know one another. Thank you for not being religious and for not telling me that Shane was in a better place and for not telling me that you were praying for my family and me. Thank you for being a real person and for understanding without me having to say much. Thank you for being one of the few people that I could talk to inside of the church and for finding me where I was hiding and for just sitting with me.
Moving On
When I woke up yesterday, I thought that I was going to have a productive day. I headed to the gym and worked out with my trainer. I showered. I put on something that resembled an outfit, even though I wasn't leaving the house. I put my books out on my table and was prepared to study. I decided that I'd write a blog entry because I had a mild case of the mean reds and then I even allowed myself to take a nap since sometimes seemingly lazy activities like writing take a lot out of me.
I woke up from my nap with way too many messages on my phone and a rude and inconsiderate comment on a blog post. And it ruined the rest of my day. I'd like to be able to say that the person who commented did not have an effect on me, but then I would be a liar. I resigned myself to bed for the rest of the day. I allowed myself to be weak and to feel sorry for myself. I couldn't eat. I felt like vomiting. I wanted to sleep but could not. I couldn't watch anything, listen to anything, or read anything, because everything reminded me of Shane and how I was probably letting him down at the moment by just moping around.
Some people will probably think that I'm a little foolish for acting in such a manner, or for letting Anonymous know that I allowed him/her to get into my head. And depending on the moment, I might be included in that group of people. But at this moment, it feels like the right thing to do. I want Anonymous to know that I was hurt by a stranger's words because all too often the person committing a hurtful act is unaware that he or she is being hurtful. Maybe Anonymous was being nice, in his/her mind. But "nice" is a relative term, and I want Anonymous to know that he/she was being hurtful and cruel and disrespectful and a genuinely awful person. Since Anonymous and I are allegedly Facebook friends, I hope that he/she deletes me as a friend, since we are obviously not. That way I don't appear ignorant or misguided and he/she doesn't have to read anything I ever write again.
Being a person who doesn't care what others think is something that I'm constantly striving for, but something I never achieve. Sometimes I present myself as the type of person who doesn't care what others think. But deep down, it hurts my feelings. Sometimes others' words can devastate me. As tough as I can appear, I can be rather squishy on the inside, to borrow a phrase that was once said to me.
The only person who I know didn't often allow others' opinions of him sway his thoughts was Shane. And he would always tell me that I needed to do the same. Since we didn't share the same brain or anything, I don't know if he was actually able to block out hurtful things or if he had created some sort of defensive mechanism against it or if he was just lying and going the "fake it 'til you make it route" when it came to allowing others to bother him. And I won't ever know. But in my mind, Shane had just found a way to not let others in.
Shane was a physically small person, especially when he was a kid. He got picked on and got sad about it. Mean boys at school got into his head. He used to not be able to order at restaurants because he didn't like confrontation. When he got older, Shane spent much of him time hiding behind a computer screen in a world of gaming -- it was only after his death that I realized he had an entire network of friends in that world and that he hadn't become some sort of scary recluse. If Shane was alive right now, he'd find a way to fly back to Michigan to kill me himself for letting other people know these things.
What's the point of all of this? Well, somewhere along the line, Shane bootstrapped himself. He joined the Army. He literally left a boy and came home a man, there is photographic evidence of this. Maybe it's something he was taught during Basic. Maybe it was something he taught himself. But I know that when Shane came home, he didn't allow other people to get inside of his head.
I wish that I could have been like that yesterday, but I wasn't strong enough. Today, however, I am ridding Anonymous from my mind. Yesterday, I told my mom that I never wanted to set foot in my law school again, knowing there was some jerk thinking nasty things about me, but that was just the mean reds talking. I yet again received an outpouring of kind words and texts and emails and phone calls and comments from my actual friends. So today, I am allowing the words that warm my heart to permeate my brain, instead of cruel and ignorant words. I have finals for which I need to study and a chocolate chip waffle to eat and music to hear and friends to sit near to while I study.
