The most courageous thing I've ever done was opening the moldy, cardboard box labeled "Vietnam", which had been stashed away 25 years previously in the dark recesses of my mother's closet.
What prompted the opening of the box after all those years was a clinical depression that brought me to my knees. I'd always been so upbeat and positive. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I just wanted to die.
Had it not been for my daughter reminding me that if I ended my life, I wouldn't be around to meet her husband or her children, I probably wouldn't be here today.
The box contained the personal effects of my dead husband, Sgt. Howard E. Querry: his letters, underwear and socks, wallet (which was still wet), a photo album, his wedding ring and other artifacts of his life in Vietnam. What was not in the box was the handgun his father had given him before he left.
I was 22 years old and 7 months pregnant when he was killed in the jungles of Vietnam. Whatever hope I had mustered up as a young woman growing up in the Midwest in an alcoholic family was vanished when we buried Howard at Oak Ridge Cemetery in Springfield, Illinois on May 25, 1968.
My pregnancy was a miracle and an accident. Having had irregular cycles my whole life, I sought the advice of one of the best ob-gyn doctors in St. Louis. After a serious of extensive tests, he told me I could not conceive until I had major surgery. Howard and I decided to wait until he returned from Vietnam to begin our family.
Just two months after my marriage when my breasts started enlarging, Howard suggested I go for a pregnancy test. I laughed at him. "I can't get pregnant, remember?" In those days you couldn't buy a pregnancy test at Target. You had to see a doctor and wait 3 days for the results. I was in shock when I got the positive test results and Howard was, of course, thrilled. He never worried about much of anything except when we would see each other again.
Our daughter, Michelle, born two months after Howard's funeral, turned out to be a bright, openhearted, optimistic young woman. Maybe she was the gift her dad had to give the world and once I was pregnant, his mission was complete. It did feel a little like the "Immaculate Conception". I never remarried or had other children. I pretty much dedicated my life to being a mother.
In November of 1991 Michelle announced her engagement and in January of 1992 we made our first visit to a bridal shop. When she walked out in a bridal gown and stood on a pedestal in front of a three-way mirror, I started crying and couldn't stop. I instinctively started writing in an attempt to understand my feelings. Seven years later, Grief Denied: A Vietnam Widow's Story was published.
Just this week I received an email from a 19-year old woman in Nigeria. She had read my book and passed it on to her sister who had lost her husband. She said her sister was changed after reading my book. That warmed my heart as well as the many other cards, letters and emails I have received from people thanking me for telling the untold story of war.
I look a lot different now than I did back in 1990 when I was severely depressed. When I look at pictures of myself back then, I can clearly see that the lights were out. They are back on again especially when I spend time with my two beautiful granddaughters, Alexis and Sadie. Life is good.
For a woman who packed up her kid and moved west leaving everything familiar behind, worked on a ropes course, navigated some serious white water, did public speaking for 10 years, spoke out recently against war on public television, and temporarily entertained the idea of taking her own life, it's funny how opening an old, moldy cardboard box turns out to be the most courageous thing she has done.
The moldy cardboard box was pitched out after my trip to The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in 1995. The contents were placed in a beautiful white crate and passed on to her daughter for future generations.
Pauline Laurent
