For Canadian Military Widows, There Is No Day of Recognition

April 5th is Gold Star Spouses’ Day in the United States in recognition of the sacrifices made by the surviving (Gold Star) spouses of fallen service members.

 

In Canada, we don’t have a title or a special day of recognition for our military widows and widowers. Rather, they are given a Memorial Cross "as a memento of personal loss and sacrifice” on the part of their service member.

 

So today, let us also take a moment here in Canada to acknowledge the ultimate sacrifice made by our Memorial Cross Widows (and Widowers).

All military spouses (and families) make incredible sacrifices for their spouse’s career and by extension, our country.

 

But military widows carry the heaviest burden of all. 

 

They carry the weight of a folded flag and their loss with them, for the rest of their lives. 

 

They are the ones left to pick up the pieces of broken hearts and families after their spouse dies.

 

Long after the funeral flowers have wilted and the casseroles are all eaten; still, they grieve. 

 

They endure sleepless nights, shed countless tears, and try to make sense of it all. 

 

They face the abyss of loneliness and despair, and sadly, some of them don’t make it through. 

 

Eventually, they find acceptance and move forward with their lives.

 

But they are never the same.

 

Their loss changes them; their sadness woven into the fabric of the person they have become.

 

They stand up to judgment and criticism and champion change, so that things might be better for the next widow. 

 

They are Afghanistan widows and accidental widows. They are ALS and cancer widows and they are suicide widows.

 

They are the ones who gave birth alone and they are the mothers of infants left to bring up children who will never know their fathers.

 

They are mothers of teenagers, older children, and every age in between.

 

Sometimes they are overwhelmed with the responsibility of only parenting.

 

And some of them are left to grieve the children they never got to have.

 

They are army, air force, and navy spouses.

 

And some of them wear a uniform themselves.

They live in military communities and civilian ones. 

 

They are your neighbours, though you may not even know it; their loss too painful for them to ever discuss.

 

They are your friends and my friends. And yes, they are even me.

 

For them, for us, Remembrance Day isn’t just one day, it’s every day. 

 

Because we can never, ever forget.

 

We are the memory keepers— determined that our spouse’s name never be forgotten, that their sacrifice not be in vain.

 

We are incredibly courageous, resilient, strong women (and men). 

 

And though we belong to a club we never wanted to be a part of, we are stronger because of each other.

 

The next time you think of a fallen soldier, please take a minute to remember the spouse they left behind, for they too made an incredible sacrifice for their country. 

 

We were wives and husbands once. But widows we will always be.

 

My Marital Status Does Not Define Me And Neither Do You

As women, we are often marginalized, but as widowed women, we are even more so.

We are the invisible ones, the others.

Thrust into a role we never asked for or wanted.

We are harshly judged and criticized by many; usually by those who have never experienced such a devastating loss.

There is so much shame in widowhood.

Shame in our grief.

Shame in our brokenness.

Shame in our return to joy.

Shame in our loving again.

Shame in our living.

Either we move on too soon or not soon enough. Never mind we never actually do “move on”, we move forward.

Either we grieve too much or not enough. Never mind that it’s impossible to measure feelings of grief and loss.

I have felt the sting of shame too many times since I was widowed.

I let that judgment push me down.

I even justified my choices and my happiness to those who deserved no explanations from me.

Until I learned a valuable lesson: shame begets shame. When you shame me, you hurt yourself in the process.

I won’t let you use me to feed your own bitterness and negativity.

I won’t allow your ignorance to determine my worth or my belonging.

I won’t betray myself to avoid your criticism.

I won’t hide how I feel or who I am.

I am so done feeling ashamed.

I won’t be ashamed of my grief or my happiness.

I won’t be ashamed of my tears or my laughter.

I won’t be ashamed of my successes or my failures.

I won’t be ashamed for surviving and then thriving.

I won’t be ashamed of living MY life to the fullest.

And I most definitely will never be ashamed of my heart.

This. is. me.

Unabashedly.

Yes, I am a widow.

But my marital status does not define me.

And neither do you.

