I stepped aboard the C-17 military transport and was overwhelmed by the size of the plane. It was a behemoth. It was hollowed out for cargo, with only two rows of airline seats. A few of us lucky ones got a seat, while the rest of the group lined the sides of the aircraft, trying to get comfortable in the flip-down seats. Some took to sleeping on the floor or put together makeshift beds on top of the cargo. The overnight flight took around ten hours, because we had to fly around Iran instead of taking the more direct route over it.
There were no windows on the plane, so I couldn’t see any of Afghanistan until we landed at the US base in Kabul. I disembarked eagerly, excited to see the mountains Pat had described surrounding us, but was greeted instead by a thick mist that obscured the scenery. We were ushered into the mess hall, where breakfast had been prepared for us and the group of soldiers assigned to the Kabul base. I wasn’t exactly expecting the rustic tents of M*A*S*H but was pleasantly surprised to see a long table lined with silver serving dishes, all of which were filled to the brim with eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes—more food than we could possibly eat. I loaded up my plate with pancakes, got some much-needed coffee, and sat toward the end of the long table.
A soldier was sitting to my right, and I introduced myself. He recognized the Tillman name and grasped what I was doing there.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” he said. He had dark hair and an equally dark expression on his face. He didn’t look angry, just distraught.
“How long have you been over here?” I asked.
“Just arrived,” he said. He was quiet a minute, then looked away from his eggs and into my face. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just kind of upset. It was pretty hard to leave my kid.”
With a few more gentle prods, I learned that his son was sixteen, and that he was a single dad.
“This is an important time in his life, you know?” he said. “And it was really tough for him when I left.”
The complicated expression on his face, of both duty and guilt, was one I immediately recognized.
“You know,” I said, “it was always hard for me to send Pat off, too. I was equally proud and terrified.” I wanted this man to understand that while his family was certainly struggling without him, it was a burden that was carried with pride. Though I had tried to make our separations easier, of course Pat knew how hard it was for me, and was aware of the risks involved. He grappled with guilt for leaving me alone so much, fearing what would happen to his family if he was killed. I wanted to instill in this soldier the same confidence that as hard as it was, he was doing a great thing.
Soon our time allotted for breakfast was over, and I wished the soldier well and said a hesitant good-bye. He smiled and waved, and while I wasn’t sure I’d made him feel better, we had at least connected in some minor way. At least he’d heard sympathy from someone who had been there, and that alone I hoped had some value, even if it was small in comparison to the miles and months of distance he was facing.
* * *
My group boarded a twenty-minute flight to Bagram, a trip that might easily have been taken by car if the threat of improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and attacks hadn’t been so real. When it was originally built, the Bagram base housed around six thousand soldiers; at the time of my visit, Bagram’s population was closer to thirty thousand. Once we landed, I went straight over to see the base’s USO center. The Tillman memorial center looked like a little ski lodge and had a lodge’s kitschy warmth to it. Open twenty-two hours a day, it provided Internet, movies, food, phones, and a badly needed sense of home for the thousands of soldiers who lived at Bagram and those who passed through.
The little lodge had just opened for the day twenty minutes before my arrival and yet was already overflowing with people. They relaxed in recliners, played video games, and had even spilled over onto the floor. A sweet staff member, aware of my arrival, graciously showed me around and explained what goes on at the center. As she introduced me to the people hanging out there, I sensed a heightened sensitivity to my presence. The soldiers around me seemed not quite sure what to expect or how I would act. It reminded me of the days soon after Pat had been killed, when everyone walked on eggshells—unsure if I might crack. I smiled as brightly as I could for as long as I could, hoping to put them at ease, to let them know how much I appreciated their service.
That night Gary and the Lt. Dan Band performed a two-hour show, full of music that kept the crowd singing and dancing. Just offstage, I had a great view of the crowd and smiled as I watched a young female soldier singing along up front. At one point during the show, Gary called all the women up onstage. I was transfixed as those women, some really more like young girls, swayed to the music, weapons slung across their backs. While they could get away from the war for a few hours to listen to some music, the weapons served as an ominous reminder of the reality of our surroundings. Watching the soldiers all rock out to the music, I was reminded of the feeling I’d had right after Pat had enlisted and we’d moved to Washington. I had been proud of him, and I was now proud of them. The men and women I met reminded me of what had been at the core of Pat’s decision to serve, the purity of it all before lies and congressional hearings made me grow cynical and suspicious.
When the show was over, we drove back to our sleeping area to rest up for our long return trip in the morning. Soon after I got to my room, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to see the general who had been acting as host for our contingent.
“Good evening, Mrs. Tillman. Sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to talk to you about something.” The look in his eye and his restless movements suggested he was nervous. “Your flight tomorrow is a human remains flight.” He looked at me intently for a moment, then added, “You’ll be bringing the body of a young Special Forces soldier back home with you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, okay.”
