We’ve got a date!
An honest to goodness return date!!
I can scarcely allow myself to believe it. It’s been so long.
I can count down sleeps. I feel like a five year old a month before Christmas. It’s so close! So close I can almost reach out and touch it.
He’ll be here before Liam’s birthday, but I’m afraid to play up that fact yet, in case the army pulls one of it’s famous hurry-up-and-wait deals and he doesn’t get here until after his birthday.
My boy looked up at me at breakfast the other day with a mouthful of cereal and said –“my bestest present ever would be my daddy for my birthday.” I nearly cried.
I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he gets to jump into his daddy’s arms. They’re close and it’s been difficult for him to find a place in this world without his Rick’s presence.
I have to force myself to break down the time.
People keep saying, “it’ll be soon now” or “it will go fast.”
They have no idea – not a clue what we’re going through. They’re mouthing platitudes in order to fill the space with sound. And I fight the urge to reach out and smack them in the head.
If anything this last month will be harder on us. We know how many have been injured or killed within weeks of their return dates. We’re aware of the fact that our husbands are tired and it doesn’t take a genius to know that when you’re tired accidents can happen.
The coming weeks will be filled with anticipation, preparation, and a whole lot of worry and prayer.
At the outset I didn’t think it was possible to feel worry every minute of the day.
Looking at us – you wouldn’t know what we’re feeling half the time. We’ve learned that people are uncomfortable around the worriers and that we’ve got to suppress our true emotions a major part of the time. But it’s the pink elephant in the room.
It’s there.
We can pretend for you.
We can play the game of “everything is okay”.
But until he is home – until he is here, in my arms, Dumbo is in the corner gathering dust.
Day 191
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Fighting the Darkness
Everyone has bad days.
It’s part of life – the ups and the downs are regular occurrences.
But if you heard someone say “next Thursday I’m going to have a bad day” you’d think they were nuts.
I know 365 days in advance that I’m going to have a bad day on the 19th of February. I can even plan for it. No meetings, no appointments, no plans. I’m useless.
It didn’t used to be this way.
With the exception of the year I was twenty, the 19th was always a day of celebration. Two cakes, silly hats, home made pies, a special supper, singing loudly, and finding the perfect silly cards to make them smile.
It’s not been that way for some time. Nine years to be exact.
Oh, we celebrated half-heartedly for a few years after that. But he was her favourite – mine too. So, for several years the day was spent on the phone, or in person, cajoling her to get out of bed and celebrate, or at least to live a little.
Then, when we lost her and, well…the whole world changed.
I was good for the days following her death. There’s the “business” of burying the dead, the arrangements that have to be made, the checklist of things that need to be completed, and then we returned to New Brunswick.
Few people know what I went through in the weeks following our return. It was as if some part of me longed to follow them into the dark earth and never return. I stopped sleeping. For twenty-two days I did no more than catnap. Every time I closed my eyes I could see them and I wanted to go with them.
Through it all, Rick was my rock. As I slowly found my way back to myself he treated me with more kindness than I thought possible. With his support, medicinal intervention, and an extreme amount of patience and love I fought through the grief that gripped me so tightly.
In the end, in some weird way, I made a Faustian deal. I could stop mourning every day and get on with life in return for one day of sadness. Twenty-four hours of remembering everything in exchange for a “normal” life the rest of the time.
In the intervening years I’ve tried to trick myself into ignoring the calendar, into being so busy that I wouldn’t notice what day it is. But just before midnight on the 18th I wake up crying. Rick usually reaches for me in his sleep and holds me close. But this year I’m alone with the children.
And I long for his arms to encircle me.
I wake up with that morning after headache. The one where you’ve got puffy eyes, a runny nose, and a throbbing behind the left temple.
I get the kids off to school and then sit. The TV is on whatever channel Liam was watching. The radio is on in the kitchen. The dogs curl up next to me as I try to get my brain to stop - to shut off so I can shift it into neutral and coast through the day on auto-pilot.
I need to get out before the snow starts. I need to get groceries, and medicine and the list is endless. But an hour later and I’m still sitting here in my robe.
Tomorrow will be better.
Day 183
It’s part of life – the ups and the downs are regular occurrences.
But if you heard someone say “next Thursday I’m going to have a bad day” you’d think they were nuts.
I know 365 days in advance that I’m going to have a bad day on the 19th of February. I can even plan for it. No meetings, no appointments, no plans. I’m useless.
It didn’t used to be this way.
