I haven’t written anything new in nearly two weeks.
It’s not that I don’t want to. But I’m aware that many of my posts tend to be emotional – and Christmas isn’t the time to make others sad. It’s the time for joy.
So, for the past 10 days or so I’ve been working on finding my joy this Christmas.
It hasn’t been easy.
I’m usually one of “them”. Those people who shop in August and have decorations in every corner of the house. I love everything about the season – even down to the madness at the mall on December 23rd.
One of my favourite memories is of being in the junior choir and attending the candlelight service. I can remember how everything seemed magical by candlelight as if God were really listening to us sing.
This Christmas there weren’t any church services. To be honest – there haven’t been any for a long time. Katie doesn’t abide crowds very well and explaining to a group of strangers why she’s whooping and screaming isn’t my favourite pastime.
I try to make sure that the kids hear the nativity story every Christmas Eve. I remember to sing the hymns as well as the Santa carols. But this Christmas I longed for the white church on West Street, nearly as much as I longed for my husband.
I wanted to see the red carpet dusted with sprinkles from the angels’ wings. I wanted to see the Advent Candles lit at the front. I wanted to see the tree lit at the front, hear the pipe organ and hear the King James Version of the First Night.
On top of missing my husband, I’m homesick.
Funny – when you think that I’ve lived here for nearly eight years without one twinge of homesickness. I think Rick is my shield against the longing for where we grew up.
O – I’m sure I’ve built up a tough skin of my own. But its only so long one can scrape a rhinoceros before you reach the tender under skin. And the raw emotions of losing nine soldiers in Afghanistan this month as well as spending the holidays alone have all but removed my armour.
He called me on Christmas day, a full 15 minutes on the phone and another full hour online. I couldn’t have asked for a better present.
I know he senses my sadness. I know he feels my worry. I try to hide it. But my emotions have always danced across my face and although I may be able to hide it on the phone. He sees me online and knows that something isn’t right.
I went through the motions. I stuffed stockings, made big meals, the whole nine yards.
But I didn’t feel Christmas.
And now that it’s past I’m sorry for it.
Next year, Rick says, will be our best Christmas yet. A house full of love and laughter, children and merriment – and maybe even that trip to the white church.
My joy will be in the future. I look forward to feeling it. And in the meantime I’m eating this elephant.
Day 129.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Family Pride
This letter was printed in our hometown newspaper. It's an open letter to Rick. It encompasses everything we're feeling this holiday season with Rick's deployment to Afghanistan.
Hi Honey;
I am proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you. And the fact that you are there – makes me even prouder.
This is our first deployment as a family and I won’t lie – it’s been harder than I thought it would be. We miss you. We’ve built our life together and while you’re away it’s like someone left the window open in a snowstorm.
Christmas is coming. I’ve shopped. I’ve baked. I’ve decorated. But it isn’t the same.
Liam keeps saying he’s writing Santa to bring you home for Christmas. I’ve been trying to explain that the magic doesn’t work that way and that you have to stay there to do your job this Christmas. He’s only six but I think he understands.
We’ve made the decision to stay here for the holidays. We want to be close to home. It makes us feel closer to you. And it will help the kids to be together even for a few hours.
I’ve put the presents under the tree. The ones for you have long been sent to the desert. I don’t know if you have them yet but the kids helped to wrap them and I hope you haven’t peeked.
We’re going to make this holiday the best we can. It won’t be like the others. It will pale in comparison.
But we’ll have other Christmases. Ones where we can sit on the front step and watch the snow fall onto the Christmas lights. Ones where we can stay up late and watch White Christmas and stuff stockings and you can steal the chocolate almonds and sneak the peanut butter cookies. Ones where you can sing off tune carols at the top of your lungs as you cook breakfast before the sun comes up.
But on Christmas Eve look up. Seek the North Star. Make a wish. We’ll do the same and in that moment we can have the Christmas magic together, even for just one second.
We love you. We miss you. And we are fiercely proud to be your family.
Louise, Liam, Holden, Katie and Danielle
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Howling at the Wind
“All ready?”
What kind of a stupid question is that?
Why do people feel it necessary to ask if I’m all ready for Christmas?
Of course I’m not all ready. Rick isn’t here! I’ll never be “ready” to celebrate a major holiday alone with the kids.
Have I shopped? Check.
Baked? Check.
Decorated? Not yet.
What’s my hold up? I can’t bear it. I can’t face it. I don’t want it. I don’t feel like it.
Pick one.
I normally love Christmas. Its sounds, its smells, its lights all make me smile. This year it’s like someone’s twisting a knife.
I know I’ve got to get my arse in gear. I know I’ve got to make the holidays as “normal” as I can for the children. But…I DON’T WANT TO!
I WANT MY HUSBAND!
I know he’s got a job to do. I know he’s doing important work. I know he’s a soldier first. I know all of it. I understand all of it. I really do. But I can’t stop feeling this way.
I want to scream and lay on the floor and kick my feet like a two-year-old. I want to climb to the top of Fishing Point Head and scream at the wind. I want to punch something. Howl at the moon – anything to make this feeling go away.
It’s petty. I realize that.
I’m just so tired.
I’m tired of sleeping with one eye open. I’m tired of chasing Kate and bearing the responsibilities of the house alone. I’m tied of not showering alone on the weekends. I’m tired of always being “on deck”.
And add to that stress the stresses of the holidays and I believe we’re seeing some hairline fractures in the delicate membrane that his holding this particular military spouse together.
Oh – I’ll get the decorating done. The presents will be wrapped. The tree will be trimmed. I know I’ve got enough strength to “go through the motions” for the sake of the kids. But I feel like this Energizer Bunny is running out of juice.
If anyone has a direct line to the big guy – could you please ask him to send a little extra strength, patience and Christmas spirit in my direction?
Day 119
What kind of a stupid question is that?
Why do people feel it necessary to ask if I’m all ready for Christmas?
Of course I’m not all ready. Rick isn’t here! I’ll never be “ready” to celebrate a major holiday alone with the kids.
Have I shopped? Check.
Baked? Check.
Decorated? Not yet.
What’s my hold up? I can’t bear it. I can’t face it. I don’t want it. I don’t feel like it.
Pick one.
I normally love Christmas. Its sounds, its smells, its lights all make me smile. This year it’s like someone’s twisting a knife.
I know I’ve got to get my arse in gear. I know I’ve got to make the holidays as “normal” as I can for the children. But…I DON’T WANT TO!
I WANT MY HUSBAND!
I know he’s got a job to do. I know he’s doing important work. I know he’s a soldier first. I know all of it. I understand all of it. I really do. But I can’t stop feeling this way.
I want to scream and lay on the floor and kick my feet like a two-year-old. I want to climb to the top of Fishing Point Head and scream at the wind. I want to punch something. Howl at the moon – anything to make this feeling go away.
It’s petty. I realize that.
I’m just so tired.
I’m tired of sleeping with one eye open. I’m tired of chasing Kate and bearing the responsibilities of the house alone. I’m tied of not showering alone on the weekends. I’m tired of always being “on deck”.
And add to that stress the stresses of the holidays and I believe we’re seeing some hairline fractures in the delicate membrane that his holding this particular military spouse together.
Oh – I’ll get the decorating done. The presents will be wrapped. The tree will be trimmed. I know I’ve got enough strength to “go through the motions” for the sake of the kids. But I feel like this Energizer Bunny is running out of juice.
If anyone has a direct line to the big guy – could you please ask him to send a little extra strength, patience and Christmas spirit in my direction?
Day 119
Monday, December 15, 2008
Haunted
Saturday morning.
I’m making breakfast. Great Big Sea is blaring from the stereo in the kitchen and Liam and I are dancing like fools. Kate laughs at us from her perch at the table.
The phone rings I rush laughing to the stereo and to the handset to answer.
I barely get the hello past my lips when my friend gushes
“Please tell me you’ve heard from Rick today.”
The smile fades from my face in an icy shiver.
“What’s happened?”
She has no details – just that her friend has been told he’s driving the padre. That means the dead is from here. I put my head down to keep the room from spinning out of control.
“Please God don’t let it be Rick” is the chant that flies around my brain. How would I tell my babies?
I spend the next hour jumping every time a car drives down the street. Then Rick is online.
I can’t describe the relief at seeing him pop online brings.
He can only stay online for a short time. He’s exhausted. Running on only 2 hours sleep and has to be back to work in a few more hours. He loves me and misses me and wants me to be brave. It’s not him or his guys and they haven’t been told any names yet.
Despite the brevity of our conversation I’m grateful. Like a huge weight is lifted off of me. It’s not Rick – thank God.
How horrible is that?
Some poor woman lost her husband today. And I’m taking comfort in the fact it’s not mine. I close my eyes and offer a prayer for the fallen.
Picking up Dani and Holden a few hours later I discover that it’s their neighbour that’s been lost. The sadness in the neighbourhood is palpable, baking off the houses like heat in July.
The kids are glad to be leaving the emotional turmoil behind for the night. I can see in their eyes that they’re scared and sad. Dani’s normally clear blue eyes are haunted and pained – something only her Dad can soothe.
As we turn to leave I see a car arrive next door. It’s her parents. And for a brief moment I see her face.
Her grief is etched on her countenance.
Her arms go around the couple that have just arrived and I see her shoulders tremble.
My nightmare. Played out in front of me.
My heart breaks for her and her children.
I want to help. I want to offer condolences. I want to take some of her pain. I don’t know how.
I don’t intrude. I don’t speak. I gather the kids into the car and drive away.
I try to be upbeat for the children. Keeping everything as normal as possible and letting them talk, if they want to, is priority.
As I slip between the sheets I close my eyes and see her face.
Hot tears slip between my lashes and run down my cheeks onto my pillow. More tears to go with the oceans cried for the soldiers lost and away.
God protect them.
Day 113
I’m making breakfast. Great Big Sea is blaring from the stereo in the kitchen and Liam and I are dancing like fools. Kate laughs at us from her perch at the table.
The phone rings I rush laughing to the stereo and to the handset to answer.
I barely get the hello past my lips when my friend gushes
“Please tell me you’ve heard from Rick today.”
The smile fades from my face in an icy shiver.
“What’s happened?”
She has no details – just that her friend has been told he’s driving the padre. That means the dead is from here. I put my head down to keep the room from spinning out of control.
“Please God don’t let it be Rick” is the chant that flies around my brain. How would I tell my babies?
I spend the next hour jumping every time a car drives down the street. Then Rick is online.
I can’t describe the relief at seeing him pop online brings.
He can only stay online for a short time. He’s exhausted. Running on only 2 hours sleep and has to be back to work in a few more hours. He loves me and misses me and wants me to be brave. It’s not him or his guys and they haven’t been told any names yet.
Despite the brevity of our conversation I’m grateful. Like a huge weight is lifted off of me. It’s not Rick – thank God.
How horrible is that?
Some poor woman lost her husband today. And I’m taking comfort in the fact it’s not mine. I close my eyes and offer a prayer for the fallen.
Picking up Dani and Holden a few hours later I discover that it’s their neighbour that’s been lost. The sadness in the neighbourhood is palpable, baking off the houses like heat in July.
The kids are glad to be leaving the emotional turmoil behind for the night. I can see in their eyes that they’re scared and sad. Dani’s normally clear blue eyes are haunted and pained – something only her Dad can soothe.
As we turn to leave I see a car arrive next door. It’s her parents. And for a brief moment I see her face.
Her grief is etched on her countenance.
Her arms go around the couple that have just arrived and I see her shoulders tremble.
My nightmare. Played out in front of me.
My heart breaks for her and her children.
I want to help. I want to offer condolences. I want to take some of her pain. I don’t know how.
I don’t intrude. I don’t speak. I gather the kids into the car and drive away.
I try to be upbeat for the children. Keeping everything as normal as possible and letting them talk, if they want to, is priority.
As I slip between the sheets I close my eyes and see her face.
Hot tears slip between my lashes and run down my cheeks onto my pillow. More tears to go with the oceans cried for the soldiers lost and away.
God protect them.
Day 113
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Wearing the Glad Rags
I got up the nerve to go.
It took a bit. The invitation came a couple of weeks ago and I debated whether or not I should. But I responded to the RSVP and here I am – putting on the glad rags and waiting for the sitter.
I normally get really excited when we go out without the kids. Then again – I’m usually not heading out alone.
Usually he’s all ready standing at the foot of the stairs as I finish up some last minute preparations and he’s yelling at me to hurry up. Funny the things you miss.
The party is semi-formal. I’ve already run through three pairs of nylons and I sigh as my fingers go through the fourth. Socks and boots it is.
Looking in the mirror I long to hear him tell me how I look. He always says the same thing – “it’ll look better on the floor when we get home” – I smile despite the fact no one has spoken.
