From the Home Front

Don't you wish stupidity were painful?

2010-09-23T08:30:00.000-07:00

I have a low tolerance for stupidity.

In fact if I had my way all the stupid people would be frog-marched down to the dock and put on barges for islands far away from me and mine.

Now I’m not saying that smart people can’t have “moments of reverse intelligence” - I think everyone is entitled to a couple of those – new mommies can have as many as they like.

For the record – I’m not talking about uneducated people. Some of the smartest people I know never made it past the 10th grade.

In fact, many of the EI’s (educated idiots), as I will refer to them – usually have more than one set of letters behind their name.

These folks typically hang out in areas of higher learning and somehow feel they have the right to talk down to others despite the fact they’re standing there looking like something the cat dragged in and smelling vaguely like the same.

You know the type. They’re the type that blows their nose into handkerchiefs and then peer into them as if they’re going to learn the secret of the universe from the formation of snot on the cloth.

They’re also the type who put their asinine comments on the CBC and CTV news stories lamenting about Canadian Peacekeepers and how we need to bring our soldiers home.

Apparently they’re too educated to realize that you can’t keep peace if there’s no peace to keep!

And who is supposed to broker peace? Are they volunteering to go over to these countries and tell them to settle down? Of course not!

They would rather sit on their comfy couches and provide armchair commentary on things that they don’t know anything about.

That’s how these people are – they don’t live - they read about living and then tell others how to live their lives.

They’re the ones who have made this world so politically correct and bogged down that there’s no way to get things done directly and efficiently. And they’re the first ones to bellyache about the fact there is too much red tape.

New Brunswick is about to go to the polls for a provincial election.

Let’s make sure that the arm chair livers aren’t the ones deciding the fate of the rest of us.

Get out and vote.

Or like my mother, a woman definitely not in the EI category, would say – if you don’t contribute – don’t complain!

Happy Mothers Day

2010-05-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

Nearly six years.

There are days when I still pick up the phone and dial the first six or eight digits of her phone number before I stop and hang up the handset.

And, although people said it would, I’m still waiting for it to get easier.

My mother wasn’t supposed to have me.

I wasn’t supposed to be possible.

She was forty-seven. – No spring’s chick.

She had actually gone to the doctor to have it confirmed she was in menopause. Instead she got the news that she was pregnant.

She smacked the doctor in the face and went back to work. “Funny joke.” She probably thought.

But they called her back to his office.

They told her horrible things.

I would be born with major birth defects. I would be disabled. I would be a burden forever.

It was years before ultra sound technology would come to my hometown. Most of the tests for birth defects hadn’t even been thought of, let alone incorporated.

She knew the odds weren’t in her favour. But like most things my mother did, she faced them head on with her eyes wide open.

They admitted her to the hospital because she was six feet tall and wearing a size seven and not gaining weight. They fed her steak and eggs and when she still failed to pack on the pounds she insisted she go home because her own cooking was better.

She must have been in excruciating pain for the majority of her pregnancy because I was only a few days old and she was whisked away to St. John’s to have a cyst the size of a grapefruit taken off of her kidney.

I don’t know what made her believe I would be fine. I’ll never have the chance to ask her if she was scared. I only know that I was born because my mother was determined that I would be.

She had faith I would be born whole, without birth defects or chromosomal abnormalities. And if her faith wasn’t enough; she would find the strength to deal with it.

Somewhere buried inside of my mother was a core of tempered steel. Unwavering. Unyielding.

There are days I know she passed that on to me.

Every time I think I can’t do this. Every time I can’t face Kate’s disability or one more night feeding, or a rambunctious eight-year-old I channel a little of her strength. I hear her voice telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with it.

We didn’t see everything eye to eye. I’m sure I disappointed her more than once and Lord knows she could infuriate me like no one else.

But I’d give anything in this world for five more minutes with her.

For all of you who still have your mothers - always remember that she was the one person who loved you enough to give you life and you changed hers forever. And know that there will be a time when you would give all you have for just five more minutes.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom, wherever you are.

I love you.

Let's catch up...

2010-04-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

I was subtly reminded today that it’s been awhile since my last blog entry.

It’s not that I haven’t written.

Darned computer is practically drowning in unfinished drivel that I haven’t followed through with.

But I haven’t shared it.

And that’s wrong of me.

In fact it could be why my ‘centre’ is feeling ‘off’. The blog began as therapy of sorts. I could take all the raw emotion and put it out there and I wouldn’t have to deal with alone. An emotional and mental pressure valve.

And I must begin again…

The guns are in the field. Every now and again a particularly loud concussion will rattle the wine glasses in the cupboard. They’re miles away, out in the middle of the ranges, but sound carries well when the skies are overcast.

It’s a good time to meld a whole bunch of thoughts about recent events into one big entry. Bring you up to speed on my thought process, if you will.

I’m fed up with the media.

Danny Williams travels to the US for surgery not offered in Canada. Am I paying for it? – No. If I had the money would I travel to wherever in the world the cutting edge, state of the art experts were? – Hell yeah! And so would all of the people who talked about it. You know who you are.

Tiger Woods. Is he the first famous person to cheat? No. Is he married to me? No. Am I one of the other women? No. Do I care? Not particularly. Stop reporting on it.

Dancing with the Stars. It’s like being the centre square – you go there to have people remember you’re not dead – just pitifully looking for attention. I don’t care about the contestants – when did this become news?

These are just three of the millions of mosquito-like tidbits that are buzzing around my head. It’s not news – it’s filler!

It’s what the media puts out there to distract you from what their sponsors don’t want you to see. Then the real stories can be spun or sidelined so that everyone can go home happy.

Remember back in the fall when Pete McKay arrived in Gagetown and all the soldiers were ordered to take part in his big announcement so it would look good for the media? All these guys had to stop their real work and go to make a politician look good for the camera for him to announce that the army was getting new equipment. Ring any bells?

Well the government has cancelled that. Did you see that in the media? Neither did I. I had to dig for it when Rick Mercer mentioned it in a rant. It’s pretty bad when a pseudo news show does a better job at educating the public than the real media.

