So I’m sitting updating my blog and Liam comes running into the room.
“Mom, you’ve got to come. Pedro is here!”
I don’t know a Pedro. So I call him back.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
“Pedro,” he says again.
“Honey I don’t know any Pedro.” I try to explain.
“No not Pedro,” he grins. “Padre.”
The padre is here? Why?
I save my work and head to the kitchen thinking Liam is mistaken. Nope – he’s not mistaken. Sitting at the head of my table is Padre Levy, o he of the scary phone call, himself.
I’m at a loss.
I’m polite. We are Newfoundlanders after all – we’re nice if it kills us.
Small talk at its most strained is how I’d describe the visit.
He stays for about an hour. Asking questions about how I’m doing physically, about the plan if the baby comes early, about support. I respond in all the appropriate places, feeling rather like Alice when she fell down the rabbit hole.
As he departs I discover just how this visit could have been.
Apparently the Padre didn’t know that Rick was home. He just decided to “drop in.”
Now I’m all for visitors – another by-product of our heritage. A houseful of people is always welcome.
But what if Rick was still in Afghanistan?
How would his parents and I have reacted to see a Padre drive into the yard and get out of the vehicle?
Thank God he was here already.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Settling in
*I want to thank everyone for their kind words of encouragement and support. A few people commented on the blog itself, many more e-mailed or sent messages on Facebook.
One particular friend, whose opinion I have respected for a very long time, gave me this piece of advice: “Write until you know your life is back to as normal as any life gets. You will know when. Peace and contentment will find you both eventually, and when it does, you will be done.”
As sound a piece of advice as was ever given. And one I’m going to follow.
Happy reading.
– Louise
Realization has started to set in.
He’s really home.
Once the initial elation over seeing him sort of dissipated I began to feel guilty. Guilty for being the reason that he ultimately came home earlier than planned.
Now I know that I can’t control what’s happening with this pregnancy. I know I’ve done my best – but somehow I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve intruded.
I’m hoping it’s my imagination. I’m reasonably sure it is. But after this long we both know that my emotions don’t always respond to reason.
I mentioned it to him a few days after he got home. He basically told me I was crazy. His way of changing the subject.
He’s been amazing.
His parents have been amazing.
Things that languished on the “honey-do” list for years have been done. It’s like the Energizer Bunny got a jolt of Red Bull.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m really enjoying the fact that stuff is getting done, but, given the fact that I can’t help – I’m feeling a little like a third wheel.
I’ve been told my only job for the next however long is to grow this baby. Every week matters. And the closer we get to her due date – the safer things will be – for both of us.
So for the time being I’ll lie here. Watch him go from soldier to Superdad in one feel swoop and pray for the patience to stand back and let it happen.
One particular friend, whose opinion I have respected for a very long time, gave me this piece of advice: “Write until you know your life is back to as normal as any life gets. You will know when. Peace and contentment will find you both eventually, and when it does, you will be done.”
As sound a piece of advice as was ever given. And one I’m going to follow.
Happy reading.
– Louise
Realization has started to set in.
He’s really home.
Once the initial elation over seeing him sort of dissipated I began to feel guilty. Guilty for being the reason that he ultimately came home earlier than planned.
Now I know that I can’t control what’s happening with this pregnancy. I know I’ve done my best – but somehow I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve intruded.
I’m hoping it’s my imagination. I’m reasonably sure it is. But after this long we both know that my emotions don’t always respond to reason.
I mentioned it to him a few days after he got home. He basically told me I was crazy. His way of changing the subject.
He’s been amazing.
His parents have been amazing.
Things that languished on the “honey-do” list for years have been done. It’s like the Energizer Bunny got a jolt of Red Bull.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m really enjoying the fact that stuff is getting done, but, given the fact that I can’t help – I’m feeling a little like a third wheel.
I’ve been told my only job for the next however long is to grow this baby. Every week matters. And the closer we get to her due date – the safer things will be – for both of us.
So for the time being I’ll lie here. Watch him go from soldier to Superdad in one feel swoop and pray for the patience to stand back and let it happen.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sometimes there aren't any words
Liam all ready to greet his Dad
Kate hates airports but knew something was up.
Rick's parents Levi and Jean 
Danielle
Our first glimpse as he got off the place - Kate lost her mind and the security came to see what was happening.
Liam reaches his Daddy first
I think Kate's face says it all.
Kate dancing for joy.
I don't think there's a happier family in Oromocto at this point.I actually wrote this blog about 20 times before I realized that I just don't have the words. Sometimes pictures are much better.
Day 221
*So this is the end of the deployment for us. Not the way we expected it to end.
