Goodnight Saigon

And we would all go down together. We said we'd all go down together. Yes, we would all go down together. 

I thought I'd never get to go to another Marine Corps birthday ball. Mark only took me to one, when we were stationed at Camp Lejeune in 2014. The following year, he lied; the year after that, he died. And I never quite got the military experience I had imagined. 

When I met Mark, he was a Marine. Literally, that's the first thing he ever said to me. He had a different story of the first time we met, but it entailed little more than him walking by me at a water fountain, not saying a word. I like my story better. At the time, I was working as an ESL teacher. I taught the Advanced level class, and the syllabus offered a new theme each week, one of which was the military. I was looking for some new guest speakers for my students, in response to which my friend Tori suggested I talk to Mark. And the rest, as they say, is history...

Okay, not really. And, in typical Maggie fashion, this post is basically a short novel. Get ready for all the words. 

Tori and I were sitting (squished) in what we called "the office" (our happy place) with a whole group of friends (exercise & health junkies on a mission to change the world with an incredible network marketing company). Mark was new to the group, and Tori, being far more social than I was at the time, had gotten beyond the awkward 'hi' that I'd probably barely managed to mumble. Naturally, she knew everything about Mark, which at the time he usually summed up with: "I'm a Marine." 

Much to my chagrin, and mostly because we were all packed into the tiny office like sardines in a can, Mark overheard my conversation with Tori, in which she told me to invite him to my class. I kid you not, I barely turned around and there he was, practically in my face, saying, "What? I'm a Marine. What?" I don't even think that I directly invited him. I just know that within about thirty seconds, Mark was slotted to be the guest speaker for my students the very next day. 

This is probably a good point for me to explain something that only my friends from that group of fitness-loving foodies could understand, and truly only a handful in this much detail: I still find the fact that I married Mark quite hilarious. Seriously, he was a child when I met him. A short one, and he never got any taller. In my defense, I thought he was older, though I seriously misjudged the 5-year gap between us. Mark was tremendously mature in a number of ways, likely a testament to being a Marine. He was also a complete goofball who ate absurd amounts of food. He even brought MREs (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) to my class "for the students to try", only to then feast on them by himself (with far too much enjoyment) in the back of the classroom. He spoke softly and mumbled too much for anyone to understand him, not just in my class, but on a regular basis. Then he'd say "boom", which could've meant any of a million things, and he'd smile, so you could only assume he was happy to be wherever he was. 

Mark also exercised ALL THE TIME. With him being a natural protector, our friendship blossomed when he offered to be my running partner so that I wouldn't have to run my 10ks alone in the dark after work. And I was just one of the people he exercised with. He had legs and arms of steel. But after each workout, he ate more, usually one of our favorite protein shakes. Or a $5 burrito. Or carne asada fries. Or anything anyone would give him; he didn't discriminate when it came to food. If you offered it, he ate it. So along with his very large muscles, he had what he thought was a "gut", which was barely more than a thin layer of baby fat over his rock-hard abs. And that was how I knew Mark. Our friendship was based around food, exercise and him being a Marine who visited my ESL class every ten weeks as we cycled through the syllabus. 

Then one night, a year after our first encounter, we got drunk. REALLY drunk. And then it was awkward. REALLY awkward. Like, painfully awkward because Mark was basically everybody's little brother/guardian/person-you-could-call-for-anything-at-any-hour-and-he'd-be-there-in-an-instant. Yes, I had robbed the cradle. But that drunken incident turned out to be a marvelous decision. I already knew I loved him. I trusted him with my life, as is one of the perks of hanging out with Marines. And I knew that a lot of what was important to me was also important to him. So, a week or so after the awkwardness had settled, I was sold. He was my person. I compare it to a line in one of the greatest movies of all time, When Harry Met Sally: "I knew the way you know about a good melon."

Disclaimer: To this day, I don't actually know how to buy melon of any kind. I've seen people knock on watermelon at the store, and I'm not quite sure the sound you want to hear, but I've tried it, typically to then put the melon back and resign myself to eating the delicious fruit only when someone else does the work for me, like when I have breakfast at a hotel. I don't know if this knocking trick applies to other types of melon, but it seems possible to me that fruit-readiness is something you can maybe sense by tapping on it. Or you just get lucky. I don't know. A heavy melon is probably good because it has more juice to it, right? Who knows? But I really love that movie and all things Nora Ephron, and that's how I felt about Mark. Ask my sisters; I think I said about a thousand times that I based my destiny with Mark on the illusive science of fruit ripeness-testing as quoted in one of the best movies ever made.