7 Ways to Support a Widow on Valentine's Day.

Love is in the air. And in the stores. And in every social media newsfeed.

It’s as if the whole world has vomited a sappy spew of pink and red.

And for many, all of the pink and red and hearts and flowers are nothing but salt in a wound.

For the widowed, this is especially true.

For those mourning the loss of their partner, Valentine's Day can feel particularly cruel because it emphasizes togetherness, love, and romance.

It is yet another painful reminder of their aloneness.

Particularly during these Covid times when so many are isolated from their family and support groups.

There are some ways you can make this Valentine’s Day a little brighter for the widow(s) in your life.

1. Reach out. We all need to know we aren’t forgotten. A special Valentine’s  card is a tangible way to show her/him that you care and means so much to a widowed heart. If you don’t have time to mail or drop off a card, pick up the phone, or send a message or text. She/he will so appreciate that you were thinking of them.

2. Give a thoughtful gift. A gift doesn’t have to be extravagant or expensive to be meaningful. Chocolates, coffee, a small bouquet of flowers, a book or gift cards are all thoughtful ways to show a widow(er) you remember them.

3. Give the gift presence. While Covid has limited our ability to gather together, you can still give a widow the gift of presence. Arrange a zoom or FaceTime coffee or lunch date. Inivite them for a socially distanced walk.

4. Give the gift of time. Running a household completely by yourself is exhausting when you are widowed, especially if you are also working form home or home schooling do to Covid. Volunteer to help with practical chores like show shovelling or running errands such as picking up groceries or prescriptions. 

5. Help with childcare or pet care.  Offer to spend some (socially distanced) time with the kids to give them some much needed free time. Or offer to pet sit or take the dog for a walk to give them a break. Even a few quiet minutes by yourself can make a big difference.

6. Offer to listen. Every widow needs a safe place to vent and unload all their pent up emotions without fear of judgement. You don’t need to try to solve anything, you just need to listen.

7. Remember grief doesn’t have an expiry date. Yes, it might have been years since our spouse died, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still miss them (every single day). No matter how much time has past, we are still going to have moments of intense grief. 

It’s difficult for the widowed to be bombarded with ads and reminders on Valentine’s Day. You can’t change the holiday, but you can do something to comfort the widows in your life on what for them could otherwise be a very difficult and sad day. 

You can't fix anything, but remember even the smallest, simplest of gestures can touch a widow's heart on Valentine’s Day.

And it's often these small acts of kindness that mean the most.

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

Bittersweet Birthdays

I came across this picture a few days ago. And I can honestly say it brought me to my knees. Grief is sneaky that way. It hits you suddenly and unexpectedly. A scent. An old, familiar tune. A faded photograph.

Grief never really goes away. It just lurks under the surface. Waiting for the next song, the next photograph, the next special occasion to resurface

When Dan died, so many people told me I would be angry. But I’m not. And I never have been. Anger, bitterness, and resentment are such toxic emotions. I’d already, we’d already, sacrificed so much. I refused to give my emotional energy to those toxic emotions. And also I saw no point in being angry at a LAV and a hole in the ground. So I chose gratitude over resentment. Some days that was easier than others, but I chose gratitude anyway. Because the hardest days were the days I needed it the most.

So today I’m not angry Dan isn’t here to celebrate our firstborn and only son’s 24th birthday. I’m not thinking about all the birthdays he’s missed. I’m grateful for all the ones he was here for. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little bit sad. I’m actually god damn sad. And that’s the thing they don’t tell you about grief.

The rest of your life will be bittersweet. All of those happy joyous occasions will always be tainted by a tinge of sadness. That is the duality of life after loss.

Today is one of those bittersweet days. Dan was over the moon ecstatic when this little guy was born, twenty-four years ago today. Twenty-fours years. How can that be? I was twenty-four when we had him. I remember the first time Dan held him. He stood there and looked at him in awe. 

“Hello Old Man. I’m your Dad.”

He was an incredible Dad. The kind of Dad I wish I’d had. The kind of Dad our son will be because he learned from the best. I’d say Dan was even better at being a Dad than he was at being a soldier. Which is saying a lot, because he was one hell of a soldier.