Parliament was prorogued for the Olympics. And they were paid. A lot. Last time I checked we were in a financial crisis and you’re getting paid to not be at work? Where can I sign up for that deal? I’m all for the politicians playing hosts and networking at the international games. But to give politicians three months off when the games are two weeks? Harper must think we're too stunned to work a calendar!

And if Parliament was prorogued and government contracts were cancelled for fiscal reasons, who, exactly, had the authority to say that the donations from citizens would be met by the government dollar for dollar for the people of Haiti?

Now before you get your knickers in a knot. I am all for helping those in need. I am proud of the fact that people raised money and sent it off to such a poor place in their time of need. But don’t you think it’s a bit odd that we did all of that for the birthplace of Michele Jean but relatively nothing for Chile?

I guess we can trace that particular media puppet string back to the GG herself.

I keep remembering that song the governor sang from the Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. “OO I like to dance a little side step.” Too bad the media and the majority of Canadians are following along like a drunken Ginger Rogers.

The truth is out there. The real truth. It takes some digging. And we’re thrown a lot of crap to distract us. The rich want to be richer. They want to step on us. They want us to think that they’re acting in our best interest and throwing the criminals in jail while getting their buddies off with a half assed apology and a $500 fine.

Well – boys (and girls) I’m not buying it. This time around you’re going to have to earn my vote the hard way. Not with those sad propaganda TV commercials you’re endorsing and not by filling my mailbox full of crap.

I want someone not afraid to look me in the eye and explain himself. How about you?

All For Love

2010-02-15T12:46:00.000-08:00

Valentines Day.

Or as my decidedly unromantic father would say: “Another holiday dreamed up by Hallmark.”

We don’t have plans.

I’m afraid to make plans to do much of anything lately.

Katie’s seizures are worse. More frequent. More intense.

Four out of five days, it seems she just gets to school and the phone is ringing because she’s seizing.

From a parent’s perspective it’s like walking a tightrope. Every second I’m on edge. Waiting. Worrying.

On Friday morning alone she had five seizures. No, that’s not a typo, you read correctly – five.

The new drugs she’s on obviously aren’t working.

But here’s the kicker.

The neurologist hasn’t returned my phone calls. And neither her paediatrician, nor our family doctor will alter medications prescribed by a neurologist.

So what do I do?

I’m not an uneducated woman. I know the damage that multiple seizures are causing. I know that, if left unchecked, my daughter could die.

I want to scream.

I can’t help her. She looks at sometimes like she’s begging me to fix it.

But I’m powerless.

All I can do is wait. Keep her calm. Let her rest.

Rick is phenomenal. My strength when I have none.

Physical proof that a families are forged with love as much as they ever could be with blood.

Kate has made it through today.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I’m afraid to hope.

Just a note

2010-01-13T15:04:00.000-08:00

They say you make your own luck.

I must have lost the recipe somewhere along the way. Because, lately, it feels as if my life is rather unlucky.

Over the holidays I lost several people that made my hometown, my “home”.

With the mayhem of the Christmas rush I didn’t fully appreciate their losses and how much they meant to my life. But today, as I sat down and attempted to write notes in no less than three sympathy cards I thought about each of them.

I attempted to convey to their wives, children and grandchildren how their loved one touched my life.

I clumsily attempted to convey what I was feeling without making people sadder. And after several tries – I was sitting with a dozen crumpled balls of paper and three cards with just our signatures on them.

I hate that.

It’s impersonal. Cold. Dismissive.

The power went out here over the holidays. A large tree knocked down a power line on the main drag and we were left in the dark and cold for nearly ten hours.

As I lit my grandmother’s oil lamps I was reminded of a night when Kate was very small. The power went out in St. Anthony on the coldest day of the year and the entire town was without power.

Kate was just a couple of months old. Newfoundland Hydro had no idea when the power would be back on and my mother’s house was getting colder by the minute.

Our neighbour came and picked up the baby and I without hesitation. It was only after we were sitting safely by their woodstove did I discover that it was their 50^th wedding anniversary and they were hosting a party.

Rather than feeling like an imposition they made us part of the celebration. Like they planned to have us join them all along.

The generosity and love we were shown on that day has stayed with me - I’m not sure I ever told them that.

How do you put that onto a card?

Hallmark has made billions in the greeting card industry but they can’t quite capture that.

I don’t know about making our own luck – but we certainly make our own imprints on those we touch.

I hope mine is worthy of a note someday.

Until then, I’m going to continue to tell my friends and family that I love them whenever I get the chance. I’m going to tell them how much they have meant to my life. You never know when it will be the last.

Call it a resolution for the rest of my life.

Happy 2010!

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-23T08:50:00.000-08:00

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

O, I wasn’t so charitable yesterday in traffic when we were cut off by that idiot in a Hyundai – but it was definitely divine intervention that I didn’t choke the life out of the old bat in front of me with a cartload of crap in the 10 items or less line.

But I definitely feel more “Christmassy” this year.

In fact, I’ve stopped saying “Happy Holidays” completely.

I am a Christian. I was born a Christian. I was raised a Christian. This is the time of year we celebrate the birth of our Messiah and I’m going to wish you a Merry Christmas.

Now I know that it was a Pope that chose December 25^th as Christmas Day.

I know it was a response to the Pagan celebrations surrounding the Winter Solstice.

I know that most of the symbolism surrounding the holiday was “borrowed” from other cultures and religions. And do you know what?

I don’t care.

I like it.

I like the fact that during the darkest days of the winter our houses are lit with colourful lights.

I like the fact that we have an excuse to gather with friends and family to feast.

I like that we sing special songs and that my house smells like ginger and pine tree.

What about that is offensive?

Just what about any of it is offensive?

Now, I can understand why other religions don’t care for Christianity. We weren’t exactly charitable during the Crusades and we were definitely less that tolerant of the pagan religions of the new world.

But check your calendars folks, it’s nearly 2010. The world has moved on. At some point one has to simply get over it.

The political correctness of our society is maddening.

Governments are issuing apologies for things that happened hundreds of years ago, things that occurred when their grandfather’s grandfathers were just a twinkle in their daddy’s eye.