No less happy that he's home though.
I've been debating whether or not to continue to write the blog or fade to black like The Sopranos.
I don't stop being a military spouse because he's not deployed.
I tell you what.....I'll leave it up to you. If you don't feel comfortable messaging me on the blog itself you can contact me on Facebook or at mlbuchanan@hotmail.com
Thanks for being there for me and listening when I needed you.
Louise
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sleepless in New Brunswick
He’ll be here tomorrow.
Well, technically it’s today. After all it is 3:00 AM.
When he said that things would happen quickly once the Cobra Commander signed off he really wasn’t kidding.
I got a quick call from the sandbox telling me that he was flying out of Kandahar in the next few hours and that he would call me from “the place that should not be mentioned.”
He didn’t have an itinerary or any other information other than he would know something once he landed in the “place.”
He’s been very conscious of the time difference throughout this entire tour. Other wives talk about being awakened in the wee morning hours by their hubbies. Mine knows that I’m not a morning person and has arranged his schedule to work with mine.
So, when I ask him to call me from “there” he makes sure to double check, as he knows it’ll be late.
“Honey – I’ll wake you up,” he warns.
“Don’t care,” I respond.
He could probably call every half hour between now and when I get to see him and I wouldn’t care. Sleep won’t be easy anyways. I’m too excited.
He’s excited, too. I can hear it in his voice. I can also hear him worry. He’s not good at hiding emotions.
We talk for a few more minutes then he’s off to shower and get ready before the flight out of KAF.
I’m practically doing the happy dance as I tell his mom that he’s on the move.
At 0200 when the phone rings I’m racing to get it. I’ve awoken every night for nearly eight months to an imaginary phone ringing. So the first ring doesn’t make me hit the floor running until the cobwebs clear and I remember our conversation from earlier.
“Rick?” I answer the phone.
“Well I better be the only man calling you at this hour of the night,” he responds.
I giggle in response.
“How do you feel about picking me up at the airport tomorrow at 1930?” He asks.
“Really?” Knowing full well that I’m being stupid.
Airport. Tomorrow. 1930. Rick. Airport. Tomorrow. 1930. Rick.
Sounds like a beautiful Gregorian chant at this point.
He’s tired and is heading for some rest before he gets the first leg of his journey to Frankfurt, Germany. From Frankfurt he’ll fly to Montreal; from Montreal to Halifax and then from Halifax to Fredericton. It’s a little bit of a milk run that has him flying over our house twice. He jokes that he’ll ask for a chute.
“I’ll catch you, baby,” I joke.
“Just pick me up and I’ll be happy.” And with that my late night phone call is done.
I’m too excited to sleep. I’m too excited to breathe.
I wonder how angry my friends would be if I called them now?
Hmmm – maybe I’ll wait until the sun comes up….
Day 220
Well, technically it’s today. After all it is 3:00 AM.
When he said that things would happen quickly once the Cobra Commander signed off he really wasn’t kidding.
I got a quick call from the sandbox telling me that he was flying out of Kandahar in the next few hours and that he would call me from “the place that should not be mentioned.”
He didn’t have an itinerary or any other information other than he would know something once he landed in the “place.”
He’s been very conscious of the time difference throughout this entire tour. Other wives talk about being awakened in the wee morning hours by their hubbies. Mine knows that I’m not a morning person and has arranged his schedule to work with mine.
So, when I ask him to call me from “there” he makes sure to double check, as he knows it’ll be late.
“Honey – I’ll wake you up,” he warns.
“Don’t care,” I respond.
He could probably call every half hour between now and when I get to see him and I wouldn’t care. Sleep won’t be easy anyways. I’m too excited.
He’s excited, too. I can hear it in his voice. I can also hear him worry. He’s not good at hiding emotions.
We talk for a few more minutes then he’s off to shower and get ready before the flight out of KAF.
I’m practically doing the happy dance as I tell his mom that he’s on the move.
At 0200 when the phone rings I’m racing to get it. I’ve awoken every night for nearly eight months to an imaginary phone ringing. So the first ring doesn’t make me hit the floor running until the cobwebs clear and I remember our conversation from earlier.
“Rick?” I answer the phone.
“Well I better be the only man calling you at this hour of the night,” he responds.
I giggle in response.
“How do you feel about picking me up at the airport tomorrow at 1930?” He asks.
“Really?” Knowing full well that I’m being stupid.
Airport. Tomorrow. 1930. Rick. Airport. Tomorrow. 1930. Rick.
Sounds like a beautiful Gregorian chant at this point.