Since he’s been gone, I’ve been the only parent. Both Mom and Dad. I’ve tried to fill his shoes and be as good of a parent as he was. Sometimes I do okay at it. Sometimes I fail epically.

The last six years haven’t been easy. Far from it. Especially for this little guy that followed in his Dad’s footsteps. That’s hard enough to do when your Dad is alive, even harder when you put a uniform on less than three months after your father is tragically killed.

He has literally worn his father’s name tag for the last five years. He, more than any of us, has had to carry the weight of that name. The pressure and expectation that come with it have been overwhelming at times. There have been missteps and setbacks. But every time he’s picked himself back up and he’s persevered. He’s grown into an incredibly compassionate, empathetic, resilient young man.

Sometimes when I see him in uniform, it’s like déjà vu. A blonde version of a boy I knew a long time ago. So much like him in so many ways, a little bit like me in others. But mostly himself.

When he was in preschool his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He looked at her very seriously for a minute before answering. “I want to be Connor Robert Bobbitt.”

Finally, at twenty-four he’s becoming his own man, making his own way. No longer lingering in his Dad’s shadow. His Dad would be so incredibly proud of him. I know I am.

Happy Birthday, Old Man. Thank God you have better taste in glasses than your Dad did.

48 Things I Learned After I Was Widowed

by Monica Bobbitt

I turned 48 a little over a week ago. Forty-freaking-eight. 

And believe it or not, I am alright with that.

Honestly.

I am so alright with that. I consider myself very lucky to be 48.

So many people don’t even make it to 48, their lives tragically cut short far too soon.

And so many people never truly live while they have the chance. They rush from day to day, so busy making a living they don’t even notice as life passes them by.

I was one of those people until tragedy completely changed my life and me.

After my husband died, I had to rebuild my life and myself.

It took a lot of grief and a lot of hard work for me to get to where I am today.

I’m far from perfect, and I’ve certainly made my share of mistakes. I have more wrinkles and my hair colour is now (a well disguised) natural grey. I’ve been skinnier in my life, but I’ve never been fitter.

In fact, I am emotionally, mentally, and physically healthier than I ever was when Dan was alive.

And I can honestly say, I’m the happiest I’ve been in years.

Ironically, the best version of me was born from my husband’s death. It took a long time for me to reconcile that with myself.

Death truly is life’s greatest teacher.

Death challenged me in every way possible. It took away everything I believed in and forced me to confront my worst fears.

And yet, it also made me appreciate each and every moment. It has shown me the power of vulnerability and the importance of gratitude.

And it has made me love more fiercely than I ever thought possible.

Death has made me more resilient, and stronger than I ever thought I could be.

And it has made me wiser.

I have learned so many valuable life lessons in the five years since Dan died.

You may say they are clichés, but there’s a reason why clichés are
written.

I learned the truth of these 48 life lessons the hardest way possible.

1. You don’t know what you don’t know. Nobody has all the answers.

2. Nobody can rescue you but you. Get up and be your own damn hero.

3. You have to let go of the life you thought you’d have and make happiness in the life you do have.

4. No one else can make you happy. Only you can do that.

5. Happiness is a choice and you have to work at it every day.

6. Be kind, you don’t know what someone else is going through. But remember: going through a hard time does not give you a license to treat people poorly.

7. You can’t change the past. Learn from it, then let it go. Before it destroys your present.

8. Only parenting is the hardest job you will ever do, but the most rewarding.

9. You have to keep laughing, it really is the best medicine.

10. You are more than enough. When you realize your worth, it will change everything.

11. Coffee won’t fix it. But it will help. Be kind to the baristas of the world.

12. You can’t numb the pain, and it just makes it worse when you try. Sadly, gin is not always your friend.

13. Grief demands to be heard, so don’t even try to bury it. Until you lean into it, acknowledge it, and process it, you will never heal.

14. Your grief is your grief, only you truly know what you are feeling. And you are not obligated to share it with anyone.

15. Stop caring what other people think. Seriously. There will always be people who judge you. Their opinion doesn’t matter.