I digress. After another year of eating and exercising (Seriously, we were in great shape), Mark had an opportunity to join the Ground Combat Element Integrated Task Force. This post isn't really about GCEITF, but I'll sum it up with this: It was unique. It was modern. It was controversial. It was exciting. It was a bit of a mess. And for most of the guys in Mark's unit in Pendleton (4th LAR), it was an opportunity for a break from the Reserves to get some active duty time. He enlisted right around the time his command started bringing guys home, so he was thrilled at the possibility of going anywhere and being a Marine full-time, even if for a short length of time. Camp Lejeune is in North Carolina, and I was going with him anyways (You know, because he was such a good melon and I just knew.) so we got married a few weeks before leaving. We were going together, but also for what turned out to be our own adventures. For Mark, this seemed like an awesome opportunity in his military career. For me, going to Lejeune with ITF was my only "real experience" being part of the military. And I mostly hated it.

Slash secretly loved it because that's military life.

I know now that it was the distinct nature of that unit combined with a whole side to Mark I didn't even know existed that had me feel that way. But at the time, I really thought it must've been something about me that made it such a disappointment. All my other friends who were military spouses seemed to have a completely different experience. I thought maybe I was too liberal, or maybe too loud and outspoken. I was in no rush to be a baby-making machine. I was very independent and highly educated with my own career, which I was ready to transition into something new. I was also a few years older than most of Mark's Marines while we were in North Carolina. I considered that maybe it was all those factors added up that had things go the way they went, but more than anything, I blamed myself.

The whole concept of a "military family" seemed to me like something that only happens in movies because it just wasn't coming together as I'd imagined. I did have my core people, which was primarily one other couple and their daughter. My dearest Reyna speaks very little English, but because I'm fluent in Spanish, Mark and her husband, Fergie, basically told us we'd be friends. And thank goodness we were. She was my salvation while we were there, and I love their family dearly. Fergie was the first Marine I called when Mark died.

Now and then, some of the guys would stop by our apartment, which was right off base. I'd try to feed them if I could. Sometimes we'd all go out for drinks. Occasionally, I was the designated driver. But mostly, if I was out of town for a weekend, I'd come back to find out Mark had all the guys over in my absence. I don't think he had any idea how much it hurt me that he kept me separate from that part of his life. Military life can be lonely even for the most outgoing of people. I only got a small taste of it, but I feel for other spouses who face the challenge of adapting. It's not easy. Most weeks, Mark was out in the field for a few days at a time, leaving him exhausted on the weekends. Some things I later found out he was hiding further robbed me from time with him and chances to get to know more of his Marines.

Now that he's gone, some of my favorite stories are about things I didn't even witness, like the time one of our chairs broke, or how one of them patched up some drywall from a hole that somehow showed up in the wall. (Great job, Nappi. I never even noticed!) Or the infamous "Black Widow" (Go figure.) night that my neighbors so gladly told me all about. (Thanks, guys.) There's one picture on Mark's instagram of eight or nine of the guys watching football in our living room. It's a favorite of mine, and I wasn't even there because he had them over while I wasn't home. I missed out on all of that. One of the guys told me once that I was the cool wife, thank you very much. Our place was basically an open door except for when Mark closed it. A bunch of them stored stuff in our spare room. Jordan and his girlfriend crashed there for a few days when she flew in to be his date at the ball. Jordan was the second of Mark's Marines that I called when he died. 

My point is that they mattered to me. It all did. So going to the birthday ball that year was really exciting. There's nothing like going to a Marine Corps ball. A lot of people (girls) will do crazy things to be someone's date, and a lot of young Marines will do anything (pay a lot of money) to get some hot chick to go with them. I don't recommend taking this route, but if you ever have the chance to go, do it. It really is a cool night. Sure, the ceremony is kind of long, and most of the guys have to suck it in because they've gained a few pounds since wearing their dress blues to the ball the previous year. Some people are way too into it. Most of the spouses are pregnant, and if you're not, there's not much to talk about. Most of the Marines spend half the night waiting in line at the bar only to get a drink and get back in line. And yes, it's infamously a party night. You go because you have to, and then you go have fun. But it really is cool.