I’m zipping my boots as the sitter arrives. The afternoon snow has turned to freezing rain – it could be a slow drive in.
I pick up my “date”. A friend of Rick’s who has agreed to accompany me so I don’t wind up sitting at a table full of strangers.
The parking lot is packed as we arrive. Walking and sliding over the slushy, icy snow is not fun. I’m a klutz at the best of times. And I pray I don’t fall on my butt.
The Legion is warm. I put my coat away and get checked in. We’re at table 18.
I scan the room. I recognize maybe one person every 15 or so. I’m glad I didn’t come alone. There’s nothing worse than a party full of strangers.
I gravitate towards Rick’s friends. It’s good to see them. Everyone has been so busy this fall that I’ve done little more than to speak with them on the phone. It’s good to tease and talk to friends. I wish Rick was here.
Meal over and speeches begin. There’s always that one drunk idiot who makes an ass out of himself. I think it could be worse. I could be that guy’s date.
The Battery Commander and the Padre head to our table – we’re the deployed wives after all. Rick usually doesn’t let me speak to anyone over the rank of Lieutenant. His Commanding Officer once asked me, after Rick spending weeks in the field, how I liked being an Artillery wife – and I told him. Ever since then he’s kept me and the senior officers separated.
I grin and decide to get my picture taken with the Major and the Padre. Just for Rick.
The BC asks how our family is coping. I tell him that the MFRC is great – but 4AD needs to get on the ball and support the women more.
As if in echo to my sentiments to the BC, several of Rick’s friends ask me how I’m doing and tell me if I need anything to just call them. My smile is genuine but strained. I’m glad I came – but it’s time to go.
Being around Rick’s unit makes me feel both closer to him and further away. If I don’t leave now I’ll cry. A few stops to say good-bye to a few folks and I’ve collected my jacket and am headed for the door.
Just before I open it I remember something. Jim Reid is here – he’s with Rick in Afghanistan and is home on his HLTA. I search the room for him and make a beeline in his direction.
“Jim!” I yell over the music. He looks in my direction. I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Make sure my husband gets that.” And with a smile and a Merry Christmas to the folks at Jim’s table I leave the party.
As I walk to the car I realize I’m humming. Maybe the party was just what I needed.
Day 109
It took a bit. The invitation came a couple of weeks ago and I debated whether or not I should. But I responded to the RSVP and here I am – putting on the glad rags and waiting for the sitter.
I normally get really excited when we go out without the kids. Then again – I’m usually not heading out alone.
Usually he’s all ready standing at the foot of the stairs as I finish up some last minute preparations and he’s yelling at me to hurry up. Funny the things you miss.
The party is semi-formal. I’ve already run through three pairs of nylons and I sigh as my fingers go through the fourth. Socks and boots it is.
Looking in the mirror I long to hear him tell me how I look. He always says the same thing – “it’ll look better on the floor when we get home” – I smile despite the fact no one has spoken.
I’m zipping my boots as the sitter arrives. The afternoon snow has turned to freezing rain – it could be a slow drive in.
I pick up my “date”. A friend of Rick’s who has agreed to accompany me so I don’t wind up sitting at a table full of strangers.
The parking lot is packed as we arrive. Walking and sliding over the slushy, icy snow is not fun. I’m a klutz at the best of times. And I pray I don’t fall on my butt.
The Legion is warm. I put my coat away and get checked in. We’re at table 18.
I scan the room. I recognize maybe one person every 15 or so. I’m glad I didn’t come alone. There’s nothing worse than a party full of strangers.
I gravitate towards Rick’s friends. It’s good to see them. Everyone has been so busy this fall that I’ve done little more than to speak with them on the phone. It’s good to tease and talk to friends. I wish Rick was here.
Meal over and speeches begin. There’s always that one drunk idiot who makes an ass out of himself. I think it could be worse. I could be that guy’s date.
The Battery Commander and the Padre head to our table – we’re the deployed wives after all. Rick usually doesn’t let me speak to anyone over the rank of Lieutenant. His Commanding Officer once asked me, after Rick spending weeks in the field, how I liked being an Artillery wife – and I told him. Ever since then he’s kept me and the senior officers separated.
I grin and decide to get my picture taken with the Major and the Padre. Just for Rick.
The BC asks how our family is coping. I tell him that the MFRC is great – but 4AD needs to get on the ball and support the women more.
As if in echo to my sentiments to the BC, several of Rick’s friends ask me how I’m doing and tell me if I need anything to just call them. My smile is genuine but strained. I’m glad I came – but it’s time to go.
Being around Rick’s unit makes me feel both closer to him and further away. If I don’t leave now I’ll cry. A few stops to say good-bye to a few folks and I’ve collected my jacket and am headed for the door.
Just before I open it I remember something. Jim Reid is here – he’s with Rick in Afghanistan and is home on his HLTA. I search the room for him and make a beeline in his direction.
“Jim!” I yell over the music. He looks in my direction. I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Make sure my husband gets that.” And with a smile and a Merry Christmas to the folks at Jim’s table I leave the party.
As I walk to the car I realize I’m humming. Maybe the party was just what I needed.
Day 109
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Deep Breaths and Little Steps
Christmas spirit is creeping in.
Little by little I am feeling more myself. More solid instead of an apparition peeking through the keyholes at the celebrations around me.
I’ve started to shop. I haven’t decorated yet. But I’m at least thinking about it – a monumental improvement from the way I was feeling a week ago.
And then a friend pops onto MSN.
“Go read the news.”
“Which news?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter.”
I sigh and open a new browser. I wait as the CBC fills the screen and feel myself blanch at what I see.
Throwing a bucket of ice water over me would have produced the same effect. I shiver.
Canadian soldiers. Three more Canadian soldiers. I want to be sick.
My friend pops on again and says – “It isn’t Rick – you’d know already.”
Tears are in my eyes. I can’t stop myself from thinking of the families. Just a few weeks before the holidays and they’ve lost their loved ones.
I can feel their pain. And it burns.
Rick has managed to send a short note via Facebook. He’s told me he likes indoor cats best. Code for the fact he hasn’t been outside the wire. I’d like to hear his voice but communication has been cut for obvious reasons.
“I’ll Be Home For Christmas” starts playing on the radio. I break down.
Deep breaths. Little steps. More tears.
I re-read the article and feel a thin anger. They haven’t led with the deaths. They’ve played up the fact that these deaths make it 101 killed. They’ve reduced them to numbers.
They’re so much more than numbers. They’re heroes. They all are. Willing to put their lives on the line. Willing to live in the harshest environments possible. Willing to die because their government and their country asks them to.
They’re not numbers. They’re husbands, and fathers and sons and brothers and they should be remembered that way.
Peace on earth is a beautiful concept. But it isn’t something that’s going to be brought about with a bunch of comments on the CBC website. I think people should remember that.
Be grateful for the sacrifice that these men and these families have made in the name of Peace. Honour them. Remember them. They are not numbers. They are our brothers.
Day 104
Little by little I am feeling more myself. More solid instead of an apparition peeking through the keyholes at the celebrations around me.
I’ve started to shop. I haven’t decorated yet. But I’m at least thinking about it – a monumental improvement from the way I was feeling a week ago.
And then a friend pops onto MSN.
“Go read the news.”
“Which news?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter.”
I sigh and open a new browser. I wait as the CBC fills the screen and feel myself blanch at what I see.
Throwing a bucket of ice water over me would have produced the same effect. I shiver.
Canadian soldiers. Three more Canadian soldiers. I want to be sick.
My friend pops on again and says – “It isn’t Rick – you’d know already.”
Tears are in my eyes. I can’t stop myself from thinking of the families. Just a few weeks before the holidays and they’ve lost their loved ones.
I can feel their pain. And it burns.
Rick has managed to send a short note via Facebook. He’s told me he likes indoor cats best. Code for the fact he hasn’t been outside the wire. I’d like to hear his voice but communication has been cut for obvious reasons.
“I’ll Be Home For Christmas” starts playing on the radio. I break down.
Deep breaths. Little steps. More tears.
I re-read the article and feel a thin anger. They haven’t led with the deaths. They’ve played up the fact that these deaths make it 101 killed. They’ve reduced them to numbers.
They’re so much more than numbers. They’re heroes. They all are. Willing to put their lives on the line. Willing to live in the harshest environments possible. Willing to die because their government and their country asks them to.
They’re not numbers. They’re husbands, and fathers and sons and brothers and they should be remembered that way.
Peace on earth is a beautiful concept. But it isn’t something that’s going to be brought about with a bunch of comments on the CBC website. I think people should remember that.
Be grateful for the sacrifice that these men and these families have made in the name of Peace. Honour them. Remember them. They are not numbers. They are our brothers.
Day 104
Friday, November 28, 2008
Stealing time....
This week has been hard.
I’ve felt like a helium balloon. Slowly deflating from its festive best into a sad shape hovering near the floor.
I’m going through the motions. Sort of “phoning it in”. Getting up. Getting the kids off to school and then I blink and I’m getting them off the bus. Nothing accomplished in between.
I didn’t think the week after would be so lonely.
I thought I’d have a few days of weepiness followed by the whole “get back on your horse” type of thing. And I’m trying. I really am. But I’m still on the ground.
I’ve got some fantastic friends who call and check on me. I don’t think they realize how much I draw on their strength.
Rick calls every day. I’m grateful for that. His voice is my link to myself at this point.
I need something to give me a shake. If my mother were here she’d smack me and tell me to get on with it she’d incite me to anger and that would be better than this numbing feeling. But she’s not. So I remain the same.
I’m watching everyone get ready for the holidays. Hearing about their trees, their presents, their decorations. Seeing their lights. Their preparations are all but complete. Mine haven’t been thought about.
A favourite teacher of mine used to say, “procrastination is the thief of time.” Well I’m the willing accomplice this week. Let the time go. Let the holidays pass and let me crawl under the covers until spring.
Day 98
I’ve felt like a helium balloon. Slowly deflating from its festive best into a sad shape hovering near the floor.
I’m going through the motions. Sort of “phoning it in”. Getting up. Getting the kids off to school and then I blink and I’m getting them off the bus. Nothing accomplished in between.
I didn’t think the week after would be so lonely.
I thought I’d have a few days of weepiness followed by the whole “get back on your horse” type of thing. And I’m trying. I really am. But I’m still on the ground.
I’ve got some fantastic friends who call and check on me. I don’t think they realize how much I draw on their strength.
Rick calls every day. I’m grateful for that. His voice is my link to myself at this point.
I need something to give me a shake. If my mother were here she’d smack me and tell me to get on with it she’d incite me to anger and that would be better than this numbing feeling. But she’s not. So I remain the same.
I’m watching everyone get ready for the holidays. Hearing about their trees, their presents, their decorations. Seeing their lights. Their preparations are all but complete. Mine haven’t been thought about.
A favourite teacher of mine used to say, “procrastination is the thief of time.” Well I’m the willing accomplice this week. Let the time go. Let the holidays pass and let me crawl under the covers until spring.
Day 98
Friday, November 21, 2008
Goodbye again.
Twenty days.
For twenty days I haven’t been alone. I’ve had my husband here to laugh with, talk with, argue with, love.
Nineteen nights I’ve not laid here alone. Nineteen nights I’ve not been awakened to a little boy screaming in terror. I’ve not had to cuddle into pillows to fall asleep. And I’ve not been the one to listen, even in my sleep, for noises outside the normal house sounds. I’ve slept.
Sixty meals I’ve not had to be a jack-in-the-box jumping up to get something. Dinner conversations were about something other than how many more bites before Liam could be done. Daytime meals were not eaten alone. I could look across the table and see his face.
Four hundred and eighty hours I’ve not had to be the “strong” one. Not had to be the only one responsible for everything in the house. Not had to keep an eye on Kate 24/7 and have been able to shower alone.
Twenty-eight thousand eight hundred minutes that I’ve not had to worry that something bad was going to happen to him. Not had to be on guard against that knock at the door.
But now it’s done.
Where did the time go?
Those twenty days flew by. I blinked and they were done.
I only picked him up at the airport the other day. I shouldn’t be dropping him off already.
We’ve spent a lot of time together, both as a couple and as a family. Storing memories like a squirrel stores food for the winter. I keep thinking of things we should have done.
I’ve had a dozen little breakdowns today. Little sobbing fits that he comforts me through. I’m trying hard to keep the kids from seeing them. I don’t want to make it worse. But it feels like my chest is being crushed and my stomach is in knots.
There are no other soldiers here this time. The other passengers appear to be mostly businesspeople. The tension is less. The sadness more contained in our little corner.
There is no luggage to check. He’s only got his carry on. The “official” airport business takes less than five minutes. He’s going to have to get new tickets at Heathrow for the second leg of his journey it seems the Air Canada/British Airways partnership isn’t that cosy.