I woke up from my nap with way too many messages on my phone and a rude and inconsiderate comment on a blog post. And it ruined the rest of my day. I'd like to be able to say that the person who commented did not have an effect on me, but then I would be a liar. I resigned myself to bed for the rest of the day. I allowed myself to be weak and to feel sorry for myself. I couldn't eat. I felt like vomiting. I wanted to sleep but could not. I couldn't watch anything, listen to anything, or read anything, because everything reminded me of Shane and how I was probably letting him down at the moment by just moping around.
Some people will probably think that I'm a little foolish for acting in such a manner, or for letting Anonymous know that I allowed him/her to get into my head. And depending on the moment, I might be included in that group of people. But at this moment, it feels like the right thing to do. I want Anonymous to know that I was hurt by a stranger's words because all too often the person committing a hurtful act is unaware that he or she is being hurtful. Maybe Anonymous was being nice, in his/her mind. But "nice" is a relative term, and I want Anonymous to know that he/she was being hurtful and cruel and disrespectful and a genuinely awful person. Since Anonymous and I are allegedly Facebook friends, I hope that he/she deletes me as a friend, since we are obviously not. That way I don't appear ignorant or misguided and he/she doesn't have to read anything I ever write again.
Being a person who doesn't care what others think is something that I'm constantly striving for, but something I never achieve. Sometimes I present myself as the type of person who doesn't care what others think. But deep down, it hurts my feelings. Sometimes others' words can devastate me. As tough as I can appear, I can be rather squishy on the inside, to borrow a phrase that was once said to me.
The only person who I know didn't often allow others' opinions of him sway his thoughts was Shane. And he would always tell me that I needed to do the same. Since we didn't share the same brain or anything, I don't know if he was actually able to block out hurtful things or if he had created some sort of defensive mechanism against it or if he was just lying and going the "fake it 'til you make it route" when it came to allowing others to bother him. And I won't ever know. But in my mind, Shane had just found a way to not let others in.
Shane was a physically small person, especially when he was a kid. He got picked on and got sad about it. Mean boys at school got into his head. He used to not be able to order at restaurants because he didn't like confrontation. When he got older, Shane spent much of him time hiding behind a computer screen in a world of gaming -- it was only after his death that I realized he had an entire network of friends in that world and that he hadn't become some sort of scary recluse. If Shane was alive right now, he'd find a way to fly back to Michigan to kill me himself for letting other people know these things.
What's the point of all of this? Well, somewhere along the line, Shane bootstrapped himself. He joined the Army. He literally left a boy and came home a man, there is photographic evidence of this. Maybe it's something he was taught during Basic. Maybe it was something he taught himself. But I know that when Shane came home, he didn't allow other people to get inside of his head.
I wish that I could have been like that yesterday, but I wasn't strong enough. Today, however, I am ridding Anonymous from my mind. Yesterday, I told my mom that I never wanted to set foot in my law school again, knowing there was some jerk thinking nasty things about me, but that was just the mean reds talking. I yet again received an outpouring of kind words and texts and emails and phone calls and comments from my actual friends. So today, I am allowing the words that warm my heart to permeate my brain, instead of cruel and ignorant words. I have finals for which I need to study and a chocolate chip waffle to eat and music to hear and friends to sit near to while I study.
Monday, December 6, 2010
In Re: Jerky, Anonymous Individual Who Commented on my Latest Post
Dear Anonymous,
Thank you so much for not feeling "bad" for me. If I wanted anyone to feel BADLY for me (you see what I did there? I used the English language properly, unlike yourself), I certainly wouldn't be asking anyone at law school. You are a coward and the type of person who gives lawyers a bad name.