And we’re trying to make up for the atrocities that occurred centuries ago by letting the minority dictate to the majority.

Prayers have been removed from school. The Queen has been removed from the Girl Guide Promise and The Men’s Christmas Dinner has been replaced with the Soldier’s Seasonal Appreciation Dinner. All because at some point some hippie, yuppie, politically correct idiot said, “That offends me.”

Well boys. Brace yourself.

When I wish you Merry Christmas I am wishing you the very best of what I believe in. If this offends you - as my son would say, “get out your big girl panties and get them on.”

The manger scenes do not promote violence or intolerance and therefore I fail to see why they are perceived as offensive. It’s not a re-enactment of a bloody coup or a murder. It’s a baby. Suck it up.

I want to sing about angels and wise men. And I want to do it in public. Right along with the songs about Santa and elves. If you don’t like it – I suggest you bring earplugs with you.

If you’re uncomfortable with this, then my suggestion would be for you to stay at home.

Personally, I would welcome a wish for a Happy Hanukkah or a Joyous Ramadan.

I’m done excluding the things I believe in. I’m done leaving the traditions of my childhood in the dirt.

I think the discarding of our traditions is part of the reason why the world is in the state it’s in.

And I think it’s time we stopped.

Fear not. For behold I bring you good tiding of great joy which shall be for all people.

For unto you. Is born this day in the City of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly hosts praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest. And on Earth peace, good will toward men.

Merry Christmas!

Louise

Do you see what I see?

2009-11-26T06:31:00.000-08:00

Well I knew something was coming when the media began reporting on the whole Afghan prisoner thing.

I knew there was a reason, that after nearly seven years in theatre, the media all of a sudden tells the world about what happens to prisoners once the Canadians turn them over to local authorities.

It’s been like a thunderstorm in the far distance. A barometric pressure change in the government’s attitude towards the military. It was coming. I just couldn’t put my finger on the extent.

At first I thought; “Ok – some tit-arse hippie in Ottawa is just stirring the poop.” But the more I’ve seen in the media, read in newspapers and heard through the military spouse grapevine (by far the most reliable source of the three) I began to see that this was the governmental spin doctors at work.

What I failed to understand, at the beginning, was the truly Machiavellian mechanizations of the Canadian federal government.

After 9-11 people began to appreciate the military. They started Red Fridays. Support Our Troops ribbons popped up on businesses and homes. And the government, sensing that they’d better get on the bus, threw their support to the men and women in uniform and began to do what they should have been doing for the previous twenty years.

Outdated equipment was replaced. Recruiting was improved. The image was improved. All in the hopes to gain popular support for the government that was sending the boys overseas.

A bit of flag waving is always good for the polls.

But now the Afghan mandate is almost up.

And the world’s economy is in the toilet.

Along with Harper’s approval rating.

Hmmm – I wonder how to tie this up in a nice big package?

Well – first you villainize the heroes. If you discover your heroes have clay feet then you don’t care how they’re treated – do you?

That way, once the combat mandate is over in 2011, you have the public approval, or at least their indifference, so you can claw back everything you’ve given to the one group of loyal employees who can’t protest back.

The military grapevine is ripe with budget constraint rumours and we’re months away from the fiscal year end.

History appears to be repeating itself.

The last time this happened was in the early 1990s. Bases were closed. The military was scaled back. Equipment contracts were cancelled, and soldiers’ pays were frozen so that some poor buggers had to go to food banks to survive.

I wonder how much further it will go this time.

After all – the greatest soldier advocate, Gen. Rick Hillier, was put out to pasture.

Now they’ve got their yes-men - their “corporate-minded” political monkeys who don’t care about Cpl. Canada, as long as their own jobs are safe.

They’ve got their distraction for the Canadian people. They’ve got their scapegoat. And now they won’t have to answer for the $50-trillion dollars they’ve spent on…what? Signs made in the US?

And tra-la-la the feds can continue to spend money behind closed doors like gambling addicts all the while sacrificing the pride, loyalty and good name of the men and women who have done so much and asked for so little.

Maybe I should start a little campaign of my own. I won’t need the $10-million dollars that the federal government is spending on the junk mail that’s being bombarded into my mailbox every week to ask whose socks are better or which party has their bread buttered better.

I’ll just need some support.

Let’s stop this train now.

Who’s with me?

Wagging the Dog

2009-10-16T15:22:00.000-07:00

The media is at it again.

Twisting things to make it look like Canadian soldiers are the bad guys.

The policy in Afghanistan is that prisoners or suspected terrorists caught by the Canadian Forces’ patrols be turned over to local authorities to allow their rules and justice system deal with.

The Afghan authorities apparently still employ the use of torture and physical punishment on prisoners or suspects. And wonder of wonders it leaked to the media. And – big shock – the bleeding hearts are all over it.

The whole NATO involvement in Afghanistan is not to run the country. They have their own laws they have their own values. Where do Canadians get off interfering in their judicial system?

Now I’m not saying I agree with torturing another human being. But if that’s the law in a foreign country – who am I to change it – it’s not my country. This is.

I listened to a commentary on the local radio station today that actually compared turning over prisoners to the Afghan national to the incident in Somalia where a teen-aged boy was killed. Wow! Talk about comparing apples to oranges!

Nowhere in the report out of Afghanistan does it say that Canadian soldiers tortured prisoners. The Canadian soldiers merely follow orders and bring the terrorists - or suspected terrorists, if you prefer, to the local authorities.

The soldiers may be aware of local ‘practices’ and may not agree with them. But seriously folks, should it be up to a 20-year-old private from small town Canada to change the judicial practices of a foreign nation?

If you answered anything other than ‘no’ please have the person nearest to you kick you in the shin.

Render onto Caesar what is Caesar’s - the politicians made the rules – lay it at their feet – don’t vilify the military.

The politicians, not the soldiers, make the policies. And in this case it’s NATO. A little bigger than Cpl. Canada don’t you think?

These bleeding hearts are the first ones to jump on the bandwagon and say that Canada shouldn’t interfere in Afghanistan and yet here they are practically screaming for judicial reform of a foreign nation and somehow it’s been turned around to be the soldiers’ fault.