He’s tired and is heading for some rest before he gets the first leg of his journey to Frankfurt, Germany. From Frankfurt he’ll fly to Montreal; from Montreal to Halifax and then from Halifax to Fredericton. It’s a little bit of a milk run that has him flying over our house twice. He jokes that he’ll ask for a chute.
“I’ll catch you, baby,” I joke.
“Just pick me up and I’ll be happy.” And with that my late night phone call is done.
I’m too excited to sleep. I’m too excited to breathe.
I wonder how angry my friends would be if I called them now?
Hmmm – maybe I’ll wait until the sun comes up….
Day 220
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Sometimes you should let it go to voicemail
So I’m following the doctors’ orders.
Yes doctors plural.
Each of them has said the same thing. No lifting, pushing, pulling, or carrying. No sitting for extended periods. No standing for extended periods. Basically it’s important to just lay here and grow this baby.
So I’m sitting in Archie Bunker’s chair AKA the leather recliner and the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Reid? This is Padre Levy.”
I hear the thunk as my heart hits the floor and rolls into the dusty world of Undercouch.
Padres only contact you if you ask them to or if your man is injured or worse. The “or worse” part is done in uniform in person – I hope.
“Y-yes?” I manage to stammer.
“I need to speak with you – is it okay if I call you in a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I respond. And he hangs up.
I’ve heard horror stories of padres calling the houses of spouses just to see if they’re home before making the drive out into the country to tell them the worst news. I don’t exactly live in town.
I start to shake.
He’s supposed to be coming home. He’s supposed to be coming home. Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this. The “prayer” spins and repeats in my head.
A full ten minutes later and the phone rings again. A cat in a room full of rocking chairs wouldn’t be as jumpy. I force myself to let it ring a second time before answering it.
Another thud from Undercouch.
“Mrs Reid – Padre Levy again.”
I usually have no problem being heard – I’m definitely not the shy retiring type – but my voice has been reduced to little-girl-on-stage-in-an-auditorium-full-of-people status.
“Is Rick okay?” I ask. Might as well get to the point before I have a stroke.
“I was just talking with the Major and wanted to call and check on you,” he responds.
I can feel the sarcasm/anger/relief/disbelief bubble to the forefront of my mind. Thank goodness my brain-mouth filter is in place or the Padre would have had his kneecaps removed at fifty paces by my sharp tongue.
I want to scream – How dare you call and frighten me to death? How dare you stress me out further? You just made me think that something had happened to my husband – do you even realize what you just did?
All of these thoughts are right there – if I stuck out my tongue you could read them on the tip. Only for the grace of God I don’t let them fly.
I answer the Padre’s questions about my health. Somehow I get the feeling that they’re sort-of confirming what Rick has informed them about.
I suppose I should be grateful. Most employers would have asked for a form in triplicate before you’d get an hour to go to an appointment. The Army is pulling him based purely on what he’s told them. But after the fright I’ve been given – I’m not feeling that charitable.
My answers are short and to the point. Trite, I believe, would be the accurate term. I thank him for calling and hang up.
I’m like a leaf. Trembling and shaking like a tornado just blew through.
I race for the washroom and dry heave until the tears come.
Rick – I need you.
Day 218
Yes doctors plural.
Each of them has said the same thing. No lifting, pushing, pulling, or carrying. No sitting for extended periods. No standing for extended periods. Basically it’s important to just lay here and grow this baby.
So I’m sitting in Archie Bunker’s chair AKA the leather recliner and the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Reid? This is Padre Levy.”
I hear the thunk as my heart hits the floor and rolls into the dusty world of Undercouch.
Padres only contact you if you ask them to or if your man is injured or worse. The “or worse” part is done in uniform in person – I hope.
“Y-yes?” I manage to stammer.
“I need to speak with you – is it okay if I call you in a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I respond. And he hangs up.
I’ve heard horror stories of padres calling the houses of spouses just to see if they’re home before making the drive out into the country to tell them the worst news. I don’t exactly live in town.
I start to shake.
He’s supposed to be coming home. He’s supposed to be coming home. Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this. The “prayer” spins and repeats in my head.
A full ten minutes later and the phone rings again. A cat in a room full of rocking chairs wouldn’t be as jumpy. I force myself to let it ring a second time before answering it.
Another thud from Undercouch.
“Mrs Reid – Padre Levy again.”
I usually have no problem being heard – I’m definitely not the shy retiring type – but my voice has been reduced to little-girl-on-stage-in-an-auditorium-full-of-people status.
“Is Rick okay?” I ask. Might as well get to the point before I have a stroke.
“I was just talking with the Major and wanted to call and check on you,” he responds.
