Scientists say there are no two snowflakes that are exactly the same. Perfectly symmetrical they’re unique.
Delicate until they’re pressed into use as a fort or a snowball. They gather strength from pressure and from each other.
Military spouses are like that. Each one of us is unique. We all miss our husbands/wives, we all struggle through the deployment and alone we feel fragile, like one more thing, one more emergency, one more stress, could shatter us from the inside out.
Together, however, we gain strength.
Just after Christmas I made a point of looking for the positives. Things that were good despite the separation from my spouse. Despite the heart wrenching loneliness, the empty days and the emptier nights I sought things that I could look forward to and gain strength from.
I found some of those positives in my fellow military spouses.
We meet on Tuesdays for Coffee Break at the Military Family Resource Centre (MFRC) and although we talk about our husbands nothing is focused on the tour.
Mostly it’s a time where we choose to laugh at things that have been done or said. A time where no one calls us “mom can I?” and although we’ll always be Mrs Reid or Mrs Jenkins or Mrs Howell or Mrs Peters or Mrs Forrest we can separate from that at least for a little while.
No one ever forgets where our husbands are. We know exactly where they are – it sings through our blood like a Gregorian chant. But for those two hours we get to be “the girls”.
We laugh; poke fun at each other and our husbands. We ooh and aah over pictures and cute stories, we talk about plans when the “boys” come home. It’s a time that is precious to all of us. Because in those two hours we’re protected. We’ve formed a snowball and gather strength from each other.
Being together doesn’t make us miss our husbands less. It doesn’t make the tour go faster. It doesn’t remove the stress or lessen the burden left to us.
What it does is reinforce the fact that we are not alone. The boys have their unit, their crew, their groups – they are not alone. We have small children, and each other.
The home unit has done little, if anything, to make us feel like part of something bigger. They’ve continually dropped the ball, ignored us, and failed to check on us. I’m sure they told the guys that they would be there to support their families. In reality, we’ve gotten an invitation to a Christmas party and a card wishing us happy holidays.
If it weren’t for “the girls” and the MFRC, I, for one would feel isolated and alone instead of included and protected.
We’re all in this together. We’ve been in it together since our husbands came home and told us that they were going overseas. The girls were mostly strangers to me before the Afghanistan crucible made us sisters. And I wanted to take the time to thank them for their strength.
Day 160
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Afraid to sleep
I haven’t slept in our bed since he returned to Afghanistan.
It’s half out of not wanting to sleep alone. And half because I’m afraid I won’t hear Kate.
Normally she just throws a leg over me and farts in response to me crawling into bed with her – not the most ladylike of creatures is my Kate. But tonight she’s whimpering in her sleep and not for the fist time today I am worried.
The day started out with Rick’s buddies arriving at the crack of o-my-God-what-time-is-it to clear away some snow. Katie had already left on her bus and I was scrambling to get Liam ready to go to school. When Li lets the dogs out and says “Mom some men want you outside.”
So I’m standing in my robe thinking – “this can’t be good”. I drag on Rick’s grey t-shirt and gym pants and head down the stairs thinking…”what now” only to find it’s Rick’s buddies – God love ‘em – and they brought shovels and a snow blower.
It’s good to talk with them and tease and banter back and forth. I miss the way Rick talks about them and to them and it makes me feel closer somehow to Rick to have them around.
Just as they’re leaving I get a message from the school. Katie has had another “episode” and her TA and the resource teacher are taking her to emerge. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. I grab my coat, shove on my ugliest boots and head for the door.
The boys haven’t pulled out of the yard yet and one of them sees the look on my face and says, “I’ll drive.”
I’m babbling to keep from crying. I have no clue what I said on the drive to the hospital – but I know I didn’t take many breaths between words. Tim, God bless him, keeps up with my wacky train of thought and responds in all the appropriate places.
We get there and Kate is sitting in a wheelchair in the waiting area. She doesn’t really respond to my presence other than a quick glance – but she’s alert. Her pupils look huge despite the harsh hospital fluorescents and I worry that something else has happened.