So B.H.s of the world, what would you have the soldiers do?

You’re bitching about the cost of the war – so I’m guessing paying for a prison up to the standards of North America is out of the question. Maybe you’d prefer the soldiers to bring them home – maybe they can live with you!

Better yet – let’s let them go – let them keep blowing people up and shooting at us.

Let’s disband the army and all wear robes and dance around the Maypole holding hands and singing We Are The World – I bet the terrorists would like that.

Here in the real world I’m thanking God for the courage of the Canadian soldier and hoping that the B.H. reporters can get their heads out of their arses before John Q Public begins to believe the ‘wag the dog’ reporting I heard and read today.

Clowns and Monsters

2009-10-09T09:00:00.000-07:00

I started this blog to write about things that I feel strongly about. This is a departure from my normal entries but it is something that has affected me profoundly over the last few weeks. It contains graphic images and may not be suitable for everyone.

Clowns and monsters.

The two most common fears of small children.

I suppose you could include Santa in that mix, come holiday time – if Liam’s reaction was typical of the average kid’s.

I always imagined the monsters to have fangs and talons and to come after you in the dark. My poor mother had to lay down with me to go to sleep for years and that was even with my Kermit the Frog nightlight.

It’s been a long time since the image of Frankenstein or Dracula invaded my R.E.M. sleep. But last night I woke up nearly screaming - twice.

It wasn’t the monsters of my childhood that were out to get me. It was something more sinister. Something that disturbed me more than I could imagine.

You see, yesterday was the beginning of the 1st degree murder trial of a man named Rodney Miller. He pleaded guilty to stabbing his infant son through the heart when his girlfriend threatened to commit suicide if he didn’t kill the baby.

The local radio stations carried synopses of his confession where he described how he killed the baby. He said he “stabbed the baby’s heart and felt him go limp in his arms and that’s how he knew he was dead.”

Just like that.

And just like that something inside me screamed. Something from my nightmares reached out and wrapped it’s cold hands around my spine. And I instinctively reached for my own infant.

I smelled her baby smell. I felt her warm weight in my arms. I felt her body next to my chest and I cried.

If these two didn’t want a baby why not just drop it off at a hospital? Why not call Social Services? Heck, why not just put it in a gym bag and leave it in the mall where someone would find it?

There are thousands of families in this country that would have taken that baby and loved him and raised him and adored him for their entire lives – so pretending there was no other option is ridiculous.

He should have handed his girlfriend a rope and told her to have a ball. Instead he did something that, I hope, haunts his dreams every night like it haunted mine tonight.

They were his parents! They were supposed to love him unconditionally! And if they couldn’t provide for him – they should have loved him at least enough to give him to someone who would.

I hope they rot! I hope they rot in the darkest, dankest part of the deepest dungeon that Corrections Canada can find until everyone that ever cared about them forgets them. Because that’s what they deserve.

That’s what all monsters deserve.

2009-09-09T06:34:00.000-07:00

*This should have been published a few weeks ago. Like all mommies of infants I’m still running on baby time so things have been a little hit and miss – my apologies to my regular readers. I’d say it won’t happen again – but it probably will….

She’s radiant.

You can see the love in her face.

It’s her day! At last!

And here I am trying not to ruin it day by blowing snot out my nose laughing at the tongue-tied priest. He reminds me of the Bishop in the Princess Bride – the one that starts everything with “mawwiage”. He’s standing right in front of me. I just about lose it when he starts to drool.

Think. Think. Think. There has to be something to get my mind off of this!

My mind runs over the words I plan to say at the reception.

I’m going to have to introduce myself and explain how Jenn and I met. I think I’m the only bridesmaid that no one has met before.

How do I explain that we bonded over mispronounced French words without making us sound like a couple of hyenas?

I’ll just tell them about the military family. How we meet in the strangest places, under the weirdest circumstances and somehow make each other stronger when our “real” families can’t be there. I wonder if they’ll understand.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much this chick has meant to me, and my little family over the last 18 months or so.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much I leaned on her when Rick was in the desert and I was alone. How she was there every time I called or needed her. How she dropped everything on her baby’s first birthday because I was in the hospital with my boy when he bruised his liver and needed help managing Kate.

I look over towards Jenn and her groom. She’s glowing. I’m so happy for her.

She’s spent the last several months planning this day practically alone. I’ve been a voice at the other end of the phone – but really haven’t helped much. I feel guilty about that and have told her several times. She’s pooh poohed away my guilt – telling me she knows what life with a newborn is like and wants me standing there with her regardless of how much (or how little) I’ve helped.
I’m very fortunate to have a friend like her.

It’s got to be at least a hundred degrees in the church. My legs are soaked beneath the satin gown. Jenn has somehow managed not to wilt. I only hope I’m holding up half so well.

I glance at the priest again – he sweating through his over robes and still talking! My eyes are drawn to an enormous bead of sweat rolling down the tip of his nose. How is it he doesn’t feel that and wipe it away?

I need to tell them that this bride has the biggest heart. That she’s the most generous person I’ve met in a long time. That her strength and her friendship and her sense of humour have held me together more times than I can count. Will they understand?

We all step forward to witness the vows. I wait for Jenn to cry. She’s been waiting for Ryan to say these words to her for a long time. I’m crying for her. She manages to hold it together pretty well and get through it with just a bit of nervous laughter. I’m so proud of her.

I don’t remember walking back down the aisle with Stevie, the groomsman. I think I was channelling some of the euphoria the bride was feeling.

The rest of the day passes in a hot and sweaty and happy blur. I keep thinking that I should hide away to pump some breast milk before I explode but the opportunity never really presents itself. Thank goodness I’ve doubled up on the nursing pads.

I hear the speeches and Marjorie, another bridesmaid acting as the emcee, announces that the mic is open for anyone else to say a few words. This is my opportunity. I just need to get up and walk maybe 10 feet.

I don’t.

I’m not shy or anything. I’ve given speeches in front of strangers before. I have my notes. I even have a joke about the time Jenn asked the French teacher how to say jackass.

But I don’t get up.

I can’t.

