I met my wife Corinne in the mid-1980s while stationed as a young U.S. Marine in Hawaii. I had just returned from 30 days of shore leave and was visiting a friend in Pearl Harbor before returning to my command. I first saw Corinne as we both waited for the small transport boat that ferried people to and from the USS Arizona Memorial. She was stunning. I noticed a Navy uniform carefully draped over one arm. I was determined to talk to this lady, but as we approached shore, my confidence quickly evaporated. Stepping off the boat I began walking toward my car parked near the pier. I heard footsteps next to me and I turned to see Corinne's beautiful face looking at me. I said, "Excuse me ma'am, but you have the most beautiful eyes. May I take your picture?" and raised the camera slung around my neck. Corinne politely declined, but gave me the telephone number to her barracks and told me to call her. She walked away and glanced back flashing her beautiful smile. I was instantly in love.
Our first kiss was a week later under a full moon at Diamond Head beach. The days blurred into weeks and then months. Five months later, on Christmas Eve, under the stars in Maui, I asked her to marry me. We were married two years later in a beautiful evening ceremony in her hometown.
The next 13 years consisted of jumping from one duty station to the next. I managed to finish graduate school, but had to leave the Marine Corps to care for our growing family. Because the children were settled into their schools, Corinne, now a Lieutenant, opted to move aboard her ship and commute home on the weekends when in port. I was able to procure and appointment to the FBI Academy, and eventually received an assignment in nearby Washington, D.C.
All my time was spent caring for the kids, and working violent crime cases. Occasionally, when Corinne's respective ship was deployed, I would attend the ship's "Officer's Wife's Club" but was the only husband. Their banter focused on how much they missed having sex with their husbands and what new cocktail they could mix up. Feeling out of place, I usually stayed away from these gatherings.
My wife's ship had returned from a comparatively short cruise of several weeks just in time for Christmas. Her ship's grueling schedule left her exhausted. We had planned for nearly a year to enjoy a family holiday road-trip to Brownsville, Texas to visit my mother. Corinne has spent most of the previous 18 months deployed and the kids were anxious to spend time with her. Corinne arrived at our home ready to travel, but feeling somewhat sick. She dismissed her illness as a nuisance flu, which had affected much of her ship's crew.
The trip across the south was nothing short of wonderful -- that is, as marvelous as traveling 1,700 miles with four small children in a mini-van could be. Corinne and I laughed, flirted, and had "deep" reflective discussions about our marriage and one another. I drove most of the way, until fatigue set in and Corinne drove the last hundred or so miles. I fondly look at our last photograph together showing us embraced, both leaning against a dusty stone water-well in the courtyard of the Alamo, in Houston, Texas. We melted into each other's arms as we had so many times before. So in love, so at peace with each other and the world around us.
We arrived in Brownsville, and my mother, had spared no expense and greeted us with a house party fit for royalty. Several of her friends had contributed fresh catches of salmon and their musical skill to serenade my wife and children with lovely guitar ballads. The evening was magical. I was the first to go to bed. The drive had taken its toll and I wanted to be fresh for our much anticipated morning jaunt into old Mexico. As I drifted off the sleep, I could hear Corinne's laughter, so bubbly and sweet, her voice melding perfectly into the guitar music playing softly in the background.
I awoke the next morning to my wife calling my name. Her expression was of worry. I asked her what was wrong and she quickly replied she was not feeling well. She had already vomited and still felt ill. I called my mother into the room and asked her to examine Corinne. Mother was a registered nurse with nearly 30 years of experience, and she glanced at me in a way I had never seen before. It was a look of grave concern. She softly said it was very important Corinne immediately go to the local hospital emergency room. Corinne by this time was very weak. I threw on some jeans and raced to the minivan and opened the side door. I could hear our children playing loudly in the back yard. Their shrieks and squabbling entirely innocent to the dire situation that was playing itself out a mere few feet away. As I turned around my wife came walking up to the car. I went to carry her and she held her hand against my chest and said she could do this on her own. She hoisted herself into the backseat. Breathing heavily, she managed to say "I'm ready, let's go" and closed her eyes. It was December 23, 2001 and my wife was dying.