With the exception of the year I was twenty, the 19th was always a day of celebration. Two cakes, silly hats, home made pies, a special supper, singing loudly, and finding the perfect silly cards to make them smile.
It’s not been that way for some time. Nine years to be exact.
Oh, we celebrated half-heartedly for a few years after that. But he was her favourite – mine too. So, for several years the day was spent on the phone, or in person, cajoling her to get out of bed and celebrate, or at least to live a little.
Then, when we lost her and, well…the whole world changed.
I was good for the days following her death. There’s the “business” of burying the dead, the arrangements that have to be made, the checklist of things that need to be completed, and then we returned to New Brunswick.
Few people know what I went through in the weeks following our return. It was as if some part of me longed to follow them into the dark earth and never return. I stopped sleeping. For twenty-two days I did no more than catnap. Every time I closed my eyes I could see them and I wanted to go with them.
Through it all, Rick was my rock. As I slowly found my way back to myself he treated me with more kindness than I thought possible. With his support, medicinal intervention, and an extreme amount of patience and love I fought through the grief that gripped me so tightly.
In the end, in some weird way, I made a Faustian deal. I could stop mourning every day and get on with life in return for one day of sadness. Twenty-four hours of remembering everything in exchange for a “normal” life the rest of the time.
In the intervening years I’ve tried to trick myself into ignoring the calendar, into being so busy that I wouldn’t notice what day it is. But just before midnight on the 18th I wake up crying. Rick usually reaches for me in his sleep and holds me close. But this year I’m alone with the children.
And I long for his arms to encircle me.
I wake up with that morning after headache. The one where you’ve got puffy eyes, a runny nose, and a throbbing behind the left temple.
I get the kids off to school and then sit. The TV is on whatever channel Liam was watching. The radio is on in the kitchen. The dogs curl up next to me as I try to get my brain to stop - to shut off so I can shift it into neutral and coast through the day on auto-pilot.
I need to get out before the snow starts. I need to get groceries, and medicine and the list is endless. But an hour later and I’m still sitting here in my robe.
Tomorrow will be better.
Day 183
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Feel the Love
Valentines Day. A day for lovers. Or, as my Dad would say, Hallmark’s greatest invention.
This will be the second February 14th that we’ve spent apart. Last year he was in Edmonton training for the tour, this year he’s on the tour.
It’s been a rough week.
Both of us are ready for the tour to be over. We’re tired, we’re lonely, and we’re done with being alone.
For the last several weeks he’s been doing a different job. We haven’t met online much and have spoken on the phone only once or twice. It’s a lonely departure from the near daily phone calls and Skype “dates” we’ve been having for the last few months.
So when a knock comes on the door I’m a little surprised. And when a man thrusts a dozen long stemmed red roses into my hand I’m pretty much gob smacked.
He’s remembered! HE’S REMEMBERED!!!
They’re beautiful. The card only reads “Love You.” And I feel tears and whisper back “love you too, Babe.”
My day is looking up.
Dani and Holden are coming for the night. They haven’t been over since before school went back into session after the Christmas holidays and we’ve missed them fiercely.
If you had told me ten years ago that I would feel so strongly about another woman’s children I’d have told you to get your head checked. But one thing my husband, and being in an army spouse has taught me is that blood doesn’t make families – love makes families. These kids are mine, too, in every way that matters and it’s been lonely without them.
To celebrate I’m making a combination of their favourite foods. I’m anxiously looking at the clock when the dogs announce their arrival. Holden comes in first – flowers in his hand. He’s so tall. He looks so much like his dad that my heart aches.
Dani is caught up with the dogs. The little one won’t let her by without picking her up. It seems I’m not the only one who’s missed them. She’s brought chocolates. It looks like I’m getting a little spoiled on Valentine’s Day after all.
We’re talking and putting the finishing touches on desert when the phone rings. The last four digits tell me who it is – RICK! The only way it could be better is if he were here.
I smile as the phone gets passed around. If I can’t be with my love today I’ve got the second best thing – a house full of love.
One more thing to be grateful for.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Day 178
This will be the second February 14th that we’ve spent apart. Last year he was in Edmonton training for the tour, this year he’s on the tour.
It’s been a rough week.
Both of us are ready for the tour to be over. We’re tired, we’re lonely, and we’re done with being alone.
For the last several weeks he’s been doing a different job. We haven’t met online much and have spoken on the phone only once or twice. It’s a lonely departure from the near daily phone calls and Skype “dates” we’ve been having for the last few months.
So when a knock comes on the door I’m a little surprised. And when a man thrusts a dozen long stemmed red roses into my hand I’m pretty much gob smacked.