I’ve managed to leak through my dress.

So I sit at the head table looking like the world’s sloppiest drinker – hopefully people will think that’s what it is.

And my words go unsaid.

Until now.

“I love you, Jenn. I am proud to be your friend. You’ve held me together for the last year and a half with gun tape and love and I am so thankful for everything you’ve done. Sometimes blood has nothing to do with family – and this is one of those times.

I wish you and Ryan and Angelena a lifetime of love and happiness, mixed with a little passion and craziness. And in fifty years I hope to be here with my new orthopaedic hip celebrating with you again.”

Jennifer Nemeth and Ryan MacArthur August 22nd 2009.

Dealing with more stupid

2009-08-04T12:32:00.000-07:00

I’d forgotten the exhaustion that a new mother feels.

I’d forgotten about sore nipples, toxic poos, that sour milk smell, screaming gas fits and how one can fall so head over heels in love with such a little thing that nothing else much matters.

Emotionally I’m fine – as long as you consider being so exhausted your eyes go crossed every now and again fine.

Physically I’m still lagging. I know the birth was difficult. And the pregnancy was no treat – but I’m feeling horrible so I set out to let my doctor know.

To say I’m pale would be like saying Marilyn Manson is weird. I’m Casper the Ghost white. So my doctor decides to send me to get some blood work done. He suspects that I may be anaemic – no big stretch given the fact that I nearly bled to death a few weeks back.

Since the Emergency Room at the Oromocto Public Hospital is still not back up and running, my doctor suggests I bring the requisition there to get the blood drawn. They can’t be that busy with no ER – right?

So we drive to the OPH. Plenty of parking right outside the front door – there’s no emergency room – this will be easy peasy – in, out and home before supper.

Or so I thought.

The entire first floor is deserted. I get right into the lab area before I find a soul. He looks at me like I’m a member of an alien race. He stammers as if he’s forgotten how to talk to a patient.

“Y-y-y-ou’ll have to check in at reception,” he finally manages to get out.

“The deserted reception that I just walked through?” I ask – apparently lack of sleep has made me bitchier than normal.

“Y-y-y-es.” he replies.

Apparently he’s too busy playing pocket pool to simply take the requisition and draw the freaking blood, either that or the computer terminal six inches to the right of his left hand isn’t working. But I’ll follow his little power trip. And back out the hall I go.

Lo and behold there’s a chick in the corner. She’s removing staples from a pile of letters – my tax dollars at work.

I explain to her that I was sent there by my doctor and pass her the blood work requisition form.
She does a good imitation of stuttering Sam from the Lab and looks at me like I just grew another head.

“We don’t draw blood after 3:30,” she tells me in a tone that most people normally reserve for misbehaving children or the mentally challenged.

Okay – let’s dance I think.

“Since when?” I ask. Knowing full well that it must be only since the emergency room has been closed.

She rolls her eyes and repeats herself. I don’t think she even realizes how close she’s skating to danger at this point.

I look at the clock – it’s barely 3:40, and feel my blood boil just a little bit hotter.

“I can keep the letter here and have scheduling set up an appointment time for the lab work,” she says. I’m looking at the floor so I don’t reach across the desk and snap her neck but I can hear the eyes rolling in her voice.

“And when can I expect an appointment,” I ask.

“Probably next week sometime.” She sounds like a petulant teenager and I’m in no mood.

“I’m sure my doctor meant for me to get this done today or tomorrow at the latest,” I offer.

“Well he didn’t write STAT anywhere on it,” and fires me a look like I’m six.

“I’m sure doctors routinely order blood work for their patients for which they don’t want the results.” I fire back.

“And since you’re all so busy here I’m sure the hospital in Fredericton will be happy to fit me in and I’ll be sure to let them and all my friends and family know how wonderful the customer service is at the OPH.”

I hate stupid people, I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before, and this near recipient of a Darwin Award is lucky that I’m exhausted enough to not want to get an administrator involved.

If this is any indication of the services in Oromocto I think we’re all going to have to get used to driving to Fredericton because there’s no way the government can justify keeping open a lab that can’t manage to draw blood halfway through the afternoon.

Peace at the Beginning of a New Day

2009-07-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should put a disclaimer at the top of this one – something to the effect of this entry may contain graphic content and is not suitable for young readers, squeamish men or any women on the fence about ever having a baby…

It’s been quite the ride.

For the last several anti-natal visits my blood pressure has been in orbit. Each time they send me over to Labour and Delivery, they take blood and urine – I lie there for a few hours and they send me home. It’s to the point I’m about to just bring in the blood and pee and lie down in the waiting room to get things over with.

But on Friday July 3rd, things didn’t go according to the status quo.

Oh, I got to the clinic. They took my blood pressure – and it was up – shocker. So they sent me out to L&D. Unlike the last dozen times though the doctor actually spoke to my own doctor and then took the time to speak to me.

“You’re blood pressure is high. I think we’re going to admit you for a few days,” she said.

Okay – so we’ve got a plan for this. Rick stays and gets me settled and then takes the kids home. He’ll bring my bag later, after all – it’s basically a spa day – right?

Wrong.

A nurse comes into my room.

“The doctor is coming down in a bit to give you the gel. She may even break your water.”

I wonder if she’s got the right room.

Rick walks in just as the nurse leaves. He’s left Liam with Dani and Holden. It’s just him and Kate to drop off my stuff. And I tell him what’s happening.

He shoots me a look that would shrivel grapes. As if I had the ability to stop this particular freight train.

We call our friend and tell her what’s happening. She’s on her way to pick up Kate. Rick is going to stay with me. She’ll watch the kids until Rick gets home. I’ve said it a dozen times – I’ve got the best friends.

The doctor doesn’t break my water. But the gel is doing its job. Just a few hours later Rick is snoring and I’m in labour. The nurse comes in hourly to check my blood pressure. It’s still climbing so they’re going to try another drug.

By morning the second drug seems to have slowed down the labour pains (it’s a side effect apparently) and we’re waiting for a bed to open up in labour and delivery. Rick is pacing like a caged tiger.

Just after two we head to the delivery room. Nausea has set in from my short walk up the hallway.

