Oh, dear.
The original first sputterings of this writing disappeared when the system deleted folders during a misguided MS update.
I’ve finished sulking and channeling Maine lobstermen profanity and will now attempt to do this again.
Who am I? Often confused with what am I.
To the Southern lowbrows who have been pretending to restore my dead husband’s 2005 Jeep Wrangler for the past two and a half years, I am a demanding bitch of a lunatic who alternates between caustic complaining to their home office in Houston and sending gifts of Cheryl’s Cookies or Seven Sisters Scones.
To my Pensacola therapist I am a bright light of exhalation in a day filled with racists and newly frustrated Trumpeters spewing red sewage into his bookish office.
To my son I am the One Who Knows How to Do Things and should get off her ass and do them although he knows I still cry very easily about Rusty’s death so he doesn’t want to add to my list of things to do.
To me I am the only one in the world who has looked at the Bulgarian military police investigator’s 61 photos of what they found in my husband’s apartment. I see the blood on the walls and the floor and the door and under the bed and hope Rusty was unconscious during the four days it took him to die. If he wasn’t, he would have had the empty hope that because he was the #2 person on the installation, because he was in charge of everything from security to law enforcement, because it was a hostile area and there was a H.R. female whose job was to personally speak with or see everyone every working day before 0830 but who, for some God only knows reason, decided to pretend Rusty was at work for three days when he wasn’t……..
Well, now you know who am I and why I am. I am my husband’s widow. I am Rusty’s fighter.
I am the one who confronted the Director of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner Service, Colonel Finelli, when Dr. Solomon’s autopsy report failed to include the photos from the apartment, failed to correct the Bulgarian military coroner’s post mortem that attempted to explain the amount of blood by inventing a ‘bleeding disorder’ that my husband didn’t have.
I am the one who wrote to the President of Bulgaria to request the release of bits and pieces of my husband that were being stored in Sofia.
And I am the one who spent eight months harassing the U.S. Embassy in Sofia for a copy of the Status of Forces Agreement. It proved the Army was lying in their response to a Congressional Inquiry that they were prohibited from investigating due to the SoFA.
The Agreement specified Bulgaria waived all sovereignty in criminal investigations.
But my word count is nearing 500 and I think that’s all I’ll trouble you with today. Shared nightmares are best kept on short leashes.
Bluntedhedgehog 