At a time when I didn’t know how I was going to cope financially, she had no idea the burden she lifted from my shoulders that day.
But the group of people who threw me off the most was Brad’s coworkers from Lockheed Martin. Because I’d never met them. Not one. As a proposal manager, he traveled all the time, and so did everyone he worked with. When they were out of town working on a proposal, some of them were together nonstop for weeks, and the people who weren’t with them were working on their own projects in various parts of the world. It was very rare that their schedules overlapped so that happy hour in the middle of the week was possible, and even when they did, most of those guys were gone so much that the last thing they wanted to do when they had time off was to leave the comfort of their homes to spend time with people they saw more than their own families.
Brad had always been fairly quiet about work for a couple of reasons. The first was that he was determined never to “bring work home” with him in a way that would keep him distracted from his family life. That meant that he rarely talked about what went on during his day, a hard adjustment for me because, as a stay-at-home mom, I longed to hear the office gossip and details about his work that he was less than forthcoming with.
Not only that, but most of the time he and his coworkers were all working on classified jobs. In other words…I rarely knew who he was working with, much less what he was working on. So as people came into the church, every so often some random person would walk up to me and say, “I worked with your husband on Project X,” and I didn’t have the heart to tell them, “I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about.”
The only names I recognized were the guys who had given Brad a hard time at work. Not that I’m judging…believe me he gave as good as he got, and that’s what made them all successful. They worked on multimillion-dollar (sometimes billion-dollar) contracts, and when they were in the middle of a project, the work was around the clock and they were under a lot of pressure. Tensions could run high, to say the least.
So as I was standing in the lobby while people made their way into the sanctuary, one gentleman walked up to me and said, “Hi. My name is Greg and I worked with Brad on several projects. I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”
I smiled a little as I thought of the handful of times Brad had brought up Greg’s name in frustration, and before I could stop myself I blurted out, “Oh, I know exactly who you are. Brad told me all about the two of you working on that Virginia project together.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as he seemed to ponder what in the heck Brad might have told me about him before he said, “Yes…well…he will really be missed around the office.”
And he shuffled as quickly as he could away from me and into the safety of the crowd.
I met Brad’s boss, Mary, for the first time and she seemed as completely shocked as the rest of us. Missing a girls’ weekend (and what I’m sure was probably her first vacation in about ten years), she had flown in from the East Coast the night before. As she shook my hand, heartfelt sympathy flowing from her voice, I felt unreasonably annoyed that this was the first time I was meeting her. I mean, we all know that when meeting a spouse’s superior, we want to impress a little. That introduction should be at a dinner or an awards ceremony or the Christmas party. Not at a function where the only person we have in common is dead, we each have an oozy, wadded-up tissue in our hand, and only one of our eyes has managed to keep its makeup on.
Needless to say, I was not at my best.
As everyone made their way into the sanctuary, I was told by Steve and Nanci to stay behind and make my Grand Widow Entrance just before the guest of honor—the casket—and a few of Brad’s closest friends from Pennsylvania and the Air Force Academy who had stayed behind to accompany Brad into the room. I watched as all of the boys who were now men, the ones who had stood next to Brad at our wedding, took their places next to his casket to bring him into the church.
And then things got interesting.
When we’d met with one of the pastors from my church, a woman named Teri, during the planning process the day before, there were several people present: my parents, my in-laws, and my husband’s childhood minister, Gerald, who had flown in from his small hometown in Pennsylvania. I was amazed and grateful that this man took the time to be present and preside over the funeral because, even though we had been members of our church in Colorado for many years, it was a large congregation and we didn’t know our pastor very well. I was relieved to have someone who knew my husband well enough to speak for him and run things.
Boy, was I in for a jolt.
Now, to me, a funeral should not have too much of a religious overtone, unless it’s a small, private ceremony. To some, I know it’s a comfort to hear that your loved one has moved on to a better place and all that, but I knew that a lot of people attending probably didn’t belong to any sort of organized religion, and if they did, it might not be the same one. And it was important to me that the attendees felt comfortable.
I guess I should have put that into a memo and sent it to all parties involved.
Gerald strode to the podium and began his sermon, talking about what a remarkable person Brad was and I sat there thinking, “So far, so good.”
But then things started to turn a little more religious. And then a little more. And then he jumped off the spiritual high-dive when he boomed in his best fire-and-brimstone preacher voice, “If anyone here chooses not to attend church regularly and is not bathed in the blood of Christ, know that you will not see Brad in the Kingdom of Heaven.
“Amen!”
This declaration was then followed by a peaceful rendition of “Amazing Grace.”