16. Not everyone will be there to support you. Let them go. They aren’t your people.

17. Sometimes people show up in your life just when you need them the most. Serendipity is a beautiful thing.

18. Everyone needs a tribe to support them, in good times and in bad.

19. It’s okay to ask for help, it doesn’t make you weak, it makes you strong.

20. Self-care is not indulgent, it’s necessary.

21. Material objects are just that— objects. What you own is not who you are.

22. Less really is more, except when it comes to coffee, of course.

23. Exercise is just as important for your emotional health as it is for your physical health.

24. Put down your phone and go for a walk. Even 15 minutes will have a positive impact on your attitude.

25. And while you’re out there, stop and smell the roses. They only bloom for such a short period of time.

26. Vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness.

27. Sometimes you need to go somewhere to discover where you don’t want to be.

28. You can never truly go home because home is not the same and neither are you.

29. Sometimes you accidentally find your purpose, but your purpose is never an accident.

30. Be there for others when they need you. You get what you give.

31. Gratitude completely changes your outlook and your heart.

32. There is always something to be grateful for. Even on the worst of days. You’re still here, aren’t you?

33. Sometimes you have to say no.

34. And sometimes you have to say yes.

35. Some things and some people are totally worth the risk.

36. You’ll never know if you never ask.

37. It’s okay to be scared. Do it anyway. That’s courage.

38. Stop waiting for the perfect time. There is no perfect time, there is only now.

39. Regret is the price you pay for fear. Fear isn’t worth the price.

40. Grief is the price you pay for love. Love is so worth the price.

41. Shattered hearts do heal. You will love again if you are brave enough to let love find you.

42. Time spent with people you love is never wasted time.

43. You never know when it will be the last time you say I Love You, so say it to your people as often as you can.

44. Loss teaches you the true value of time. It really is much shorter than you think.

45. Eat the chocolate. Burn the candles. Wear the perfume. Life is too damn short.

46. The little things that annoy you so much often become the things you miss the most about someone when they are gone.

47. All that truly matters, in the end, is that you loved.

48. Get busy living or get busy dying. The choice is yours.

The choice has always been yours. Just like it was always mine.

Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t wait until something catastrophic happens to choose to live the best life you possibly can.

Live it now.


Monica


To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica Bobbitt on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

What Remembrance Day Should Be About

The days are getting shorter. The leaves have almost reached their peak and have started to gently fall from the trees. 

  

The fall decorations have been replaced in the stores by Christmas lights and baubles. 

  

And the whispers of discontent have begun. In another week those whispers will increase to a buzz that will eventually morph into heated arguments. 

  

How quickly we forget how much we have to be grateful for. How quickly we refocus our attention on criticizing others. 

How quickly we forget what this time should really be about it. 

And who it should be about. 

  

I’ve come to dread this time of year, this time between Thanksgiving and Remembrance Day. 

A time when my heart becomes heavier. 

While everyone becomes so consumed by their righteousness, however well-intentioned it may be, I have to wonder. 

  

Because sometimes it seems like I hear more about the rightness and wrongness of Christmas lights and decorations or I hear more anti-Remembrance Day propaganda than I do about the actual people we are supposed to be Remembering and honouring. 

  

When did all of this stuff become the most important things we focus on in November? 

  

And I wonder. Do they truly comprehend the enormity of it all? 

But how could they really, how could anyone if they’ve never lived it firsthand. 

You can have glimpses, absolutely. I did on all of those Remembrances Days past. 

But standing at the cenotaph as a wife is nothing like standing there as a widow.  

  

It’s nothing like being the person who lives with the loss every single day. 

Not just on one dreary day in November. But on all of the days. 

  

For so many of us, too many of us, every day is Remembrance Day. 

  

So over the next few weeks, while my newsfeed fills with anti-Remembrance Day and anti-military articles, with debates about the red poppy glorifying war and the white poppy of peace, and with arguments about Christmas lights being disrespectful, and the value of the Legion, those won’t be the things I’m focused on. 