I can feel the sarcasm/anger/relief/disbelief bubble to the forefront of my mind. Thank goodness my brain-mouth filter is in place or the Padre would have had his kneecaps removed at fifty paces by my sharp tongue.
I want to scream – How dare you call and frighten me to death? How dare you stress me out further? You just made me think that something had happened to my husband – do you even realize what you just did?
All of these thoughts are right there – if I stuck out my tongue you could read them on the tip. Only for the grace of God I don’t let them fly.
I answer the Padre’s questions about my health. Somehow I get the feeling that they’re sort-of confirming what Rick has informed them about.
I suppose I should be grateful. Most employers would have asked for a form in triplicate before you’d get an hour to go to an appointment. The Army is pulling him based purely on what he’s told them. But after the fright I’ve been given – I’m not feeling that charitable.
My answers are short and to the point. Trite, I believe, would be the accurate term. I thank him for calling and hang up.
I’m like a leaf. Trembling and shaking like a tornado just blew through.
I race for the washroom and dry heave until the tears come.
Rick – I need you.
Day 218
Friday, April 10, 2009
The cavalry arrives
No news from the desert.
He’s called twice. But there’s no answer from Cobra Commander.
His kit is packed and he’s waiting for the word to move but so far silence from HQ.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this tired or in pain. Rick tells me to rest and I remind him that Kate doesn’t go to school on Saturdays.
“Just do your best to take it easy, Baby,” he says.
Easier said than done with they dynamic duo.
I shouldn’t say that. They’ve actually been pretty good – all things considered. He’s not going to be seven for a few more weeks and she’s Autistic. All in all – I have to be grateful of their actions of late.
Liam’s teacher called yesterday – he’s swearing in school. Every time I try to talk to him about it he puts his head down and cries. He’s feeling the stress. He has to be. He’s been my shadow since his dad left and he’s worried about seeing me this distressed.
Rick’s parents will be here tonight. They called at noon. The ferry was anchored offshore waiting for another ferry to get out of the harbour before they could dock. Thick pack ice made the going slow.
They’re just a few hours away by suppertime. I look around at the shambles that is my house and wish for the energy to tidy it up. I just don’t have it. They’ll forgive me – I hope.
The sun is setting. Kate lets out the shrillest squeal I’ve heard in awhile. Liam jumps over to the window.
“They’re here!” he yells and runs for the door.
The madness that is our dogs and kids spill from the door. All I can do is stand there and fight back tears. I’m not alone.
More madness as everyone piles back into the house. Everyone is talking at once and through the cacophony that is a Newfoundland reunion I feel peace – my own thoughts have stopped spinning.
I hadn’t realized until that moment how “on” I was. It was like someone pressed the mute button and the lack of screaming worry in my head was almost deafening.
Rick’s mom looks at me with tears in her eyes. Her stress is visible on her face. I’m sure in her mind things were far worse than the reality – and the reality is bad enough.
If I can’t have my own mom I’ve got the next best thing.
Day 217
He’s called twice. But there’s no answer from Cobra Commander.
His kit is packed and he’s waiting for the word to move but so far silence from HQ.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this tired or in pain. Rick tells me to rest and I remind him that Kate doesn’t go to school on Saturdays.
“Just do your best to take it easy, Baby,” he says.
Easier said than done with they dynamic duo.
I shouldn’t say that. They’ve actually been pretty good – all things considered. He’s not going to be seven for a few more weeks and she’s Autistic. All in all – I have to be grateful of their actions of late.
Liam’s teacher called yesterday – he’s swearing in school. Every time I try to talk to him about it he puts his head down and cries. He’s feeling the stress. He has to be. He’s been my shadow since his dad left and he’s worried about seeing me this distressed.
Rick’s parents will be here tonight. They called at noon. The ferry was anchored offshore waiting for another ferry to get out of the harbour before they could dock. Thick pack ice made the going slow.
They’re just a few hours away by suppertime. I look around at the shambles that is my house and wish for the energy to tidy it up. I just don’t have it. They’ll forgive me – I hope.
The sun is setting. Kate lets out the shrillest squeal I’ve heard in awhile. Liam jumps over to the window.
“They’re here!” he yells and runs for the door.
The madness that is our dogs and kids spill from the door. All I can do is stand there and fight back tears. I’m not alone.
More madness as everyone piles back into the house. Everyone is talking at once and through the cacophony that is a Newfoundland reunion I feel peace – my own thoughts have stopped spinning.
I hadn’t realized until that moment how “on” I was. It was like someone pressed the mute button and the lack of screaming worry in my head was almost deafening.