Within minutes of arriving at the emergency room the doctors began sedating Corinne. Her vomiting and retching had now become uncontrollable. Shortly thereafter, Corinne was unconscious. The hours passed and Corinne underwent extensive testing. The doctors were confounded. All her tests showed she should be standing upright and normal. The doctors feared Corinne's heart would fail. They determined if her condition did not stabilize in a few hours, she would need to be transported via air ambulance to St. Luke's Hospital in Houston.
I was standing by my wife's side when she awoke late morning on December 24th. She struggled to speak and was able ask about the children. I told her the children were all right but they did not know how sick she was. I asked her if she wanted me to bring the children to the hospital and she promptly responded "Do not let the kids see me like this!" I took her hand and promised. Almost as if using her last bit of maternal energy to protect her children, Corinne moaned and lapsed back into unconsciousness. Those were the last words my wife ever spoke to me. I called for help. I had never called for help before at anytime in my life. I was panicked. Anyone, who has gone through a situation like this will tell you about the extreme feeling of helplessness, the aching frustration and searing fear of not being able to protect this person who is so utterly loved.
Corinne's condition worsened and she had to be placed on life-support. Her heart was beginning to fail. The decision was made to fly Corinne to St. Luke's. It took the medics nearly an hour to hook Corinne up to the temporary life support machines that would keep her alive during the three-hour flight. We left the hospital into the rain and arrived at the airport within a few minutes. The medics carefully loaded Corinne into the small plane leaving just enough room for them, the pilot and me.
I can't remember the pilot's name but I clearly recall the look on his face as I thanked him. He almost looked puzzled. I guess maybe he thought he was just doing his job, but to me, he was a hero. The evening's weather was ominous and reflective of what was happening with my wife. The rain was torrential and coming down in sheets and the thunder was ear splitting. As we lifted off the ground into the storm, the pilot looked over at me and nervously said over the whine of the engines "Merry Christmas." It was midnight Christmas morning, and regardless of the rain, someone down below had just set off some fireworks. After that, only the spattering rain against the windshield and a world of black nothingness beyond. I was sick to my stomach.
An ambulance was waiting for us as we landed. The rain had stopped but the airstrip was still slick. I weakly got out of the plane and walked over to a dirty yellow garbage can and tossed in a bag of my vomit. It was a roller-coaster ride. There were several times I thought the plane would shake apart.
The drive into Houston seemed to take an eternity. Corinne's vitals seemed to be holding but her heart was still beating in a full sprint. When we finally arrived at the hospital we were swarmed with nurses and doctors and taken to the cardiac intensive care unit. They again began a myriad of tests on Corinne. I was told I could only visit her for 15 minutes every hour. I snuck into where my wife lay and took out of my wallet photos of our four children. I put them on the wall above her head to remind the hospital staff what was at stake.
It was Christmas evening and the doctors came to me and told me Corinne's heart was starting to fail. She would need a pump surgically placed on her heart to help with blood flow. My gut was in knots. I was painfully aware of the risks involved with the surgery, and extremely worried for Corinne.
The doctors at St. Luke's had determined Corinne had contracted a virus while deployed out to sea. The condition, fulminant myocarditis, was a rare but curable condition that mimics the flu. The only way to combat the virus was to determine which virus had been contracted so the proper medication could be administered. You can get this condition from "going to the dentist and getting your teeth cleaned" "stubbing your toe." I didn't know how to respond to such comments. The situation was horribly unfair. My wife, this wonderful, caring, extremely healthy, God-loving, mother of four was dying because of a microscopic "it"?
It was 8 p.m. and Corinne's mother had arrived from South Carolina. I explained Corinne was being prepped for surgery. She and I were never close. No reason really, just one of those things. Small talk usually led nowhere. So we sat quietly.