“Perfectly normal considering your blood pressure, says Nurse Andrea as she hands me a bowl. “Puke in there if you need to.”

Like I said before – the doors to labour and delivery should read: Leave all dignity in the hallway.

The doctor comes and adds more gel. My head throbs. Contractions resume.

Jenn comes to check on us. Her hands are cool on my head. Only a fellow migraine sufferer knows how to work this particular magic. She’s decided that after she runs a few more errands she’s coming back to stay with us.

At 1630 Nurse Andrea checks my progress.

“Three centimetres dilated, let’s get you over on your side for comfort.”

Why is it that the solution they always present to the labouring woman is to get over on your side? The beds are so narrow that it’s like moving a beached whale.

I’m on my side for what seems like only seconds. Rick is talking to me and I feel a warm gush.

“O hell, my water just broke,” I tell Nurse Andrea.

“Really?” She says and moves to check.

I fight the urge to say, “No – I just made it up so you’d have to look up my stuff” but a huge contraction stops my sarcasm well short of me actually vocalizing it.

“Let’s get you over on your back,” she says.

Easier said than done as white hot pain racks my body. Rick helps me to roll and move.

“The head is right there. I’ll get the doctor.”

I puff and blow through the pain.

The doctor comes in, takes two seconds, and says, “Get the cart.”

Nurse Andrea’s hand is holding the baby’s head as the cart is being wheeled in.

My body launches the baby into the world as if it were a t-shirt cannon. The doctor catches her like a football. I haven’t pushed. But she’s here and I look at Rick and actually say the words. “Liv is here.” He’s only half paying attention his eyes are fixed on the baby.

I feel the world slip sideways.

I’m bleeding heavily. The nurse tells me that because labour was so fast it’s even more traumatic on the body – no shit Sherlock – tell me something I don’t know.

Nurse Andrea from Hell is pushing on my abdomen and I feel like every fluid in the world is gushing from my insides.

I send Rick to count Olivia’s fingers and toes. My words sound mushy even to me – but he understands me and does as I ask.

Jenn arrives just as the Nurse Andrea is attempting to get me to the washroom to see if the blood will stop. It doesn’t. And the world starts to grey around me.

Rick is holding the IV bags and can’t quite catch me before I go down. The bathroom floor is cool and I remember thinking I’ll just sleep here for awhile.

The whole room looks like Freddy Kruger and Psycho have had it out one last time and invited Jason for good measure.

The baby has been whisked off to the NICU. She’s tiny. Weighing in at only 4 lbs 14 oz. She’s breathing on her own though – so maybe it’s not going to be so bad.

I’m worried about her. Rick looks torn – he wants to go with her – he’s afraid to leave me.

Jenn is back. She’s missed the festivities, but she’s here to witness the carnage left behind and, God love her, she doesn’t blink.

I send them both to check on my wee girl.

The nurse gives me drugs to stem the blood flow. I can’t remember all the meds I’ve been fed in the last hour. This isn’t anything like the deliveries of my other two. Then again the pregnancies weren’t the same either so maybe it’s fitting that a pregnancy fraught with issues ends with a delivery that isn’t exactly something you’d want to see on W.

In the end I got my prize.

She’s tiny but perfect.

Her name has been chosen for months – Olivia Dawn – it means “peace at the beginning of a new day”. Fitting, I think, given everything we’ve gone through this last year. Rick has decided to call her Olly for short – mostly because it annoys me.

Olivia Dawn Reid born at Dr Everett Chalmers Hospital at 1645 on July 4th, 2009. Weighing just 4lb 14oz and measuring 18.5 inches long.

Sometimes the best things come in small packages.

Let the lava flow

2009-06-24T06:49:00.000-07:00

Let me start this entry by saying that I’ve always been proud that Canada has a “free” universal health care system for all of its citizens. I know there are longer wait times and other issues but basically it’s an amazing thing that anyone who is ill or injured is treated the same.

In case you’ve missed a few entries – this pregnancy hasn’t exactly been textbook easy.

First of all I’m 35 – apparently that’s the magic number for all the “bad stuff” to happen so to begin with I was tested for everything from Scurvy to the baby having Downs Syndrome (both are negative by the way).

Then at 23 weeks my cervix was shortening – hence being benched and Rick coming home early from the sandbox.

That apparently decided to reverse itself just in time for intra-uterine growth restriction – a fancy way to say that the little miss isn’t getting all she needs from the placenta and is grossly undersized.

So in response to all this I go to the doctor at least three times per week. Twice for bio-physicals where I get an ultrasound and they take a stress strip of the baby’s heart and movements and once to my OB/GYN for all the other stuff. Amongst all of this I also see the OB specialist for a “special” ultrasound where the baby is measured etc.

So yesterday I’m at one of the anti-natal bio-physicals and they take my blood pressure. I sort of figured it was up a bit because I haven’t seen my ankles in weeks and I woke up with a puffy face. My BP was 150/100 – not a good sign. The nurse waited a few more minutes and took it again – it was 157-107 – wonderful.

So off to Labour and Delivery I was sent for blood work and urinalysis. Instead of inducing me – they decided to give me blood pressure medication. The twit who gave it to me tested my blood pressure twice within a 10-minute window – it was, after all just a few minutes before shift change. The BP was going down I was allowed to leave with a prescription to take at home.

The last thing I was told was (and I quote) – “If you are feeling any headaches, flashing lights, upper abdominal pain – make sure you call L&D and come in to be checked out.”

So off we went. They told me to expect some light-headedness as the BP was dropping and until it levelled off I’d feel “strange”. And I did.

But around 8 PM I started to get a headache.

I’m a migraine sufferer – so when I say I’ve got a headache – it doesn’t mean I’ve got a little discomfort. It means “Dear God take me now”.

Tylenol – the only crap I’m allowed to take – doesn’t touch it. Lying down in a dark room with a facecloth over my eyes just makes me want to cry. So after an hour or so I call L&D – following orders like a good patient.

The nurse, Lynn, tells me to take more Tylenol and to have a hot bath. “The damp weather could cause some people to have headaches.”