The Marine Corps is nothing if not traditional, so I was really proud to be going and to be part of it, even though ITF was a bit of a mess and our ball was in a field house complete with basketball hoops barely covered by red drapes. But that's beside the point. A much better image was of me in my dress. I loved my dress. A friend had passed it on to me before we left, and I took it across the country to North Carolina specifically for the ball. It was the only size 4 I've ever worn.

Note: I don't actually care what size I wear, but I'm not a 4. I never have been, aside from that night, and I probably never will be again, nor do I have the desire. The fact that I ever fit into a 4 AND managed to eat a meal plus a few drinks while wearing it is worth mentioning. 

Saying I had a 'few' drinks is a stretch. I might have had two. Mark didn't dance, unless I forced him. We weren't big drinkers. I think we were home before eleven, after dropping Jordan and his girlfriend off at a hotel. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed. Not even six months later, we were back in San Diego, among many others who also left ITF early. (Again, it was a weird unit. Lots of people got hurt; others just got tired. The Marine Corps learned a lot, but it was weird.) About six months after that, I found out some things Mark was hiding; we didn't go to the ball that year. And about nine months after that, he killed himself, taking with him a lot of truths that nobody will ever know. 

As soon as he was dead, I was just a civilian. A very tired, very confused, often very drunk or hungover, highly unstable, incredibly angry, disastrously uninterested in anyone, basic hot mess of a civilian. Oh, and a widow. Most people probably won't get this, but my new status as both a widow and a civilian was devastating, and I avoided using either of those words with anything but disdain for many months. There was a whole life, albeit filled with deception and hurt, that was no longer possible. And I was pissed. 

But then a miracle happened. I only personally called three of Mark's Marines, but once we made news of Mark's death (not his suicide, at first) public on social media, all his Marines starting finding out and letting each other know. I made it very clear with each conversation I had with any of them to pass on my number. I still have a voicemail from one of Marks' Marines that we'd hung out with in Lejeune. In it he said something that still warms my heart; he said that we're family. And he was right. Mark's guys were some of the only people I wanted to talk to in the beginning.

For starters, they were able to fill in a lot of gaps for me. Fergie told me the worst news of all two days after Mark died. (Yes, there was news that felt worse than my husband killing himself, but more on that some other time.) In short, they knew Mark because you just can't do what they do in the infantry without getting to know what makes the person next to you tick. Another distinction between them and civilians is that you can talk to them about anything. Seriously, they're up for anything, and they're okay with the worst of it. Don't get me wrong; some of them really suck at talking about emotions. But they tried, and they're less awkward with typically uncomfortable situations than civilians usually are because you just don't have time to be nervous talking about stuff while trying to stay alive. They're also okay with talking about suicide because, on way too many levels, they get it. 

But more than anything, they're almost all insomniacs who can't sleep when they want to, but can fall asleep anywhere and then be fully functioning about two seconds after waking up. So they were the only people I could find to talk to when I couldn't sleep, which was basically always. I love my civilian friends, but there are many shoes they just couldn't fill. Mark's guys stepped in.

They (or as I like to call them, "the Marines") made it very clear that I'm family. Some stuck around a lot in the beginning. Some disappeared for a while. A few make sure to check on me if we've gone a while without catching up. I made a few messes myself and have disconnected from some of the guys. But the thing with the military is that you can go extended periods of time without talking and then pick right back up where you left off. I'm not sure that'll be the case with all of them, but I have my core few. They're there for me if I need them, and sometimes, it turns out, they have needed me. Some of my most treasured conversations have been with them. I know that for many of them, I'm the only one they can talk to about Mark and the stuff that's really bothering them. They're cool with each other crying about the important stuff, but a couple have cried only with me. Sometimes they indulge my requests for stories about Mark. In the beginning, they were the first people to witness the most incredible rage I've ever felt. Quite often, I probably annoy them. I'm not everybody's cup of tea, but they just let me be. 

Naturally, I wanted to invite the Marines to Mark's birthday feast yesterday, now sixteen months out from his suicide. And it worked out perfectly that when I texted one (Let's call him 'L') he asked instead if I was going to the ball. 

THE BALL?!?!?!?! Um, no, because I wasn't invited and I think that even though I really love you all, you're all starting to get weird about talking to me and don't know what to say and wish you didn't have to be my friend just because Mark died... 

