by Ryan Manion
Chapter 6
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Preparing for the Unknown
I have a photo that captures Brendan perfectly. It was taken on deployment, somewhere in the deserts of Iraq or the mountains of Afghanistan. I’m not sure if he was aware of the photographer’s presence at the time, since it’s more of a profile shot. It shows him crouched close to the ground against an empty and mountainous terrain, looking into the distance with just the faintest of smiles, one that’s equal parts mischief and warmth. He’s wearing full camo, probably forty-plus pounds of gear, sporting a heavy and untamed beard typical of those worn by men in that region of the world, and holding a sniper rifle close to his chest. He is staring at the landscape, ready to take on whatever may be in his path. It’s Brendan just as I remember him: young, strong, calm, and prepared for whatever life is about to throw at him. It’s also the quintessential “tough guy” military photo, and if I didn’t know any better, I would guess it was staged for a Navy SEAL recruitment poster.
Except for one little detail that you could miss at first.
If you look closely at the image, you see that Brendan is not alone. Popping its head out of a satchel attached to Brendan’s hip is a tiny gray puppy. The little guy looks to be only days old. His eyes are closed and he is stretching his neck just barely out of the satchel toward the warm sun. He looks so vulnerable and sweet that, once you spot him, you wonder how you could have ever missed him. The soft, innocent puppy creates quite the contrast next to Brendan in his desert cammies.
Brendan was a complex guy, and I’m sure no number of pages I write could really do his character justice, but that picture tells you just about everything you need to know about him. He was a rugged warrior, no doubt, but once you got to know him, you discovered that he was also a sensitive soul who couldn’t resist scooping up a puppy that looked like it needed safekeeping.
He was a protector, and after that day, that pup became his constant companion on deployment. Above all else, that photo reminds me of two principles that Brendan never spoke out loud, but that he lived by every day: Be prepared and be present. He was ready to do battle with any challenge and would work tirelessly to conquer it. But he was not so focused on the failings of the past or the ambitions of the future to pass over the simple, sweet gifts of the present.
When I reflect on my late husband and the growth I’ve experienced in the years since I lost him, I always return to these two lessons. First and foremost, Brendan taught me preparation. Unbeknownst to him—or me, at the time—Brendan prepared me for the life I would have with him. He prepared me to be Mrs. Amy Looney.
Before Brendan, I had lived a sheltered, and at times unstable, life. I began my life in Delaware, and my parents divorced when I was four.
I spent a lot of time alone and learned early on that, if I wanted something to be done, I was going to have to figure out how to do it myself. I spent most of my early years with my grandparents, with whom I became very close. With them, I felt safe and at home, insulated from the world in a protective bubble.
When I was thirteen, my mom and I uprooted, leaving my grandparents and moving to Maryland, where she remarried. That relationship also ended in divorce, and my mom wound up working long, difficult hours to support our family on her own.
For me, the move away from my grandparents was also difficult. I felt like my familiar life had been ripped from me and I was being forced to start over and try to create some sense of stability on my own.
I ultimately adjusted. I stayed in Maryland through college, and never dreamed of leaving that fifty-mile radius of home, which was now predictable, pleasant, and stable.
My upbringing had taught me to be independent, but I’d also grown accustomed to a quiet family life. When it came to relationships, I planned to stay young and single for as long as I could, until I was 300 percent sure that I was ready to commit to something that wouldn’t fall apart. Maybe when I was thirty.
And then, of course, I met Brendan. Plans went out the window pretty quickly. Rather than staying in my insulated hometown, I moved across the country to a new life, a new job, and new friends, to marry a man whose career was neither predictable nor stable.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I remember admitting to Brendan shortly after we became engaged. I was worried about starting out at ground zero with a new career and having to settle for some job I wasn’t happy with, just to have a steady income.
“That’s ridiculous,” he responded. “Of course you can do this. You can do anything.”
Brendan wasn’t saying that just to make me feel better or to be dismissive of my concerns. He really believed it. Sometimes he was so persuasive that he got me to believe it, too. With his certainty uplifting me, suddenly jet-setting to the West Coast proved to be more exciting than terrifying.
And when I met the Looney family, I found that any ideas I had had about a quiet, simple family life also disappeared. That house was straight-up organized chaos, yet somehow I felt at home in it. I’d never been around so many distinct, vivacious personalities at one time. And they all got along with one another to boot. This was unfamiliar territory for sure. They celebrated everything. At every uncle’s birthday, every cousin’s baptism, every going away or welcoming home, there was a party. It was a far cry from the quiet holiday dinners I was used to having with just my mom, my sister, and myself.
At first, it was overwhelming, but eventually I loved seeing Brendan in his family role playing the part of the dependable leader and trustworthy confidant to anyone with a problem. I remember thinking to myself, This is what a family should be.
As for my plan for staying young and single—well, I guess we know how that ended. At every stage, Brendan had a way of inadvertently forcing me to challenge my own beliefs—about values, about family, about my future, and most especially about myself. He saw something within me that I simply couldn’t see for myself. He saw my strength long before I knew it was there. “You’re so much stronger than you think you are,” he would always say.