It’s been raining for 8 days straight at this point – it’s not like the barometric pressure is going up and down – I feel like crying and reaching through the phone to choke the life out of nurse Lynn.

So I take the bath – it makes me nauseous. I take more Tylenol and lie down. When Rick climbs the stairs I’m crying from the pain. I beg him for one of my migraine pills and he relents and gives it to me. These knock me out and I wake up without the migraine – usually.

This time – I wake up and am thinking what I can use to hang myself. The pain is horrible.

Rick is pissed that I haven’t called L&D again.

Both my OB and the specialist OB have told me time and again – that I should go to L&D and that I’m not bothering anyone by doing so – they understand what kind of a person I am and that I’d rather die in a corner than bother someone. But they didn’t hear Nurse Lynn. And in all honesty I’d rather the top of my head blew like Mount Vesuvius before I called her back.

That and I’m afraid that even at 9 months pregnant I’d find the energy to kick the crap out of her and the Resident Dr. MacDonald who despite having my chart in front of him – having several conversations with me and, I thought, was smarter than a brick – told me to take a freaking bath! I’m not so much into giving birth in jail.

So I’m here. Wearing sunglasses on a rainy morning inside so I can look at the monitor. Needing to get this frustration off of my chest before I actually pick up the phone to call Labour and Delivery to tell them that my “little headache” has now been 14 hours long I’ve taken the blessed bath and lay down in the dark and can I please come in to have someone take a whole two GD minutes out of their shift to press a button on an automatic BP machine to check my freaking blood pressure…

I don’t think it’s so much to ask.

I keep thinking about my friend who told me what the acronym for our local hospital DECH (Dr. Everet Chalmers Hospital) really stands for – Don’t Ever Come Here. After the last 24 hours - I think she’s right.

Biting my ninja tongue

2009-06-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

I’m still waiting to glow.

Not grow – I’m doing plenty of that. Today when I looked in the mirror I looked like I was smuggling a beach ball. Sigh.

I’ve gotten two good reports in a row from the doctors and you’d think that I’d be dancing in the streets. But somehow I can’t stop walking on eggshells. Every twinge and movement is analyzed, every feeling examined and categorized I feel like some sort of alien scientist – I half expect the little grey men from Area 51 to show up and assist.

I’m reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” like it’s the key to the universe. This weeks’ message is to expect increased scatterbrained activities. And to prove it – I’ve managed to misplace my ankles – right on cue.

My feet are so swollen that I have one pair of shoes I can wear and my toes look like mini Vienna Sausages.

Remind me again who said pregnant women are beautiful?

Because I feel like a hippo, look like a manatee and waddle like a duck. Proof that God has a sick sense of humour.

Maybe it’s a “nature” thing. Make the increasingly pregnant woman so repulsive that no other mammal will come near thing. The natural defences of a pregnant human female, on display for everyone to see. Only it doesn’t quite work that way does it?

Apparently the physical appearance of a woman in the advanced stages of pregnancy is an open invitation for anyone over the age of 50 to walk up and start talking, and/or touching the increasing baby bump.

I’ve gotten advice, unsolicited advice, from complete strangers on how to avoid tearing in labour and delivery. Apparently the sight of a woman in her eighth month is license to throw out all social rules and jump right to talking about the female genitalia.

And then there’s the twenty-year-old that has the same appointment schedule with the OB who tells me all about childbirth and newborns every time we’re sitting in the waiting room. I’m almost thirty-six years old – I’ve brought one or both my kids to more appointments than I can count and she thinks this is my first dog and pony show…maybe there’s something to that scatterbrained thing after all.

Only a few more weeks – I can do a few more weeks – right? I just have to keep biting my tongue, reminding myself not to go ninja on the old touchy feely folks and to nod and smile at the chick in the OB’s office all the while swelling and aching and waddling my way to the dignity-devoid space of the delivery room.

I can do that…I just need a lobotomy and a couple of good stiff drinks to get me there.

Spinning

2009-06-01T05:19:00.000-07:00

Four A.M.

What the heck am I doing up at four in the freaking morning?

Counting baby movements – what else?

The gerbil wheel in my head has been spinning again. Somehow I’ve got a morose feeling of dread. Like something isn’t right but I just can’t put my finger on it.

I get to the required six movements. They’re weak, so I head to the washroom and when I get back I start counting again.

I still can’t shake the idea that something is wrong.

Maybe I should call Labour and Delivery and speak to a nurse. And say what? – I woke up for no apparent reason and I can’t relax?

Besides – I don’t want to be a bother. Don’t ask where that comes from, it’s either a Newfie thing or a woman thing.

“No, no – you see to the others first I’ll just crawl over into this corner and die – when you get around to me let me know.” It’s almost laughable how we women are.

I’ve got an appointment with the OB in the afternoon. As long as there’s no pain or bleeding and as long as I can feel her moving I’ll stick to the schedule.

There’s no real “emergency”. I’m basically okay. I’m just channelling something. Picking up on the energy of the universe, as it were.

The alarm goes off and I hear the terrible news out of Brazil – an airliner carrying 220 passengers has disappeared. It makes my worries seem insignificant in contrast. Well, almost insignificant.

Kate is not going on the bus today. She was sent home every day last week after an episode each morning, which resulted in her being too weak to walk or stand on her own.

The neurologist is out of town – surprise, surprise. So in desperation the school, Rick and I decided that she would sleep until she woke up on her own and we’d drive her in to see if we could circumvent the issue by giving her more rest and less excitement (she adores the bus) first thing in the morning.

She’s happy enough to leave the house every day – but by the time she gets to school she’s, well for lack of a better word, she’s screwed up.

As she heads out the door with Rick I hear her chattering away at him – the one word she’s retained over the years is “daddy” and she uses it with him like a magpie. It means anything and everything you could imagine. And she’s excited so all I hear is a retreating echo of “daddy, daddy, daddy” until they reach the car.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion of the last week, maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones or maybe some combination of the three but I can feel the tears start to prick the backs of my eyes.

I’m trying my best. I really am. I just don’t know if it’s good enough.

Three pounds

2009-05-27T08:20:00.000-07:00

Three pounds.