I have to give the nurses more information about Kate’s medications. I know I filled out a form so the school would have all of this information but it’s obviously been lost in the bureaucratic mumbo jumbo of student privacy and the School District 17 filing system.
We wait a few more minutes and are given a room. The doctor orders blood work to check “levels”. A call is placed to her neurologist, who – surprise – is once again not in the office. When the time comes to take her blood. Tim grabs Kate’s legs, I take the right side and her head, a nurse, Kate’s TA and the lab tech take the other side. We’ve done blood work with Kate before and have horror stories to tell.
Today, however, all the fight seems to be gone from my girl. And I’m both grateful that she’s still for the blood to be drawn and extremely worried that she didn’t bother to protest. Funny what you can be worried about when you’re a mom.
There’s little the hospital can do – they send us home.
I can’t quite put my finger on what’s different about Kate – but it worries me and my eyes don’t stray from her for the rest of the day.
By the time bedtime rolls around I feel like a live wire has been inserted into my bloodstream. I take a bath in the hopes that it will calm me down.
It works until I get into bed and the whimpering begins.
Despite all the challenges we’ve had over the last 13 years. Despite the frustration and anger I’ve felt over things she’s done. I just can’t imagine a world without Kate in it.
I’m so scared.
Day 153.
It’s half out of not wanting to sleep alone. And half because I’m afraid I won’t hear Kate.
Normally she just throws a leg over me and farts in response to me crawling into bed with her – not the most ladylike of creatures is my Kate. But tonight she’s whimpering in her sleep and not for the fist time today I am worried.
The day started out with Rick’s buddies arriving at the crack of o-my-God-what-time-is-it to clear away some snow. Katie had already left on her bus and I was scrambling to get Liam ready to go to school. When Li lets the dogs out and says “Mom some men want you outside.”
So I’m standing in my robe thinking – “this can’t be good”. I drag on Rick’s grey t-shirt and gym pants and head down the stairs thinking…”what now” only to find it’s Rick’s buddies – God love ‘em – and they brought shovels and a snow blower.
It’s good to talk with them and tease and banter back and forth. I miss the way Rick talks about them and to them and it makes me feel closer somehow to Rick to have them around.
Just as they’re leaving I get a message from the school. Katie has had another “episode” and her TA and the resource teacher are taking her to emerge. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. I grab my coat, shove on my ugliest boots and head for the door.
The boys haven’t pulled out of the yard yet and one of them sees the look on my face and says, “I’ll drive.”
I’m babbling to keep from crying. I have no clue what I said on the drive to the hospital – but I know I didn’t take many breaths between words. Tim, God bless him, keeps up with my wacky train of thought and responds in all the appropriate places.
We get there and Kate is sitting in a wheelchair in the waiting area. She doesn’t really respond to my presence other than a quick glance – but she’s alert. Her pupils look huge despite the harsh hospital fluorescents and I worry that something else has happened.
I have to give the nurses more information about Kate’s medications. I know I filled out a form so the school would have all of this information but it’s obviously been lost in the bureaucratic mumbo jumbo of student privacy and the School District 17 filing system.
We wait a few more minutes and are given a room. The doctor orders blood work to check “levels”. A call is placed to her neurologist, who – surprise – is once again not in the office. When the time comes to take her blood. Tim grabs Kate’s legs, I take the right side and her head, a nurse, Kate’s TA and the lab tech take the other side. We’ve done blood work with Kate before and have horror stories to tell.
Today, however, all the fight seems to be gone from my girl. And I’m both grateful that she’s still for the blood to be drawn and extremely worried that she didn’t bother to protest. Funny what you can be worried about when you’re a mom.
There’s little the hospital can do – they send us home.
I can’t quite put my finger on what’s different about Kate – but it worries me and my eyes don’t stray from her for the rest of the day.
By the time bedtime rolls around I feel like a live wire has been inserted into my bloodstream. I take a bath in the hopes that it will calm me down.
It works until I get into bed and the whimpering begins.