I was sitting in the front of the church, which meant that I couldn’t see the faces of the other people around me. I gave a little sideways glance toward my parents and, judging by my mother’s white knuckles as her hands tensely clutched the tissue in her lap, this pronouncement was as unexpected as I thought. Everyone in that room was reeling from Brad’s death at such a young age, and clearly, my hope that they would be made comfortable by a nonreligious, peaceful service was not to be fulfilled.
Then the eulogies began. People came forward and spoke about Brad’s friendship, what a great coworker he was, and what a difference he had made to so many. It’s weird how you never seem to know what an impact someone has had until they’re gone. Things that should have been said and moments that should have been appreciated seem to come to the surface when you know you’ll never have them again.
“Brad Tidd was one of the most valued employees I had under me,” said his boss, Mary, her short frame allowing her to barely see over the podium. “His sense of humor got us through many a project, and he had a 100 percent win rate on the proposals that he managed. This not only helped the company, but more importantly, it provided thousands of jobs across the country, something that we will always be grateful for.”
I started tearing up. I didn’t know that Brad had done that. I felt a swell of pride and wished that I could be sitting with him, proudly holding his hand at some event where he was receiving a plaque that would get dusty on his office wall, instead of listening to her say that next to his casket. I knew that to him, the money he brought to the company wouldn’t have mattered. But the fact that he would be remembered as someone who helped provide jobs…that would have meant the world to him.
Then Jason, one of Brad’s friends from the Academy, strode to the podium with military precision. Now the husband of Cheryl, my roommate from college, he took a long, deep breath before he began to speak.
“Brad and I have been friends for years,” he began, “and he was one of the biggest patriots I’ve ever known. We’ve seen each other through just about everything—school, the military, marriage, fatherhood. One of his favorite sayings was, ‘To be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid.’ Through the years, we’ve had ple
nty of young and stupid.”
He paused for a minute and then said, “I just wish we would have had more ‘old and wise’ together.”
I sat there grasping wadded-up tissues and blinking back tears, thinking that I had never pictured myself in this situation. Not in my wildest nightmares. The lights seemed too bright and the lump in my throat was so big I couldn’t swallow. I suddenly had the feeling that if I started crying, I would never stop.
And that terrified me.
It then came time to sing a hymn that Gerald the minister had suggested during the planning process, one that I had never heard of, but I assumed was popular back in good, ol’ Pennsylvania. Hoping to make the folks who had traveled from the East more comfortable, I had agreed to add it to the program. After that whopper of a sermon, I did feel a little trepidation when the organist began the introduction and everyone opened their programs and stood to sing.
Not one person in the audience knew that song. Not one. Everyone, and I mean everyone, spent five painful minutes stumbling through this really complicated—and long—hymn that really didn’t have anything to do with the deceased.
I don’t even think my in-laws knew it.
The only clear thing we all heard was the loud baritone of the Pennsylvania preacher who I guess missed his chance on American Idol and decided to make up for it at my husband’s funeral. And when it was done and we had all taken our seats again, I spent the rest of the service hunched over in a position that I’m sure everyone thought of as “doubled over in grief”…when in reality I was laughing so hard into the wadded-up tissue in my hand that I just about couldn’t breathe.
God, I’m sorry that Brad missed that.
8
Once the performance was over, I breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd watched as Brad’s casket was wheeled out the sanctuary doors, through the lobby, and out to the hearse that was waiting for him. And they all stood to follow.
I walked behind Brad to where cadets in Air Force uniforms were waiting to remove the flag that had been laid across his casket. They stood completely still, saluting him as he was wheeled out toward the hearse. With the slow, excruciating meticulousness that only the military can carry out, they picked up the flag, folded it into a neat triangle, and began to make their way toward me.
“They’re not coming over here,” I thought in horror. “They’re not going to give me that flag. That’s not mine.”
The cadet handed me the flag and slowly saluted me. And I finally broke down, burying my face in the lapel of my dad’s best suit.
“He’s gone,” I mumbled into his shoulder, not able to catch my breath. “They’re taking him. He’s really gone. Oh my God. He’s really gone.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” my dad whispered in my ear, hugging me to him.
But that was just the thing. It wasn’t.
Since Brad was going to be cremated, a trip to the cemetery wasn’t necessary. People began to murmur around us and quietly make their way back to their cars so that they could join us at our house—my house now—for a reception. I picked my head up, blinked at the bright summer sun, and took a deep breath, knowing that I still had a long day ahead of me. Flag in hand, I made my way back toward the church to help gather up whatever had been left behind.
I walked in the doors as friends and family were picking up the collages and the guest book. My mother had the basket of cards that everyone had left and was leading the kids to her car. And I fully intended to leave right then with everyone else.
But then I saw her.
The church pastor, Teri, who had sat patiently near the altar while Brad’s minister conducted what I felt sure would go down as one of the most uncomfortable memorial ceremonies in history, was standing in the lobby waiting for us to clear out.