He’s remembered! HE’S REMEMBERED!!!
They’re beautiful. The card only reads “Love You.” And I feel tears and whisper back “love you too, Babe.”
My day is looking up.
Dani and Holden are coming for the night. They haven’t been over since before school went back into session after the Christmas holidays and we’ve missed them fiercely.
If you had told me ten years ago that I would feel so strongly about another woman’s children I’d have told you to get your head checked. But one thing my husband, and being in an army spouse has taught me is that blood doesn’t make families – love makes families. These kids are mine, too, in every way that matters and it’s been lonely without them.
To celebrate I’m making a combination of their favourite foods. I’m anxiously looking at the clock when the dogs announce their arrival. Holden comes in first – flowers in his hand. He’s so tall. He looks so much like his dad that my heart aches.
Dani is caught up with the dogs. The little one won’t let her by without picking her up. It seems I’m not the only one who’s missed them. She’s brought chocolates. It looks like I’m getting a little spoiled on Valentine’s Day after all.
We’re talking and putting the finishing touches on desert when the phone rings. The last four digits tell me who it is – RICK! The only way it could be better is if he were here.
I smile as the phone gets passed around. If I can’t be with my love today I’ve got the second best thing – a house full of love.
One more thing to be grateful for.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Day 178
Running on a full stomach
I’m a “How It’s Made” junkie. I’ve loved learning how things are made ever since Mr Rogers showed me how crayons were produced when I was a little girl. I never really want to know the details, like how many gallons of wax and all that jazz – but just enough so I can get the big picture. A taste is how I prefer to think of it.
So I’m sitting here and I’m watching how they string pianos and I think, “I feel like that.” Not like music – but like the piano wire. Stretched so taut that you’d think I’d break but somehow able to withstand all the pounding from the keys that make up this tour.
Until the deployment, I’d only had a taste of all that it means to be an Army Wife. Rick went in the field, he went to work but we were never apart for longer than a week or two. This tour, well, this tour has been the never ending, all you can eat, stuff your face ‘til you pass out, get up and eat again banquet of what it means to be an army wife.
People who read this blog ask me “how do you do it”. The truth is - I don’t know. To be honest I’m worried all the time. I’m worried about Rick; I’m worried about the kids; I’m worried about our friends. I’m worried about the people Rick is serving with. I’m worried how he’ll be when he gets home. And I can’t seem to shut that part of me off. It’s been revving for almost six months now.
Through it all Rick has been strong, stoic even. Eye on the ball, mind on the prize type of focused about his mission, his job and his troops. But lately something has started to creep into his voice and even into his e-mails. He wants to come home.
It’s not homesickness exactly, but I suppose that’s a close enough description of what he’s feeling. For the first time since I’ve known him, and I’ve known him since we were twelve, he’s seriously talking about not being a soldier. Oh, we’ve always had the lottery dream of winning the “big one” and moving back home. But this is different.
He’s finally gotten a date to come home. I’m thrilled. I’m not at the point where I can count down sleeps, but I can think in terms of weeks instead of months. It’s like travelling in darkness through a tunnel for months and all of a sudden there’s a pinpoint of light in the distance.
I think it’s the same for him. He’s been strong and diligent for so long. He’s tired - a marathon runner who’s using the last dregs of physical and mental energy to force himself over the finish line type of tired.
I’d siphon some strength to send to him if I could – but I’m running my own marathon.
Day 175
So I’m sitting here and I’m watching how they string pianos and I think, “I feel like that.” Not like music – but like the piano wire. Stretched so taut that you’d think I’d break but somehow able to withstand all the pounding from the keys that make up this tour.
Until the deployment, I’d only had a taste of all that it means to be an Army Wife. Rick went in the field, he went to work but we were never apart for longer than a week or two. This tour, well, this tour has been the never ending, all you can eat, stuff your face ‘til you pass out, get up and eat again banquet of what it means to be an army wife.
People who read this blog ask me “how do you do it”. The truth is - I don’t know. To be honest I’m worried all the time. I’m worried about Rick; I’m worried about the kids; I’m worried about our friends. I’m worried about the people Rick is serving with. I’m worried how he’ll be when he gets home. And I can’t seem to shut that part of me off. It’s been revving for almost six months now.
Through it all Rick has been strong, stoic even. Eye on the ball, mind on the prize type of focused about his mission, his job and his troops. But lately something has started to creep into his voice and even into his e-mails. He wants to come home.