You claim to have been around me "enough to have a pretty good sense of the kind of person you are." Yet, we're clearly not friends. My friends know that I'm NEVER looking for anyone to feel badly for me. They know that sometimes I need a hug and sometimes I need them to tell me a story and sometimes I need them to just sit with me in silence so that I have someone to be near me when the giant hole that has been ripped into my heart starts hurting. They're also not cowards like you, a person hiding behind anonymity to write hurtful things. And I'm woman enough to admit that your words were hurtful. If they had a problem with me, they would tell me to my face because I don't associate myself with sniveling, insensitive assholes like yourself. And if you're actually around me enough at school, you would notice that I've been absent from the building since Shane died. I don't go to school because I don't want pity from anyone. I want my space and to be left alone when I'm at school because it's school and I'm still attempting to become a kick ass lawyer. I don't want to talk to anyone about Shane or how I'm feeling. The times I am at school, I surround myself with my close friends or talk with professors whose opinions matter to me. If I happen to catch myself alone, I keep my head down and pretend to be on my phone so that I don't have to talk to anyone.
You tell me that I should feel grateful and thankful. THANK YOU!!! Your words are just so appreciated and I'm so glad that someone who obviously knows nothing about death or grief or sacrifice told me how I should feel! That's exactly what I needed today and you've just really cleared up so much for me.
You've also probably never had an actual conversation with anyone who is actively serving in our military, or else you wouldn't make such asinine comments about how there isn't a draft right now and how I'm "misguided" at my best and "ignorant" at my worst for calling Afghanistan a shit hole. The reason we aren't in a draft situation is because there are brave men and women who VOLUNTEER to give up their lives, their friends, their family, their freedom, so that some whiner like you doesn't have to get drafted. If you'd like to have a conversation with a brave man or woman, please let me know and I will make sure that one of them contacts you when they aren't busy risking their lives in some shit hole so that some asshole like yourself can hide behind a computer screen.
I started this blog as a place for people to donate money that goes directly to Shane's brothers who are still fighting in Afghanistan. The amount of money that we've raised is amazing and is going to help over 30 men during the upcoming cold Afghan winter, as we are able to supply them with the best boots that money can buy so that they might better navigate the rough terrain in which they are often fighting, along with cold weather gear for when they are out on long missions.
I'm guessing that you haven't donated anything. If you're so grateful for Shane's death, put your money where your big mouth is and make a donation.
I also started the blog so that everyone who knew and loved Shane could easily find funeral information and could share memories about Shane with one another.
I've kept writing because I am a writer and my words touch people. I'm not patting myself on the back, but after having 100s of people tell me how much they enjoy reading this blog, I've started to believe them. This blog keeps Shane's memory alive for me and for others. And it's therapeutic for me to write. I write in a stream of consciousness style intentionally. Since you're an idiot, I'll explain and let you know that means that I write whatever is in my head at the time. I don't want my writing to be too edited or too nice. I want it to be real. And if I'm doing my job properly, that means that the reader might gain a small sense of what I feel. Obviously, this entry wasn't one of my best since it produced such a cruel comment from you. My choice in writing style also means that I don't write about every thought and feeling that comes into my head, or I'd be on the computer all day. So if you read through my entries, you won't find any posts really expressing how grateful and thankful I am for everyone who has been so kind to my family and me in the past 30 days. My reason? Not like you deserve to know, but for the other people who read this blog, it's because there are simply not words in the English language that express exactly how grateful and thankful I am. Shane was loved by so many and his death affected so many. And I feel that love on a daily basis. I wish that I had the words to adequately express how grateful I am, but I don't have those today. Today, I felt angry at Shane for being dead, so that's what I wrote about. It's something that I know other people who have gone through what I'm experiencing have probably felt. It's honest. It's real. It's not a pretty emotion and I feel sick to my stomach for feeling this way. But it's what I feel. And I made myself a promise when I began writing here that I would write what I felt in my heart, no matter how ugly that feeling.
I'm going to leave your comment, Anonymous. I knew when I started writing that there would be comments that I might not like. Thanks for being my first! We'll always have this special memory together. It is a free country after all, and according to some stuff I've learned at the law school we allegedly both attend, the First Amendment allows assholes like you the freedom to make ignorant comments.
So thanks so much for your words. They've just really been so helpful to me today. Oops, there I go getting all pissy. "My bad."