Rick’s mom looks at me with tears in her eyes. Her stress is visible on her face. I’m sure in her mind things were far worse than the reality – and the reality is bad enough.
If I can’t have my own mom I’ve got the next best thing.
Day 217
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Holding on for one more day
I feel like a truck hit me.
The stress of this last week, combined with being on the go too much for Kate’s appointments has zapped my energy reserves.
I’m usually a roll-off-the-back; who-gives-a-crap; laid-back type of person. Today – well today everything is irritating.
Rick calls from the desert.
“My chain of command has approved me to come home for compassionate reasons. But I’m waiting for the Task Force Commander to approve me to bypass the decompression in Cyprus,” he tells me.
“What’s the hold up?” I respond. Since, like every logical human being in the world, it seems like a formality – a rubber stamp sort of decision.
I’ve been a military wife long enough to know that there are standard turn around times for almost everything and I ask what the standard time is for the Cobra Commander to stamp a piece of paper.
“I don’t know, Baby,” he replies. “But I’ve been told to get everything ready because when it happens everything is going to happen fast.”
A wave of nausea washes over me and I think “it can’t come fast enough – hold on kid.”
My in-laws are crossing on the ferry tonight. We’re hoping that ice in the gulf doesn’t slow them down too badly. Back up has been mobilized – I’ve just got to hold down the fort until they get here.
I speak to my friend Deb on the phone. Through sobs and tears I explain what’s going on. She’s never heard me cry on the phone either and I can hear in her voice that it’s upsetting her.
Jenn calls and hears my exhaustion. She’s at my door in less than 10 minutes bearing junk and treats and a special angel for me. I have to say – sometimes the best friends are the ones who arrive with empty calories and open arms. My eyes must look like hell – I think I’ve invented a new shade of red.
I’m irritated by the state of my house. Jenn threatens to kick my ass if I dare touch anything. That sets us off howling like hyenas. The laughter is just the release I needed. The kids are grateful for a sane grown up in the house and both of them cuddle up with her on the couch.
I really do have the best friends. Terri-Lynn has called a dozen times. She’s ready to pack up her kids and move in until my in-laws get here. I assure her that I’ll be okay for one more night.
A couple of years ago I didn’t have these ladies in my life. And now – I can’t imagine living without them. They’re my safety net. If anything happens before family can get here I know my kids will be safe – that’s a huge comfort considering all that’s been happening lately.
Sometimes family has nothing to do with blood.
Day 216
The stress of this last week, combined with being on the go too much for Kate’s appointments has zapped my energy reserves.
I’m usually a roll-off-the-back; who-gives-a-crap; laid-back type of person. Today – well today everything is irritating.
Rick calls from the desert.
“My chain of command has approved me to come home for compassionate reasons. But I’m waiting for the Task Force Commander to approve me to bypass the decompression in Cyprus,” he tells me.
“What’s the hold up?” I respond. Since, like every logical human being in the world, it seems like a formality – a rubber stamp sort of decision.
I’ve been a military wife long enough to know that there are standard turn around times for almost everything and I ask what the standard time is for the Cobra Commander to stamp a piece of paper.
“I don’t know, Baby,” he replies. “But I’ve been told to get everything ready because when it happens everything is going to happen fast.”
A wave of nausea washes over me and I think “it can’t come fast enough – hold on kid.”
My in-laws are crossing on the ferry tonight. We’re hoping that ice in the gulf doesn’t slow them down too badly. Back up has been mobilized – I’ve just got to hold down the fort until they get here.
I speak to my friend Deb on the phone. Through sobs and tears I explain what’s going on. She’s never heard me cry on the phone either and I can hear in her voice that it’s upsetting her.
Jenn calls and hears my exhaustion. She’s at my door in less than 10 minutes bearing junk and treats and a special angel for me. I have to say – sometimes the best friends are the ones who arrive with empty calories and open arms. My eyes must look like hell – I think I’ve invented a new shade of red.
I’m irritated by the state of my house. Jenn threatens to kick my ass if I dare touch anything. That sets us off howling like hyenas. The laughter is just the release I needed. The kids are grateful for a sane grown up in the house and both of them cuddle up with her on the couch.
I really do have the best friends. Terri-Lynn has called a dozen times. She’s ready to pack up her kids and move in until my in-laws get here. I assure her that I’ll be okay for one more night.
A couple of years ago I didn’t have these ladies in my life. And now – I can’t imagine living without them. They’re my safety net. If anything happens before family can get here I know my kids will be safe – that’s a huge comfort considering all that’s been happening lately.
Sometimes family has nothing to do with blood.
