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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.