Here is the article I was talking about it sums up some of the things I feel!
On April 22, 2004, I was
in my office in Seattle, talking with a colleague about whether we should go
for drinks, when the receptionist leaned into my work space. His gaze fell to
the ground. I'll never forget the pause as he searched for words. "Marie?
There are some people here to see you."
I didn't ask who they
were. Maybe I was trying to spare myself, take a few more moments before the
inevitable. I left for the conference room to find a chaplain and three
soldiers standing in full-dress Army uniforms, and I knew instantly that my
husband, former football player Pat Tillman, had been killed. He had been in
Afghanistan for less than three weeks. I was a widow at 27.
It wasn't really logical
for Pat to leave his NFL career with the Arizona Cardinals and enlist in the Army
a few months before our wedding; his decision was emotional. Since 9/11, he'd
talked about wanting to defend our country. Courage was in his DNA, passed down
from his grandfather, who had been at Pearl Harbor. We'd already been a couple
for nearly a decade—we had known each other since we were kids in a small town
south of San Francisco—and we wanted to start a family as soon as possible. His
enlisting interfered with that plan. In my angry moments, I felt he was being
selfish. But deep down, I knew that by asking him not to go, I'd be asking him
to be someone he wasn't. Plus, I didn't really think he could get hurt or
killed. He was smart and strong; he'd figure out a way to get through. I told
myself that the three years of his enlistment would be a blip in our life
together. I could imagine us old, sitting in our rockers, reminiscing:
"Remember when you were in the military? That was crazy!"
The night Pat died, I
sifted through the papers on my dresser and found his "just in case"
letter. He'd written it while on an earlier deployment to Iraq and left it in
our bedroom during a hiatus. When he offhandedly told me what it was, I
wondered if I should open it. But the subject felt too big to talk about. So it
remained there, without another comment from either of us.
The letter was both
precious and awful—the last communication I'd ever have with my husband. I sat
holding it for a long time, then finally started reading Pat's familiar scrawl,
hearing his voice as I read: "It's difficult to summarize my love for you,
my hopes for your future, and pretend to be dead all at the same time…. I'm not
ready, willing or able." Then these words: "Through the years, I've
asked a great deal of you, therefore it should surprise you little that I have
another favor to ask. I ask that you live."
The tears I'd so far
withheld on that terrible day finally flowed so fast, I couldn't breathe. Like
a child, I crawled into the corner, waiting for the sobs to subside, but they
kept coming. "I ask that you live." His words burned in my head as I
read them again, thinking that I didn't want to live without him. He was
the strong one, not me. He knew my instinct would be to give up, that sometimes
I needed a not-so-gentle push. He'd seen strength in me when I didn't see it
myself, and as I sat huddled on the floor, I gave him this last request. I
promised to live. I knew it would be the most difficult thing I would ever do.
In some ways, I had no
choice. Pat's death set off a media storm. Complete strangers mourned the loss
of something symbolic, and interview requests clogged our phone lines.
Meanwhile, I felt disconnected from everyone—except my sister,
Christine—isolated on an island of grief. Yet I acted fine, in an effort to
break free from the stifling embraces and well-meaning advice. I went through
the motions of my life. I'd wake up in the house I shared with Pat's brother
Kevin, the day stretching ahead of me, put on my running shoes and explore the
damp streets around my house, the grief hanging around me like a thick blanket,
insulating me from the world.
One day, after roaming
for hours, I came home and fell onto the bed. There were a few how-to-grieve
books on the nightstand that people had sent to me. After reading one
particularly unhelpful bit, I threw the book across the room. As I got up, my
eye fell on another volume, wedged between the bed and the wall. It was Pat's
copy of Ralph Waldo Emerson's collected writings; Pat had taken it with him to
Iraq. As I eagerly scanned it, an underlined passage leaped out at me: "Be
not the slave to your own past." For the first time, I felt a glimmer of
faith, not in something mystical but in myself. I couldn't control what had
happened, but I could control my reaction. I saw two roads ahead: one of
self-pity, the other less certain but lighter and more open. When a friend called
not long after that to see if I wanted to join her on a last-minute trip to
Hawaii, I thought of the sand between my toes and booked my ticket.
The comfort I'd found in
Emerson's words led me to read other great thinkers for insight, and, a year
after Pat died, I sensed it was time for some big decisions. I had always
wanted to live in New York City, and I decided to move there. It was different
from anywhere I'd ever known, and I could heal in my own way—no inquisitive
eyes wondering, How's Marie today? I wasn't after the Carrie Bradshaw
experience. I needed an energy transfusion in the extreme privacy of an
anonymous place. In New York, the news of Pat's death was already ancient
history. I could try on a different persona. Back home, my childhood friends
were all married, and I stood out as a tragic figure. In New York, women
wouldn't necessarily be married at 22, or even 42. I found a job at ESPN, and
my workdays were filled with traveling and putting out fires. There was never
time to think. It was ideal.
Yet I still didn't know
who I was. Not only had I lost Pat, I'd also lost my identity as his wife. Even
getting dressed to go out brought up all kinds of tough identity issues. I was
29, not 59, but I felt like my prewidow wardrobe standby of skinny jeans and a
slinky top suddenly wasn't appropriate. I didn't want to wear anything too
revealing; dating was out of the question.