Our good-bye is quicker than we’d like. Kate is upset and we want to avoid a meltdown. We watch him through the security glass for a few minutes and then decide to leave. I can’t breathe.
The drive home is in darkness and I offer a little prayer of thanksgiving. I’m crying hard by the time I hit the last set of lights on the way home. The darkness hides my face from the children. By the time we get home I’m more or less back under control.
Walking into the house after the airport is like walking into an empty shell. The home that was vibrantly alive for the last twenty days has somehow changed. Even the dogs sense it.
Liam has held it together all day. But by bedtime he’s emotionally wrung out and I hear him crying in his room. I sigh. Please God; don’t let the night terrors start again.
For twenty days I haven’t been alone. I’ve had my husband here to laugh with, talk with, argue with, love.
Nineteen nights I’ve not laid here alone. Nineteen nights I’ve not been awakened to a little boy screaming in terror. I’ve not had to cuddle into pillows to fall asleep. And I’ve not been the one to listen, even in my sleep, for noises outside the normal house sounds. I’ve slept.
Sixty meals I’ve not had to be a jack-in-the-box jumping up to get something. Dinner conversations were about something other than how many more bites before Liam could be done. Daytime meals were not eaten alone. I could look across the table and see his face.
Four hundred and eighty hours I’ve not had to be the “strong” one. Not had to be the only one responsible for everything in the house. Not had to keep an eye on Kate 24/7 and have been able to shower alone.
Twenty-eight thousand eight hundred minutes that I’ve not had to worry that something bad was going to happen to him. Not had to be on guard against that knock at the door.
But now it’s done.
Where did the time go?
Those twenty days flew by. I blinked and they were done.
I only picked him up at the airport the other day. I shouldn’t be dropping him off already.
We’ve spent a lot of time together, both as a couple and as a family. Storing memories like a squirrel stores food for the winter. I keep thinking of things we should have done.
I’ve had a dozen little breakdowns today. Little sobbing fits that he comforts me through. I’m trying hard to keep the kids from seeing them. I don’t want to make it worse. But it feels like my chest is being crushed and my stomach is in knots.
There are no other soldiers here this time. The other passengers appear to be mostly businesspeople. The tension is less. The sadness more contained in our little corner.
There is no luggage to check. He’s only got his carry on. The “official” airport business takes less than five minutes. He’s going to have to get new tickets at Heathrow for the second leg of his journey it seems the Air Canada/British Airways partnership isn’t that cosy.
Our good-bye is quicker than we’d like. Kate is upset and we want to avoid a meltdown. We watch him through the security glass for a few minutes and then decide to leave. I can’t breathe.
The drive home is in darkness and I offer a little prayer of thanksgiving. I’m crying hard by the time I hit the last set of lights on the way home. The darkness hides my face from the children. By the time we get home I’m more or less back under control.
Walking into the house after the airport is like walking into an empty shell. The home that was vibrantly alive for the last twenty days has somehow changed. Even the dogs sense it.
Liam has held it together all day. But by bedtime he’s emotionally wrung out and I hear him crying in his room. I sigh. Please God; don’t let the night terrors start again.
Day 90.
Monday, November 10, 2008
What's better than a hotel suite?
So we’re at the hotel.
I’m sleeping. Let me repeat that part – I am sleeping. For those of you who are following my blog you’ll understand what a monumental thing that is.
I’m awakened by the absence of the weight that lay across me all night and the sudden difference in temperature. Rick has gotten out of bed.
A one-eyed scan of the room reveals that it’s still night. The alarm clock says 0430 and since the times went back at midnight it’s really 0330. I expect him to come back to bed. I expected wrong…
Instead my husband is turning on the lights and packing his bag. When he’s done with his he starts on mine. I pretend to still be asleep for the first 10 minutes of his rummaging but I’m a curious person by nature and I can’t resist asking him what the heck he’s doing at such a godforsaken hour of the morning.
“I’m going to see the kids,” is the response I receive.
“Umm, Honey, it’s 3:30 in the morning. The kids won’t be up for a few more hours.”
We argue about the time change for a few minutes and he sullenly flops onto the couch and turns on the TV.
I manage to nap. But by 0530 he’s back to rummaging in my stuff and banging around loud enough to wake Rip Van Winkle himself.
“Get up. I need to see my kids.” All the patience is gone out of his voice.
And with that our romantic night is officially over.
I manage to drag my feet getting ready. Manage to get another bath in the Jacuzzi tub. And convince him to stop at Timmies for a morning coffee. But by 0700 we’re pulling into our own driveway.
He can hardly contain himself.
Bags are left in the car and he doesn’t even wait for me to get the video camera adjusted. He’s up the stone steps like a shot.
The lights are on in the kitchen, so hopefully the kids are up.
I’m about 10 feet behind him, trying to provide some voiceover information for the camera as we burst into the house.
Kate is there. She stops like a deer caught in the headlights. Eyes wide she looks at Rick. You can see the disbelief in her eyes. She takes a step towards him and then backs up.
He speaks to her. She moves forward again only to back up and dance. On the third attempt she manages to touch him. He’s real! You can see the words practically dance across her face and she squeals in delight. She grabs him by the arm, drags him into the living room, pushes him down on the couch and flops on top of him. Mandatory cuddle time apparently.
I call Liam up from the family room where he’s playing with his friends. We’re expecting a big reaction. I tell him to come with me there’s something in the living room I want him to see. He spies his dad.
We’ve been talking about how Liam will lose his mind when he sees his daddy. Thinking we’re going to get a big reaction out of him I’m all positioned with the video camera. My friend and her children are watching from the dining room when my son walks up to his father and says “Oh, hi Daddy.”
No tears, no drama. Just a hug for his dad and a “hi Daddy” – talk about anticlimactic.
Just before noon. Rick wants me to go get the older two kids. Their mom and I have worked out a story to get the kids out for the night on a Sunday. We’re supposed to be making cookies.
As I pick them up, they’re less than enthusiastic about staying the night. Holden has even given his mom a hard time about it.
As we approach our street I call the house to ask if anyone needs anything from the corner store. It’s our signal for Rick to get into place.
T-Lynn is on the camera inside the house. And I’m biting my lip trying to herd them both into the house while getting a front row seat for their reactions while trying my best not to giggle.
Holden spies his Dad peeking out around the refrigerator first. He’s gob smacked. Mouth open, eyes wide, grinning type of gob smacked.
Dani is greeting our Shih Tzu, Scrunchon, who is dancing at her feet. She hasn’t even looked into the kitchen yet.
“Dan”, I say, “what do you think about this?” and she looks in our direction. Her immediate reaction is tear-filled joy.
Rick encloses both kids in a bear hug and closes his eyes.
Now he’s home. Day 72
I’m sleeping. Let me repeat that part – I am sleeping. For those of you who are following my blog you’ll understand what a monumental thing that is.
I’m awakened by the absence of the weight that lay across me all night and the sudden difference in temperature. Rick has gotten out of bed.
A one-eyed scan of the room reveals that it’s still night. The alarm clock says 0430 and since the times went back at midnight it’s really 0330. I expect him to come back to bed. I expected wrong…
Instead my husband is turning on the lights and packing his bag. When he’s done with his he starts on mine. I pretend to still be asleep for the first 10 minutes of his rummaging but I’m a curious person by nature and I can’t resist asking him what the heck he’s doing at such a godforsaken hour of the morning.
“I’m going to see the kids,” is the response I receive.
“Umm, Honey, it’s 3:30 in the morning. The kids won’t be up for a few more hours.”
We argue about the time change for a few minutes and he sullenly flops onto the couch and turns on the TV.
I manage to nap. But by 0530 he’s back to rummaging in my stuff and banging around loud enough to wake Rip Van Winkle himself.
“Get up. I need to see my kids.” All the patience is gone out of his voice.
And with that our romantic night is officially over.
I manage to drag my feet getting ready. Manage to get another bath in the Jacuzzi tub. And convince him to stop at Timmies for a morning coffee. But by 0700 we’re pulling into our own driveway.
He can hardly contain himself.
Bags are left in the car and he doesn’t even wait for me to get the video camera adjusted. He’s up the stone steps like a shot.
The lights are on in the kitchen, so hopefully the kids are up.
I’m about 10 feet behind him, trying to provide some voiceover information for the camera as we burst into the house.
Kate is there. She stops like a deer caught in the headlights. Eyes wide she looks at Rick. You can see the disbelief in her eyes. She takes a step towards him and then backs up.
He speaks to her. She moves forward again only to back up and dance. On the third attempt she manages to touch him. He’s real! You can see the words practically dance across her face and she squeals in delight. She grabs him by the arm, drags him into the living room, pushes him down on the couch and flops on top of him. Mandatory cuddle time apparently.
I call Liam up from the family room where he’s playing with his friends. We’re expecting a big reaction. I tell him to come with me there’s something in the living room I want him to see. He spies his dad.
We’ve been talking about how Liam will lose his mind when he sees his daddy. Thinking we’re going to get a big reaction out of him I’m all positioned with the video camera. My friend and her children are watching from the dining room when my son walks up to his father and says “Oh, hi Daddy.”
No tears, no drama. Just a hug for his dad and a “hi Daddy” – talk about anticlimactic.
Just before noon. Rick wants me to go get the older two kids. Their mom and I have worked out a story to get the kids out for the night on a Sunday. We’re supposed to be making cookies.
As I pick them up, they’re less than enthusiastic about staying the night. Holden has even given his mom a hard time about it.
As we approach our street I call the house to ask if anyone needs anything from the corner store. It’s our signal for Rick to get into place.
T-Lynn is on the camera inside the house. And I’m biting my lip trying to herd them both into the house while getting a front row seat for their reactions while trying my best not to giggle.
Holden spies his Dad peeking out around the refrigerator first. He’s gob smacked. Mouth open, eyes wide, grinning type of gob smacked.
Dani is greeting our Shih Tzu, Scrunchon, who is dancing at her feet. She hasn’t even looked into the kitchen yet.
“Dan”, I say, “what do you think about this?” and she looks in our direction. Her immediate reaction is tear-filled joy.
Rick encloses both kids in a bear hug and closes his eyes.
Now he’s home. Day 72
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Being the Cheshire Cat...............
It’s Saturday.
Finally.
I’ve been keeping this secret for too long.
Rick will be home today.
He’s traded HLTAs with another member of the crew. We’ve made the decision to keep it under wraps and surprise the kids. For the last week I’ve been walking around like the Cheshire cat – I’m not sure I’m so good at keeping this secret.
His flight gets in at 2030. I look at the clock – sigh – just 11 more hours to go. I feel like I’m going to burst.
I had my hair done on Friday morning. I’ve been to Mulder’s – some gorgeous t-bone steaks are sitting in my refrigerator, special request from the sandbox.
We’ve rented a hotel room for tonight. My friend is coming over to stay with the kids. I’ve stripped and made the beds, packed my bags twice and have managed to get into the bath. Another quick glance at the clock reveals only 6 more hours to go.
This must be what the old lady felt like when she swallowed a bird. I’m still grinning.
I still have to pick up some wine, Red Bull – another request, and a fruit tray. T-Lynn and the kids will be here soon. I’m giggling…
T-Lynn sends me off with a “Have fun” and I grin even wider, if possible. “Oh, I plan on it” I hear myself reply with a laugh.
I don’t think the drive in has ever taken this long. Time is both rushing and standing still. It’s almost a surreal feeling – like being dropped down the rabbit hole.
My giddy feelings of euphoria must be contagious. I’ve got the lady at the front desk grinning for me as well. We’re on the fourth floor. Normally I hate the confines of an elevator – today it’s not even a blip on the radar.
Room 416. I stand in front of the door and take a deep breath. It’s real.
My hands are full as I try to juggle bottles of wine, my bag, my boots, a fruit tray and Lord knows what else as I attempt to open the door with the swipe card thing. It’s a miracle the whole lot didn’t wind up on the floor.
The door opens. The room is big. A mini-suite with a bar fridge, sitting area, fireplace, king sized bed, I giggle again. What the heck is wrong with me? – Am I twelve?
The bathroom is massive, with a Jacuzzi tub made for two. I’ve bought candles and I set them up around the edges.
Time to get ready.
Only an hour until his plane lands.
I take my time on my make-up. It isn’t something I wear everyday. I want to look extra special for him. I’ve lost weight since he left. Will he notice?
“Stop worrying,” my brain tells me. “The man loves you. And he’s been living in the middle of a wasteland with 10,000 other army guys – you at least look cuter than they do.”
I shake my head and zip up my boots. It’s a half hour until his plane lands. It’s only 15 minutes, more or less, from the hotel to the airport. I’m nervous.
