Finding joy while eating an elephant

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.

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

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

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

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

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