It’s not homesickness exactly, but I suppose that’s a close enough description of what he’s feeling. For the first time since I’ve known him, and I’ve known him since we were twelve, he’s seriously talking about not being a soldier. Oh, we’ve always had the lottery dream of winning the “big one” and moving back home. But this is different.
He’s finally gotten a date to come home. I’m thrilled. I’m not at the point where I can count down sleeps, but I can think in terms of weeks instead of months. It’s like travelling in darkness through a tunnel for months and all of a sudden there’s a pinpoint of light in the distance.
I think it’s the same for him. He’s been strong and diligent for so long. He’s tired - a marathon runner who’s using the last dregs of physical and mental energy to force himself over the finish line type of tired.
I’d siphon some strength to send to him if I could – but I’m running my own marathon.
Day 175
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Praying for clean rope
Another day.
Another phone call from Kate’s school.
Another episode.
I close my eyes as the resource teacher’s voice comes through the handset.
“Not again – my heart whispers” – and I feel tears prick the back of my eyelids.
We’ve increased her medications. Her last trip to emerge was a bust. They did nothing. They weren’t even successful in getting in touch with the neurologist.
If she had the flu, or a fever or a stomach bug I’d know what to do to make her comfortable. Being told to go home and wait for the neurologist to make a decision or an appointment or whatnot is infuriating.
I left 23 messages for the neurologist before I got a call back last time. I wonder how many it’ll take this time.
The idea of showing up with a gun or bat and demanding Katie be seen briefly skates across my mind.
An overwrought mother's mind grasping for straws.
Grasping for hope.
That pink poster with the kitten on it keeps popping into my head. The one with the logo “when you get to the end of your rope tie a knot and hang on.”
I’m trying to hang on – but someone’s greased the rope.
I don’t know how single parents with sick or disabled children do it. I’m only temporarily “single” and I’m struggling to make it through each day lately.
I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of what Kate is going through.
For what has to be the ten-millionth time I wish Rick was here with us. I can feel his strength via the computer or the phone. But what I wouldn’t give for one reassuring hug...
My friend watches Kate for my appointment and remarks how different she is. I sigh. I was hoping it was just a mother’s over sensitivity for her kid. Apparently not – and it worries me even more.
As we drive home Kate sits in the back seat. An unmoving silent lump wearing my daughter’s face and clothes. At home she takes a few bites of food before walking away from the table and plonking down on the couch. Her appetite is gone. Not a good sign.
It only takes a few minutes and she’s asleep. A deep and healing sleep, I hope. I search her face for indications she’s uncomfortable or in pain. A closed book is my silent girl. Not giving up her secrets today.
I close my eyes and let the tears fall.
“God, if you’re there, I need help.”
Day 167
Another phone call from Kate’s school.
Another episode.
I close my eyes as the resource teacher’s voice comes through the handset.
“Not again – my heart whispers” – and I feel tears prick the back of my eyelids.
We’ve increased her medications. Her last trip to emerge was a bust. They did nothing. They weren’t even successful in getting in touch with the neurologist.
If she had the flu, or a fever or a stomach bug I’d know what to do to make her comfortable. Being told to go home and wait for the neurologist to make a decision or an appointment or whatnot is infuriating.
I left 23 messages for the neurologist before I got a call back last time. I wonder how many it’ll take this time.
The idea of showing up with a gun or bat and demanding Katie be seen briefly skates across my mind.
An overwrought mother's mind grasping for straws.
Grasping for hope.
That pink poster with the kitten on it keeps popping into my head. The one with the logo “when you get to the end of your rope tie a knot and hang on.”
I’m trying to hang on – but someone’s greased the rope.
I don’t know how single parents with sick or disabled children do it. I’m only temporarily “single” and I’m struggling to make it through each day lately.
I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of what Kate is going through.
For what has to be the ten-millionth time I wish Rick was here with us. I can feel his strength via the computer or the phone. But what I wouldn’t give for one reassuring hug...
My friend watches Kate for my appointment and remarks how different she is. I sigh. I was hoping it was just a mother’s over sensitivity for her kid. Apparently not – and it worries me even more.
As we drive home Kate sits in the back seat. An unmoving silent lump wearing my daughter’s face and clothes. At home she takes a few bites of food before walking away from the table and plonking down on the couch. Her appetite is gone. Not a good sign.
It only takes a few minutes and she’s asleep. A deep and healing sleep, I hope. I search her face for indications she’s uncomfortable or in pain. A closed book is my silent girl. Not giving up her secrets today.
I close my eyes and let the tears fall.
“God, if you’re there, I need help.”
Day 167
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