Despite all the challenges we’ve had over the last 13 years. Despite the frustration and anger I’ve felt over things she’s done. I just can’t imagine a world without Kate in it.
I’m so scared.
Day 153.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Bear Envy
“You must be counting down the days now. How many more weeks?”
“Ummm – I don’t know.”
I’d like to say that we’re past the halfway point and I suppose we probably are – but with no firm return dates we’re sort of left drifting in the wind.
I’d like to be counting down. Doing the whole five-minutes-to-midnight-in-Times-Square thing – but I don’t know what number to start counting down from. So I continue to count up.
We’re guessing April. We’re hoping for April. Liam’s birthday is in April and, believe me, it would be his best present if his daddy were home for it.
Sooner would be nicer. Tomorrow would be good. Today even better.
But I don’t know.
I don’t know when he’ll be here. I don’t know when we’ll get to be a whole family again. All I know is that it can’t come soon enough for me. Or for the kids either.
January has to be the most depressing month of the year. The holidays are over. The temperatures drop and it’s dark before supper.
I think the bears have it right. Hibernate through it all. Let the wind blow and the snow fall and stay warm and dry and sleep through the works of it. If only I were a bear…
Trying to stay positive has taken its toll on me. I’m shorter with the kids than I want to be and my patience is worn threadbare. I found myself the other day getting on my own nerves. I try to remember to stop and take a breath but sometimes it isn’t possible and I make already emotionally charged situations worse.
I am in contact with Rick almost daily. He’s missing us as much as we’re missing him and all I want to do is reach through the computer screen and put my arms around him. If only it were that easy. But it’s not and I must pull up my big girl panties and get on with it.
The lady that Rick traded HLTAs with is home. He’s sent something with her for me and as I drive over to her house my emotions are all jumbled – he would be home right now had he not traded his leave. But we’ve had our time together and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
He’s sent me a drawing. An artist took our wedding picture and turned it into a beautiful piece of art. I suck in air trying hard not to cry in front of Rick’s colleague and her family. It’s gorgeous and I am once again reminded why I love my husband.
Come on spring. Day 147.
“Ummm – I don’t know.”
I’d like to say that we’re past the halfway point and I suppose we probably are – but with no firm return dates we’re sort of left drifting in the wind.
I’d like to be counting down. Doing the whole five-minutes-to-midnight-in-Times-Square thing – but I don’t know what number to start counting down from. So I continue to count up.
We’re guessing April. We’re hoping for April. Liam’s birthday is in April and, believe me, it would be his best present if his daddy were home for it.
Sooner would be nicer. Tomorrow would be good. Today even better.
But I don’t know.
I don’t know when he’ll be here. I don’t know when we’ll get to be a whole family again. All I know is that it can’t come soon enough for me. Or for the kids either.
January has to be the most depressing month of the year. The holidays are over. The temperatures drop and it’s dark before supper.
I think the bears have it right. Hibernate through it all. Let the wind blow and the snow fall and stay warm and dry and sleep through the works of it. If only I were a bear…
Trying to stay positive has taken its toll on me. I’m shorter with the kids than I want to be and my patience is worn threadbare. I found myself the other day getting on my own nerves. I try to remember to stop and take a breath but sometimes it isn’t possible and I make already emotionally charged situations worse.
I am in contact with Rick almost daily. He’s missing us as much as we’re missing him and all I want to do is reach through the computer screen and put my arms around him. If only it were that easy. But it’s not and I must pull up my big girl panties and get on with it.
The lady that Rick traded HLTAs with is home. He’s sent something with her for me and as I drive over to her house my emotions are all jumbled – he would be home right now had he not traded his leave. But we’ve had our time together and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
He’s sent me a drawing. An artist took our wedding picture and turned it into a beautiful piece of art. I suck in air trying hard not to cry in front of Rick’s colleague and her family. It’s gorgeous and I am once again reminded why I love my husband.
Come on spring. Day 147.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Responding to the Stupid
Sometimes you’re in the loop. Sometimes you’re not.
