by Ryan Manion
The drive from Dover to Brendan’s parents’ home in Maryland was a long and somber one. It was the heavy calm before the storm that was about to erupt. My head hurt from hours of crying and lack of sleep, but I was ready for the hustle and bustle that I knew would greet me at the Looney home. Brendan was one of six children, and he had many close cousins, teammates, SEAL buddies, neighbors, and friends who wanted to be close to us during this time.
Bring on the chaos, I thought to myself as we pulled into the Looneys’ driveway. Anything will be better than the heavy solitude of the last twenty-four hours.
The friendly, rambunctious environment of the Looney home did not disappoint. Those first few days were a true Irish wake. There seemed to be hundreds of people filing in and out of the house at all hours of the night and day, a never-ending revolving door of chatty mourners.
I appreciated the activity around me, but I also felt separate from it. As I looked from room to room, I felt as though I were looking through a glass wall. I turned toward the kitchen. People were belly laughing as one of Brendan’s SEAL buddies told a wildly inappropriate story about a drunken night in Thailand.
I glanced over at the living room. A lacrosse teammate was proposing a toast to Brendan and people were alternating between wiping away tears, chuckling at old memories, and clinking together aluminum beer cans.
Many of my girlfriends from middle school, high school, and college came by, too. We’d sit together on the porch, sometimes talking, sometimes not. I hadn’t seen some of them since my wedding day.
What a different scene this was. We all felt powerless and confused, and no one seemed to know how to act. There’s no rulebook for how to interact with your twenty-something girlfriend after her husband dies, so we all just did the best we could and tried to at least enjoy the fact that we were all gathered together.
I was so grateful when I saw Ryan Manion walk through the door of the Looney home. Here was someone who had some understanding of the pain I felt. It had been three years since she lost her brother, Travis, and I’m sure that the loss of his best friend opened up old wounds for her.
I gave her a long hug. Ali approached to break up our embrace because she was ready to get down to business. Ali was like a watchdog on the lookout for anything that would ease my grief. She was ten steps ahead of me, anticipating problems I didn’t even know were on the horizon, and solving them before they reached me.
“Ryan,” Ali cut in as she gave her a quick embrace. “Those big, dark sunglasses you wore to Travis’s funeral? Where did you get them? Amy needs a pair.”
Another woman might have been caught off guard by a question like that. She had just walked in the door to comfort a grieving friend and was immediately interrogated about an outfit she had worn three years prior. But like most people who have lived through the pain of tragedy, Ryan knew better. She understood that there were practical concerns in play that needed to be addressed just as much as emotional ones.
“Oh yeah, those were great,” Ryan responded. “You’re definitely going to want a pair like those. I was bawling my eyes out all during Travis’s funeral. No one wants to be seen in that state. I can help find something.”
These are the things you simply don’t think about when you’re making arrangements for your twenty-nine-year-old husband’s funeral and burial. It was a gift to have people surrounding me who could consider the little details that my overwhelmed brain could not.
I trusted Ali with any wardrobe decisions from there and rejoined the activity of the Looney household. Beers were poured, Saint Brendan’s Irish Cream Liqueur was passed, and stories of Brendan’s heroism and humor echoed in every corner of the house. Finally, in the late hours of the night or the early hours of the next morning, everyone found a couch or bed to sleep on. We would drift to sleep feeling warm and nostalgic, only to wake up feeling heavy and burdened. It went on like this for days as we ran down the clock toward Brendan’s funeral and burial service.
I stayed at the Looney home all week, but I didn’t sleep much. Whatever sleep I did get was of poor quality. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I don’t think I spent a sober night in that house in the days after Brendan died. I wasn’t even eating at that point, but you could always find me with a drink in my hand. Of course, I’d heard of people trying to drown their sorrows with alcohol, but I don’t think I believed that’s what I was doing at the time. I never would have articulated it that way anyway. I, along with everyone else, was simply caught up in the celebration of Brendan’s life. It felt good and familiar to be around people who knew and loved my husband. They wanted to share their piece of Brendan’s life with me—how he had affected them, how he had pushed them to be better, how he had made them laugh—and I soaked it up like a sponge.
I didn’t want those toasts or those stories to end, because every time I heard his name I felt that Brendan was still with me. He was still alive for those of us in that house. Every beer that clinked and foamed over was affirmation that my husband was real; that he shared a past not just with me, but with each person in the room; that he was loved and respected; and that the world really was a worse place without him in it. The cloudy haze of nonstop drinking and constant company I found myself in that week was all that made the nightmare I’d been living bearable.
When Friday arrived, it was time to inter Travis at Arlington. The Manion family had wanted a quiet ceremony as they moved his remains from Pennsylvania, where he’d been laid to rest three years earlier. Ryan, Travis’s sister, tried to make me swear that I wouldn’t go to the ceremony. She wanted to make sure I took that time to prepare for my husband’s burial three days later.
But of course, there was no way I was going to miss it. It was a chilly fall day, and as I stood outside with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders, I stared in disbelief as they lowered the casket of my husband’s best friend into the ground. I felt completely empty. In three days, Brendan would be joining him there forever.