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Reifert
Thank you so much for not feeling "bad" for me. If I wanted anyone to feel BADLY for me (you see what I did there? I used the English language properly, unlike yourself), I certainly wouldn't be asking anyone at law school. You are a coward and the type of person who gives lawyers a bad name.
You claim to have been around me "enough to have a pretty good sense of the kind of person you are." Yet, we're clearly not friends. My friends know that I'm NEVER looking for anyone to feel badly for me. They know that sometimes I need a hug and sometimes I need them to tell me a story and sometimes I need them to just sit with me in silence so that I have someone to be near me when the giant hole that has been ripped into my heart starts hurting. They're also not cowards like you, a person hiding behind anonymity to write hurtful things. And I'm woman enough to admit that your words were hurtful. If they had a problem with me, they would tell me to my face because I don't associate myself with sniveling, insensitive assholes like yourself. And if you're actually around me enough at school, you would notice that I've been absent from the building since Shane died. I don't go to school because I don't want pity from anyone. I want my space and to be left alone when I'm at school because it's school and I'm still attempting to become a kick ass lawyer. I don't want to talk to anyone about Shane or how I'm feeling. The times I am at school, I surround myself with my close friends or talk with professors whose opinions matter to me. If I happen to catch myself alone, I keep my head down and pretend to be on my phone so that I don't have to talk to anyone.
You tell me that I should feel grateful and thankful. THANK YOU!!! Your words are just so appreciated and I'm so glad that someone who obviously knows nothing about death or grief or sacrifice told me how I should feel! That's exactly what I needed today and you've just really cleared up so much for me.
You've also probably never had an actual conversation with anyone who is actively serving in our military, or else you wouldn't make such asinine comments about how there isn't a draft right now and how I'm "misguided" at my best and "ignorant" at my worst for calling Afghanistan a shit hole. The reason we aren't in a draft situation is because there are brave men and women who VOLUNTEER to give up their lives, their friends, their family, their freedom, so that some whiner like you doesn't have to get drafted. If you'd like to have a conversation with a brave man or woman, please let me know and I will make sure that one of them contacts you when they aren't busy risking their lives in some shit hole so that some asshole like yourself can hide behind a computer screen.
I started this blog as a place for people to donate money that goes directly to Shane's brothers who are still fighting in Afghanistan. The amount of money that we've raised is amazing and is going to help over 30 men during the upcoming cold Afghan winter, as we are able to supply them with the best boots that money can buy so that they might better navigate the rough terrain in which they are often fighting, along with cold weather gear for when they are out on long missions.
I'm guessing that you haven't donated anything. If you're so grateful for Shane's death, put your money where your big mouth is and make a donation.
I also started the blog so that everyone who knew and loved Shane could easily find funeral information and could share memories about Shane with one another.
I've kept writing because I am a writer and my words touch people. I'm not patting myself on the back, but after having 100s of people tell me how much they enjoy reading this blog, I've started to believe them. This blog keeps Shane's memory alive for me and for others. And it's therapeutic for me to write. I write in a stream of consciousness style intentionally. Since you're an idiot, I'll explain and let you know that means that I write whatever is in my head at the time. I don't want my writing to be too edited or too nice. I want it to be real. And if I'm doing my job properly, that means that the reader might gain a small sense of what I feel. Obviously, this entry wasn't one of my best since it produced such a cruel comment from you. My choice in writing style also means that I don't write about every thought and feeling that comes into my head, or I'd be on the computer all day. So if you read through my entries, you won't find any posts really expressing how grateful and thankful I am for everyone who has been so kind to my family and me in the past 30 days. My reason? Not like you deserve to know, but for the other people who read this blog, it's because there are simply not words in the English language that express exactly how grateful and thankful I am. Shane was loved by so many and his death affected so many. And I feel that love on a daily basis. I wish that I had the words to adequately express how grateful I am, but I don't have those today. Today, I felt angry at Shane for being dead, so that's what I wrote about. It's something that I know other people who have gone through what I'm experiencing have probably felt. It's honest. It's real. It's not a pretty emotion and I feel sick to my stomach for feeling this way. But it's what I feel. And I made myself a promise when I began writing here that I would write what I felt in my heart, no matter how ugly that feeling.
