I never told anyone what it was like for me when Shawn died. People assumed. People judged. But I never told. And maybe it's time. Not for anyone else, but for me.
That day started out with a phone call from Shawn. Later I would look back on that phone call and dissect it. Try to see if he had known it was his last day. In truth it was just a normal phone call, one of our many, nothing special, nothing different. When he hung up I thought about calling him back, I wanted to. But he had said they were going out, and I didn't want to bother him. Later, I would hate myself for not calling. What if I had called back and he hadn't gone out on that mission? What if I could have stopped it? I know now that I couldn't have. At least, on good days I know. Some days I don't. I went shopping that day with a friend, bought some new clothes for the first time in I don't know how long. I spent some time at the house we had closed on only four days before. I went home. I ran water for a bath. I had just stepped into the bathtub when my cell phone rang. It was my new neighbor, calling to tell me there was someone in uniform there to see me. When I hadn't been at our new house he had gone to theirs. Later, I would find out that she made him wait until she knew I would be home with my parents to call. It didn't click with me right away. For all of my worrying and panic the whole deployment, it didn't click with me. I remember thinking that it was one of Shawn's friends that came to visit. The mind and heart will believe anything to protect itself. A man gets on the phone, he asked me how I was, my exact words were "I have a feeling I'm not about to be good." His exact words were "I'm sorry, Amanda, it shouldn't have to be that way." He asked me how to get to my parents house. I went in their room saying "Shawn is dead." They got up. My Dad got on the phone, gave him directions. I called Shawn's Iraq cell phone over and over and over, countless times. I called Shawn's parents. I called the people on Rear D back in Germany. They wouldn't answer. I took a Valium. I sat on the porch with my Dad and Hunter and waited for my life to end. And even then I was thinking it was a mistake. The notification officer called back, said he had been "diverted" and someone would be there tomorrow to talk to me. Dad made him tell me. He told the man that he was going to tell me now, that he wasn't going to make me wait until tomorrow to know if my husband was dead or alive. He agreed and Dad handed the phone back. "On behalf of the Army I regretfully inform you that your husband, Shawn E. Dressler..." and I handed the phone back. Blackness. Pain. Emptiness. It couldn't be true could it? He promised. He promised me. He never broke a promise. We just bought a house. No. What about our life? What about our future babies? What about growing old together? War widow. No, he's coming home, this can't be right. My Shawn wouldn't have left me. He's on a secret mission and they had to tell me this. No, he wouldn't ever ever leave me, I'm his baby, the love of his life, his soulmate, his best friend. Our first wedding anniversary is in exactly four weeks. I'm not old enough for this. I'm only 20. He's not even 23, too young for Heaven, much too young. Was it instant? Did he hurt? Did he think of me? God, take me too. Shawn, please tell God that I can't live, I can't breathe without you, I can't breathe, Shawn, please. Baby, please, come back, please. I will do anything. I can't live, I can't breathe, I am nothing without you. Please, let me take your place, Shawn, please, help me. Help me like you've always helped me. Please, baby, please, hold me. I love you, please, I love you so much, come back or take me. I love you. I love you. Isn't that enough? Come back.
That, in short, was what that first night was like. And for now that's all I can write. This hurts more than I thought it would after 3 years, 10 months, and 5 days.
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