L was not pleased with my answer. Five minutes later, I texted another (Let's call him 'C') requesting a ticket. His response: "FUCK TO THE YES!" And thus began the proverbial roller coaster of emotions. It's about 10am on Saturday. My dead husband's birthday is the next day, and I haven't gone grocery shopping yet for all the food I plan on cooking for everyone under the sun. And now I'm going to the Marine Corps ball...

Here's a smattering of the banter I had with the voice in my head over and over for the next several hours:

What do I wear? OMG, my red dress! I can finally wear it! Is that too sexy? Maybe I should wear black. Ew, no. Widows don't have to wear black. I've been wanting to wear the red dress. Oh, I know! I'll wear my Gold Star pin. Then maybe I won't look bad, like I can look respectful. OMG what will people say? Will people even know me? Maggie, get over yourself. You weren't even invited until now; nobody is going to even notice you. Okay, right. Wear the red dress. You can look good and still be respectful. Pin or no pin... I don't wear the Gold Star pin. I don't like saying that I'm a Gold Star wife because of a technicality. No, Maggie! You're a Gold Star wife! Be proud! Oh, what a terrible thing to be proud of. This is awful. I'll ask Shaela... OMG what time does the ball start? I need to go soon! Crap, when am I going to go grocery shopping? We'll probably be out late...maybe I can manage to not be out late and then can come home and still run tomorrow morning and then get groceries and cook. Right, that will work. But I haven't seen C in months and we just had to cancel our plans two weeks ago. This is perfect! We can catch up tonight! YAY! And I haven't seen L since the services. And it's Mark's birthday tomorrow. THIS IS SO PERFECT! OMG Mark... what would Mark say? Dammit Mark, you're supposed to be the one who took me to the ball, but you really sucked at stuff like this. Didn't you know I like to dance?? *Sobbing* But he loved C and L! He'd be so excited! Would he? Who cares! He's not here. This is MY life. I'm going to the ball! Oh, but I'm going with Mark's guys... I'll text them and ask if they have dates, and then when I meet their dates, I'll introduce myself as 'the widow'. People will leave me alone, and I get to go enjoy the night without feeling this way....I FEEL LIKE I'M CHEATING ON MARK! You know, they said I'd feel this way at some point, the other widows. I haven't felt this way until now. Oh, this is terrible. AND I CAN'T STOP CRYING! My hair is done early, and I can't move or it will lose its curl, but now I'm CRYING! And I still have to put on makeup. Now my eyes are puffy. STOP CRYING. Text a widow! They'll get it. OMG and Shaela is the best friend in the whole world *sob sob sob*. Which shoes do I wear, black or gold? The gold ones are great, but oh, my feet will hurt. Why does it start at 5???? This is going to be the longest night ever. I can't wear heels that long. I barely drink anymore. I won't be able to keep up, and they're gonna want to drink. Oh, I'd better hydrate. Dammit, I deserve a fun night out! YAY! I'll need pajamas. I'm certain that I'll have two drinks and be a disaster. WHY DON'T I HAVE A JACKET??? I'm going to freeze. Maggie, relax. This is San Diego. It's like, 70 right now. You won't freeze. I should probably pack more makeup. Oh, I hate makeup. And how will I ever get it to fit in this purse thing??? Just don't cry, Maggie. You're not allowed to cry. If you do at the ball, nobody will know what to do with all your emotional crying. Get it out now! *Puts on a sad song.* Now I'm getting tired. WAKE UP! YOU'RE GOING TO THE MARINE CORPS BALL! WOOHOO!!!! I GET TO BE WITH MY MARINE CORPS FAMILY! THIS IS THE BEST THING EVERRRRRR! *Texts C about how this is the best thing ever.*

I think that covers all the feels. Oh, that and somewhere in there, somebody actually told me that it looks bad if I go to the ball with Mark's guys, like I'm cheating. I responded with my best portrayal of hot-blooded rage, mixed with a splash of teenage melodrama. Also, in defense of my temporary insanity (that lasted the entire middle chunk of the day) I got my period that morning. The weekend was challenging enough, what with my dead-by-suicide husband's would-be birthday being the next day, plus the onslaught of feelings about going to the ball with people I only know BECAUSE of said husband, who care enough about me to have me join them at the most special of events. Yeah, let's just add some hormones to the mix.

It's fine, life. I can handle it. I'm a badass. Except for right now, when I'm a hormonal basket case. But once it's over, the badassery will be back. Just try me. 