An hour into the procedure, the door to the waiting room slowly opened and in walked the chief surgeon and the hospital chaplain. I stood up. The dour look on their faces said it all. The surgeon murmured "I'm sorry but..." Before he could finish Corinne's mother started screaming "No! No! No!" and ran out of the room weeping. My legs started to give way and I stumbled. I felt myself sitting down. The chaplin asked me if I wanted to pray and I responded "No." I felt numb. Mute. The room was spinning and I couldn't hear what they were saying to me. I heard "We tried..." "Her heart just couldn't take it..." I gathered my composure and stood up and demanded the chief surgeon continue to try and save Corinne, "work another 45 minutes. Please don't give up!" He said his staff still hadn't given up hope and were working frantically to revive her. He left the room with a determined look on his face. I directed the chaplin to go and stand near Corinne and pray for her.
Forty-five minutes passed and I decided I to be near my wife even if I was in the way of the medical staff. I spoke my peace with God and asked for a miracle. I wanted the opportunity to say good-bye to Corinne. As I was getting ready to enter the operating room, the stainless steel double-doors flew open and out came the chief surgeon. I reactively braced for what he was getting ready to tell me. "Warren, WE GOT HER BACK!" My knees fully buckled and this time and I found myself on the floor and the surgeon helping me up.
I walked into the operating room scanning the room for Corinne. She was alive. Half a dozen doctors and nurses sitting and standing looked drained. I called to everyone in the room and thanked them for saving my wife's life. The chief surgeon tiredly responded, "That was not us." Amen I thought. My prayers had been answered.
The next day, the surgeons were able to successfully attach the pump to Corinne's heart. However, they were concerned about the nearly 30 minutes where no oxygen had reached Corinne's brain during her cardiac arrest. They were unsure of the extent of damage to her brain and internal organs.
Two days later, on December 29th, Corinne's eyes opened for just a few minutes. Her gaze followed my movements to her side. I started to weep uncontrollably and put my face close to hers and told her everything was alright, she was going to get better. And then, realizing what day it was, I wished her happy anniversary. She looked at me weakly, smiling with her eyes. I was still weeping when they closed for the final time. Little did I know, this was her way of saying goodbye.
Only a couple of more days passed before Corinne's vitals began to drop drastically. Another cardiac arrest followed. Late January 3rd, the doctors informed me Corinne's brain showed no activity, and she was only going live a few more hours. The chaplain from Corinne's ship had arrived a few hours before and was now standing in his dress uniform at the foot of her bed.
I needed to breathe. I walked outside into the dark cold evening. I started praying and asked God to give the children and me strength for what was about to happen. I was getting ready to do the most difficult thing I had ever done in my life. I was going to have the life-support removed from Corinne. I went back to the room and asked the Nurse to start turning off her life-support. I gently held her right hand with my right hand, and kept my left hand on her warm forehead. I whispered into her ear how much I loved her and promised to care for our children and be a good daddy. Finally, I told her I was going to live a good life and would see her again someday. I choked back tears as I said she could go now. The chaplain came to attention smartly and rendered a salute and said, "Lieutenant Corinne Pellegrin, mission accomplished! You can go home now!" As if Corinne heard, she stopped breathing and the nurse who was also crying said "She's gone...Corinne is gone." The Chaplin finished his salute, and left the room. They were dear friends. He would be part of our lives for several years to come.
I asked everyone to leave the room and placed my wife's hand against my cheek. The hand I held through so many years, through prayer, dating, making love, childbirth and finally death. I knew my world was forever changed. My dearest, closest friend, the love of my life had died. I asked God to take Corinne gently and lovingly into His arms. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find no one in the room. A warm sensation passed through me. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had arrived. I remember saying "Good-bye my love." Corinne was gone and the room was cold. She was 39 years old.