Day 216
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The MRI
Morning comes too soon. Eyes feel like they’re encased in fibreglass.
The regiment is sending one of the boys to drive Kate and I down to Saint John for her MRI. They’ve sent Tim, a family friend and I am grateful for his presence in the pre-dawn hours.
Kate gets checked in at Day Surgery. Her test has to be performed under complete anaesthesia; she wouldn’t stay still for the procedure without it.
She’s beaming as she’s wheeled to the imaging department. The Anaesthesiologist meets us at the door it’s not the one we were hoping for. The last one was Dr. Lee this one is a man. He briefly discusses knockout strategies with me before he decides to gas her then put her completely under.
She’s had a hard couple of weeks medically and I’m sure she remembers the lab tech from hell, who broke off a couple of needles in her arm a few weeks ago. It takes no less than four burly orderlies to hold her down.
I watch, feeling like I’m in some sort of fun house horror movie where the image you’re looking at moves away at a rapid speed. She’s fighting them off. And I discover I do have more tears.
“Oh boy,” I sigh, as they fall down my face.
The procedure will take at least an hour. Tim and I head to get coffee.
I’m not supposed to sit or stand for long periods of time. One rule broken. I don’t have a choice. She’s my babe too.
As she comes around the recovery nurse comes out to get me. They’ve dealt with special needs kids many times. The room is a shocking neon orange colour and I think,” Wow– this would make you want to keep your eyes shut.”
We don’t have to wait long and she’s ready to go back out to day surgery. They must have given her too much gas because she’s nauseated and pukes up the little liquid she still has in her system. Poor Birdie.
Joan the Day Surgery Nurse is amazing. It takes seconds to administer an anti-nausea drug and to clean Kate up.
When she discovers my own medical condition she even gets Kate dressed and ready to go.
Tim wheels Kate to the car – she loves the wheelchair and her smile at this point in my day is better than I remember. My girl exhausts and frustrates me on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. But there is nothing I wouldn’t endure for her and her smile raises my spirits to endure the rest of the trip home.
I don’t know when we’ll get the results. And I know when I get home I’ll have a dozen, or more people to call. But for right now. This moment. Driving down the highway with my groggy girl in the back seat I start to feel “normal” again.
I’m still not in control – and I hate that. But at least I’ve managed to get something off the “to do” list and as silly as it sounds – it’s made me feel marginally better.
Now we wait.
Day 215
The regiment is sending one of the boys to drive Kate and I down to Saint John for her MRI. They’ve sent Tim, a family friend and I am grateful for his presence in the pre-dawn hours.
Kate gets checked in at Day Surgery. Her test has to be performed under complete anaesthesia; she wouldn’t stay still for the procedure without it.
She’s beaming as she’s wheeled to the imaging department. The Anaesthesiologist meets us at the door it’s not the one we were hoping for. The last one was Dr. Lee this one is a man. He briefly discusses knockout strategies with me before he decides to gas her then put her completely under.
She’s had a hard couple of weeks medically and I’m sure she remembers the lab tech from hell, who broke off a couple of needles in her arm a few weeks ago. It takes no less than four burly orderlies to hold her down.
I watch, feeling like I’m in some sort of fun house horror movie where the image you’re looking at moves away at a rapid speed. She’s fighting them off. And I discover I do have more tears.
“Oh boy,” I sigh, as they fall down my face.
The procedure will take at least an hour. Tim and I head to get coffee.
I’m not supposed to sit or stand for long periods of time. One rule broken. I don’t have a choice. She’s my babe too.
As she comes around the recovery nurse comes out to get me. They’ve dealt with special needs kids many times. The room is a shocking neon orange colour and I think,” Wow– this would make you want to keep your eyes shut.”
We don’t have to wait long and she’s ready to go back out to day surgery. They must have given her too much gas because she’s nauseated and pukes up the little liquid she still has in her system. Poor Birdie.
Joan the Day Surgery Nurse is amazing. It takes seconds to administer an anti-nausea drug and to clean Kate up.
When she discovers my own medical condition she even gets Kate dressed and ready to go.
Tim wheels Kate to the car – she loves the wheelchair and her smile at this point in my day is better than I remember. My girl exhausts and frustrates me on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. But there is nothing I wouldn’t endure for her and her smile raises my spirits to endure the rest of the trip home.
I don’t know when we’ll get the results. And I know when I get home I’ll have a dozen, or more people to call. But for right now. This moment. Driving down the highway with my groggy girl in the back seat I start to feel “normal” again.
I’m still not in control – and I hate that. But at least I’ve managed to get something off the “to do” list and as silly as it sounds – it’s made me feel marginally better.