As I walk through the lobby the front desk chick gives me a low whistle. I hope Rick concurs.
I drive too fast. I always do. It’s worse when I’m excited or nervous. I make it to the airport in 10 minutes. I can see his plane on approach.
The butterflies in my stomach have turned into giant birds. My heart is pounding. They’ve changed the parking area since he left and I circle the place twice before I figure out where I have to be.
I walk in just in time to see the Jazz plane land and taxi up to the terminal. My face hurts from grinning.
I can see the passengers disembark. They’re entering the terminal and finding their loved ones. No sign of my man.
Five minutes. Ten. Then there he is!
He’s dark. He looks tired. He looks like the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. My heart leaps. I lose sight of him for a minute behind two businessmen who seem to be having an argument. I fight the urge to clothesline them and instead step around them.
He’s standing in front of me. He’s smiling. He’s blurry. Tears have jumped into my eyes. And he reaches for me. I’m in his arms. I breathe in the scent of him. I can hear his heart.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Day 71
Finally.
I’ve been keeping this secret for too long.
Rick will be home today.
He’s traded HLTAs with another member of the crew. We’ve made the decision to keep it under wraps and surprise the kids. For the last week I’ve been walking around like the Cheshire cat – I’m not sure I’m so good at keeping this secret.
His flight gets in at 2030. I look at the clock – sigh – just 11 more hours to go. I feel like I’m going to burst.
I had my hair done on Friday morning. I’ve been to Mulder’s – some gorgeous t-bone steaks are sitting in my refrigerator, special request from the sandbox.
We’ve rented a hotel room for tonight. My friend is coming over to stay with the kids. I’ve stripped and made the beds, packed my bags twice and have managed to get into the bath. Another quick glance at the clock reveals only 6 more hours to go.
This must be what the old lady felt like when she swallowed a bird. I’m still grinning.
I still have to pick up some wine, Red Bull – another request, and a fruit tray. T-Lynn and the kids will be here soon. I’m giggling…
T-Lynn sends me off with a “Have fun” and I grin even wider, if possible. “Oh, I plan on it” I hear myself reply with a laugh.
I don’t think the drive in has ever taken this long. Time is both rushing and standing still. It’s almost a surreal feeling – like being dropped down the rabbit hole.
My giddy feelings of euphoria must be contagious. I’ve got the lady at the front desk grinning for me as well. We’re on the fourth floor. Normally I hate the confines of an elevator – today it’s not even a blip on the radar.
Room 416. I stand in front of the door and take a deep breath. It’s real.
My hands are full as I try to juggle bottles of wine, my bag, my boots, a fruit tray and Lord knows what else as I attempt to open the door with the swipe card thing. It’s a miracle the whole lot didn’t wind up on the floor.
The door opens. The room is big. A mini-suite with a bar fridge, sitting area, fireplace, king sized bed, I giggle again. What the heck is wrong with me? – Am I twelve?
The bathroom is massive, with a Jacuzzi tub made for two. I’ve bought candles and I set them up around the edges.
Time to get ready.
Only an hour until his plane lands.
I take my time on my make-up. It isn’t something I wear everyday. I want to look extra special for him. I’ve lost weight since he left. Will he notice?
“Stop worrying,” my brain tells me. “The man loves you. And he’s been living in the middle of a wasteland with 10,000 other army guys – you at least look cuter than they do.”
I shake my head and zip up my boots. It’s a half hour until his plane lands. It’s only 15 minutes, more or less, from the hotel to the airport. I’m nervous.
As I walk through the lobby the front desk chick gives me a low whistle. I hope Rick concurs.
I drive too fast. I always do. It’s worse when I’m excited or nervous. I make it to the airport in 10 minutes. I can see his plane on approach.
The butterflies in my stomach have turned into giant birds. My heart is pounding. They’ve changed the parking area since he left and I circle the place twice before I figure out where I have to be.
I walk in just in time to see the Jazz plane land and taxi up to the terminal. My face hurts from grinning.
I can see the passengers disembark. They’re entering the terminal and finding their loved ones. No sign of my man.
Five minutes. Ten. Then there he is!
He’s dark. He looks tired. He looks like the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. My heart leaps. I lose sight of him for a minute behind two businessmen who seem to be having an argument. I fight the urge to clothesline them and instead step around them.
He’s standing in front of me. He’s smiling. He’s blurry. Tears have jumped into my eyes. And he reaches for me. I’m in his arms. I breathe in the scent of him. I can hear his heart.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Day 71
Saturday, October 25, 2008
You've got Mail
The mail comes every day at noon.
What does that matter? You ask – well it doesn’t if you don’t live on our street, I suppose.
But it’s comforting to know that sometimes things run on schedule. Especially now.
So by 1300 I’m checking the mail. What else have I got to do?
Today there’s a package card. I’m not expecting a package.
After the deployment coffee break I head to the post office.
The trip into the post office is fast. Partly because I’ve got a lead foot and partly because I’m excited – the kind of little-kid-on-Christmas-Eve excited. Because I think I know who sent the package!
I’m an avid E-Bayer so the lady at the post office knows me. And she hands me this monster huge package. It must weigh 30 pounds and I can’t get my arms around it.
But it’s from Reid RT and my heart skips.
Getting it from the car to the house is a challenge. I’m half swearing about the size and weight of the package and scared to death I’ll drop it and break it so it’s a slow walk up the stone steps.
Panting by the time I get to the door I wedge it between me and the doorframe to rest my arms. What in the world is in this, rocks?
I half stagger into the kitchen and put it on the table with a thump. It looks even bigger here.
I check the clock. Sigh – not enough time to open it – I have to get the kids washed and jammied and into bed.
An hour later and it’s just me. I sit – staring at the box as if it’s the answer to some eternal riddle.
Scissors, a knife and a few cut knuckles later and the treasures are in front of me. Beautiful things. Colourful pashminas, a marble tea set, a marble chess set. He knows me so well that everything is perfect. As if I had been there with him to choose it.
I hope he calls tomorrow. Day 62
What does that matter? You ask – well it doesn’t if you don’t live on our street, I suppose.
But it’s comforting to know that sometimes things run on schedule. Especially now.
So by 1300 I’m checking the mail. What else have I got to do?
Today there’s a package card. I’m not expecting a package.
After the deployment coffee break I head to the post office.
The trip into the post office is fast. Partly because I’ve got a lead foot and partly because I’m excited – the kind of little-kid-on-Christmas-Eve excited. Because I think I know who sent the package!
I’m an avid E-Bayer so the lady at the post office knows me. And she hands me this monster huge package. It must weigh 30 pounds and I can’t get my arms around it.
But it’s from Reid RT and my heart skips.
Getting it from the car to the house is a challenge. I’m half swearing about the size and weight of the package and scared to death I’ll drop it and break it so it’s a slow walk up the stone steps.
Panting by the time I get to the door I wedge it between me and the doorframe to rest my arms. What in the world is in this, rocks?
I half stagger into the kitchen and put it on the table with a thump. It looks even bigger here.
I check the clock. Sigh – not enough time to open it – I have to get the kids washed and jammied and into bed.
An hour later and it’s just me. I sit – staring at the box as if it’s the answer to some eternal riddle.
Scissors, a knife and a few cut knuckles later and the treasures are in front of me. Beautiful things. Colourful pashminas, a marble tea set, a marble chess set. He knows me so well that everything is perfect. As if I had been there with him to choose it.
I hope he calls tomorrow. Day 62
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Finding Pollyanna
I’m a horrible parent.
Before you say “don’t be silly” - hear me out.
I’ve always felt like a horrible parent.
I think it started when Kate was diagnosed. I felt like I could have or should have done something to prevent her Autism. I know that’s foolish. My head tells me it’s foolish. My heart – well my heart tells me something else.
It wasn’t until I had Liam that I had proof that I’m actually a pretty decent mom. Parenting a child with special needs and one with normal needs is a completely different experience. Doing both together….well….that’s why I’ve got grey hair.
After going through all of the medical emergencies that come with a child with Autism, Cerebral Palsy and Epilepsy a little blood or scrapes doesn’t even rate on the Louise-stress-o-meter.
So when Liam comes in with a huge scrape and bruise on his belly from flipping over the handle bars on his bike I am unflappable. I clean up the scrape and put a dressing on it, give him some chewable Motrin, rock him a bit and put him to bed.
Several times in the night I hear him get up to use the washroom – nothing new. But early in the morning I hear him being sick. When I go to see what’s happening I’m gob smacked by his pallor. He’s the colour of cold oatmeal.
“Damn, damn, damn” I think. “I should have brought him to Emerge to be checked last night, Rick would have insisted we get him checked last night. I check the clock – 0815 – emerge is open – let’s go.”
Katie is actually compliant to get washed and dressed – a novelty. Liam goes like he is in a grey tee and pirate jammie bottoms.
We get right in – no waiting. My stomach is tied in knots. The doctor orders blood work. Directly under his injury is his liver. They think it’s in trouble. The room grows fuzzy as tears spring into my eyes. This is my baby.
Blood work then x-rays. Kate is hungry and is starting to get antsy sitting around doing nothing. If this is going to take long or if they admit him – what am I supposed to do? I can’t leave him in the hospital alone and I can’t leave her either.
My mind spins. I pick up the phone and call my friend. She’s on her way. I look at my oatmeal coloured boy on the hospital gurney and try not to cry.
I wish Rick was here. I am so horrible in these situations. He’s the better parent. He’s the calm one. He’s the one who wouldn’t be standing here bawling in the middle of the triage area.
Just as my friend arrives we’re transferred from Oromocto to Fredericton. They’re aware we’re coming and the surgeon will meet us there. My heart sinks. A surgeon.
My friend takes one look at my face and decides to accompany us to Fredericton. For the billionth time I thank God for that French Course.
A rat maze of rooms and checking in leads us to the ultrasound area. Liam is crying as she moves the gel-covered wand over his belly. I let him play with my hair and I use the singsong shushing thing that used to work on him when he was a baby. My nerves are frayed as I search the alien like grey pictures for damage – as if I’d know if I saw it.
Kate dumps a red Gatorade onto the floor in the waiting area. She’s had enough and wants my attention. I can’t be in both places.
His liver is bruised but here appears to be no further damage. The surgeon gives us the green light to go home along with a warning, if he starts passing blood to bring him back immediately.
The drive home is a blur – I don’t know if I’ve ever felt such relief.
Relieved for his diagnosis. Relieved for the discharge. Relieved that I have a support system of friends that can and will help me in times of need.
Maybe this is my Pollyanna time.
Day 57.
Before you say “don’t be silly” - hear me out.
I’ve always felt like a horrible parent.
I think it started when Kate was diagnosed. I felt like I could have or should have done something to prevent her Autism. I know that’s foolish. My head tells me it’s foolish. My heart – well my heart tells me something else.
It wasn’t until I had Liam that I had proof that I’m actually a pretty decent mom. Parenting a child with special needs and one with normal needs is a completely different experience. Doing both together….well….that’s why I’ve got grey hair.
After going through all of the medical emergencies that come with a child with Autism, Cerebral Palsy and Epilepsy a little blood or scrapes doesn’t even rate on the Louise-stress-o-meter.
So when Liam comes in with a huge scrape and bruise on his belly from flipping over the handle bars on his bike I am unflappable. I clean up the scrape and put a dressing on it, give him some chewable Motrin, rock him a bit and put him to bed.
Several times in the night I hear him get up to use the washroom – nothing new. But early in the morning I hear him being sick. When I go to see what’s happening I’m gob smacked by his pallor. He’s the colour of cold oatmeal.
“Damn, damn, damn” I think. “I should have brought him to Emerge to be checked last night, Rick would have insisted we get him checked last night. I check the clock – 0815 – emerge is open – let’s go.”
Katie is actually compliant to get washed and dressed – a novelty. Liam goes like he is in a grey tee and pirate jammie bottoms.
We get right in – no waiting. My stomach is tied in knots. The doctor orders blood work. Directly under his injury is his liver. They think it’s in trouble. The room grows fuzzy as tears spring into my eyes. This is my baby.
Blood work then x-rays. Kate is hungry and is starting to get antsy sitting around doing nothing. If this is going to take long or if they admit him – what am I supposed to do? I can’t leave him in the hospital alone and I can’t leave her either.
My mind spins. I pick up the phone and call my friend. She’s on her way. I look at my oatmeal coloured boy on the hospital gurney and try not to cry.
I wish Rick was here. I am so horrible in these situations. He’s the better parent. He’s the calm one. He’s the one who wouldn’t be standing here bawling in the middle of the triage area.
Just as my friend arrives we’re transferred from Oromocto to Fredericton. They’re aware we’re coming and the surgeon will meet us there. My heart sinks. A surgeon.