I'm going to leave your comment, Anonymous. I knew when I started writing that there would be comments that I might not like. Thanks for being my first! We'll always have this special memory together. It is a free country after all, and according to some stuff I've learned at the law school we allegedly both attend, the First Amendment allows assholes like you the freedom to make ignorant comments.
So thanks so much for your words. They've just really been so helpful to me today. Oops, there I go getting all pissy. "My bad."
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Reifert
Because "Happy One Month of Being Dead" Just Doesn't Sound Proper
It's snowing, and everything always seems so much bleaker when there are white flecks of frozen ice streaming across a window pane.
Shane died one month ago today. And life is still happening all around me. I had it in my head that today wouldn't effect me. It's just a date on a calendar, after all.
I should be studying. I have finals. I'm in law school. I need to finish law school. I need to keep living. I need to be pretending to be happy until I actually start being happy. I keep telling myself that. I know Shane wouldn't want me to just give up after I've worked so hard over the past 2 and a half years of my life. Submission is easy. It doesn't take much to just give up. People give up all the time. Because other people tell them they can't do something. Because life gets in the way. Because actually following through with a plan is easier said than done.
Shane would always tell me that unless you were shot directly in the heart, you died because you gave up wanting to live. That you didn't want to fight anymore and let death take you. He was so adamant about this. And I think about that all the time. And it makes me furious at my dead brother. Because he wasn't shot directly in the heart.
According to his logic, he should be alive right now. He should have had some serious internal bleeding and should have been flown to Germany for medical care and then Walter Reed and he should have been in a hospital bed for a while and we should have visited him while he was in that hospital bed and yelled at him for giving us such a scare but really have just been grateful that he was in a hospital bed and not a box in the ground and he should have had some sarcastic retort and given the halfway smile that we both use all the time and he should have started to heal and then he should have gone back to Fort Campbell, where he would be right now, doing some POG work that he would hate, biding his time before he got to go back and fight some more. That's what should have happened. But that's not what actually happened. He shouldn't be in a box in the ground, rotting, or maybe frozen, but he is.
Sometimes I yell at him for having given up. I yell at him for not paying more attention and for not being more aware of his surroundings. For not wanting to live enough to keep fighting against death. For letting death win. For not choosing life. I get mad at my dead brother. And then I get mad at myself. It's a disgusting thing to admit, that I get mad at a dead person. It's selfish. It's gross. But it's honest. It's what I feel. It's not what anyone is telling me to feel.
Shane, I get so mad at you for not living. For leaving me. For leaving mom and dad. For leaving your brothers. For leaving all of us. For being the first one to die. I know you would have wanted it that way. I can picture it in my head --
God or whomever is allegedly in charge of things up there getting off of his fat ass and coming down here to lowly Earth, and walking up to you saying, "Well Shane, I know that this might not be the best time. I know you're here because some assholes have declared jihad in my name against America and then some American bureaucrat who doesn't know anything about anything made a decision to put you in a shit hole for 12 months. And I know you've had a rough go of things while you've been here. But someone has to go today."
You would have become solemn and purse your lips and look down at the ground, maybe kick some rocks with your boot. You'd look God in the eyes, even though most people probably wouldn't be able to do that. God would say, "I already know what you're going to choose, because I am God, after all, and even though I let you think you have free will, I'm still omniscient and all powerful. But I need to ask you anyways, Shane. Someone has to go today. Who is it going to be? Is it going to be one of them?," as God would wave his arm, pointing toward other soldiers, "Is it going to be one of your brothers, Shane? Or is it going to be you?"
And Shane would have taken a deep breath and replied, "It's gonna be me."