Now we wait.
Day 215
Monday, April 6, 2009
...Continued
I’m at that point where there aren’t any more tears.
You know the place where your eyes are so dry that blinking feels like razorblades – well I’m there.
I’ve shed so many tears over the last two days I’m probably half dehydrated.
A few hours after speaking to my mother-in-law Rick calls again.
“I’ve spoken to my Warrant, we’re working on getting me home,” he tells me.
My only response is to cry. Silence on the other end.
“Please don’t cry, Baby.”
And all I can do is sob. I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m so anything and everything all rolled into one that I’m a basket case.
He tells me later that this is only the second time in his life that he’s heard me cry on the phone. I’ve known him since I was twelve.
I knew I shouldn’t. I know that I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t resist. We do live in the information age, after all. And seriously, when has anyone ever known me not to stuff like this?
I find myself sitting in front of the computer Googling images of babies born at 23 weeks. I read their survival stories. There aren’t many. It upsets me further.
Dad calls again. I do marginally better explaining the situation to him the second time around.
“Maybe I should come,” he drawls.
I love my father. He’s the only parent I have left. But he’s seventy-eight years old and I don’t think his presence would be particularly soothing. Besides he doesn’t have his passport yet so for the time being I tell him to wait.
“What can I get you?” He asks.
There’s only one thing I really want – and I can’t have it. But I voice it anyways.
“My Mom,” I say and there’s a silence between us broken only by my sobbing breaths.
“I wish I could get her for you, Honey,” he says. And I can hear his voice break too.
Sometimes I forget while I’m busy taking care of my babies, that I’m his baby. He’s got to be scared for us as well.
“Say a prayer, Dad.” I finally manage to squeak out. “I don’t think he listens to me any more.”
A few words more and he’s gone. I’ve forgotten to tell him that Rick is trying to get home. I’ve forgotten to tell him that Jean and Levi are coming. I’ve left my 78-year-old father with no good news and for the life of me I don’t have the strength to call him back.
Day 214 Continued…
You know the place where your eyes are so dry that blinking feels like razorblades – well I’m there.
I’ve shed so many tears over the last two days I’m probably half dehydrated.
A few hours after speaking to my mother-in-law Rick calls again.
“I’ve spoken to my Warrant, we’re working on getting me home,” he tells me.
My only response is to cry. Silence on the other end.
“Please don’t cry, Baby.”
And all I can do is sob. I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m so anything and everything all rolled into one that I’m a basket case.
He tells me later that this is only the second time in his life that he’s heard me cry on the phone. I’ve known him since I was twelve.
I knew I shouldn’t. I know that I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t resist. We do live in the information age, after all. And seriously, when has anyone ever known me not to stuff like this?
I find myself sitting in front of the computer Googling images of babies born at 23 weeks. I read their survival stories. There aren’t many. It upsets me further.
Dad calls again. I do marginally better explaining the situation to him the second time around.
“Maybe I should come,” he drawls.
I love my father. He’s the only parent I have left. But he’s seventy-eight years old and I don’t think his presence would be particularly soothing. Besides he doesn’t have his passport yet so for the time being I tell him to wait.
“What can I get you?” He asks.
There’s only one thing I really want – and I can’t have it. But I voice it anyways.
“My Mom,” I say and there’s a silence between us broken only by my sobbing breaths.
“I wish I could get her for you, Honey,” he says. And I can hear his voice break too.
Sometimes I forget while I’m busy taking care of my babies, that I’m his baby. He’s got to be scared for us as well.
“Say a prayer, Dad.” I finally manage to squeak out. “I don’t think he listens to me any more.”
A few words more and he’s gone. I’ve forgotten to tell him that Rick is trying to get home. I’ve forgotten to tell him that Jean and Levi are coming. I’ve left my 78-year-old father with no good news and for the life of me I don’t have the strength to call him back.
Day 214 Continued…
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Game called on account of rain
During the last few days I can’t seem to get a quote by Mother Theresa out of my head. In an interview with the CBC she said – “God does not give us more than we can bear. I just wish sometimes he didn’t trust me so much.”
I think it’s become my anthem of late.
Kate’s EKG was followed up a few days later by an EEG. Unlike the EKG – she had to remain sedentary for the duration of the test. A nice way to say – I held her down for six and a half hours.
By the time we left the hospital I was tired enough to sleep for a month of Sundays. Terri-Lynn sat with us for the last couple of hours or so and I tell you if I didn’t have her support I think Kate and I would have been recorded bawling together for that time.
Two days after her EEG it was my turn to be given some news.