Eventually, I stopped crying and finished berating the giver of unsolicited advice about my going to the ball with Mark's Marines. Once that madness had passed, along with a vote of a confidence from Shaela and one of my widsters, I was ready. L approved of the gold shoes via photo. I had to ask him since nobody else would answer a text. I told you Marines are there for whatever you need. Even fashion advice.

The night was perfect. I met L at his place, where he was also running around frantically trying to get ready. Not shocking, but it was nice to see I wasn't the only one getting ready last minute. His date bailed, which gave us more time to catch up. And because there's never a dull moment, I even stitched a hole in his jacket while his friends drove us to Pendleton. 

What happened to 'always prepared'?

We got there before C, so we hit the bar. Duh. And then more family showed up. I think I shocked the heck out of a few people who clearly didn't expect to see me there. I don't blame them, since I didn't expect to be there either, but it was fun surprising a few people. Jordan's shocked face was my favorite. That type of encounter with someone, seeing them when you don't expect it, is magical. Those are the moments that make for the best hugs. That's what family feels like to me, and it was wonderful. 

The food was great. The cake was PHENOMENAL. The guest speaker was so moto that L was ready to re-enlist and literally couldn't stand still when we got (back) in line at the bar because he was so excited to be a Marine. The drinks were just the right price. Everybody looked marvelous. They of course had The Missing Man Table, which I decided was where Mark was sitting in spirit. I got a photo of it. And I didn't even cry. It was all so wonderful that I was nothing but joyous. 

And then we drank more. The thing is, when you hang out with Marines, you drink. They'll take care of you if you're a mess, but they also have no problem helping to make you a mess in the first place. And by that I mean, they'll buy another round. Or several. L and I hit the dance floor somewhere in the area of a "few" drinks. It was all couples, and then us. We were hilarious and easily the best dancers on the floor, what with him being a a rhythmic Mexican and me being a very tall white girl who happens to be fluent in Spanish and dancing.

Sure, I'm fluent in dancing. Aren't you?

We also created a pretty wide berth around us, so we were hard to miss. When the music got slow, we went back to the table for a few sips. When a good song came on, we were back on the dance floor. Thank goodness for the numbing powers of alcohol making it nearly impossible for me to feel how much my feet hurt.

Somewhere in there, L came back to the table with a Bud Light, which he immediately covered with a napkin. It was for Mark, and I about gushed with love!!! Last year on Marine Corps birthday, L sent me a picture of the beer he got for Mark, covered with a coaster. I don't think there are words to express the immense gratitude it gives me to see people remembering Mark. This is especially important when I live with an exhausting din in my head, full of confusing thoughts, frustration, anger, embarrassment and upset about Mark's death. Suicide is complicated because the killer and the victim are one and the same. You rarely have the space or energy to feel about both of those details at the same time without flipping out, screaming, wanting to numb out, or maybe falling asleep because it's just too exhausting. I need others to remind me of the good when I can't do it myself, and seeing someone clearly miss and love Mark was a gift I will never forget. I can reference that memory later when I really need it. 

And for the rest of the night, we alternated between dancing, drinking, chatting about Mark, catching up on life, and more drinking. C had already left to take his son and brother back to the hotel. His son invited me to join the party at the hotel and have some pretzel sticks, which is just about the cutest invitation to a party ever. How could I say no? Plus, I was drunk. And C was our ride. I'd given in hours prior to the fact that this was going to be an epic night, and it was worth every second. We, being just the three of us plus the youngsters, did not have a big party at the hotel. In fact, his son was asleep by the time I even got there. There was a lot of talk about burritos, but I don't think I even managed to have a pretzel stick. We sat outside. They had beer; I had water. I have no idea what they talked about. I just know I was so very happy that I was with two of my Marines, whom I trust with my life, having the best night ever.

In case it hasn't yet been made clear, it's an honor to be part of this family. We're a bit dysfunctional, but that just makes for better stories when we catch up. We certainly have some funny stories to retell from just this one night. Needless to say, I was hungover. So very hungover. But the whole night was perfect. The best part was that it wasn't all about Mark. Sure, he was there in spirit, and the whole experience pushed me leaps and bounds along in my growth game and healing. But I didn't go just for Mark with his Marines and his Marine Corps because it was the night before his birthday. I went for me with my Marines to celebrate our Marine Corps. And because, dammit, I deserve to go out and have fun on a Saturday night!

Happy birthday, Mark. Happy birthday, Marines. Rah.