Much to the surprise of the Manion family, the ceremony was anything but quiet. The family arrived to find about 250 Marines from Marine Corps Base Quantico in full dress uniform standing reverently at the burial site. Dozens of Travis’s and Brendan’s closest friends and family members showed up to pay their respects. Nothing those two did in life had ever been restrained or mild, so why should their funerals be any different?
Eventually, we all ended up at McGarvey’s Bar in Annapolis, a favorite spot of Travis and Brendan, and later Brendan and me. We spent many a night together at McGarvey’s.
Being back on our old stomping grounds so soon after Brendan died had a strange effect on me. We walked in the door and immediately I was done. I was done putting on a pleasant face and playing the role of polite hostess. I was done navigating the emotions of others at the expense of my own. I was done having people look at me with big, watery eyes like I was a fragile puppy in need of care. I grabbed Ryan, my sister-in law Ali, my friend Lindsey, and a couple other girlfriends and headed for a secluded space in the bar behind the stairs. I needed a break from the crowd.
Within minutes, after ordering a round of shots, we were all holding up our glasses and looking at each other with halfhearted smiles and shrugs. In a few hours, I bury my husband and my life resets to zero, I thought to myself. Here goes nothing.
I swallowed the liquor and felt my shoulders relax. A few minutes later, another round appeared. And then another one. The next thing I knew, we were back to planning what I would be wearing to my husband’s funeral. How the hell is this happening right now? was all I could think. Ali, who had played every role from chauffeur to executive assistant to legal counsel over the past week, was now acting in the role of stylist.
“Oh, Ryan, I found those sunglasses,” she said. “I got the biggest, darkest, buggiest ones I could find. I think we’re good there.”
“Thank God,” I said. The liquor had made my tone a little more abrasive than I’d intended. “I might be crying my eyes out, but the
last thing I need is people looking at me like I’m some naive, pathetic little girl. If people start fawning all over me with pity, it’s just going to piss me off. I know what I signed up for and so did Brendan. I just don’t want people to feel sorry for me, you know?”
I sighed and took another gulp of my drink. I couldn’t believe this was where life had taken me.
Brendan’s funeral at Arlington the following Monday morning was beautiful, moving, and painful. It was pouring rain and we had a tent assembled that could only hold two or three rows of chairs near the casket for family. I sat in the front and barely took my eyes off the wooden box holding my husband. When the ceremony concluded, a line of fellow SEALs with whom Brendan had served formed by the casket. They removed from their uniforms the trident lapel pins that they’d received upon graduation from SEAL training.
Then one by one, each SEAL stepped up to the casket and pounded his pin into the wooden frame, where it would remain buried forever with Brendan. The loud, hammering sound became rhythmic, like a drumbeat. And each time I heard the metal pin being driven into the casket, I shook a little and lost my breath for a moment. Each hammered pin felt like a stab in my heart.
When the last trident had been pounded in, I took one last look. I still couldn’t believe that it was my Brendan who was inside that casket. When it was time to leave him behind, I felt an intense pang of guilt. I glanced over at Travis’s grave site beside my husband.
Typical Travis, I thought. Setting the bar exceedingly high.
And typical Brendan. I looked back at my husband’s final resting place. Always rising to meet it.
I gave one long, last look. Everything felt so heavy and final. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could take solace in knowing that they’d always be together. In this whole mess, I knew I’d done at least one thing right.
Pretty soon after, it was time to return to our home in California. Our dogs had been in the care of my friend Lindsey for nearly three weeks now, and it wouldn’t be right to ask her to keep them much longer. I was going to have to find a way to keep living, and if only for my dogs’ sakes, I might as well start sooner rather than later.
But when I returned to our empty townhome, where Brendan’s clothes still hung in the closet and our wedding photo was displayed on the mantel, I realized just how difficult the task to keep living would be.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m usually a highly motivated, highly disciplined, Type A personality. My closet is color-coded. My appointment book is expertly maintained. I send a thank-you card no more than seventy-two hours after receiving a favor. But the loss of a loved one throws you into a tailspin that doesn’t simply redefine your routine. It shatters it.
Back in San Diego, anything I had once thought I cared about couldn’t have been further from my mind. I lay on my couch in pajamas watching the 2 p.m., 4 p.m., and 6 p.m. showings of whatever movie was playing on Lifetime. I was constantly throwing away full trays of food that had been delivered by concerned friends and neighbors. I wasn’t hungry—and besides, with whom was I going to eat an entire tray of lasagna? It was just another sad reminder that I was utterly alone. I went days without brushing my teeth. I stayed up to weird hours of the night and then swallowed pills to fall asleep.
Even our beloved dogs couldn’t bring me back to life. The poor things got no exercise or sunshine in those early weeks. I sat and watched apathetically as, day after day, they peed in a corner of the living room and trotted away.
I had no schedule and was accountable to no one. It was no way to live. Not until I forced myself to create a schedule did I begin to feel a shred of my old self again. Sometimes the schedule simply said, “Meet a friend for lunch today.” And it took every ounce of my strength and discipline to actually do it. But when I did—when I showered and put on real clothes and forced myself outside and into a conversation with a friend—I felt human again.