This proved true, even in small, day-to-day ways. I remember him taking me to the beach one day and telling me, “Okay, now we’re going to do wind sprints.”
“Are you nuts? I can’t do that.” Exhausting workouts were a part of Brendan’s day-to-day routine. I couldn’t say the same for myself.
“Yes, you can, Amy. You can do this.”
Brendan knew I wasn’t much of a fitness junkie at the time, but he wasn’t going to let me off easy, either. He rarely missed a workout, and on the few occasions that he did, it was for some equally noble commitment he’d made instead. And he would just beat himself up about missing a day in his fitness routine. Okay, so you missed a workout, I would think. So what? I never understood the big deal.
After enduring several years of Brendan pushing me to be stronger, braver, and more disciplined, I understand. Before Brendan, I was rarely self-motivated. I liked to try hard or perform well and be a decent student and worker, but none of those things defined my personality as they did for him. It was Brendan who pushed me outside my comfort zone; Brendan who challenged me to be better every day. And now I don’t need that external push. He made me realize that everything I need is already within me.
It wasn’t Brendan’s nature to point out people’s flaws simply for the heck of it, however, and when he challenged me to be better, I knew he had my best interests in mind. I never felt like I was being beaten down. On the contrary, he was lifting me up. He knew what I was capable of and he wanted me to know it, too.
Whether I could do wind sprints, or move across the country, or start a new career, was not the issue. That was a foregone conclusion in Brendan’s mind. As my biggest advocate, he knew that I could. That wasn’t the point. He was going to ensure that I did. And he was going to be there to support me every step of the way.
It’s probably not surprising, then, that I truly believed my late husband was invincible. It’s stupid and naive to think that now, after
losing him, but I only ever knew him as the person who was in total control of any situation. He knew what to do at all times. He was smart, he was strong, he was trained. I was confident that, if something bad happened on deployment, he would have a plan to get everyone out safely.
I couldn’t imagine a scenario where he was anything but calm, decisive, and competent. In our marriage, I relied on him when things seemed uncertain or the path ahead was murky, and I trusted his judgment implicitly. I know he loved that I depended on him so much, but it must have concerned him on some level as well.
When Brendan deployed on my twenty-ninth birthday in March 2010, that was the last time I saw him alive. Before he left, however, he wanted us to have a special day together. He was very thoughtful whenever it came to any celebration, and he’d spend weeks coming up with a theme for each birthday. In 2010, the theme was “self-sufficiency.”
Brendan knew I had an expensive daily Starbucks habit, so he went out and got me a Nespresso machine and enough pods of coffee to keep it running through October, when he was scheduled to return home.
“And then, when I’m back,” he told me proudly, “I’ll make your lattes for you every day. But until then, you can save yourself the time and money, and make them here.”
He then presented me with a Williams Sonoma Crock-Pot recipe book to encourage more eating in than going out. I’m no Susie Homemaker, but experimenting with that book gave me something fun to do while he was away, and now, years later, it has become frayed with use. Brendan put a lot of thought into what life would be like for me while he was away, and he wanted to know that I was being taken care of, even when he couldn’t be there to do the caring himself.
I believe he considered the possibility, too, that I might be forced to take on life without him. And if that were to happen, he wanted me to know that I had the strength and ability to do it.
And of course, as always, he pushed me. He pushed me to learn, to grow, and to become a better version of myself every day. Constant personal improvement was deeply important to Brendan—so much so that, when he bombed a presentation at work one day, he came home and asked me to join Toastmasters with him. Bettering ourselves came to be one of the ways that we bonded profoundly, and it helped us to grow not just as individuals, but as a couple as well.
Brendan prepared me for marriage by promoting my personal growth and introducing me to the values that would anchor our relationship.
He prepared me for Navy life by empowering me to become adaptable, adventurous, and flexible in ways that I hadn’t thought possible.
He prepared me for life as a leader and a professional by showing me that respect from others is what you earn when you show them you are in it with them; that you are right there, climbing the mountain and sweating, just as they are.
In watching Brendan grieve the loss of Travis, and seeing how he prioritized his life afterward, I discovered that he had prepared me to grieve, too. Neither of us could have known it at the time, but the most important thing my husband prepared me to do was to be his widow.
During the eight years I had with Brendan, he helped me build a foundation that I would be forced to fall back on, time and time again, when I felt alone, defeated, and hopeless. He had helped me to become resilient, patient, and gracious.
I believe Brendan was put in my life to teach me to be a survivor and to make something meaningful of my life after his death.
While the deep pain of losing him was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before, I found comfort in the little victories of past struggles that I’d overcome. Each one was a reminder of a time when I thought I couldn’t possibly do something, and Brendan had shown me that I could.
He taught me the value of perseverance and the necessity of discipline. When I wanted to stay in my pajamas all day and wallow on the couch, I couldn’t, because I didn’t want to let him down.
If I hadn’t known my husband was watching me from somewhere, believe me, I would have stayed on that couch. When I wanted to retreat from the world and numb my pain with alcohol or sleeping pills, I’d catch myself and exercise some discipline, because I wanted to make him proud.