I knew I needed to immediately return to Virginia and our children. Corinne's father had flown to Texas and picked up the mini van and children. The Navy Chaplin said he would stay with Corinne's body and ensure her prompt return to Norfolk in preparation for the military funeral. I left the hospital and went straight to the airport. It was time to go home and be with my kids. I did not know how I was going to tell them their mom was never coming home.
The flight to Washington, D.C. was delayed due to a severe storm front hitting most of the Houston area, and I arrived mid-evening. As the plane taxied down the runway toward the gate, my heart was in my throat. I was getting ready to do the second most difficult thing I had ever done in my life. Just as we arrived at the gate, I was called to the front of the plane. The plane door opened and there stood dozens of FBI Agents and their wives. This loving gauntlet lined the way into the terminal. Several of the wives were crying. I wearily thanked them and a driver ushered me to a waiting car.
I walked into the house and was immediately halted by the sight of the Christmas tree. There in plain view was a wrapped gift from Corinne to me. Scrawled on its face in her writing were the words "To my love." It took me several weeks to open the gift. Corinne's father walked up to me and said the kids were asleep. That was good. He looked haggard and tired. I had called before leaving Houston and said I was coming home. I told him Corinne was gone. Silence on the phone. Much like his daughter, he was a very proud person. He said he would let me tell the children. All the sudden I felt weak and exhausted. I never left the hospital, nor slept more than a few hours in the previous 12 days. I feel asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Corinne's gift lay next to me where she would usually sleep.
The next morning I went to each child's room and gently woke them with a scruffy kiss to their cheeks. I asked them to come downstairs and I wanted speak with each of them. They were very happy to see me and kept hugging me. I gathered them up in front of a large picture window in our family room. I made sure they were facing toward the window, so not to feel claustrophobic. I got down on one knee and softly said "You know your mommy was very sick, and she tried very hard to get better, but..." My daughter Lindsey became alarmed and said "Is mommy O.K.?!" Pulling them all closer, I finished "...but she just couldn't make it. Your mommy is in heaven now." The three older children started screaming and crying. Their sobs ripping through me like a hot knife. I looked past them to see Corinne's father staring straight ahead, weeping. My youngest daughter who was two, saw what happening, and not fully understanding why her brother and sisters were crying started to cry as well. I held them for several minutes. And I said "Listen to me. Your mommy loved each of you very much. And when she was dying, I felt a warm feeling pass through me. That was your mommy becoming part of me so she could still feel your kisses and hugs. She will always be with you and I will always be with you. We are still a family and will get through this together." As if a miracle, my daughter Sydney pointed over my shoulder towards the window and said "Look!" I turned to see large snowflakes falling. It was the first snow of the season. They dried their eyes and asked if they could go play in the snow. I said "Absolutely!" Within minutes the children were playing. I knew from that moment on, we would survive.
The military funeral in Norfolk was huge and full of heart-felt flourish. I spoke poignantly to those gathered and reminded them of Corinne's love of her country and the Navy. Service, duty, honor were words she lived by. I recall feeling my son flinch at the sound of the shots volleyed from the rifles of the honor guard, and then the bag pipes moaning Amazing Grace. TAPS was trumpeted and echoed hauntingly through the base, supplemented by the horns of Navy ships passing nearby. Corinne's commanding officer presented to me the American flag that was draped over her coffin, stoically giving his solemn words of condolence.
We flew Corinne's body to the Black Hills of South Dakota, where my family's cemetery was located only a short drive from Mount Rushmore. Corinne had told me she wanted to eventually be laid to rest in this place of rolling dark mountains, pine trees and fresh air.
It had just snowed the day before, and more snow was expected the day of the funeral. Much to our surprise the weather front never materialized and the day was sunny and warm. My daughters Lindsey and Sydney stood before a group of family and friends, farmers, ranchers, FBI Agents, and expressed their love for their mother and read a poem dedicated to her memory. As we stood at the edge of Corinne's grave, we watch as her coffin was lowered into the ground. It was 10:10 a.m.; the time Corinne told my older daughters to pray for her while she was away. The children knew mommy was finally home.