  

Instead, I’ll be here trying to decide if today is the day I’m actually ready to visit my husband’s grave at the National Military Cemetery. 

I haven’t been there since the day he was buried four years ago. I’ve been to his private grave at home in Nova Scotia. But not here. 

I haven’t been able to go there yet. 

  

Here is so much heavier. Because It is laden with the grief of an entire regiment. And so many painful memories. 

  

Do I go today? Do I go alone? 

  

I could ask my son or my friend who was Dan’s Battery Sergeant Major or any one of my friends to go with me, but I know how hard it would be for them to bear witness to my grief. 

  

And some journeys, the hardest ones, you have to make on your own. 

  

Those are the questions I’ll be asking myself. Not, why does my neighbour have Christmas lights up?

When I go to his grave for the first time, I will undoubtedly relive that day.

Some memories are indelibly etched on your soul.

And as I stand in front of that granite headstone, my fingers tracing our name, I will see and feel it all.

I will see my own sadness reflected in my friend’s eyes as he passes me a crisply folded flag, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

I will fill the dirt slipping through my fingers. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I will hear echoes of the Last Post as soldiers two-by-two salute their commanding officer’s grave, their eyes avoiding mine lest they not be able to contain their own emotions.

   

I will remember the heat and humidity. My feet were so swollen and sore, my shoes pinched my toes with every step. I just wanted to rip them off but I couldn’t. I had to teeter on through the pain.

   

Just as I would on so many days in the months and years to come.

And I will remember how exhausted I was and how I just wanted it to be all over. Not knowing that it is never, really over.

  

Please let it be over now. I can’t do this another day.

   

I just want to go home. Even though home will never be the same.

The next time you come across a meme or post about Remembrance Day, before you comment or share, or argue with a friend or neighbour I hope you pause for a moment.

Pause for a moment and remember what it’s truly about. Who it’s truly about.

And ask yourself— is what you’re sharing really honouring those who have died and those they left behind?

  

Pause.

Remember them.

And remember, somewhere out there, there is a widow trying to work up the courage to visit a cemetery.

   

Isn’t that what it should really be about?

  

Read Monica's thoughts on War Memorials in Odes to Our Fallen   

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica on Facebook at A Goat Rodeo

You Don't Know What You Don't Know

by Monica Bobbitt

It was recently brought up in a group I belong to that said group should be exclusively for spouses of currently serving members of the Canadian Forces. No spouses of veterans or military widows like me.

The conversation morphed as online conversations tend to do, and took on a nasty and somewhat ridiculous tone, and I had to walk away.

I've been thinking about it ever since though.

Because the whole thing just made me so sad.

Sad that instead of holding each other up, they were pushing each other down.

Sad that it became your one of us and then your not.

And sad that they don't know what they don't know.

And what they don't know is that we were them once.

The fact is, as a military widow, I have become used to being marginalized. Of not really fitting in. I'm neither the spouse of a current member of the CF or of a veteran.

I don't fit into any neat category. I am an Other.

Your spouse dies in service to his country and you become an Other. We're referred to by Veterans Affairs Canada as a Survivor, although sometimes their own staff doesn't even know what that means.

Personally, I like to call myself a thriver, because I've done a heck of a lot more than merely survive these last three years, but I digress.

One foot in the civilian world, the other in the military community, we are trapped in a nether land in between. A place we never wanted to be, with the last posting message anyone ever wants to receive.

And yes, I have been told I don't belong in the military community anymore (never mind I'm the parent of an RMC cadet).

But for the most part, overwhelmingly, I have been treated by all as one of their own, as still part of the military community.

And I am.

It's taken me a lot of soul searching (and walking) since I've become a widow to figure out just where I fit into this world. And to realize that I belong exactly where I want to belong.

And I also know that I have so much to offer, not just to my friends and family, or to other widows (military and civilian) or to anyone else who may be facing a difficult time.

I have so much to offer to those very women who don't want me in their club, now that I belong to that new club, The Others.

Just as the spouses of veterans also have so much to offer them.

But they don't see that. Because you don't know what you don't know.