I was also worried that,
as a widow, I'd be something of a broken girl in the social scene. But the more
I talked with my single girlfriends, the more I realized that nearly everyone
is a little damaged, one way or another. I had once had, and lost, a great
love—maybe that was less damaging than having suffered a long string of less
meaningful relationships. I knew how to give love and receive it—I kept this
affirmation in my mind. I would not allow myself to be buried with my husband.
Again and again, I'd unfold Pat's letter and let him tell me to please live.
And then, unexpectedly, I
met someone through work, and his attention grew harder to cast aside. I didn't
think I was remotely ready, but it did feel good to have a few butterflies.
Texting led to group dinners, and one night, we kissed. I couldn't help
comparing him with Pat, but I found myself leaning into the comfort of his
body. I had missed this closeness, and even with this relative stranger, my
body reacted. Yet from our initial meeting, I kept my life compartmentalized.
We never spoke about Pat; I wanted things to stay light and fun. I wasn't ready
to let someone into the deep, dark recesses of my life.
But over time, I began to
feel as if I were lying: lying to the man I was dating by pretending I was
carefree, lying to Pat's family about the light that was starting to shine in
my life, and lying to myself, thinking I could keep things separate. How could
I have a relationship without being honest about my past?
I couldn't, and
eventually, this man and I parted. I was devastated but too embarrassed to talk
to anyone about my feelings. Like always, I had maintained a cool front about
the relationship. Now I realized that I really wanted a connection to another
person, and the breakup caused me to mourn all over again. I felt I had no
control: I might meet someone—or not. All I could do was open the door to the
possibility of love.
New York City had done
what I'd asked it to do. But I was a California girl at heart. My family was
there. The Pat Tillman Foundation, the nonprofit we'd started to nurture
student leaders, was in Arizona, and I wanted to get more involved. I felt a
pull homeward, so I decided to move to Los Angeles. This time, though, I was
relocating in anticipation of the future, not out of desperation to escape my
past.
I found a house in L.A.
and set about making it calm, comfortable, even a bit girly. Then, on my 31st
birthday, I treated myself to a solo trip to Buenos Aires. Pat had loved
nothing more than an adventure. He never let fear stand in his way, and neither
would I. Traveling alone was a metaphor for my life, with all its sadness and
freedom. I could set out for a destination but change course along the way. One
night, I took a tango class at a community center in the middle of the city. As
I danced through the early-morning hours, I thought about how happy Pat would
be if he could see me.
Back at home, I still
ducked the spotlight. The few speaking appearances I'd made since Pat's death
had left me feeling horrible. It was bizarre having people applaud for me—Pat
was the one who had gone to war. I hadn't done anything. Yet to them, I was his
living representative. So I surprised myself when, between jobs, I offered to
take over as director of the foundation, at least for a while. Once the words
were out of my mouth, they felt right. My husband's life had been cut short;
mine could be long. Why not try to have an impact?
First, though, I had to
conquer my fear of public speaking and get past some other barriers as well. It
had been nearly four years since Pat's death, but the foundation thrust me back
into the role of widow. I was constantly approached by people who said,
"I'm so sorry about what happened." But I wasn't sitting around
crying each day. Worse, even though the foundation wasn't about Pat as much as
the spirit of service he'd instilled in me and others, people invariably asked
me, What was he like? Why did he enlist? Sometimes I wanted to snap, None of
your business!
Yet if I left the
foundation, I knew I'd be mad at myself for not moving past the roadblocks. I
needed to manage the direction of the conversations to keep the questions from
getting to me. I went for training in public speaking, but the shift really
came during the question-and-answer period of one speech. I had always dreaded
that part of the program most, but on that day, I shared more than I ever had
about how it felt to lose Pat, focusing on the feelings I was comfortable
revealing. I took charge of the situation, and afterward, military wives
approached me to say how much they related to my speech and to me. After Pat
died, I'd sought out stories about people who had been touched by tragedy—I
couldn't read enough about how others had self expression overcome their
circumstances. Now I could be the person who understood. My mask of privacy had
given me control when I needed it most, but sharing myself with others gave me
power.
Pat's last letter to me
is now safely tucked away in a shoe box in the home I share with my husband,
Joe, whom I married last year. I also met him through work, and while the
conversation on our first date ranged from pop culture to the minutiae of our
lives, we were communicating something very different: We had both weathered
our share of disappointment and loss, but we remained open to life. I didn't
know where that evening with a kind, interesting man would lead, but that night
proved I had not been broken. I could travel alone, make decisions alone and
kick myself out of a funk. I could contribute to the world.
I think that's what Pat
meant when he asked me to live—not only to have fun but to understand that
there is a weight to life, and he didn't want me to be frivolous with mine. It
is a tragedy that Pat's life ended too soon. But it's also a tragedy to live a
long life that isn't meaningful. A life should have depth, which means pushing
yourself out of your comfort zone. It has taken years, but I am at that point
now. I am truly and deeply living.
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