The next several months were difficult. Sydney did not want her friends at school to know her mother died. Lindsey and Kyle both cried themselves to sleep many nights. I tried to comfort them as best I could, always being strong and stoic. Inside I was in as much pain as them. Just after Corinne's death, I attended one session of a local grief-counseling group, but I ended up offering more advice than receiving any type of healing dialogue. I did not seek any further help. I bottled everything inside and tucked my grief away. My focus was the children.
The Navy had assigned a young Lieutenant as my Casualty Assistance Officer. He was awkward and formal. This was a peripheral duty, and you could tell he was uncomfortable. Out of the stack of material he gave to review, benefits, life insurance and so on, I noticed a handout titled T.A.P.S. (Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors). The pamphlet said T.A.P.S. was a non-profit organization that catered to families who lost a loved one in the armed forces by offering counseling and friendship. One evening a few months after Corinne's death I decided to call. I spoke to a woman named Bonnie Carroll who founded this organization after the loss of her husband in a military plane crash. We quickly bonded in our loss and spoke often about my children.
Bonnie Carol indicated there was a T.A.P.S camp called "Camp Good Grief" for children who lost a parent or loved one over the Memorial weekend. The children immediately found friends with the other children and the servicemen who were counselors. I was almost overwhelmed with emotion as I saw my daughter Lindsey walk the T.A.P.S. wreath up to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in front of President Bush. In 2006 Lindsey would herself become a T.AP.S. Counselor helping children who lost a loved one in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Unfortunately, as the years passed I still felt an unceasing sense of loss. My heartache had settled into a dull ache. Never ceasing, always present. I resigned myself to this is just how it's going to be.
Six months after Corinne had died, I received notification her monument had finally been erected graveside. Simple in design, yet beautiful and respectful. A huge piece of rounded green marble adorned by a lone Christian cross and a white rose (her favorite) on each side of the stone. We drove from Washington across the United States, stopping at places important to understanding their mother. From the simple country hospital in Mansfield, Ohio were Corinne was born, to the small chapel we were married in, to Put-N-Bay Island, a small island in Lake Erie where she grew up. There on Put-N-Bay was the Admiral Perry Peace Memorial between England and the United States. It is here were I showed the children, where their mother acquired her passionate interest in Navy tradition and history. Our journey ended at her grave in South Dakota. It was 10:10 a.m. and we had a picnic next to her monument. The whole family had now embraced the concept of "10:10 pray for me". It was time. We prayed for Corinne.
The next several years were spent healing as a family. Birthdays, holidays and finally proms passed. Each year less painful but nevertheless difficult. The children seemed to be doing well. Always in good spirits, they moved about their lives in a positive manner. I sensed they would be OK. At times, I could feel the loving hand of Corinne guiding me. From puberty to first crushes, to the inevitable freshman heartbreak. Corinne was always on my mind when offering advice and consoling.
On Easter morning 2006, I had just finished leading my children through another successful frolic hunting for Easter eggs. I was sitting alone on my porch saying a prayer of thanks to God. I always did this after a holiday, birthday or special occasion with the children when the event turned out well. My cellphone suddenly rang and I didn't recognize the number. I answered and a voice said "Warren?" I said "Yes. Who is this?" "This is John Cusack, happy Easter! I hope I'm not interrupting anything." I asked "Really. Who is this?" He again said who he was and he was researching a role. He further added he had obtained my number from his director James "Jim" Strouse who had been given my number from T.A.P.S. Recognizing his voice, I asked what was his role? John Cusack indicated he was to play a man who just found out his Army wife had just been killed while serving in Iraq. This character had to figure out a way to tell his two daughters, as well as deal with his own pain.
