Widow for a Day

With my husband fighting in Iraq, I can't help but imagine the worst.

Funerals always remind me of my father's funeral. So when I received an invitation to attend the memorial service for two soldiers killed in action during the same Iraq deployment in which my husband was participating, my first inclination was to respond, "No, thanks." But, knowing my attendance was expected, I reluctantly put on my funeral best and made my way to the chapel.

The usher seated me up front, instead of in the inconspicuous seat I coveted in the back. There, I had not only a clear view of the soldiers' photos, leaning against the traditional military mourning sculpture of boots, rifle, and helmet, but of their friends and family, prostrate with grief. But as the chaplain started to talk about these two men, I didn't think of my father. Instead my mind wandered to a possible future where I would bury my husband.

It began innocently enough. At first, I wondered if my son, currently fixated on photos of his father, would commandeer the display photo as his own. Should I let him? Then, the eulogy. How would I be mentioned? And music! Would the chapel's choir be able to handle a song like the Grateful Dead's "Ripple" with dignity? Or would traditional music be best? I'd have to insist on a Catholic chaplain. But though my husband is Catholic, I am not, so a full Mass would be out.

Before I knew it, I had the whole event planned, right down to what food I'd serve after the service (those barbecue meatballs, definitely) and what shoes I would wear (flats, for comfort). And then I teared up, thinking of how hard it would be to remain stoic, how lost I'd be when it came time to explain it all to my son, how lonely I would be on my own.

When I realized just how far I'd gone, I felt ashamed. I had spoken to my husband that morning. It seemed wrong to start grieving for a man who was alive and well -- especially sitting so close to those suffering a real loss, who no longer had the luxury of anticipatory grief. But I couldn't help it.

Later, I confessed to a few other military wives. I expected some backlash but found only commiseration.

"That's nothing," said one. "When I was sitting there, I decided the only way I'd let the chaplain talk at my husband's service was if he let me write it."

Another admitted: "I bought a funeral dress already. It's a strapless black dress with a jacket. With the jacket, it's very Jackie O funeral. But without the jacket, I could always dress it up and wear it to a formal." She shrugged as if she had said too much. "It was on sale."

Yet another piped up about a company that makes diamonds out of cremated remains. "I've always wanted a diamond necklace," she said. "We can't afford it now. But I think my husband would like that he could finally give me one if it came to that."

We went on to compare notes on how we'd tell our children and whether the commissary offers a funeral discount (it doesn't). We picked apart past services as the affianced might do before a wedding, discussing what worked well and what didn't.

I know it sounds tasteless. After all, what kind of person mentally plans a funeral for a husband she adores? But I found the conversation freeing. By concentrating on those nitty-gritty, what-if details, I was able to confront what had been gnawing at me since the start of this deployment -- the worst does happen to the men and women in my husband's profession.

I hope I will never have to attend another soldier's memorial service. But if I must, I will recognize my planning for what it is. A strange balm of sorts to help me weather the coming months with a little more ease.

I do know I need to find a balance between being prepared and feeding an unhealthy obsession over what could happen. So I was relieved when I walked right past a display of black sheaths without a second glance during my last trip to the mall. But try me again if they go on sale.

Kayt Sukel is a freelance writer originally from New England. She lives on an Army post in Germany with her husband and son. Send comments to coupling@globe.com.