My friend takes one look at my face and decides to accompany us to Fredericton. For the billionth time I thank God for that French Course.
A rat maze of rooms and checking in leads us to the ultrasound area. Liam is crying as she moves the gel-covered wand over his belly. I let him play with my hair and I use the singsong shushing thing that used to work on him when he was a baby. My nerves are frayed as I search the alien like grey pictures for damage – as if I’d know if I saw it.
Kate dumps a red Gatorade onto the floor in the waiting area. She’s had enough and wants my attention. I can’t be in both places.
His liver is bruised but here appears to be no further damage. The surgeon gives us the green light to go home along with a warning, if he starts passing blood to bring him back immediately.
The drive home is a blur – I don’t know if I’ve ever felt such relief.
Relieved for his diagnosis. Relieved for the discharge. Relieved that I have a support system of friends that can and will help me in times of need.
Maybe this is my Pollyanna time.
Day 57.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Strapping it On....
Thanksgiving.
I wasn’t prepared to feel this lonely today.
Usually I’ve got a house full of people laughing, playing cards, cooking, eating and yelling to be heard over each other. This year…..well this year I don’t.
I started the day determined to make it as special as possible. As the kids eat their cereal I make apple pies. I realize I’m concentrating too hard on blocking out my feelings when Liam yells at me “Mom! Look at me, will ya?” From his tone I guess he’s been calling to me for a while.
I don’t dare look in his direction. The tears are still welled up in my eyes. I’m thinking of the times when holidays meant our family crossed the street and celebrated together.
But home now is where the army sends us. I don’t even know my neighbours.
“Strap it on, woman”, I think. “They can’t see you like this.”
“Yeah Buddy, what do you need?” I respond.
“Will Daddy have turkey and pie in Ganistan?” It’s the closest he can come to saying the name of the country.
“I think so, Dude.”
“That’s good.”
The dog noses the back of my knee. I can still smell the faint whiff of skunk. I sigh. I hope the smell doesn’t spoil the turkey dinner.
Turkey. For me and two kids. The dogs are going to eat well tonight.
The pies are done. Crust crispy and golden. I don’t have my mother’s knack – but they’re passable.
I try to pull a Pollyanna – think about the positives. It’s harder than I thought.
I reach for the phone and then decide I don’t want to drag down anyone’s mood and set it back it its cradle.
It scares me that I feel like this on Thanksgiving. Especially in the daytime. Especially when I’m busy.
If I feel like this now – how am I supposed to make it through Christmas? Day 52.
I wasn’t prepared to feel this lonely today.
Usually I’ve got a house full of people laughing, playing cards, cooking, eating and yelling to be heard over each other. This year…..well this year I don’t.
I started the day determined to make it as special as possible. As the kids eat their cereal I make apple pies. I realize I’m concentrating too hard on blocking out my feelings when Liam yells at me “Mom! Look at me, will ya?” From his tone I guess he’s been calling to me for a while.
I don’t dare look in his direction. The tears are still welled up in my eyes. I’m thinking of the times when holidays meant our family crossed the street and celebrated together.
But home now is where the army sends us. I don’t even know my neighbours.
“Strap it on, woman”, I think. “They can’t see you like this.”
“Yeah Buddy, what do you need?” I respond.
“Will Daddy have turkey and pie in Ganistan?” It’s the closest he can come to saying the name of the country.
“I think so, Dude.”
“That’s good.”
The dog noses the back of my knee. I can still smell the faint whiff of skunk. I sigh. I hope the smell doesn’t spoil the turkey dinner.
Turkey. For me and two kids. The dogs are going to eat well tonight.
The pies are done. Crust crispy and golden. I don’t have my mother’s knack – but they’re passable.
I try to pull a Pollyanna – think about the positives. It’s harder than I thought.
I reach for the phone and then decide I don’t want to drag down anyone’s mood and set it back it its cradle.
It scares me that I feel like this on Thanksgiving. Especially in the daytime. Especially when I’m busy.
If I feel like this now – how am I supposed to make it through Christmas? Day 52.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Lead, Follow or Get Out of the Way!
I’m at a loss.
I know I’m going to do it – but to who? Who do I trust?
Who do I trust with everything?
Usually Rick and I would sit and discuss anything this important. We debate – (a polite way to say we argue loudly) the pros and cons of the issues and come to some sort of consensus and stick to that plan.
This time the whole thing seems both more monumental and more insignificant than anything before. Monumental because Rick’s life, not just his livelihood, is on the line this time and insignificant because of the choices themselves.
I’ve watched, with varying degrees of amusement and annoyance, the mudslinging between the parties. But I’ve yet to see one genuine sliver of real emotion from any of them.
They’re political Milli Vanillis. Mouthing what they think we want to hear. Looking us in the eye and making promises while keeping their fingers crossed behind their backs. It’s mentally exhausting to watch them carrying favour with the special interest groups.
Harper lost my respect last spring with the “retirement” of Canada’s top soldier. I guess Steve couldn’t take the fact that there was a real leader in his midst.
Dion never had it. He comes across as one of those people who would wring their hands in the face of a crisis instead of forging through. As far as I’m concerned it’ll take the Liberals a long time to recover from his proposed Carbon Tax. I’m from a place where two income families had to go to food banks last winter because they couldn’t afford the heating fuel for their homes and he wants to add a tax to that???
I like Layton’s social policies. Hate his stance on the military. Maybe if I smoked more marijuana in college….
And May? Well, I think the environment is important too – but not more important than people.
So where does that leave me? In a perfect world I’d use genetic splicing - I’d smash May and Layton together and use Rick Hiller for glue – maybe then we’d have someone worth voting for.
One of my husband’s favourite quotes is “it’s better to die for something than to live for nothing.” A brave statement from a brave soldier. I just hope whoever wins next week can appreciate the fact that there are people from this country willing to do whatever they’re asked by the people who spent the last month accusing each other of plagiarism, heavy handedness, stupidity and more.
Pony up boys and girls. You’ve got my husband’s life in your hands. Day 49.
I know I’m going to do it – but to who? Who do I trust?
Who do I trust with everything?
Usually Rick and I would sit and discuss anything this important. We debate – (a polite way to say we argue loudly) the pros and cons of the issues and come to some sort of consensus and stick to that plan.
This time the whole thing seems both more monumental and more insignificant than anything before. Monumental because Rick’s life, not just his livelihood, is on the line this time and insignificant because of the choices themselves.
I’ve watched, with varying degrees of amusement and annoyance, the mudslinging between the parties. But I’ve yet to see one genuine sliver of real emotion from any of them.
They’re political Milli Vanillis. Mouthing what they think we want to hear. Looking us in the eye and making promises while keeping their fingers crossed behind their backs. It’s mentally exhausting to watch them carrying favour with the special interest groups.
Harper lost my respect last spring with the “retirement” of Canada’s top soldier. I guess Steve couldn’t take the fact that there was a real leader in his midst.
Dion never had it. He comes across as one of those people who would wring their hands in the face of a crisis instead of forging through. As far as I’m concerned it’ll take the Liberals a long time to recover from his proposed Carbon Tax. I’m from a place where two income families had to go to food banks last winter because they couldn’t afford the heating fuel for their homes and he wants to add a tax to that???
I like Layton’s social policies. Hate his stance on the military. Maybe if I smoked more marijuana in college….
And May? Well, I think the environment is important too – but not more important than people.
So where does that leave me? In a perfect world I’d use genetic splicing - I’d smash May and Layton together and use Rick Hiller for glue – maybe then we’d have someone worth voting for.
One of my husband’s favourite quotes is “it’s better to die for something than to live for nothing.” A brave statement from a brave soldier. I just hope whoever wins next week can appreciate the fact that there are people from this country willing to do whatever they’re asked by the people who spent the last month accusing each other of plagiarism, heavy handedness, stupidity and more.
Pony up boys and girls. You’ve got my husband’s life in your hands. Day 49.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Welcome to the Madness
It’s been a busy week.
Well, I’ve been on the go a lot – can’t really say I’ve accomplished much.
Things seem to be happening for the better. I’ve got that anticipatory feeling that you almost don’t want to breathe for fear that it’ll disappear.
The MFRC came through, thanks Shelly, and the home care company is sending over a lady to meet us.
I’ve cleaned the house twice. I know I’m not supposed to be this nervous. If she doesn’t work out they’ll send someone else. But it’s always like this when I meet someone who is going to work with Kate.
I brush her hair and whisper to her about who’s coming and what they’re going to be doing here. I pray she doesn’t act out. I don’t know why I always feel like we’re going to be rejected when it comes to things like this. My stomach is doing flips. Please like us.
Kate squeals from her perch staring out the window. She’s here. Liam makes it to the door before I do. Terra and Scrunch run past his legs. I run to call them back. I hope she’s not afraid.
Dogs barking, me yelling at one, Liam yelling at the other, Kate squealing – oh yeah we’re making a great impression. “Please see through this madness,” I think in her general direction. “We’re really not that bad.”
Kate takes to her right away. She holds her hand and brings her some things. She even hides her purse. One issue out of the way. Kate likes her. I was worried about that, because Kate is a person who either likes you or she doesn’t. And if she doesn’t – then watch out!
We talk about expectations, availabilities, cancellation policies, and I’m watching. Watching for the fear that so many people have shown when Katie is near. If she exhibits fear then she’s not the one for us.
I used to only be able to see the fear in children. But since Katie has grown I now see it in adults and it saddens me.
It’s not there! I expel a long breath. Issue two – check.
I’ve not had respite for so long that when she asked me about schedules I look at her dumbfounded, madly scrambling to come up with somewhere to go, something to do. I guess it really has been a long time since I had time to myself.
We’ve decided that she’ll come on Tuesdays. That way I can go to deployment coffee breaks, or shopping, or to see my friends. Is it wrong to be this excited about two hours to myself?
I can’t wait to tell Rick. I can’t wait for next Tuesday. Day 42.
Well, I’ve been on the go a lot – can’t really say I’ve accomplished much.
Things seem to be happening for the better. I’ve got that anticipatory feeling that you almost don’t want to breathe for fear that it’ll disappear.
The MFRC came through, thanks Shelly, and the home care company is sending over a lady to meet us.
I’ve cleaned the house twice. I know I’m not supposed to be this nervous. If she doesn’t work out they’ll send someone else. But it’s always like this when I meet someone who is going to work with Kate.
I brush her hair and whisper to her about who’s coming and what they’re going to be doing here. I pray she doesn’t act out. I don’t know why I always feel like we’re going to be rejected when it comes to things like this. My stomach is doing flips. Please like us.
Kate squeals from her perch staring out the window. She’s here. Liam makes it to the door before I do. Terra and Scrunch run past his legs. I run to call them back. I hope she’s not afraid.
Dogs barking, me yelling at one, Liam yelling at the other, Kate squealing – oh yeah we’re making a great impression. “Please see through this madness,” I think in her general direction. “We’re really not that bad.”
Kate takes to her right away. She holds her hand and brings her some things. She even hides her purse. One issue out of the way. Kate likes her. I was worried about that, because Kate is a person who either likes you or she doesn’t. And if she doesn’t – then watch out!
We talk about expectations, availabilities, cancellation policies, and I’m watching. Watching for the fear that so many people have shown when Katie is near. If she exhibits fear then she’s not the one for us.
I used to only be able to see the fear in children. But since Katie has grown I now see it in adults and it saddens me.
It’s not there! I expel a long breath. Issue two – check.
I’ve not had respite for so long that when she asked me about schedules I look at her dumbfounded, madly scrambling to come up with somewhere to go, something to do. I guess it really has been a long time since I had time to myself.
We’ve decided that she’ll come on Tuesdays. That way I can go to deployment coffee breaks, or shopping, or to see my friends. Is it wrong to be this excited about two hours to myself?
I can’t wait to tell Rick. I can’t wait for next Tuesday. Day 42.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Roses from the Desert
It’s my anniversary.More accurately it’s our anniversary.
He usually forgets. Well to be correct – he usually remembers at least half way through the day and scrambles to call the florist and makes something special for dinner.
Last year Liam helped with supper. We wound up with salmon and Kraft Dinner. His favourites. I fed most of mine to the dog.
So how does one spend their 5th wedding anniversary when their significant other is “over there?” Should I light candles and have a glass of wine? Should I get dressed up? Go out?
There should be a manual somewhere advising protocols in this situation - some socially acceptable thing to do when you find yourself alone on your anniversary. Because honestly, today, I would have gladly pulled the sheets up over my head and awakened tomorrow.
With two kids that’s not really an option – a fleeting idea maybe, but not a real option.
Some good friends brought me flowers yesterday, Gerbera daisies. They knew I’d be feeling low. Their cheery faces greet me as I enter the kitchen.