John explained his main reason for doing the role was he wanted to "humanize" the families of those who made the ultimate sacrifice. Both he and James Strouse had heard of my story and felt I could contribute to giving some insight to the role. They were expecting to start filming in Chicago shortly. That day we spoke for hours, only taking enough time for both of us to enjoy Easter dinner with our families. Later that evening, we picked up where we had left off and spoke several more hours. Cusack was very sensitive and intuitive with his questions. He asked everything from how he should respond when the Casualty Assistance Officers come to the door and tell him the bad news, how he should dress, to finally how I told my children about the death of their mother. Finally, he asked me to tell him my story. The same story you just read and of course, much more. That will remain private between us. When we were done, he seemed to understand. Cusack promised to "get it right" and try and do the things I suggested to him. It was nearly midnight when we finished and politely said our goodbyes. I sat contemplating our conversation. I felt as if a great weight had been taken off my chest. While talking to Cusack, I had feelings emerge I had not dredged up in years. The sun was starting to come up and I had sat thinking about Corinne all night.
Over the next several weeks I spoke to John Cusack and James Strouse regarding Cuscak's role of Stanley Philips, and the roles of Stanley's two daughters. I spoke with my older daughters, Lindsey and Sydney, and asked them about how they felt during the turbulent time of their mother passing. Even though I helped them through this period, they were now older and could better explain their feelings. I shared this with James Strouse and a production assistant who called several times. Family and work obligations did not allow me to attend Grace is Gone at the Sundance Film Festival. Bonnie Carroll had represented me and said everything I recommended to Cusack happened in the production. Bonnie went on to say he and Strouse did a great job expressing the pain felt by someone who recently lost a loved one in the service. I told her I was looking forward to seeing the production and I would reserve judgment until then
On November 28, 2007, my daughter Sydney and I stepped out of our taxi in front of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Beverly Hills. Bonnie Carroll and representatives of the Army's Public Affairs Office met us. One of these soldiers, a hulking individual, asked, "Are your ready Sir? It's a bit of a feeding frenzy over there!" pointing to the beehive of activity in front of the academy. Bright lights and long red carpet graced the entrance of the theater. People barriers had been raised to keep back pedestrians and the press. The premier of Grace is Gone was going to begin in less than 20 minutes. I was carrying two presents, one for John Cusack and one for James Strouse. I told the Army Public Affairs Officers they each might be going home with a present if I didn't like the movie.
After seeing the frenzy of activity, my daughter and I opted to enter through a more private entrance. We were promptly escorted to our seats near the front center of the stage and screen. The whole situation seemed surreal. The lights dimmed and the movie began.
From the first initial scene where Stanley Philips (John Cusack) walks through his place of employment in Chicago, to the final two heartbreaking scenes, Cusack' was unsettlingly accurate. My heart was in my throat and I felt somewhat shell-shocked.
When the lights came on, the Army Public Affairs Officers took one look at me and quickly surmised they were not going home with Cusack's and Strouse's presents. I approached James Strouse and told him his gift was not an Oscar (I told him with a smile that was later), but it was a gift of the heart from the children and me.
John Cusack was gracious and warm when I approached him with my daughter. It seemed almost strange to finally speak person-to-person after all I had shared with him over the telephone. So much time had already passed since I opened up to him regarding Corinne's death on that cold Easter morning almost two years ago. He was quick to provide his condolence for our loss and pointed out he did everything we discussed. I told Cusack he "nailed it" and did an incredible job. My daughter Sydney gave him his gift and he seemed genuinely pleased. I think he could tell I was not in my element and that I wanted to go. We shook hands warmly and posed for a photograph with Bonnie Carroll from T.A.P.S. Bonnie and I are both believers Grace is Gone will help T.A.P.S. families heal for years to come. Kudos Johnny.
I looked at my watch and it was 10:10 p.m. What a "perfect time" to go home, I told Sydney. Sydney laughed and agreed and we stepped out of the party onto the street. My daughter hugged me and thanked me for bringing her. As we drove away I felt an unusual sense of peace. Nearly seven years had passed since Corinne died, and I felt as though I had come full circle. It was finally time to move on with my life. That night I finally had my first night of sound sleep in years. Goodbye, Corinne. Thanks, Johnny. Thanks, Jim.