This week I’m not. Or at least I wasn’t.
I’ve been so wrapped up in Kate that I have blocked Afghanistan and what’s happening there from my mind. It’s probably a survival tactic – only one major worry at a time and all that.
But yesterday I went online and discovered that pretending to be an ostrich with my head in the sand does nothing to stop the dangers of the mission in the sandbox.
We lost another hero.
Another husband will be coming home in a flag draped box. Another wife made widow.
I read the article. Blame Bern Bromley – I read every word of every article I see twice over. A left over from my Pen days.
The second time I read the comments people have left.
Many of them are words of condolences to the family of Trooper Good. Many express their thanks at his sacrifice and their prayers for strength for the family.
But there’s a pocket of folks who just can’t resist the opportunity to be stupid.
They’re typically educated folks. People with degrees, and nothing better to do than to shove their heads so far up their collective arses that their hold on reality is seriously compromised.
They’re the ones who write comments like: “bring them home” and “another Canadian life sacrificed for nothing” and say things like “what are they over there for anyways”. They go on and on about the monetary cost of the war and about how Canadian soldiers should be peacekeepers and not “warmongers”.
And when another person responds to their asinine comments and tells them this is neither the time nor the place for their foolishness they get their feathers ruffled and hide behind the “freedom of speech” banner.
We’ll here’s my official response to these folks. Feel free to borrow any or all of it:
You only have the freedom of speech because brave men like Trooper Good are willing to go to some Godforsaken part of this planet and defend your right to do so.
Your freedom, your right to be hurtful, nasty and vindictive are intertwined with the Canadian military and their existence in this country.
The CBC website and the articles about the dead soldiers are being read by the wives, mothers and children of these heroes. When you write your nonsense you are disrespecting the memory of their loved one. You are insulting their sacrifice and you are spitting in their faces.
I’m not saying you can’t be upset about Canada’s involvement in the war. That’s your right as a Canadian citizen. You can question any decision of your government. And the same soldiers you are insulting will defend to the death your right to do so.
If you don’t agree with Canada’s involvement write your MP, circulate a petition and present it to your representative, stage a protest outside a government office, write letters to the editor.
Don’t post your comments where the only people that are reading them are the folks that have already given everything! Don’t make the wives and mothers feel more pain unnecessarily!
Have some respect. If for nothing else – for the fact that our loved ones are willing to leave what they love most, go live in the most hostile environment imaginable in order to bring some semblance of order all because their government has asked them to. They’re not forced. They’re not conscripted. They’re simply willing to take on any task imaginable because the men and women we vote for have decided that they will do it.
Think about that.
Do you honestly think these men and women want to be separated from their families? Do you think they’re not scared that each time they talk to their loved ones that it could be the last?
You don’t have to support the mission. But you darned well should support the troops and their families. And writing your crap on the CBC and CTV comment boards and spewing your stupid comments where we can hear them isn’t support – it’s insult, and you should be ashamed.
Day 139
This week I’m not. Or at least I wasn’t.
I’ve been so wrapped up in Kate that I have blocked Afghanistan and what’s happening there from my mind. It’s probably a survival tactic – only one major worry at a time and all that.
But yesterday I went online and discovered that pretending to be an ostrich with my head in the sand does nothing to stop the dangers of the mission in the sandbox.
We lost another hero.
Another husband will be coming home in a flag draped box. Another wife made widow.
I read the article. Blame Bern Bromley – I read every word of every article I see twice over. A left over from my Pen days.
The second time I read the comments people have left.
Many of them are words of condolences to the family of Trooper Good. Many express their thanks at his sacrifice and their prayers for strength for the family.
But there’s a pocket of folks who just can’t resist the opportunity to be stupid.
They’re typically educated folks. People with degrees, and nothing better to do than to shove their heads so far up their collective arses that their hold on reality is seriously compromised.
They’re the ones who write comments like: “bring them home” and “another Canadian life sacrificed for nothing” and say things like “what are they over there for anyways”. They go on and on about the monetary cost of the war and about how Canadian soldiers should be peacekeepers and not “warmongers”.