It’s raining – the remnants of a hurricane. The weekend we got married Juan hit Halifax. I hope this one will be kinder. The dogs are soaked.
I sigh. A jammie day, if there ever was one.
And the doorbell rings.
A man is standing there with a dozen roses. Red and pink – my favourite.
I grin the grin of the Cheshire cat. Laughter bubbles up from within. He remembered!!
And somehow he’s managed to send me roses from the middle of a war zone!
Liam is mesmerized by the fact that Daddy sent something. He can’t stop touching the soft petals. He’s six. He still believes in magic. And he believes his daddy can do anything. I start to explain about tele-florists and credit cards but I stop.
Let him have the magic for a little longer.
I don’t quite know how he managed it. I don’t really care.
He remembered.
And I can get through today. Day 36.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Letting her out of the box
I hate shopping.
I’ve always hated shopping. I’ve got friends and family who are quite happy to go into a mall for hours on end and look at everything on the shelves, me - not so much.
Maybe that’s why I love big box stores. Any time I can one stop shop I go for it.
Which is why I find myself in Wal-Mart on a sunny morning purchasing dog food, sneakers, and a new bathmat. Only department stores have that sort of combo shopping.
It’s red Friday – so I’m wearing my red “Support our Troops” tee.
I’m standing in line – the Wal-Mart checkout chick is asking me if I found everything I was looking for and I hear this nasally, heavy accented, voice say “I hate those red t-shirts. I can’t believe people are supporting the war, Canada has no right to be there” and something else that the blood rushing to my head blocks out.
She’s obviously meant for me to hear her opinion – we’re two cart lengths away from each other. She could have leaned over to her friend and whispered her thoughts – she’s chosen not to – bad move on her part.
“Excuse me?” I hear myself say.
“You heard me,” she replies. “It’s disgraceful that Canadian soldiers are over there and supporting that is shameful.”
I look at my hands and I actually hear the snap as my hold on my temper, and my mouth, simultaneously let go.
I hate stupid people. I hate them as much as I hate shopping. More even. And how dare this foreign-born cow even open her mouth about the Canadian military? Especially since she’s standing not even 20 Kms away from the largest military training base in the Commonwealth? She doesn’t realize that she’s stepped in a hornets’ nest.
I’m livid. I’m at that point where you’re so angry you can feel your body vibrate. I can feel the hair on my head. It’s not going to be pretty. The little cashier is waving frantically for a supervisor and I open my mouth.
My brain-mouth filter has been completely removed and the R-rated version of my deepest thoughts and beliefs come flooding out.
Miss Opinion opens her mouth to respond but takes one look at my face and understands what speaking at this point would mean.
I’m ranting and I know it. And it feels good.
A crowd is gathering. Watching a harried military spouse in a red t-shirt tear a strip off of a beautifully coiffed dark skinned lady at the top of her lungs. At one point I hear them clap.
I’m sick of the CBC ending every story from Afghanistan with the line “96 soldiers and one politician have been killed since 2002” – how many people were killed in Canada since 2002??
I am sick to death of the election making Afghanistan a campaign issue. I am sick of that group in Fredericton protesting at the Freedom of the City Parade. I am sick of the website and the group that wants businesses to remove the support our troops signs in their windows. They hide behind the “freedom of speech” banner – who the heck do they think defends the right to that??? I am sick of it all and this woman will hear every word.
“I, for one, am extremely proud of the fact that the military exists. I am proud that my husband is a soldier. I am proud that these men and women are willing to put their lives on the line and go to some third world part of this planet and do whatever they are asked to do. I am proud that I am a military spouse and I will not be ashamed to show that pride, in what I wear, in where I live, in who I am. And if you don’t like it – feel free to get back on whichever boat that brought you here.”
The cashier looks like she’s about to be sick. Miss Opinion and her friend are pale. I’m shaking.
I pay for my stuff and head for the exit. The cops have probably been called. All I can think of is getting to the car. I want to puke.
Halfway across the parking lot an employee, maybe he’s a manager, catches up to me.
“Great – I’m going to be banned from the stupid Wal-Mart” is what I’m thinking.
But Wal-Mart knows which side its bread is buttered on and I actually get apologized to for the staff not stepping in when the other lady attempted her bullying. I look at him like I’m half stunned.
Thank you, I manage to squeak out.
In my car I burst into tears, ashamed I couldn’t hold it together, and worried that it’ll make the news. I can see the headline now “Military Spouse Goes Postal at Wal-Mart” news at 11.
Can I do eight more months? Day 32.
I’ve always hated shopping. I’ve got friends and family who are quite happy to go into a mall for hours on end and look at everything on the shelves, me - not so much.
Maybe that’s why I love big box stores. Any time I can one stop shop I go for it.
Which is why I find myself in Wal-Mart on a sunny morning purchasing dog food, sneakers, and a new bathmat. Only department stores have that sort of combo shopping.
It’s red Friday – so I’m wearing my red “Support our Troops” tee.
I’m standing in line – the Wal-Mart checkout chick is asking me if I found everything I was looking for and I hear this nasally, heavy accented, voice say “I hate those red t-shirts. I can’t believe people are supporting the war, Canada has no right to be there” and something else that the blood rushing to my head blocks out.
She’s obviously meant for me to hear her opinion – we’re two cart lengths away from each other. She could have leaned over to her friend and whispered her thoughts – she’s chosen not to – bad move on her part.
“Excuse me?” I hear myself say.
“You heard me,” she replies. “It’s disgraceful that Canadian soldiers are over there and supporting that is shameful.”
I look at my hands and I actually hear the snap as my hold on my temper, and my mouth, simultaneously let go.
I hate stupid people. I hate them as much as I hate shopping. More even. And how dare this foreign-born cow even open her mouth about the Canadian military? Especially since she’s standing not even 20 Kms away from the largest military training base in the Commonwealth? She doesn’t realize that she’s stepped in a hornets’ nest.
I’m livid. I’m at that point where you’re so angry you can feel your body vibrate. I can feel the hair on my head. It’s not going to be pretty. The little cashier is waving frantically for a supervisor and I open my mouth.
My brain-mouth filter has been completely removed and the R-rated version of my deepest thoughts and beliefs come flooding out.
Miss Opinion opens her mouth to respond but takes one look at my face and understands what speaking at this point would mean.
I’m ranting and I know it. And it feels good.
A crowd is gathering. Watching a harried military spouse in a red t-shirt tear a strip off of a beautifully coiffed dark skinned lady at the top of her lungs. At one point I hear them clap.
I’m sick of the CBC ending every story from Afghanistan with the line “96 soldiers and one politician have been killed since 2002” – how many people were killed in Canada since 2002??
I am sick to death of the election making Afghanistan a campaign issue. I am sick of that group in Fredericton protesting at the Freedom of the City Parade. I am sick of the website and the group that wants businesses to remove the support our troops signs in their windows. They hide behind the “freedom of speech” banner – who the heck do they think defends the right to that??? I am sick of it all and this woman will hear every word.
“I, for one, am extremely proud of the fact that the military exists. I am proud that my husband is a soldier. I am proud that these men and women are willing to put their lives on the line and go to some third world part of this planet and do whatever they are asked to do. I am proud that I am a military spouse and I will not be ashamed to show that pride, in what I wear, in where I live, in who I am. And if you don’t like it – feel free to get back on whichever boat that brought you here.”
The cashier looks like she’s about to be sick. Miss Opinion and her friend are pale. I’m shaking.
I pay for my stuff and head for the exit. The cops have probably been called. All I can think of is getting to the car. I want to puke.
Halfway across the parking lot an employee, maybe he’s a manager, catches up to me.
“Great – I’m going to be banned from the stupid Wal-Mart” is what I’m thinking.
But Wal-Mart knows which side its bread is buttered on and I actually get apologized to for the staff not stepping in when the other lady attempted her bullying. I look at him like I’m half stunned.
Thank you, I manage to squeak out.
In my car I burst into tears, ashamed I couldn’t hold it together, and worried that it’ll make the news. I can see the headline now “Military Spouse Goes Postal at Wal-Mart” news at 11.
Can I do eight more months? Day 32.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Holding On
It has been a busy week.
I’m testing the theory that if I kept us all on the move then time won’t seem so long.
So far it doesn’t seem to hold much water.
Martial Arts with Liam three times per week, Beavers, school and to top it off my friend offers to watch the kiddies for me so I can attend a “deployment coffee break” at the Military Family Resource Centre (MFRC). And this week it’s also Rick and Dani’s birthdays. Next week it’s Kate’s turn.
With all this excitement and activity you’d think Liam would be sleeping better. You’d think his mind and body would be so exhausted that a full nights’ sleep would at occur at least once. But no – he continues his broken pattern of sleep so we continue ours.
There are times when our emotions are so close to the surface that you can almost reach out and touch them, like coy carp in a pond. I can’t remember how many Advil I’ve taken and still the throbbing headache above my left eye continues.
Rick calls on his birthday and we talk longer than usual. I know it will mean we’ll run out of minutes before the end of the week but I don’t care.
He’s read my blog. I knew it wouldn’t take long before someone told him about it. What surprises me is that another soldier in Afghanistan is the one to bring it up. I’m nervous about what he thinks and I ask if he wants me to stop.
“Don’t stop. If it helps – keep going,” is what I hear and am reminded for the millionth time why I love him. He’s worried about Liam and upset I didn’t tell him how bad it’s gotten.
I have no response. He knows about the “golden rule”.
“We’ll get through it,” I say.
The deployment coffee break is a pleasant surprise. I had somehow gotten the image of a darkened room full of bawling women imbedded in my brain. Instead, I find a room full of women laughing and telling stories about their spouses and families.
I’m approached by one of the staff to talk about my childcare situation. There are no spaces available for a special needs child – let alone a 13-year-old. She advises she’ll work on something for me. I’m almost hopeful.
It’s not easy for Kate. She can’t express what she’s feeling or thinking.
Because she’s non-verbal it’s sometimes easy to think she’s not feeling the stress. But today she ran away from school at lunchtime and another child had to chase her down.
It’s the second time my phone has rung today. This morning there was an incident on the bus. I have no idea how to respond, much less how to curb her actions.
The resource teacher is meeting with the vice-principal over both incidents. I have no idea what that means.
Once again I feel woefully inadequate as Kate’s mom. I wish Rick was here. Day 27.
I’m testing the theory that if I kept us all on the move then time won’t seem so long.
So far it doesn’t seem to hold much water.
Martial Arts with Liam three times per week, Beavers, school and to top it off my friend offers to watch the kiddies for me so I can attend a “deployment coffee break” at the Military Family Resource Centre (MFRC). And this week it’s also Rick and Dani’s birthdays. Next week it’s Kate’s turn.
With all this excitement and activity you’d think Liam would be sleeping better. You’d think his mind and body would be so exhausted that a full nights’ sleep would at occur at least once. But no – he continues his broken pattern of sleep so we continue ours.
There are times when our emotions are so close to the surface that you can almost reach out and touch them, like coy carp in a pond. I can’t remember how many Advil I’ve taken and still the throbbing headache above my left eye continues.
Rick calls on his birthday and we talk longer than usual. I know it will mean we’ll run out of minutes before the end of the week but I don’t care.
He’s read my blog. I knew it wouldn’t take long before someone told him about it. What surprises me is that another soldier in Afghanistan is the one to bring it up. I’m nervous about what he thinks and I ask if he wants me to stop.
“Don’t stop. If it helps – keep going,” is what I hear and am reminded for the millionth time why I love him. He’s worried about Liam and upset I didn’t tell him how bad it’s gotten.
I have no response. He knows about the “golden rule”.
“We’ll get through it,” I say.
The deployment coffee break is a pleasant surprise. I had somehow gotten the image of a darkened room full of bawling women imbedded in my brain. Instead, I find a room full of women laughing and telling stories about their spouses and families.
I’m approached by one of the staff to talk about my childcare situation. There are no spaces available for a special needs child – let alone a 13-year-old. She advises she’ll work on something for me. I’m almost hopeful.
It’s not easy for Kate. She can’t express what she’s feeling or thinking.
Because she’s non-verbal it’s sometimes easy to think she’s not feeling the stress. But today she ran away from school at lunchtime and another child had to chase her down.
It’s the second time my phone has rung today. This morning there was an incident on the bus. I have no idea how to respond, much less how to curb her actions.
The resource teacher is meeting with the vice-principal over both incidents. I have no idea what that means.
Once again I feel woefully inadequate as Kate’s mom. I wish Rick was here. Day 27.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Missing U
Another school week over.
Time is passing. Summer is maturing into autumn. But there are times when this deployment is yawning out in front of me into an abyss. If I think about it too much I feel like I’ll drown in it. Lost forever in some imaginary hourglass.