“I just want to be sensitive to your feelings,” the general added. “I want to be sure you’re okay with it. If you’re not, we can delay the remains flight.”
“No, no,” I said. “Absolutely no need.” I remembered the intensity with which I had awaited Pat and Kevin’s flight to Dover nearly six years earlier. I would never want a grieving family to have to wait a moment longer on my account.
“There will be a brief ceremony right before you take off. If you would like to attend…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course.”
Early the next morning, we loaded into a black SUV and made the short drive to the tarmac. The sun wasn’t up yet, but as we pulled up, I saw light from the open door of the back of the plane. An array of soldiers had already assembled to say good-bye to one of their own. Since the deceased had been in the Special Forces, the guys he’d served with all had beards and scruffy appearances to make them look more like Afghans, and they were all in BDUs, or camouflage. A few were openly crying.
This is what they did for Pat, I thought. This is how he left Afghanistan. The soldiers stood at attention, forming two lines to make an aisle through which the coffin would be carried. Before we got out of the car, the general turned around and told us the young soldier’s name and where he was from. Then he said, “Married, no kids.”
I stood close to the general and tried to follow his lead through the ceremony, but Married, no kids echoed in my head. I heard the general’s line in my head again and again and ached for his wife. I remembered all too clearly those first days after hearing Pat had been killed, the waiting for him to finally come home. As I stood in the cold, dark, misty morning, tears slid down my face, the warmth of them mixing with the cold drops of rain that had started to fall. The coffin was loaded onto the plane. A chaplain said a few words, and one at a time the soldiers walked onto the aircraft and knelt at the coffin to pay their last respects.
I boarded the plane when the time came, buckled in, and closed my eyes through takeoff. Married, no kids. I couldn’t stop thinking about what that young widow had ahead of her—the funeral and then the
months of numbness, the shock she’d encounter when the numbness wore off, the decisions she’d have to make, the ways she’d have to move forward despite what was lost.
As I had suspected, the trip to Afghanistan did not deliver closure. When it comes to grief, there’s no such thing. There’s no such thing as a nice, tidy ending where the widow feels a brave, strong resolve, where she looks out at the land and the water beneath her and feels at peace with the world. Grief is messy; grief is complicated; grief is in many ways unending. I knew I would miss Pat every day of my life. I knew I would have low periods again. But I felt grateful that I wasn’t that young widow, just starting the journey. And I felt grateful that maybe, in some small way, I could help her.
Epilogue
Pat’s last letter to me is tucked away now, among many letters we wrote to each other, in a shoe box in the closet of my house. I haven’t pulled it out in a long time, but I’ve long since memorized it. Of all the letters from Pat through the years, from the one he wrote from juvenile hall to the one scribbled from Afghanistan envisioning the children we’d have someday, it’s his “just in case” letter that I’m most grateful for and that more than anything has seen me through these past few years. And though it sits in a nondescript shoe box in a closet, it is precisely because of how valuable it is that I keep it there, safe and secure.
I’ve come far since those days after I first read the letter. In many ways I’m a different person—stronger, independent, more self-assured. I can travel alone. I can make decisions alone. I can kick myself out of a funk, and I can contribute of my own volition to the world. I no longer feel conflicted about having a good time. If I’m meeting people for drinks, I don’t attach deep meaning to the color of clothing I choose to wear, or worry what I’ll say if someone asks me if I’m single.
Recently, I spent a month in Laos, where I was a volunteer English teacher. As part of the conversation practice, students asked me again and again, “Are you married?”
“I was,” I repeated with student after student, “but my husband died.”
“Oh,” the student would say. Then she would move on to the next question. “And what does your father do?”
The questions didn’t bother me. I was much more affected by being there, in a beautiful Laotian village, helping young girls improve their English so they would have better job opportunities, than by any questions asked about my past, or by any answers I gave.
I realized in Laos that although I was moving forward, I didn’t have to leave Pat behind. I could carry him with me in the memories of our life together, the interactions that have left a permanent imprint on my soul. Loving and losing Pat changed me. And while I wish he were still here, I don’t want to turn back the clock and be who I was when he was alive. I like who I am now.
I am finally happy with the work I’m doing, the mark I’m striving to make. Spending my days helping others feels worthwhile and meaningful, and I’ve met countless wonderful people along the way…including one person more memorable than any other.
It was during a recent trip to Chicago, where I’d traveled to meet with one of the foundation’s new board members, Ian, and some of Ian’s friends and colleagues. The purpose of the meeting was to spread awareness about the foundation’s work, with the hope of garnering some support in the Midwest. We had a dinner scheduled the night I flew in, and after a delayed flight and a long trip, I was not in the mood to socialize. I entered the restaurant wishing I’d be back at my hotel and in bed as soon as possible. But when Ian introduced me to his friend Joe, my mood significantly lifted and I immediately forgot all about the delayed flight and lack of sleep.