And when another person responds to their asinine comments and tells them this is neither the time nor the place for their foolishness they get their feathers ruffled and hide behind the “freedom of speech” banner.
We’ll here’s my official response to these folks. Feel free to borrow any or all of it:
You only have the freedom of speech because brave men like Trooper Good are willing to go to some Godforsaken part of this planet and defend your right to do so.
Your freedom, your right to be hurtful, nasty and vindictive are intertwined with the Canadian military and their existence in this country.
The CBC website and the articles about the dead soldiers are being read by the wives, mothers and children of these heroes. When you write your nonsense you are disrespecting the memory of their loved one. You are insulting their sacrifice and you are spitting in their faces.
I’m not saying you can’t be upset about Canada’s involvement in the war. That’s your right as a Canadian citizen. You can question any decision of your government. And the same soldiers you are insulting will defend to the death your right to do so.
If you don’t agree with Canada’s involvement write your MP, circulate a petition and present it to your representative, stage a protest outside a government office, write letters to the editor.
Don’t post your comments where the only people that are reading them are the folks that have already given everything! Don’t make the wives and mothers feel more pain unnecessarily!
Have some respect. If for nothing else – for the fact that our loved ones are willing to leave what they love most, go live in the most hostile environment imaginable in order to bring some semblance of order all because their government has asked them to. They’re not forced. They’re not conscripted. They’re simply willing to take on any task imaginable because the men and women we vote for have decided that they will do it.
Think about that.
Do you honestly think these men and women want to be separated from their families? Do you think they’re not scared that each time they talk to their loved ones that it could be the last?
You don’t have to support the mission. But you darned well should support the troops and their families. And writing your crap on the CBC and CTV comment boards and spewing your stupid comments where we can hear them isn’t support – it’s insult, and you should be ashamed.
Day 139
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Lord - If You're listening - give me strenth.
I’m on a beach. Rick is there. The kids are building sandcastles. Holden has buried Liam to his neck in sand and I hear the radio.
Why am I hearing the radio?
I fight the foggy sleepy brain syndrome and realize it’s the alarm. The kids are going back to school today – YIPPEE!!!
Kate doesn’t want to get up. Typical teenager. But I get her dressed and ready and when she sees her book bag she gets her boots on herself – she loves school.
As I’m making her breakfast I call the 106.9, the local radio station. It’s Holden’s birthday and I want to make sure it’s on the birthday list from his Dad. As a bonus he’s chosen as the day’s winner of the DQ birthday ice cream cake! YAY!!
So far today is looking good…
Katie’s bus backs in the driveway and she’s chomping at the bit to get out of the house. I hold her back until the bus stops and then let her go. She whoops and squeals and dances all the way to the bus. She’s so excited! Another YAY!!
I call Holden and sing the Blues Clues Birthday Song loudly and off key to him. If he wasn’t awake before – he sure is now.
About 20 minutes later Liam is dressed and eating his cereal explaining to me the difference between Bakugaun and Pokemon. I’m stirring my tea and pretending to listen and the phone rings. It’s Katie’s school. Apparently she’s not walking.
I know that sometimes she gets clumsy when she’s silly and excited but they don’t think that’s the problem. They’re going to talk with the person who was with her and call me back.
Only a few minutes go by and the phone rings again. Katie has blacked out and has face planted. She’s awake now but very different. And they want me to come. Liam’s bus will be here in 10 minutes – I’ll leave the second he gets on the bus.
My heart is beating out of my body.
I put a very happy girl on the bus. What the heck is happening?
I know I’m speeding. If a cop comes along he’ll just have to escort me and ticket me when I get to my girl. I bite my lip and my right foot goes down a little harder.
I pull into the school – the office staff doesn’t know what’s happening. I head up the hallway in search of my kid.
She’s in the special needs washroom at the end of the hall. Two T.A.s are with her. She’s sitting up but her skin is the most ungodly colour I’ve seen.
No smiles for me. No reaction to me at all.