To help the kids cope with the time I’ve numbered the calendar with how many days since we said good-bye and each day we cross it off. Liam’s job is to make the X. He’s gotten very good at it.
I’m using all the tips and hints I can find to help them both cope with this time. I know when I was his age it was an eon between the first day of school and Christmas holidays - if I’m feeling that time is crawling then I can only imagine how he feels.
Katie, thankfully, is almost impervious to time. Sometimes Katie’s disability is a glass half full thing. Sometimes it’s not.
Rick calls and at some point I mention how many days he’s been away.
“Wow,” he says, “I can’t believe it’s gone so fast.”
I bite my lip against the sarcasm that is bubbling up from within. It’s not his fault that he’s so busy.
“Feels much longer on this end, Hon,” is what eventually passes my lips.
Five minutes is a tease, it helps him to touch base every day. It keeps him grounded, linked to home via satellites and clicking relays. I wouldn’t trade those five minutes for anything but what I wouldn’t give for more…..
I struggle to keep the sadness out of my voice. Being upbeat for these five-minute phone calls should win me an Oscar; I’m feeling anything but chipper.
I’m lonely. It’s not as bad during the days – there are chores to be done. But at night, when the kids are sleeping and the house is quiet I feel it steal around my shoulders like a blanket and it takes my breath away.
Tomorrow we’re off to the Expo on base. We’re searching for extra-curricular activities for Liam. I’d love to find something for Kate – but I’ve lived here long enough to know better.
If I can get him involved in some groups or teams then he’ll have a male figurehead while his dad is away. Maybe he’ll talk to a man. For the hundredth time I wish we were back home.
Maybe tomorrow will be just what we need. I can only hope. Day 21.
Time is passing. Summer is maturing into autumn. But there are times when this deployment is yawning out in front of me into an abyss. If I think about it too much I feel like I’ll drown in it. Lost forever in some imaginary hourglass.
To help the kids cope with the time I’ve numbered the calendar with how many days since we said good-bye and each day we cross it off. Liam’s job is to make the X. He’s gotten very good at it.
I’m using all the tips and hints I can find to help them both cope with this time. I know when I was his age it was an eon between the first day of school and Christmas holidays - if I’m feeling that time is crawling then I can only imagine how he feels.
Katie, thankfully, is almost impervious to time. Sometimes Katie’s disability is a glass half full thing. Sometimes it’s not.
Rick calls and at some point I mention how many days he’s been away.
“Wow,” he says, “I can’t believe it’s gone so fast.”
I bite my lip against the sarcasm that is bubbling up from within. It’s not his fault that he’s so busy.
“Feels much longer on this end, Hon,” is what eventually passes my lips.
Five minutes is a tease, it helps him to touch base every day. It keeps him grounded, linked to home via satellites and clicking relays. I wouldn’t trade those five minutes for anything but what I wouldn’t give for more…..
I struggle to keep the sadness out of my voice. Being upbeat for these five-minute phone calls should win me an Oscar; I’m feeling anything but chipper.
I’m lonely. It’s not as bad during the days – there are chores to be done. But at night, when the kids are sleeping and the house is quiet I feel it steal around my shoulders like a blanket and it takes my breath away.
Tomorrow we’re off to the Expo on base. We’re searching for extra-curricular activities for Liam. I’d love to find something for Kate – but I’ve lived here long enough to know better.
If I can get him involved in some groups or teams then he’ll have a male figurehead while his dad is away. Maybe he’ll talk to a man. For the hundredth time I wish we were back home.
Maybe tomorrow will be just what we need. I can only hope. Day 21.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Links and Prayers
This weekend the mood in the house is better.
Liam’s face lights up on Saturday afternoon when his brother and sister arrive. Their presence links him to their dad and he gains security from that.
Having all the kids at once is overwhelming and heart warming. To top it off friends drop over and the house feels full for the first time since he left. We talk about everything and nothing, shouting to be heard over little boys and toys and dogs and Kate, I know Rick would love it.
Holden is helping with the lasagne and salad. Clowning around and dancing to the ’80s retro show on the radio he’s a younger version of his dad in looks and actions. My friend’s daughter is smitten.
Eight people around the table for supper, bellies full, everyone is happy. Rick will call tomorrow, a special call for kids only. They’re excited.
Sunday morning and its pancakes with peanut butter and syrup, a nasty looking combination that Dani came up with years ago and that all of them have adopted. Everyone is tired and happy, the way you feel when you’re 10 and you go for a sleepover.
The phone doesn’t ring.
By 3:30 the older kids have to go home.
“Daddy probably had to work,” I tell them.
They understand. They’ve been down this road last year with their stepfather. They know that sometimes you can’t call. Liam, however, is dwelling on it.
I drive them home and with kisses and love yous and promises to call they’re back at their mom’s. Liam is now visibly upset and the lack of sleep has made him whiny, I feel the vein above my left eye start to throb.
We enter the house to the sound of the phone ringing. It’s Rick.
“You just missed the kids,” I tell him. “Do you want to call them at home? Why are you so late calling?”
I know he’s only got 10 minutes left on his weekly calling card.
He seems slow to respond. I don’t know if it’s the delay or something else.
“We were under COMS lockdown,” he tells me.
My heart sinks. It’s clear in his voice that it’s one of ours.
“Killed?” I ask.
“Yes.”
More silence.
His voice is low when he says, “I knew him.”
The words drop like a stone into the pit of my stomach. The pause between each word relays more information than many would realize.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He feels guilty. Yesterday while enjoying his first day off, while he was at the market haggling for treasures and drinking Tim Horton’s coffee, someone he knew lost his life. Someone only a week away from going home to his children had died.
I close my eyes and can see the pain in his eyes as he asks me to call and explain to the kids that he wasn’t able to call.
“Tell them I’ll call them tomorrow.”
“I promise.”
And then he’s gone. The card has run out.
The vein above my eye continues to throb. Another prayer. I hope He’s listening. – Day 16
Liam’s face lights up on Saturday afternoon when his brother and sister arrive. Their presence links him to their dad and he gains security from that.
Having all the kids at once is overwhelming and heart warming. To top it off friends drop over and the house feels full for the first time since he left. We talk about everything and nothing, shouting to be heard over little boys and toys and dogs and Kate, I know Rick would love it.
Holden is helping with the lasagne and salad. Clowning around and dancing to the ’80s retro show on the radio he’s a younger version of his dad in looks and actions. My friend’s daughter is smitten.
Eight people around the table for supper, bellies full, everyone is happy. Rick will call tomorrow, a special call for kids only. They’re excited.
Sunday morning and its pancakes with peanut butter and syrup, a nasty looking combination that Dani came up with years ago and that all of them have adopted. Everyone is tired and happy, the way you feel when you’re 10 and you go for a sleepover.
The phone doesn’t ring.
By 3:30 the older kids have to go home.
“Daddy probably had to work,” I tell them.
They understand. They’ve been down this road last year with their stepfather. They know that sometimes you can’t call. Liam, however, is dwelling on it.
I drive them home and with kisses and love yous and promises to call they’re back at their mom’s. Liam is now visibly upset and the lack of sleep has made him whiny, I feel the vein above my left eye start to throb.
We enter the house to the sound of the phone ringing. It’s Rick.
“You just missed the kids,” I tell him. “Do you want to call them at home? Why are you so late calling?”
I know he’s only got 10 minutes left on his weekly calling card.
He seems slow to respond. I don’t know if it’s the delay or something else.
“We were under COMS lockdown,” he tells me.
My heart sinks. It’s clear in his voice that it’s one of ours.
“Killed?” I ask.
“Yes.”
More silence.
His voice is low when he says, “I knew him.”
The words drop like a stone into the pit of my stomach. The pause between each word relays more information than many would realize.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He feels guilty. Yesterday while enjoying his first day off, while he was at the market haggling for treasures and drinking Tim Horton’s coffee, someone he knew lost his life. Someone only a week away from going home to his children had died.
I close my eyes and can see the pain in his eyes as he asks me to call and explain to the kids that he wasn’t able to call.
“Tell them I’ll call them tomorrow.”
“I promise.”
And then he’s gone. The card has run out.
The vein above my eye continues to throb. Another prayer. I hope He’s listening. – Day 16
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Prayers and sympathy
Time is moving. Not fast enough for my liking, but moving nonetheless.
Getting the kids up and out the door for school feels normal, familiar, like putting on your old sneakers. I can almost trick myself into thinking everything is how it should be.
We’re quickly falling into our old morning routines. Me yelling at the kids to hurry up and them ignoring me. Every parent goes through it.
Kate started her graduated back to school reintegration program (a fancy way to say she’s going half days this week and full days next week). Her TA (Teacher’s Aide) is familiar to her so I anticipate a successful first day.
I do another load of laundry. Feed the dogs. Check Facebook. Look for work. My life reads like a laundry list, a really boring laundry list.
And then a friend calls.
“How are you?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone that puts me on edge.
“Fine,” I respond.
“You haven’t been online, have you?”
I’m one of those news junkies that has CNN, CBC, CTV, and the BBC all book-marked but for some reason I haven’t been reading or watching the news - my own way of insulating myself against the world, perhaps.
I tell her I haven’t and she tells me the news. Three more Canadians killed in Afghanistan. My skin is cold despite the 25+ degree temperature. It’s as if I’ve been tossed into an icy bath.
We stay on the phone but my brain doesn’t absorb what she’s saying. I hope she understands. My over active brain is miles away.
Somewhere in the pre-dawn hours a mother; sister; wife was awakened by a knock at the door. Somewhere in Canada the families of three PPCLI (Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry) soldiers opened their doors to find…..to find who? A clergy? Some MP’s? A commanding officer?
Somewhere today someone lived and is living my nightmare.
My mind flies instantly to Rick. It will be his first ramp ceremony.
I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, how he is.
We learned at the pre-deployment briefings that when tragedies happen all communication with KAF is shut down. No one can call or e-mail. I haven’t heard from him and now I know why.
In one five-second span of time I was reminded that the Canadian Army is at war and that my husband, my best friend, is there.
I close my eyes and pray for strength. – Day 13
Getting the kids up and out the door for school feels normal, familiar, like putting on your old sneakers. I can almost trick myself into thinking everything is how it should be.
We’re quickly falling into our old morning routines. Me yelling at the kids to hurry up and them ignoring me. Every parent goes through it.
Kate started her graduated back to school reintegration program (a fancy way to say she’s going half days this week and full days next week). Her TA (Teacher’s Aide) is familiar to her so I anticipate a successful first day.
I do another load of laundry. Feed the dogs. Check Facebook. Look for work. My life reads like a laundry list, a really boring laundry list.
And then a friend calls.
“How are you?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone that puts me on edge.
“Fine,” I respond.
“You haven’t been online, have you?”
I’m one of those news junkies that has CNN, CBC, CTV, and the BBC all book-marked but for some reason I haven’t been reading or watching the news - my own way of insulating myself against the world, perhaps.
I tell her I haven’t and she tells me the news. Three more Canadians killed in Afghanistan. My skin is cold despite the 25+ degree temperature. It’s as if I’ve been tossed into an icy bath.
We stay on the phone but my brain doesn’t absorb what she’s saying. I hope she understands. My over active brain is miles away.
Somewhere in the pre-dawn hours a mother; sister; wife was awakened by a knock at the door. Somewhere in Canada the families of three PPCLI (Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry) soldiers opened their doors to find…..to find who? A clergy? Some MP’s? A commanding officer?
Somewhere today someone lived and is living my nightmare.
My mind flies instantly to Rick. It will be his first ramp ceremony.
I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, how he is.
We learned at the pre-deployment briefings that when tragedies happen all communication with KAF is shut down. No one can call or e-mail. I haven’t heard from him and now I know why.
In one five-second span of time I was reminded that the Canadian Army is at war and that my husband, my best friend, is there.
I close my eyes and pray for strength. – Day 13
Monday, September 1, 2008
Night Terrors and Sardines
Night Terrors and Sardines
I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept since the night before he left.
Not that I don’t want to. Believe me - I want to. But I’m not the only one dealing with the raw emotion of the Afghanistan tour. And Liam is not handling it well.
Daytime it’s almost like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Well, other than the fact that he won’t go outside and play with his friends and he gets upset if I’m any further than one room away…
Night is a different story. At night he can’t distract himself from the fact that his daddy is on the other side of the planet and that he is so afraid for him. We tried to shield him from learning of the dangers over there but he plays with children whose parents speak freely of the injuries and deaths and he’s latched onto the negative.
He’s cried himself to sleep every night since his daddy left. He doesn’t think I know. The first night he was so fraught with emotion that his sobs were loud and heartbreaking. That night, he didn’t want me to comfort him and the next day he didn’t want to talk about it. Since that night he’s cried quietly. But when I check on him he’s fallen asleep with the tears still wet on his cheeks.