And that would've been the end of it. God would have given him a somewhat quick death for making such a selfless decision, allowing a stray bullet to hit Shane when he was least expecting it, and then allowing Death to slip in to take Shane's soul to where ever souls go and then the rest of the story would unfold. Not that Shane was some sort of constantly self-sacrificing lamb. But I know in my heart that he would have given his life for his brothers. Because that's really what infantrymen fight for -- one another. Not America. Not the Constitution. Not the president. Not the government. But for their brothers. Yes, they sign paperwork and recite oaths to protect America and the Constitution and the president and the government. But, from everything Shane ever told me about war, those things become intangibles. Concepts. Far away thoughts. President Obama isn't going to swoop in and kill all of the bad guys when they have their sights on you. The Constitution isn't going to give you water when you've consumed all of your own and there isn't more coming for 48 hours. The government won't tell you a joke to make you crack a smile when you need it the most, when you're at your lowest because you've been out in the field for over a week without a shower or a change of clothes or a reminder of home or a moment without having to be alert to the fact that someone is attempting to kill you. But your brothers will do all of those things for you and more. Because they know what it's like. Because they're the only people in the world who really have any idea of what you're going through. And Shane knew all of those things, which is why I have a 5% understanding of those things and why I know that I shouldn't be mad at him for being dead. I should be happy that he lived. That he loved. That he was doing what he wanted to do with his life.
But knowing all of this leaves me with no catharsis. It leaves me staring out a window, watching white flecks of frozen ice blur together.
Shane died one month ago today. And life is still happening all around me. I had it in my head that today wouldn't effect me. It's just a date on a calendar, after all.
I should be studying. I have finals. I'm in law school. I need to finish law school. I need to keep living. I need to be pretending to be happy until I actually start being happy. I keep telling myself that. I know Shane wouldn't want me to just give up after I've worked so hard over the past 2 and a half years of my life. Submission is easy. It doesn't take much to just give up. People give up all the time. Because other people tell them they can't do something. Because life gets in the way. Because actually following through with a plan is easier said than done.
Shane would always tell me that unless you were shot directly in the heart, you died because you gave up wanting to live. That you didn't want to fight anymore and let death take you. He was so adamant about this. And I think about that all the time. And it makes me furious at my dead brother. Because he wasn't shot directly in the heart.
According to his logic, he should be alive right now. He should have had some serious internal bleeding and should have been flown to Germany for medical care and then Walter Reed and he should have been in a hospital bed for a while and we should have visited him while he was in that hospital bed and yelled at him for giving us such a scare but really have just been grateful that he was in a hospital bed and not a box in the ground and he should have had some sarcastic retort and given the halfway smile that we both use all the time and he should have started to heal and then he should have gone back to Fort Campbell, where he would be right now, doing some POG work that he would hate, biding his time before he got to go back and fight some more. That's what should have happened. But that's not what actually happened. He shouldn't be in a box in the ground, rotting, or maybe frozen, but he is.
Sometimes I yell at him for having given up. I yell at him for not paying more attention and for not being more aware of his surroundings. For not wanting to live enough to keep fighting against death. For letting death win. For not choosing life. I get mad at my dead brother. And then I get mad at myself. It's a disgusting thing to admit, that I get mad at a dead person. It's selfish. It's gross. But it's honest. It's what I feel. It's not what anyone is telling me to feel.
Shane, I get so mad at you for not living. For leaving me. For leaving mom and dad. For leaving your brothers. For leaving all of us. For being the first one to die. I know you would have wanted it that way. I can picture it in my head --
God or whomever is allegedly in charge of things up there getting off of his fat ass and coming down here to lowly Earth, and walking up to you saying, "Well Shane, I know that this might not be the best time. I know you're here because some assholes have declared jihad in my name against America and then some American bureaucrat who doesn't know anything about anything made a decision to put you in a shit hole for 12 months. And I know you've had a rough go of things while you've been here. But someone has to go today."
You would have become solemn and purse your lips and look down at the ground, maybe kick some rocks with your boot. You'd look God in the eyes, even though most people probably wouldn't be able to do that. God would say, "I already know what you're going to choose, because I am God, after all, and even though I let you think you have free will, I'm still omniscient and all powerful. But I need to ask you anyways, Shane. Someone has to go today. Who is it going to be? Is it going to be one of them?," as God would wave his arm, pointing toward other soldiers, "Is it going to be one of your brothers, Shane? Or is it going to be you?"