Medical complications due to pregnancy have caused the doctors to put me on restricted duties. I’m technically not on official bed rest – but it’s close enough for government work. I’m not allowed to lift, push, pull, or carry anything that weighs more than a 2L bottle of pop.
Great! How’s this going to work?
I can’t do anything. I can’t grocery shop. I can’t take out the garbage. I can’t bathe Kate. I’ve failed my one basic task as the spouse of a deployed soldier. I can’t hold down the home front.
And do I tell Rick? Or better yet. What do I tell Rick? Do I tell him everything? Do I tell him nothing? I’m too tired to even think about it.
I think this is the straw. I feel like a cartoon character that has been given so much to carry that its legs just go out flat. Wylie Coyote in the flesh.
I’m defeated. The punch drunk pugilist whose coach throws in the towel. I thought I could struggle on and muckle through the rest of this tour but now the doctor has benched me. Game seven of the playoffs and coach has ejected me from the game.
I’m scared.
It’s too early for her (yes she’s a she) to survive on the outside. She weighs just better than a pound at 23 weeks. Not good odds for life yet.
I laugh as the doctor tells me to reduce my stress.
“Good bloody luck with that, Lou,” I think to myself.
I make it home, shaking and bewildered.
No answer when I call Rick’s parents. I manage to get my Dad on the line, but trying to talk between sobs has never been my forte.
When Rick pops online I’m so emotionally overwrought I tell him everything.
His response was one line, “What do you need?”
I fight the urge to scream “YOU!” and instead reply that I need help – anyone would do I just can’t do it alone anymore.
I don’t expect him to leave the sandbox – oh, it would be nice. But I know that half his crew is already in Cyprus for decompression and to expect the remaining group to function another man down is hoping for too much.
His mom calls me a few minutes later. “We’re coming,” she tells me. And I’m so relieved all I can do is cry. They’ll be crossing on Friday night and will be here on Saturday. Only a couple of more days to muddle through.
I recite my own version of the serenity prayer – God give me the courage to be strong for the children, the strength to get through these next few days and the wisdom to not screw up too badly.
Day 214
I think it’s become my anthem of late.
Kate’s EKG was followed up a few days later by an EEG. Unlike the EKG – she had to remain sedentary for the duration of the test. A nice way to say – I held her down for six and a half hours.
By the time we left the hospital I was tired enough to sleep for a month of Sundays. Terri-Lynn sat with us for the last couple of hours or so and I tell you if I didn’t have her support I think Kate and I would have been recorded bawling together for that time.
Two days after her EEG it was my turn to be given some news.
Medical complications due to pregnancy have caused the doctors to put me on restricted duties. I’m technically not on official bed rest – but it’s close enough for government work. I’m not allowed to lift, push, pull, or carry anything that weighs more than a 2L bottle of pop.
Great! How’s this going to work?
I can’t do anything. I can’t grocery shop. I can’t take out the garbage. I can’t bathe Kate. I’ve failed my one basic task as the spouse of a deployed soldier. I can’t hold down the home front.
And do I tell Rick? Or better yet. What do I tell Rick? Do I tell him everything? Do I tell him nothing? I’m too tired to even think about it.
I think this is the straw. I feel like a cartoon character that has been given so much to carry that its legs just go out flat. Wylie Coyote in the flesh.
I’m defeated. The punch drunk pugilist whose coach throws in the towel. I thought I could struggle on and muckle through the rest of this tour but now the doctor has benched me. Game seven of the playoffs and coach has ejected me from the game.
I’m scared.
It’s too early for her (yes she’s a she) to survive on the outside. She weighs just better than a pound at 23 weeks. Not good odds for life yet.
I laugh as the doctor tells me to reduce my stress.
“Good bloody luck with that, Lou,” I think to myself.
I make it home, shaking and bewildered.
No answer when I call Rick’s parents. I manage to get my Dad on the line, but trying to talk between sobs has never been my forte.
When Rick pops online I’m so emotionally overwrought I tell him everything.
His response was one line, “What do you need?”
I fight the urge to scream “YOU!” and instead reply that I need help – anyone would do I just can’t do it alone anymore.
I don’t expect him to leave the sandbox – oh, it would be nice. But I know that half his crew is already in Cyprus for decompression and to expect the remaining group to function another man down is hoping for too much.
His mom calls me a few minutes later. “We’re coming,” she tells me. And I’m so relieved all I can do is cry. They’ll be crossing on Friday night and will be here on Saturday. Only a couple of more days to muddle through.
I recite my own version of the serenity prayer – God give me the courage to be strong for the children, the strength to get through these next few days and the wisdom to not screw up too badly.
Day 214
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