Their attitude is a common one. There are so many that think like them. We see it all the time all across society, not just in our CF one. It's a throwaway world.

Someone retires and they suddenly become obsolete. They no longer matter. And the wealth of experience and knowledge they have to offer, well suddenly we don't seem to need it anymore.

When in fact we actually need it more than ever.

But we don't know what we don't know.

Take the time to sit and talk with any veteran, veteran's spouse or widow, and you will learn so much.

If you listen to really hear what they have to say.

They can teach you so much about life and grief, service and sacrifice, and even regrets.

When you exclude them from your community, when you close your ears to what they have to say, you miss out on so much.

Knowledge, support, guidance.

And then one day, when you suddenly find yourself the one in need of that support and guidance-- from the spouse whose husband has PTSD; or the one whose husband had the critical brain injury; or the military widow who buried her husband, well it's not there. Because she isn't a part of your club anymore.

And so I read what those women had to say yesterday. And I was sad.

Because that spouse of yesterday?

She is the veteran's spouse of tomorrow.

And she could very easily be the military widow of today.

The doorbell rings.

And the wife who belonged yesterday is the other of today.

This I know to be true.

Because it happened to me.

I was them once. I never thought it would happen to me, but then we never think it will happen to us.

But it can. And it does.

It happens when we are twenty-three and when we are forty-three.

It happens when our husband is a young gunner. And it happens when he is the CO.

It happens when they are deployed and it happens when they are on exercise.

I hope they never have to learn the hard way what they don't know, but if they do, I'll be there for them.

Because though I might not be a part of their spouse's club, we are all part of the same military family. No matter how long our spouses served. No matter when our spouses served. No matter how they died.

I will help them stand up.

And I will help them carry that flag.

Because I know just how heavy it is.

And I know it's far too heavy for one person to carry on their own.

You don't know what you don't know. Until it happens to you.

Chat soon,

Monica 

Click here to learn 25 Things I Didn't Know About Being A (Military) Widow 

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

So What Do You Do?

by Monica Bobbitt

Someone asked me what I do today.

I've always hated that question. Because for many years, my answer was "stay at home mom." 

As if that was somehow less than.

But I often felt it was. For far too long, I felt I wasn't enough. As if somehow my value was tied to the amount of money I made or didn't make.

The raised eyebrows, the snickers, the "oh you're one of those" reinforced my insecurities.

Yes, I am one of those.

And that was inevitably followed up with what does your husband do? And then I would explain he was in the military and then it was another "oh you're one of those."

Yes, I am one of those too.

And then I was widowed, and I have come to dread that question even more. Because I no longer have a husband to "support" me.

Now I really am "one of those"

A military widow.

"I hear you're rich"

Really? I wish somebody had told me that.

So when I got that question today, I admit I hesitated.

Like deer-in-a-headlight-here-we-freaking-go-I'm-not-enough again hesitated.

What do I say? Do I say stay at home military widow part-time student mom?

Because I don't have a glamorous job with a nice office and pay cheque. My office is my kitchen island. And I don't get paid for what I do.

When can I actually call myself a writer? Can I call myself a writer if I've never been published or paid for one single word? Am I poser if I say I am? And will I get another "oh your one of those?"

And then I took a deep breath. And I thought about all that I've written over the last three and a half years. And all the writing courses I've taken.

When do I get to call myself a writer?

Now. The answer is now.

What I do is actually part of who I am.

I am a writer.

I am a speaker.

And so much more.

I am enough.

I'm a writer and a speaker.

"Wow, that's so cool. I've never met an author before! What do you write? Fiction? Nonfiction?"

Nonfiction. I write about the hard stuff, the funny stuff, the sad stuff, the grateful stuff.

My life, basically.

"You are so brave for writing the story of you. Do you have a website I can check out?"

Be brave enough to walk through the wilderness of uncertainty, criticism, and judgment as who you really are, not who you think the world wants you to be.

Decide who you are and then be you.

I'm Monica.

I'm a writer.

I'm a speaker.

And I'm more than enough.

And I always have been.

And so have you.