They explain what happened. I ask a few questions. I need to get my girl to the doctor. I’m so scared. “Please give me strength.”
Cathy helps me get Kate to the car. If she won’t walk into the emergency room when we get there I’m not sure how I’ll manage to get her in. I push that thought from my mind. “There’ll be a way. Just get to the doctor.”
We only wait seconds to get in. I can feel the daggers in my back as the other patients give us dirty looks. I feel like slapping them. I need to get more under control.
Kate is starting to make some sounds now.
Her colour is slightly better. They check her blood sugar, urine, ears, heart, throat and Lord knows what else. Everything seems fine.
“Nothing strenuous. Let her rest when she wants to. She’s had a grand Mal seizure.”
I blanch.
She was diagnosed with epilepsy two years ago. She’s on medications to stop petit mal seizures. We just increased her dosage. This is wrong. Something is wrong. I blink quickly to get the tears out of my eyes.
A wave of nausea passes over me.
I’m not sure I can handle more of this.
I need Rick.
Day 136
Why am I hearing the radio?
I fight the foggy sleepy brain syndrome and realize it’s the alarm. The kids are going back to school today – YIPPEE!!!
Kate doesn’t want to get up. Typical teenager. But I get her dressed and ready and when she sees her book bag she gets her boots on herself – she loves school.
As I’m making her breakfast I call the 106.9, the local radio station. It’s Holden’s birthday and I want to make sure it’s on the birthday list from his Dad. As a bonus he’s chosen as the day’s winner of the DQ birthday ice cream cake! YAY!!
So far today is looking good…
Katie’s bus backs in the driveway and she’s chomping at the bit to get out of the house. I hold her back until the bus stops and then let her go. She whoops and squeals and dances all the way to the bus. She’s so excited! Another YAY!!
I call Holden and sing the Blues Clues Birthday Song loudly and off key to him. If he wasn’t awake before – he sure is now.
About 20 minutes later Liam is dressed and eating his cereal explaining to me the difference between Bakugaun and Pokemon. I’m stirring my tea and pretending to listen and the phone rings. It’s Katie’s school. Apparently she’s not walking.
I know that sometimes she gets clumsy when she’s silly and excited but they don’t think that’s the problem. They’re going to talk with the person who was with her and call me back.
Only a few minutes go by and the phone rings again. Katie has blacked out and has face planted. She’s awake now but very different. And they want me to come. Liam’s bus will be here in 10 minutes – I’ll leave the second he gets on the bus.
My heart is beating out of my body.
I put a very happy girl on the bus. What the heck is happening?
I know I’m speeding. If a cop comes along he’ll just have to escort me and ticket me when I get to my girl. I bite my lip and my right foot goes down a little harder.
I pull into the school – the office staff doesn’t know what’s happening. I head up the hallway in search of my kid.
She’s in the special needs washroom at the end of the hall. Two T.A.s are with her. She’s sitting up but her skin is the most ungodly colour I’ve seen.
No smiles for me. No reaction to me at all.
They explain what happened. I ask a few questions. I need to get my girl to the doctor. I’m so scared. “Please give me strength.”
Cathy helps me get Kate to the car. If she won’t walk into the emergency room when we get there I’m not sure how I’ll manage to get her in. I push that thought from my mind. “There’ll be a way. Just get to the doctor.”
We only wait seconds to get in. I can feel the daggers in my back as the other patients give us dirty looks. I feel like slapping them. I need to get more under control.
Kate is starting to make some sounds now.
Her colour is slightly better. They check her blood sugar, urine, ears, heart, throat and Lord knows what else. Everything seems fine.
“Nothing strenuous. Let her rest when she wants to. She’s had a grand Mal seizure.”
I blanch.
She was diagnosed with epilepsy two years ago. She’s on medications to stop petit mal seizures. We just increased her dosage. This is wrong. Something is wrong. I blink quickly to get the tears out of my eyes.
A wave of nausea passes over me.
I’m not sure I can handle more of this.
I need Rick.
Day 136
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