While I’m grateful for the values and habits he helped me cultivate, I can’t say that having them has made losing Brendan any easier. Nothing could make that loss easier; there’s no agony like it. But it did provide me with the confidence I needed to know that, in the end, I would be okay. “I’m so much stronger than I think I am,” I’ve reminded myself over the years. Brendan knew it was true long before I did, and his encouragement has spurred me on these past several years.
Emboldened by this knowledge, I began to see just what I was capable of. I wasn’t scared anymore. The worst thing I could ever have imagined had happened. What more could there possibly be to risk? That put things into perspective quickly. Pretty soon, the ambitions and feats that had once been too fearful to tackle didn’t seem so frightening.
In the first five years after Brendan’s death, I ran a marathon, hiked Machu Picchu, went white-water rafting, and trained to swim the English Channel as part of a relay group. I am neither a natural athlete nor an adventurist, so my ability to achieve these milestones had less to do with any skills or inclinations I possessed, and more to do with constant, disciplined, and often painful preparation.
It was a beautiful gift that Brendan gave me in making me Mrs. Amy Looney. I am forever indebted to him for the life he prepared me for, as both a wife and a survivor. That realization is comforting, but it’s also deeply painful. How can you not question why someone was placed in your life at just the right time, only to be ripped from it before you got the chance to run your course together? Why were you prepared for a life that you will never get to enjoy fully?
Three years after Brendan died, on Christmas Day 2013, Brendan’s brother and his wife, Ali, had a son, and I was fortunate enough to meet him shortly after he was born. They named him Brendan Travis, and to this day, that fearless little boy lives up to his warrior name. Sharing in that moment at the hospital was difficult because it was a sharp reminder of the life I would never have. Brendan’s brother had always told me that he wanted me to find happiness, in whatever form that may take.
And as I have watched Brendan Travis grow, I have realized I wanted that, too. Finally, encouraged by the support of friends and family, I was able to admit that I was ready to love again.
At this point, I’d found that training in frigid open waters wasn’t all that intimidating, and that hiking up to the clouds with inadequate gear and even less adequate training was quite manageable. But the idea of dating again, let alone finding someone to love? Now, that was downright terrifying. Where would I even begin?
I received a lot of unsolicited—and, frankly, unwanted—advice in those days: when would be the “acceptable” time to start dating; who would be “appropriate” candidates; and how and when I would be obligated to share my past.
Nothing, however, was quite as frustrating as divorced friends telling me they knew exactly how I felt. We were basically in the same situation, right? Wrong. We weren’t. I had loved my husband with all my heart, and our relationship ended abruptly on terms neither of us had decided upon.
I was still frozen with fear that I didn’t have any love left to give to another man and questioned if I could ever put myself back out there. Needless to say, the additional opinions from outsiders about how, when, where, and to what degree I ought to proceed with my love life made the situation that much more difficult to navigate.
Dating as a young widow is scary. If you’ve ever been in this situation and gone for it, I commend you. When all you’ve ever known is a happy and loving marriage, it’s impossible to imagine that you can ever find such a thing again. Could that really come more than once in a lifetime? And even if you meet someone and things look promising, there are so many new fears to consider.
Yes, the regular self-doubt is there, too. You become hyperaware of the weird chewing habit that you’ve al
ways had but that your husband was happy to overlook; or you all of a sudden decide some birthmark you have, which had never bothered you before, will be a total turnoff to someone else. But along with all the usual insecurities and self-criticisms, the fear of loving and losing again takes over.
Let’s say you’re crazy and brave enough to put yourself out there. Let’s go outside the realm of what you imagine as likely, and say you meet someone amazing and things click effortlessly. Here is where you have a “What if?” field day: What if they cheat and break your heart? What if they decide they don’t love you anymore? What if they die? By the time you get to that last question, a caring girlfriend gently tells you you’re being paranoid and that you shouldn’t overthink things. But you know better. You’ve lived it. You know how very real nightmares can become.
It’s courageous to ask your wounded heart to love again, to make yourself vulnerable again. But you’ve made it this far, haven’t you? I remembered Brendan’s response on the beach during wind sprints and any other time I questioned myself: “You’re brave, remember? You can do anything.”
A year after meeting baby Brendan in the hospital, I met Joel. It was nothing like when I had met Brendan in my early twenties, with our whole lives lying before us. It was a setup from a mutual friend of Brendan’s and mine. I walked into that date cautious and nervous, but also feeling that something was going to be different and special about this person. We met for drinks because, secretly, neither of us wanted to commit to a full night of dinner and forced conversation. If the evening proved to be a disaster, I could bail.
Fortunately, I didn’t need to. Joel and I talked about everything from music, to life, to previous relationships, to work, to travel. It was by far one of the most in-depth and honest conversations I had had with a man in a very long time. For years, Joel had been a Marine himself, and he was now in a career dedicated to public service. He knew what it meant to be away from loved ones, to sacrifice, to lose. I think he was surprised and relieved to find that I understood those things, too.