The only word I could think of to describe Joe was beautiful—not his physical being (though with his blue eyes and slightly crooked smile, he was adorable) but his spirit. He had a beautiful spirit that radiated from within and an easy way about him that instantly attracted me. But as we talked I quickly sensed that parts of his life had not been so easy.
We chatted for hours, all but ignoring our dinner company. Somehow I just knew that he got it, that he saw through the story that surrounded me, and just saw me. I could have stayed there and talked with him all night. Something almost mystical happened at that restaurant. Although our conversation ranged from pop culture to the minutiae of our daily lives, what we were communicating was that while we had both weathered our share of disappointment and loss, we remained hopeful and open to life.
Before Joe and I said good-bye, we made plans to meet for dinner the following week, when he would be in Los Angeles on business. I didn’t know where this chance meeting with a kind and interesting man would lead, and I realized that wasn’t what was important. What mattered was that I was being open to all of life’s possibilities, and no matter what happened, I’d be okay; I’d been bruised, but what I felt that night proved I had not been broken.
I returned to my hotel in a happy daze, thinking about all that had happened during the past six years, how quickly life could bring you to your knees or make you soar, the challenges, the delight, the wonder of it all. Life would always be dynamic, unpredictable, and messy, but that reality no longer scared me. I had learned to take things as they came, to embrace life’s joys and challenges. Despite everything, I had managed to stay open. Open to life, open to love.
As I consider this chapter in my life and move forward to the next, I find myself thinking about Pat’s final letter to me and how the familiar words have now taken on new meaning. In the military, it’s fairly common to write a “just in case” letter like the one Pat left for me, just as it’s common for critically ill people to leave words and messages behind for those they love. It’s like wrapping the people you care about in a warm winter coat when you know you can’t be there personally to protect them from next season’s cold spells. Since Pat died, I’ve thought a lot about what people leave behind, the mark we all make just by being here; big or small, it’s up to us.
When Pat asked me to live, he didn’t mean just that I should travel and have fun, although that was certainly part of it. He also meant that there’s a weight to all of our lives, and he didn’t want me to be frivolous with mine. It was a tragedy that Pat’s life—while lived fully—was cut short. But it’s also a tragedy to live a long life that isn’t meaningful. Our lives should have depth, which means pushing ourselves out of our comfort zones and not taking the easy way out all the time. That is the only way to really live.
It has taken years, but I am at that point now. I am truly, deeply living.
The Pat Tillman Foundation
Shortly after Pat’s death in 2004, with a group of close friends and family, I started the Pat Tillman Foundation. Our mission is to invest in military veterans and their spouses through educational scholarships, building a diverse community of leaders committed to service to others. I am proud to say that since inception, through the generous support of individuals and organizations nationwide, over $4 million has been invested in men and women committed to a life of service, both in and out of uniform. I invite you to take a moment to view the interactive Scholar Map online at www.pattillmanfoundation.org to learn more about the Tillman Military Scholars who are making a difference in your community.
Below are just a few of the many ways you can get involved:
Run, Walk, Honor.
Join 35,000 participants, volunteers, and spectators from throughout the United States at Pat’s Run, the foundation’s signature annual fund-raiser. Learn more about the event and the various ways you can participate or volunteer at www.patsrun.com.
Commit. Challenge. Support.
The Pat Tillman Foundation is honored to be recognized as an Official Charity Partner with guaranteed entries to participate in some of the most prestigious marathons in the world, including the ING New York City Marathon, the Bank of America Chicago Marathon, and the Marine Corps Marathon. By becoming a member of Team Tillman, individuals can earn gear and raise funds at these events and in conjunction with any ra
ce or athletic event nationwide.
Give. Donate. Invest.
Invest in veterans and military families today by making a tax-deductible donation to support the Tillman Military Scholars program.
Stay Informed.
Become a Fan on Facebook—Pat Tillman Foundation (Official), follow us on Twitter @pattillmanfnd, and stay up to date on recent Tillman Military Scholars’ achievements and foundation news and events at www.pattillmanfoundation.org.
If The Letter has inspired you to live a little more, give a little more, or just be a little more, please join me at www.marietillman.com
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Preface
Part 1: 2004–2005
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part 2: 2005–2007
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part 3: 2007–2010
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Conclusion
Epilogue
The Pat Tillman Foundation
Copyright
Out of an abundance of respect for individuals’ privacy, the names and identifying characteristics of certain individuals in the book have been changed. Specifically, the following names have been changed: J.P., John, Brian Shaw, Beth, and Sigried.
Copyright © 2012 by Marie Tillman
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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