I’m used to nightmares – he gets those occasionally. They wake him up and he winds up in bed with us.
These night terrors are other animals, altogether.
He howls like the hounds of hell are chasing him. Screaming and sweating, heart beating like it’s trying to escape his body. Yelling at the top of his lungs for Daddy to save him. But Daddy can’t come.
I don’t even think I sit up – my feet hit the floor running, occasionally stubbing my toe on the doorjamb and cursing under my breath, Kate close on my heels.
He calms slowly, but doesn’t really wake up fully. Kate and I doze in his bed with him, jammed in like sweaty sardines, until his breathing becomes slow and regular once more. Somewhere in the pre-dawn hours I take Kate back to her bed.
She’s an angel on these nightly rescue missions. It’s almost as if in these moments she realizes she’s the big sister and I give thanks for the little mercies.
In the morning, he says he doesn’t remember the night before. But the circles under his eyes are getting darker and his emotions are more on edge. I thought speaking to his Daddy might help. But so far things are not getting better.
He starts school tomorrow. I’ve got to remember to tell his teacher about how he’s handling the deployment. Maybe school will be the outlet he needs to calm his mind, get it focused somewhere else. Perhaps he will talk to the guidance counsellor.
The alarm goes off and up we get. What I wouldn’t give for a nap. Day 10.
I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept since the night before he left.
Not that I don’t want to. Believe me - I want to. But I’m not the only one dealing with the raw emotion of the Afghanistan tour. And Liam is not handling it well.
Daytime it’s almost like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Well, other than the fact that he won’t go outside and play with his friends and he gets upset if I’m any further than one room away…
Night is a different story. At night he can’t distract himself from the fact that his daddy is on the other side of the planet and that he is so afraid for him. We tried to shield him from learning of the dangers over there but he plays with children whose parents speak freely of the injuries and deaths and he’s latched onto the negative.
He’s cried himself to sleep every night since his daddy left. He doesn’t think I know. The first night he was so fraught with emotion that his sobs were loud and heartbreaking. That night, he didn’t want me to comfort him and the next day he didn’t want to talk about it. Since that night he’s cried quietly. But when I check on him he’s fallen asleep with the tears still wet on his cheeks.
I’m used to nightmares – he gets those occasionally. They wake him up and he winds up in bed with us.
These night terrors are other animals, altogether.
He howls like the hounds of hell are chasing him. Screaming and sweating, heart beating like it’s trying to escape his body. Yelling at the top of his lungs for Daddy to save him. But Daddy can’t come.
I don’t even think I sit up – my feet hit the floor running, occasionally stubbing my toe on the doorjamb and cursing under my breath, Kate close on my heels.
He calms slowly, but doesn’t really wake up fully. Kate and I doze in his bed with him, jammed in like sweaty sardines, until his breathing becomes slow and regular once more. Somewhere in the pre-dawn hours I take Kate back to her bed.
She’s an angel on these nightly rescue missions. It’s almost as if in these moments she realizes she’s the big sister and I give thanks for the little mercies.
In the morning, he says he doesn’t remember the night before. But the circles under his eyes are getting darker and his emotions are more on edge. I thought speaking to his Daddy might help. But so far things are not getting better.
He starts school tomorrow. I’ve got to remember to tell his teacher about how he’s handling the deployment. Maybe school will be the outlet he needs to calm his mind, get it focused somewhere else. Perhaps he will talk to the guidance counsellor.
The alarm goes off and up we get. What I wouldn’t give for a nap. Day 10.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A voice in the darkness
I hadn’t realized how high strung I’d become until the phone rang early this morning. Stumbling around in the semi-darkness, groping for the handset, hoping, praying, knowing already who was at the other end.“Hello?” A pause. Then, “Hi Baby”.
Whoosh – I let my breath out. I hadn’t realized that I had been holding it since the phone first pealed. Those two words wrapped around me like a hug and I closed my eyes. Finally.
I expected a snap and crackle to the satellite phone. But there’s only a slight delay. He could be down the street.
Liam is anxiously standing next to me and I hand him the phone. “Hi Daddy” – all the sadness of the last 5 days has melted away. You could literally hear the smile in his voice. He walks away from me – sharing secrets only meant for his dad.
Time is short, however, and soon he is handing me back the phone promising he’ll be a good boy and the ever famous “love you too.”
I smile. They’re close. And maybe hearing his daddy’s voice will mean that tonight he won’t cry himself to sleep and wake up screaming. I think I should tell Rick about those episodes – but I remember the ‘golden rule’* of speaking to our husbands – and I hear myself saying; “Everything is fine.”
He doesn’t know that I’m writing. When he gets home I’ll show him. But for now his mind has to remain on his job over there. People’s lives depend on it.
It’s good to hear his voice. He sounds tired. He hasn’t slept and he’s exhausted. It’s already nearly suppertime over there.
I get snippets of his life over there. They’re still in the BATS (Big Assed TentS) – the army has an acronym for everything, and should get their “permanent” quarters soon.
The heat is awful, like being in the oven. Dubai felt worse because of the humidity, but Afghanistan is nasty too and he wishes for our pool.
He’s bought himself a pair of new desert boots – the ones issued to him in Canada were cheap hurt his feet. It’s almost like he’s apologizing for buying the boots. Anything to make his work more comfortable is AOK with me.
He tells me to hug the kids for him and promises he’ll call me when he can. I tell him to stay safe. And click its over.
I shudder and catch myself before the tears spill over my lids. I go over our conversation in my head. I’ll have to repeat it for friends and family several times before today is over but for now it’s just between us.
I straighten my spine. Bring it on. Day six.
*Army wives are told not to tell their husbands about anything that would make them feel bad because they (the husband) can’t do anything to help and it will just take their minds off their main objective.
Monday, August 25, 2008
When you say good-bye
He’s gone.
Off to a part of this world where the only thing that resembles home is what he’s brought with him.
I thought I’d be stronger, more stoic, more poised, more anything – other than the hiccupping mess I’ve somehow managed to dissolve into.
The recent news out of the Afghanistan doesn’t help my mood – three more Canadian soldiers killed in a roadside explosion.
“ Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll be fine. Most of my job isn’t outside the wire. I’ve got the best kit. I’ve got the best team. We’ve trained hard. I’ll be fine.” All of these things he says over and over. I think it’s his way of comforting me, and maybe himself, too.
I nod, mostly to distract myself rather than agree with him. I imagine that those three on their way home said the same things to their loved ones and I bite my lip.
I hadn’t intended to become so emotional. I don’t like the kids seeing me like this. It makes it harder for them. I try to remember all the little things he’s been telling me all morning.
“Don’t forget to feed the dogs when you get home. Scrunch has to go to the groomer. Call Porter to help take the air conditioner out of the window when it starts to get cool. Donny will come over to help you winterize the pool. Call and get my cell phone suspended.” The list seems endless. My sleep-deprived brain picks up on maybe one line out of five.
I watched him sleep last night. Listened to him breathe. Prayed a little. Cried more. My head hurts and I reach for some more Advil.
I try to think of something else. Anything else. A security guard is fighting with a paraplegic lady over where she’s parked her vehicle. She’s demanding a manager – he claims he is the manager. I breathe and look at my feet.
Kate has taken her sandals off. I bend down for the umpteenth time to put them back on. The airport is full of soldiers and their families saying good-bye. She’s picking up on the worry and sadness like an emotional sponge. She doesn’t know how to process it all. She tries to protect herself by distracting her mind with the tactile difference between her sandals and the cool smoothness of the floor. I grapple to get my run away thoughts under control. The kids have to be my priority.
His Commanding Officer comes over with the Regimental Sergeant Major. They’ve driven down from Moncton to see the troops off. I smile and make the appropriate responses to their questions. “How do I feel about the support from the Regiment?” “It’s fine.” “Have I gotten all the numbers for the Deployment Centre?” “Yes I received the newsletter and the C.O.’s personal letter, thank you.”
I know they’re trying to be supportive, but all I can think of is that I want them to go away. Thank God I’ve worn my sunglasses, they hide my face and, hopefully, disguise my thoughts.
“The army is getting him for the next nine months, this time is ours, ” is the petty thought that rises from my overwrought mind. Thank goodness my brain-mouth filter is firmly in place.
Kate’s hand is hot in mine. She pats me - her version of comfort. She senses my agitation.
Liam is jumping from one foot to the other. He’s itching to join the two little boys who are running back and forth through the terminal but his hand doesn’t leave his dad’s. He’s only six. His dad is the world. My lower lip trembles.
The announcement over the loudspeaker makes me jump. It’s time for everyone to go through security. He’s randomly chosen from the group to unpack his carry on. The irritated look on his face makes me laugh and a dozen other wives and mothers scowl in my general direction. I've intruded on their sadness.
Then he’s on the other side of the security glass. The departure area is built like a goldfish bowl for travellers, completely glassed in. We can’t hear each other – the glass is soundproof, but we improvise with some sign language. “ I love you. I’ll call you. Don’t worry. I’m proud of you. I’ll be fine. It’s time to go. Don’t cry.”
And then he’s gone.
He’ll join the battle group in Petawawa for briefings and then fly to Afghanistan on a charter flight. I’ll hear from him tonight. But the real good bye was said today.
I let out a shuddering sigh. Day one.
Off to a part of this world where the only thing that resembles home is what he’s brought with him.
I thought I’d be stronger, more stoic, more poised, more anything – other than the hiccupping mess I’ve somehow managed to dissolve into.
The recent news out of the Afghanistan doesn’t help my mood – three more Canadian soldiers killed in a roadside explosion.
“ Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll be fine. Most of my job isn’t outside the wire. I’ve got the best kit. I’ve got the best team. We’ve trained hard. I’ll be fine.” All of these things he says over and over. I think it’s his way of comforting me, and maybe himself, too.
I nod, mostly to distract myself rather than agree with him. I imagine that those three on their way home said the same things to their loved ones and I bite my lip.
I hadn’t intended to become so emotional. I don’t like the kids seeing me like this. It makes it harder for them. I try to remember all the little things he’s been telling me all morning.
“Don’t forget to feed the dogs when you get home. Scrunch has to go to the groomer. Call Porter to help take the air conditioner out of the window when it starts to get cool. Donny will come over to help you winterize the pool. Call and get my cell phone suspended.” The list seems endless. My sleep-deprived brain picks up on maybe one line out of five.
I watched him sleep last night. Listened to him breathe. Prayed a little. Cried more. My head hurts and I reach for some more Advil.
I try to think of something else. Anything else. A security guard is fighting with a paraplegic lady over where she’s parked her vehicle. She’s demanding a manager – he claims he is the manager. I breathe and look at my feet.
Kate has taken her sandals off. I bend down for the umpteenth time to put them back on. The airport is full of soldiers and their families saying good-bye. She’s picking up on the worry and sadness like an emotional sponge. She doesn’t know how to process it all. She tries to protect herself by distracting her mind with the tactile difference between her sandals and the cool smoothness of the floor. I grapple to get my run away thoughts under control. The kids have to be my priority.
His Commanding Officer comes over with the Regimental Sergeant Major. They’ve driven down from Moncton to see the troops off. I smile and make the appropriate responses to their questions. “How do I feel about the support from the Regiment?” “It’s fine.” “Have I gotten all the numbers for the Deployment Centre?” “Yes I received the newsletter and the C.O.’s personal letter, thank you.”
I know they’re trying to be supportive, but all I can think of is that I want them to go away. Thank God I’ve worn my sunglasses, they hide my face and, hopefully, disguise my thoughts.
“The army is getting him for the next nine months, this time is ours, ” is the petty thought that rises from my overwrought mind. Thank goodness my brain-mouth filter is firmly in place.
Kate’s hand is hot in mine. She pats me - her version of comfort. She senses my agitation.
Liam is jumping from one foot to the other. He’s itching to join the two little boys who are running back and forth through the terminal but his hand doesn’t leave his dad’s. He’s only six. His dad is the world. My lower lip trembles.
The announcement over the loudspeaker makes me jump. It’s time for everyone to go through security. He’s randomly chosen from the group to unpack his carry on. The irritated look on his face makes me laugh and a dozen other wives and mothers scowl in my general direction. I've intruded on their sadness.
Then he’s on the other side of the security glass. The departure area is built like a goldfish bowl for travellers, completely glassed in. We can’t hear each other – the glass is soundproof, but we improvise with some sign language. “ I love you. I’ll call you. Don’t worry. I’m proud of you. I’ll be fine. It’s time to go. Don’t cry.”
And then he’s gone.
He’ll join the battle group in Petawawa for briefings and then fly to Afghanistan on a charter flight. I’ll hear from him tonight. But the real good bye was said today.
I let out a shuddering sigh. Day one.
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