I walked up to her and said, “Teri…can I talk to you for a minute?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Of course.”
I don’t know why I went to her. I didn’t really know her. I didn’t even know what I wanted to talk about. But the second we walked into one of the Sunday school rooms, I’m very much afraid that I exploded on this woman who, up until that point, had been almost a complete stranger to me.
“Why? Why?” I screamed. “Why did this happen? We did everything right! I don’t know a better person than Brad. Why did this happen? What am I going to do? How am I going to live? Why would God do this to us? You have to tell me! Why?”
Teri led me to one of the hard plastic chairs that surrounded the school tables. She sat down with me as the tears flowed down my face and took my hand in hers. Her face was so full of concern, watching someone suffer…someone who was desperate to find an answer that she knew may never come.
“I don’t know, sweetie. I couldn’t explain it when my husband died of cancer when my daughter was ten, and I can’t explain it to you now. All I can do is pray with you now. And if you’re not ready to do that, I’ll pray for you.”
For the first time, I really started to digest how I was not in control of anything in life. None of us are. I looked at this woman who seemed to be so disciplined and who appeared to have all of the answers every Sunday at church and realized that none of us are running the show here.
It was as I was looking at Teri’s face, filled with pain and sympathy, that I began to discover that the question of “why” may be vitally important…but it would never be answered. Men and women have been going through what I was about to face since the beginning of time and have never been able to answer the question, “How could this have happened?”
And even if they could, it wouldn’t ease the pain.
I could ask, “Why was my husband taken away from his children when they were just babies?” and even if I got an answer, it would still be incomprehensible.
I could ask, “Why did my husband have to leave me to deal with this all on my own?” and even if I got an answer, I would still be angry.
I could ask, “How could this happen to a man who was just so damn good?”
And even if I got an answer, it wouldn’t stop what I was about to feel.
He would still be gone.
Death makes no sense. Brad had survived his dangerous teenage years, driving too fast and constantly testing fate, only to die on his commute to work. I’ve had family friends who have spent years with someone who was the picture of health, only to be shocked by their sudden heart attack. I know people whose husbands have been diagnosed with very “curable” forms of cancer and have followed the doctor’s instructions down to the letter…only to lose them two years later after countless rounds of treatment and false hope.
Our husbands are dead and Keith Richards is still alive?
Um…hello? Is this thing on?
Everything that I thought was a “sure thing” in my life had suddenly been ripped out from under me. I’d always thought that if Brad and I worked hard, loved each other, and were just generally good people, we would be rewarded by a long, happy, boring life together. Bad things were what happened to other people. Bad things lived in the abstract in my life and were never within reaching distance. And even if bad things were to happen to us, the one thing, the one thing I was sure of in life was that Brad and I would get through it together.
But then “together” was the one thing that had been taken away.
And although I didn’t completely understand it as I was sitting in the Sunday school room of my church, tears streaming down my face, looking at a woman who was a virtual stranger, but one I was sure up until that moment had all of the answers…the question of “why” would become something that I would struggle with for years.
And then it would become something that I would eventually have to let go of.
• • •
I finally dried my eyes and blew my nose with the clump of tissues that my clothes seemed to be growing. My dad, who had been patiently w
aiting outside the church while I had my breakdown with Teri, watched me walk out of the room, puffy faced and hiccuping, and we made our way to the car.
We stayed completely silent until, while sitting at a stoplight, I had a sudden realization.
“I’m going to have to go back to work,” I said, the magnitude of the shift in our lives starting to sink in. “I’m going to have to sell my house. I’m going to have to figure all of this out alone. What…what am I going to do?”
“Not today,” my father replied quietly, one hand taking mine while he kept steering with the other one. “You don’t have to figure that out today. And when you do…we’re going to figure it out together. Okay?”
Brimming with self-pity, I nodded and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
As we got closer, more and more cars dotted the side of the road until we got in front of my house, where we could barely squeeze through to park in the driveway. The party was in full swing. Many people were seeing our home for the first time, and for one wild moment, I thought, “Oh, I wish I had gotten the house painted before everyone came over!”
The crowd was so thick that I was sure that if the fire marshal caught wind of what was going on, he’d shut down this shindig for sure. I longed for the quiet of my bedroom and the camouflage of my covers. But I pasted a smile on my face and hugged and hugged…and hugged.
Seeing all of the people from the funeral gathered in my house was surreal. Brad’s friends from Pennsylvania mingled with his coworkers from Lockheed. People who hadn’t seen each other in years cried out as they recognized one other and then bent their heads together and spoke in whispers. Everyone bonded over the platters of Chick-fil-A chicken nuggets and HoneyBaked Ham that had been set out in the breakfast room with more food than I’d ever seen before.
Confessions of a Mediocre Widow Page 8