Chat soon,

Monica

Read more of Monica's story here:  Finding Monica 

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

C-Sections and Deployments

by Monica Bobbitt

Twenty years ago today this baby girl was born. A week later her dad deployed for the first time.

That first week post-partum pre-deployment is a blur to me now. I remember I was exhausted and apprehensive. And scared.

Not that anything would happen to Dan, I was too naive for that but scared to be alone with two children entirely dependent on me.

Scared I would mess it all up. Scared I would mess them up.

A few days after we brought the baby home from the hospital, I came down with a severe case of mastitis. Two days after that, Dan deployed.

I was alone with the responsibility of parenting a 23-month-old and a newborn, while sick and recovering from a c-section.

I felt so much mom shame. I'd had a c-section, again. I struggled to breastfeed, again, before finally switching to the bottle, again.

I felt like a failure.

My house was a disaster, I couldn't vacuum for several weeks post-op. And my toddler refused to eat anything but Mini Gos and canned mandarin oranges.

I was supposed to be this strong, resilient army wife. But instead, I felt anything but.

I could have (should have) asked my friends for more help, but I didn't want to be a burden. They helped me enough as it was. And besides, it wasn't their job, it was mine.

And I wasn't so good at asking for help back then.

I had never felt so alone as I did in those winter days of January and February.

I was so tired and so overwhelmed.

I would sit up at night, feeding the baby, feeling sorry for myself and lamenting on all the things I had to do alone. Dan was missing so much: time with the baby, Connor's second birthday, my birthday, Easter.

All I could see was how miserable I was and how lonely I was.

And how hard deployment was.

I thought it was the hardest thing ever.

I couldn't see outside of my postpartum deployment haze. All I could see was how hard my life was, I couldn't see how good it was or how fortunate I really was.

I focused on the negatives, not the positives. I didn't realize I was making a difficult time even worse.

Fortunately, as the months went by, I adjusted to single parenting. We got into a routine. I got more sleep. The snow melted and spring finally came. And eventually, the deployment came to an end.

Age, experience, widowhood have given me a perspective I couldn't have then. It's easy to look back now and see that that deployment wasn't the worst thing ever. In fact, there are many things far worse than deployment.

But to the Monica then there wasn't, it really was the hardest thing she'd ever been through. That was the only frame of reference she knew.

I sometimes wish I could go back and reassure her as she sat there in the dark feeding the baby, tears streaming down her face. I wish I could hug her and let her know that everything would be okay... eventually. To tell her that despite the c-sections and bottle feedings and Mini Gos, her kids turned out okay, much better than okay. That they grew up to become amazing young adults.

But then, I'd have to tell her about the really hard stuff too. Because you can't have the good without the bad. And so I'd have to tell her that there are actually things far worse than deployment. I'd have to tell her about folded flags and granite headstones. I'd have to break her heart sixteen years too soon.

There are just some things you can't take a shortcut through, you have to experience them and live through them in order to grow.

And really, there are no shortcuts through hell.

Twenty years ago today a vibrant little girl was born via cesarean section. She was bottle fed.

A week after she was born, her dad deployed.

He deployed twice more before she was ten.

Twice he moved for several months before her family did.

Sometimes her mom fed her boxed mac and cheese and hotdogs. Sometimes her house was a mess.

When she was sixteen, her Dad was killed in a training accident.

Her mom has made all kinds of mistakes since then. She once even epically threatened to quit being the only parent.

Her mom no longer feeds her Mac and cheese, though. And the house is a lot cleaner now.

Today that baby turned twenty. She's a Dean's List Scholar at the University of Toronto. She speaks three languages and will spend the summer studying in Germany.

As it turns out, her Mom didn't mess her (or her brother and sister) up after all.

Last year that baby girl sent her mom a text,

"You're a good writer oh mother of mine. I feel like I don't tell you enough, but I'm really proud of you."

Not half as proud as I am of you Elizabella. I wouldn't trade one single day, not even that terrible one, of the last twenty years of being your mom for anything.

But I am awfully glad you don't wake me up at night anymore. If only I could say the same about your dog.

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica Bobbitt on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/