And Shane would have taken a deep breath and replied, "It's gonna be me."
And that would've been the end of it. God would have given him a somewhat quick death for making such a selfless decision, allowing a stray bullet to hit Shane when he was least expecting it, and then allowing Death to slip in to take Shane's soul to where ever souls go and then the rest of the story would unfold. Not that Shane was some sort of constantly self-sacrificing lamb. But I know in my heart that he would have given his life for his brothers. Because that's really what infantrymen fight for -- one another. Not America. Not the Constitution. Not the president. Not the government. But for their brothers. Yes, they sign paperwork and recite oaths to protect America and the Constitution and the president and the government. But, from everything Shane ever told me about war, those things become intangibles. Concepts. Far away thoughts. President Obama isn't going to swoop in and kill all of the bad guys when they have their sights on you. The Constitution isn't going to give you water when you've consumed all of your own and there isn't more coming for 48 hours. The government won't tell you a joke to make you crack a smile when you need it the most, when you're at your lowest because you've been out in the field for over a week without a shower or a change of clothes or a reminder of home or a moment without having to be alert to the fact that someone is attempting to kill you. But your brothers will do all of those things for you and more. Because they know what it's like. Because they're the only people in the world who really have any idea of what you're going through. And Shane knew all of those things, which is why I have a 5% understanding of those things and why I know that I shouldn't be mad at him for being dead. I should be happy that he lived. That he loved. That he was doing what he wanted to do with his life.
But knowing all of this leaves me with no catharsis. It leaves me staring out a window, watching white flecks of frozen ice blur together.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Dignified Tranfers, Death
My family was notified of Shane’s death the day it happened – November 6, 2010. The following day, on November 7, 2010, still reeling and shocked from the news, we were on a plane with our Casualty Assistance Officer, headed into a Pennsylvania airport, where we would then be driven to a hotel, where we would then be driven to the Dover Air Base, where we would then witness a Dignified Transfer.
A Dignified Transfer is essentially a body in a box, covered by a flag, being carried off of a plane and placed into a truck that will head to a morgue. When looked at in that manner, it’s nothing special, let alone emotional. It was explained to us that no one was allowed to touch or view the body and that we would have to stand a good distance away from the plane. I felt prepared for this event. It seemed cold, mechanical. As I would have no proof that Shane’s body was actually in the box coming off of the plane, for me this was going to be fine.
When we arrived at the hotel somewhere in Dover, a hotel that I will never remember the name of, let alone what room I stayed in, there was paperwork. There was a room with snacks and candy and muffins and sandwiches and prayer shawls and books and pamphlets on death and grief. There were people in Army and Air Force uniforms who looked at us with solemnity.
After settling into our rooms, we were instructed that we would be meeting with a chaplain. I do not really remember what he said. I was quiet. I didn’t want to listen to a man tell me about God and faith and how Shane was in a better place, and the fact that this man was a chaplain meant that he might say those things. So I tuned out as he spoke to my parents and me. After asking some questions of my parents, the chaplain turned to me and asked, “Elizabeth, are you okay? Do you have any questions?”
I surprised myself by answering.
“Yes,” I answered. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Well, we’re going to wait to hear from the Air Base as to when the flight will be arriving and then we will all drive over there –“
“NO. What are we supposed to do NOW?!?”
I wanted the chaplain to give me something that he could not – a schedule, a checklist for grief, anything that would tell me how and what I was supposed to do to get over the death of Shane. I did not realize this at the time, but none of that exists.
He left us to sit in the room and for my parents to deal with me. We waited. And waited. Until finally at around 11:30 p.m. we were told that we needed to leave for the Air Base. We piled into a van with another family whose son/brother had died the day before Shane did. As we drove along in the dark, small talk ensued. I probably answered some questions about my age, what I did for a living, what type of law I wanted to practice. I listened to some guy from U of M tell me within 10 seconds of meeting him that he, in fact, when to U of M, something that I found a small amount of humor in, since almost all people from U of M do this, apparently even when death is happening. But mostly I just wanted everything to be over with.
