16. Finite Moments in Time

Life is a composition of finite moments giving rise to infinite possibilities.

On 9 November, at the Navy’s Survivor Advocacy Working Group, its chair, Vice Chief of Naval Operations Adm. Lisa Franchetti said:

“Our Sailors must have confidence that we will take care of their families if the unimaginable happens. Supporting our survivors is a no-fail mission.”

Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy James Honea, said:

“When our Navy families are going through unthinkable loss, we must provide compassionate and ongoing support as they navigate tragedy. The Navy takes care of our own and opportunities like this ensure the Navy is providing the right support where it’s needed most.”

The thing is in Colter’s life, it’s not the “unimaginable,” or the “unthinkable.” Allison’s death was a finite and painful actuality. In that fixed moment, she perished with four other Sailors. What others cannot imagine, Colter has lived through. What others cannot think about, he faced.

Think of a fear, your worst fear. What happens when you face it? Whether by choice or not, you work through it. You come out stronger. Sometimes, those who have not faced what you have faced will put their “unimaginable“ on you, despite you not needing to imagine. They will put their fear on you only to cloak you in protection, strengthening the barrier they require around you.

In our relationship, the Navy, Aviators, and Colter's family were the ones putting on Colter that which wasn't his to carry. Colter is the only person to have lost a spouse in Allison. A spouse whom he had not yet treated as a spouse or referred to as his wife in public. Yet, the Navy (et al) forced an image of the loss they envisioned for Colter.

When we were married, there was no Navy Gold Star Program. With our wedding, the DoD no longer recognized Colter as Allison’s Next of Kin. He could no longer access her military records, nor could he continue to receive death benefits. Yet, after our wedding, after our fixed moment in time, the Navy began to intrude in our Newlywed private life. With each intrusion, Colter pushed me further and further away. He wasn’t always aware he was doing it. It became increasingly difficult to connect with him. I was losing the desire to keep trying to connect with this man whom I loved.

The roots of our family gave rise after Allison’s death. There is no conjunction connecting the two. Her death is not a cause, an if, a without, a but for, or a precursor. It occurred. It was finite. Our family’s experience is our own, growing from roots that were planted in late 2010.

This is not to be confused with Colter’s memories or loss, or our family’s support of Colter as our father and husband. However, this is a private matter for us. This was always a private matter for Colter. The Navy, despite its countless policies, did not protect Colter’s privacy.

By late 2019, we had lost two babies, each of whom I cremated. I was grieving them and longing for them. All the while, trying to ensure Bradley was having a happy, loving, full childhood. He once asked me why we didn’t have a baby. We were far enough along each time that he knew he was getting a little brother, then a little sister, and yet he had neither. I explained to him that sometimes babies are created for heaven, and we don’t get to keep them on earth. I told him I was sad. He said he was too. We both cried.

It is dishonorable to speak for a Sailor regarding the loss of his late wife. It is absurd to foresee a need to assert this or to re-issue your in-writing directive to not be part of the Navy Gold Star Program because your first instruction was ignored. It is unforgivable to do this while we were grieving our family’s losses, and while we were on active duty.

By the time the NGSP spoke for Colter in the tributes without his knowledge or consent, the Navy and the NGSP had already alienated our marriage. Among the stories I'll present to you in a future post are unsolicited mailers, providing our private address to a presumed sponsor of the NGSP, and a military spouse and NGSP employee from San Diego calling Colter's private phone number out of the blue, five-and-a-half years after Allison's death, and five months into our marriage, to see if there was anything she could do for him.

It was 2014, and seven days before our first Christmas together as a married couple. For her it may have been one last thing to cross off her list before leaving the office for the holiday break. For us, her check in the box, intruded on our privacy, our peace, and intruded on Colter's thoughts, heart and mind at a previously joyous time.

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