It was four months before I went back to work. For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to drive anywhere, which was non-negotiable for a career like mine in medical sales.
It was a few more months before I could force myself to exercise or meet up with friends after work. It was much easier to stick to my diet of Ambien, pajamas, and a dark room as soon as I got home.
After a long day at work, all I wanted to do was go home and be myself. Unfortunately, as soon as I got there, the loneliness set in and I became acutely aware of how eerily quiet everything was. The silence was deafening. I had barely any willpower, but I’d preserved just enough self-respect to know that what I was doing to myself wasn’t good.
It occurred to me that I probably should take out my dogs so they wouldn’t pee in the house, and that I was forming an unhealthy attachment to sleeping pills. I didn’t like the zombie I’d become. Most of all, I knew Brendan would have hated to see me in this state. More than saddening him, it would have disappointed him. I couldn’t stomach the thought of that. He had always pushed me and challenged me to operate outside my comfort zone. He constantly reminded me how strong and tough I was. And even though I didn’t feel strong or tough, I supposed I could fake it, for his sake.
The events of September 21, 2010, and the subsequent weeks are not a coherent or linear memory to me. There are days and days that I cannot account for. I’m able to share them now only because I’ve spent years piecing together accounts from various friends and a few blurry recollections of my own. For many years, not remembering was the only way I could live.
I found plenty of help: Ambien at bedtime, shots at McGarvey’s, and beers at the Looney house. I was grateful for any agent that would lighten my load or cloud my memory.
In the years that followed, I found a new way to cope: I became expert in the skill of compartmentalization. It was as though the death of my loving husband was not my story at all. It was the fate of some very unfortunate girl, and I could watch her from a distance, completely unaffected. Eventually, I returned to color-coding my closet, shooting out thank-you cards at lightning speed, and diligently maintaining my appointment book. The casual observer never would have known the trauma I’d experienced, and I much preferred it that way. The painful memories were locked tightly away in a vault that I had no plans ever to reopen.
Writing this book, however, has empowered me to reopen that vault. I’m still sifting through all the contents inside, and by no means have I sorted them all out. But every day, I unpack a little more and I become more whole as a result. I’m proud of where I am now, but I also know that every day is different. Tomorrow I may hear our song “Clocks” on the radio and choke back tears on my commute to work.
In a month, I may remember that it’s the anniversary of the day we bought our home in California and turn into a puddle again. Each day is different, so I take them all one at a time. But if there’s anything my late husband taught me, it’s to never give up.
“Be strong. Be accountable. Never complain.” That was Brendan’s catchphrase of sorts. He had it written on a whiteboard above his desk and he’d repeat it to himself often. Those words are simple, straightforward, and true. Just like my Brendan. He was tough, and nothing irked him more than someone who wasn’t living up to their potential or who refused to take responsibility for their actions. If I want to make him proud, I will live by those words every day.
I was honored to be the wife of Brendan Looney, if only for a short time. It was the greatest gift he could have given me. Every day, I hope that I can honor and respect him the way he honored and respected me. I want to be worthy to carry on his name and continue his legacy of strength and perseverance. This book is my attempt to do that, and it comes with some hard-fought battles and some harshly learned lessons.
At the end of the day, I choose to believe what Brendan told me about myself: that I am stronger than I know. I am able to say that with certainty today, only because I’ve waded through the fog of uncertainty. At different times during my journey of grief, I’ve been plagued with self-doubt and an end
less stream of disorienting questions. In the end, however, there was always one question I came back to, and it taught me one of the most important lessons of my life.
Chapter 5
* * *
When “What If?” Becomes “What Now?”
I stood in my bedroom, staring quizzically at the inside of an empty hiking bag. I had no idea how to pack. At the foot of my bed lay two piles: one a “Definitely Bring,” and the other a “Maybe Bring.”
In the Definite category, so far, I had two sets of thick, woolen socks and a never-worn pair of the most heavy-duty hiking boots I could find at REI.
Everything else had been relegated to the Maybes. The Maybe heap was an eclectic combination of my belongings that rarely got to mix with one another: bathing suits tangled up in snow hats, and a bottle of sunscreen buried under a raincoat. I considered a series of possible outcomes for the trip ahead: What if it pours buckets the whole time we’re climbing the mountain? What if it’s sweltering hot at the base of the mountain and biting cold at the top? What if one of the other women forgets to pack something? I figured I’d just bring extras of everything and cover all my bases.
It had been four years since Brendan died, and I was about to embark on a week in the mountains of Peru with about a dozen other widows around my age who had also lost their husbands in service. And I wasn’t just attending this expedition; I was leading it. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, particularly for someone like me, who had little experience with the wild outdoors.
If only Brendan could have seen me now. I have no doubt he’d wonder what happened to his Starbucks-latte-drinking wife and who was this other woman who was rummaging through her closet. I was preparing to hike a stretch of a fourteen-thousand-foot mountain with women as inexperienced as I, and the help of some very patient and savvy guides.