We were escorted to the actual airfield shortly after midnight, where there was a rope we were to stand behind, a plane to the right, and a white van to the left. It was bitter cold outside. I was asked if I wanted another coat or blanket but refused.
I wanted to be cold. I wanted to feel.
We watched the body belonging to the killed son/brother of the other family. I had no reaction. This was okay, I could handle this, I thought to myself.
But then something happened. When the 6 guards carefully gripped onto the box containing Shane’s body, it was the first time that I really realized he was dead. That my baby brother whom I had at times tried so desperately to protect and for whom I would have done anything in the world, including taking a bullet myself, was a cold body in a cold box, being carried my cold men in the bitter night wind.
I wanted so desperately to run out onto the airfield, to grab the box from the guards’ hands. To lie next to it. To hug it. To tell Shane to wake up and not be dead.
Instead, I howled. I screamed a guttural, ancient sort of noise at the top of my lungs. It was the loudest, most violent scream that will ever come from my mouth. I felt bodies rush around me as my legs started to give. I felt my mother pull me into her chest. I was told to sit down, to go back to the bus. Attempts were made to give me Kleenex, to just shut me up, probably. I refused everything that was offered. I cried until snot poured out of my nose, until spittle came out of my mouth. And I let the tears and the snot and the spittle fall down my face onto my clothing and onto the ground, the same ground which held the guards’ feet. The same guards’ feet that belonged to the bodies of the guards, whose hands held a box. The box that held my dead brother’s body.
On the airfield, I realized that Death is anything but dignified. Yes, the ceremonies that are performed may be called that. But actual Death is the most hideous monster, an all-consuming tidal wave of nothingless, anger, and grief. Death is the most skilled and cunning of hunters, striking when its prey least suspects it. Death is sometimes quiet, sometimes violent, sometimes both. At that moment, Death was screaming at the top of my lungs until I thought my vocal chords had been ripped. Death is all of these things, but Death is not dignified.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
“Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.”
I had an (almost) normal day today. I wore earrings and jeans instead of a pair of Shane's sweatpants and a hoodie. I went to school. I talked with some professors. Walked in the rain to lunch with two of my friends. Felt actual hunger. Ate food without feeling like I was going to vomit. Laughed at jokes because I thought they were funny, not because I was abiding by social cues. Talked on the phone with another friend without mentioning Shane. Actually studied for a final exam instead of pretending that shuffling through papers is sufficient.
And now, as the day is coming to a close and I sit in my apartment alone, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt over this almost normal day. I feel guilty that I wasn't mourning all day. I feel guilty for not thinking of Shane non-stop. I feel guilty that I got to be alive today to have an almost normal day. I feel guilty for feeling guilty, because I know that Shane wouldn't want me to waste my time feeling this way. Shane always told me that I needed to stop worrying so much, that I needed to not be in my head so much. And I'm really trying to still follow his advice. But as I sit here, I find it impossible to follow. I recognize that I need to find a way to live an actual life without an overwhelming sense of guilt every night. But I also know that it's been less than a month since Shane was killed, and that for now, it's okay to feel guilty.
And now, as the day is coming to a close and I sit in my apartment alone, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt over this almost normal day. I feel guilty that I wasn't mourning all day. I feel guilty for not thinking of Shane non-stop. I feel guilty that I got to be alive today to have an almost normal day. I feel guilty for feeling guilty, because I know that Shane wouldn't want me to waste my time feeling this way. Shane always told me that I needed to stop worrying so much, that I needed to not be in my head so much. And I'm really trying to still follow his advice. But as I sit here, I find it impossible to follow. I recognize that I need to find a way to live an actual life without an overwhelming sense of guilt every night. But I also know that it's been less than a month since Shane was killed, and that for now, it's okay to feel guilty.
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