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

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.

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.

“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.

"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I am still trying to figure out how that could be."

- Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being of a Wallflower

I took this photograph during Family Day when Shane was going through Basic. At the time, it perfectly described our lives without saying a word. Back then, I was so sure about my life. And now I question everything. I want to metaphorically be back in those shoes but am unsure if that is even possible.

Donations Update

Today my dad shipped out the first of what will be many packages to the men of Bravo Company. It wasn't anything fancy -- shampoo, deodorant, jerky, candy, and baby wipes -- but it's a start. The packages will hopefully be arriving within the next 2-3 weeks. 

Stay tuned for what else all of your donations are able to purchase for Shane's brothers.We have received an unexpected amount of donations and know that Shane would be happy that even after his death he is able to help his brothers.

Vulnerable

vul·ner·a·ble \ adj \ˈvəl-n(ə-)rə-bəl 

1. capable of being physically or emotionally wounded 

2. open to attack or damage

Examples of VULNERABLE

1. She was very vulnerable after her brother died.
2. Her brother was in a vulnerable position when he was killed.
3. Her heart is now undefended and vulnerable.

"Kill Those Noobs!!" -- Shane Reifert

Before Shane joined the Army, he was very much a gamer. I can't count the number of times when we were both living at home that I would yell at him to keep it down as he laughed and screamed with his gaming buddies. Now I would do anything to hear him laughing in the backroom into the wee hours of the morning. Shane's gaming life was very much his own. He never met the men he gamed with but I knew that they had strong friendships with one another. I've contacted/been contacted by a number of his gaming friends, who all tell me how much Shane meant to them and how, even though they had never met, they considered Shane a friend and were deeply saddened by his death. I asked one of his friends, "Ody," to write something up on Shane and his time gaming. I displayed this, along with Shane's controller, headset, and some games, at the funeral home. This was a part of Shane's life that I was not a part of, so it was very comforting for me to hear Ody describe a part of Shane that I never knew:

I first met Shane, or "Swan" as we knew him, in the fall of 2005 while we were members of a large Call of Duty 2 clan called Gunners of War (GoW). We gamed together in that clan for a very short time, a few months at the most, but that is where a small group of guys (including Snipe, 2pies, Creeper, Kermit, and Hawk) were introduced to each other .  While all of our friendships started in that clan and it was a good time, it didn't fit what we saw as the ideal gaming experience. GoW was a large clan with over 100 members.  I think we were all looking for a more intimate gaming experience, a couple guys in a voice chat server, shooting the shit while playing and just screwing  around while still being competitive in leagues. We decided that a small group of us that played together more often than the rest was gonna leave and start our own clan later named  "Banana Police". By the way, Shane was a big advocate for that name... He loved it :)

Through many hours over many years of gaming together regardless of age differences of up to 10-15 years apart, we all had the games in common. People had their real life stuff from graduating high school and/or college, buying a house, having babies, getting married or even learning to drive a car for a couple younger guys!! Yet most nights we all ended our days playing a game together, laughing, shooting the shit, being jackasses, going into servers with douchebag admins who had goofy, strict rules  and seeing who could get kicked or banned first :) Shane was a pro at that, he knew how to get people going :)

People that have never gamed online with others may not be sympathetic about it because they can't understand, I have lost a real friend. Even though we never have met face to face, we knew a lot about each other. Together, us guys weren't just playing video games. We we talking about life.... stress, jobs, books, music, movies,our goals, our families, girls etc. It's like another family, things aren't always perfect but in the end we're all still there for each other. We got to know each other better than I know some of my friends that I see all the time.  Shane was a great friend and an incredible human being. He sacrificed his life so the rest of us could safely do the dumb shit we do everyday. I am honored to have known him and I am truly grateful for what he has done. He will never be forgotten. RIP SWaN

"Grief is itself a medicine." from William Cowper's "Charity"

I didn’t realize it until now, but today is the first day that I have had a chance to truly mourn Shane. Up until today, my family and I have been busy with paperwork, funeral home arrangements, funeral arrangements, burial arrangements, receiving 100s of messages, letters, and phone calls, etc. Today, there are still some cards in the mail and, as I lay in Shane’s bed typing this, I can hear the phone still ringing. But that’s the thing. I’m in bed. I cannot bring myself to shower. I cannot bring myself to change my clothes. I feel the emptiness and darkness consuming my heart and now my mind. And these things – the emptiness, the darkness – are what comfort me today. 

Right now, I have no desire to be happy. I want the emptiness and the darkness to stay with me for the time being. Not forever, but until I’m ready to tell them to go. I have had very dark moments in my life before this. But those dark moments were with my inner demons and something that I had the power to conquer. They were things that would pass, that I could tuck into the back of my mind. Before Shane’s death, whenever I felt weak, I would think how I overcame my dark moments and how I wasn’t going back to that place.

This dark moment, this new place, this one I am powerless against. I cannot summon my inner strength to make everything go away. I cannot take a pill to balance my seratonin levels and norepinephrine levels because that’s not really what Shane’s death is about. There is no pill which, after 4-6 weeks of proper usage, will make me feel like normal people feel. Because I am no longer capable of feeling normal. Shane’s death has forever marked me.

In the Jewish faith, a practice known as shiva performed when someone dies.Those within 7 degrees of the decreased mourn for 7 days, they cannot bathe or change their clothes, among many other restrictions.

As I lie in Shane’s bed, surrounded by all of the little things he felt were important enough to have in his life, I feel as if I am practicing my own form of shiva. I do not want to change my clothes. I do not want to eat. I do not want to move. I do not want to listen to anything but sad music. I want to peel my skin off. I want to scream but do not have the energy. I want to somehow be consumed by the sheets and blanks and pillows, to be surrounded by safeness and the quiet. I want to disappear.

So I will continue to mourn. I know this mourning will not last forever, but I am holding on to it tightly until it ends.

 

Shooting Match to be Held in Shane's Honor

Long before he joined the Army, Shane was a skilled marksman. He and my father would shoot together and competed in several matches together, typically performing quite well.  

The American Confederation of Tactical Shooters (ACTS) will be dedicating its December match to Shane and all proceeds will directly benefit his company. Please click the link below if you are interested in competing in the match. 

Memorial Match for Shane