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.

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.