I’ve been trying to wrap my head around how small that really is.

Three bricks of Eversweet butter for my Newfie friends. Just better than a bag of sugar for you mainlanders.

But how small of a person would that be?

Kate was 4 lbs 7 oz when she made her entrance into the world. And, as awful as this is to admit, I thought she looked like a rat. Yes, yes – I was passed over for the annual mother of the year award – hard to believe isn’t it?

What would a person a whole pound less than that look like?

I’ve looked it up online – but pictures don’t seem to have the “compare and contrast” feature that I’m looking for. They’ve got these wee little beings in a glass box and it’s not like they’ve put in a standard ruler or something to compare them to. So I’m left wondering.

I know it’s small.

Heck, Kate was smaller than a baby doll and her first diapers were about the size of a folded Kleenex. When she cried it sounded like a kitten. But she was positively gigantic compared to her baby sister.

But how much smaller will her baby sister be?

And before you pull a husband and say – it’s a pound smaller, Louise. Imagine a sharp kick to the shin and let’s move on.

It looks like we’re going to find out just what someone that small looks like.

The probability of her going to term has been removed from the realm of all possibility. The absolute furthest we’re going is another four weeks and the OB guesses that it’ll be closer to two.

The fluid is low, still in the “normal” range – but at the lower end. So now I’m going to be visiting the hospital twice a week for ultrasounds and God know what other tests.

My blood pressure is up. If you’ve met me – you know how sarcastic I am so you can imagine my reaction when the nurse looked at me and said, “Oh, your blood pressure is up,” like it was the strangest thing in the universe.

It’s a miracle the top of my head didn’t completely blow off. But I managed to stay perfectly calm and say – “well it’s been a rough week”, all while fighting the urge to smack the stupid right out of her head. I should be nominated for an Academy Award.

I’m trying to stay calm. I’m fighting to stay positive. I’m willing her to grow and be healthy. I’m praying that’s she’s safe. I’m struggling to be strong. I’m hoping for a miracle. But mostly I’m scared to death.

Scared that she’s not really safer in than out. Scared that she’ll have to spend extensive time in the NICU. Scared that she’ll not be strong like Kate. Scared that she’ll be too much like Kate. The list is endless.

I wish I had something to distract me, something to engage my brain so I can stop the gerbil wheel from spinning out of control. Because, at the moment, I feel the world trying to slip sideways on me and I can’t for the life of me seem to stop it.

Please?

2009-05-14T06:26:00.000-07:00

Sleep has eluded me.

I’ve lain here since before midnight listening to the night time sounds of the house around me and to the frogs serenading the stars.

Then around 4 AM nature changes the music and I listen to the bird symphony to the dawn until the sun comes up and watch as the light in the house changes from blue, to purple, to daylight.

I can’t sleep. The cacophony of thoughts that are going through my mind won’t even quiet down – let alone fall silent. I’m lying here because the least I can do is to rest my body. I’ve given up on trying to sleep. Instead my mind replays the day before.

It started wonderfully. Liam had crawled into bed with me sometime before the sun came up. Something about the warm weight of a sleeping child is so comforting. We cuddled long after the alarm went off and Rick got Katie off to school. Then Rick came up and crawled in with us too. It doesn’t happen often.

You could tell Liam was pleased with the cuddling attention of both parents and that started the day off just right.

I was scheduled for my final internal ultrasound – yippee! I hate them. More than you can imagine. So for this to be the last one – I was stoked.

Sunshine, and warm temperatures, and driving with the windows down – how could things be better?

The waiting room wait was longer than we anticipated but a volunteer brought in some old Readers Digests and Rick and I read the jokes to each other to pass the time. By the time we were called into the room we were teasing each other. And when I had to undress from the waist down for the internal he told me he’d give me five bucks if I kept going and that set us off on another set of giggles.

They were short lived though.

The ultrasound showed that although the baby has grown, she now weighs about 2 lbs and 14 oz, and her length and head circumference have all improved her abdominal measurement is less.

According to the doctor this means that, for whatever reason, she’s not getting what she needs from the placenta and her little body is taking “food” from the fat stores around her organs, like her liver.

There’s nothing they can give me. There’s nothing they can do to improve the transfer of “food” via the placenta to the baby. All they can do is watch and wait and when it’s determined that she’s safer out than in – they’ll take her. I’m only 30 weeks. She’s not yet 3 lbs. I want to be sick.

The doctor accompanies us down to Labour and Delivery. She wants the “non-invasive” stress test done – it’s the external monitoring of the baby’s heart and movements by a machine via leads tied to my belly. While I’m there getting set up she comes in and tells me that she’s ordered steroid shots to be administered to me to mature the baby’s lungs faster.

I feel my heart sink even lower, if possible.

She had told me way back at week 23 that there were things that could be done to improve a preemie’s chance at survival and that one of them were the steroid shots. But they’re best administered only a week or two before the baby’s arrival. This is May – she’s not due until the end of July!

My face has always been easily read and Rick immediately starts the stand up comedy routine. He knows me too well. Knows that I’m freaking out. His attentions distract me for a short time.

I’ve got to return tomorrow for another shot. I’ll be having ultrasounds at least weekly to measure the baby. I can feel myself coming unglued. This can’t be happening.

She’s my prize. She’s my prize for enduring what I have endured this last year and a half. She’s got to be okay. Please, someone tell me she’s going to be okay…

Can I borrow a cup of patience?

2009-05-11T06:39:00.000-07:00

Well. Here it is.

Rick’s first day back to work.

Remember how I was sort of looking forward to it?

I may have overestimated my feelings.

Oh – it’s nice to have a silent house. And I’ve always loved a man in uniform so watching him get dressed was a treat.

But now what?

Seriously…

I’m not allowed to do anything – well much of anything anyways.

I’d like to get out and clean the windows outside the house they’re filthy and getting on my nerves. But I can’t carry the bucket and reaching, even with the squeegee, is not allowed.

I’d like to strip the beds and get the linens out on the clothesline – it’s a fine day on clothes. But I can’t carry laundry or reach to the clothesline.

My garden is crying out for some love – but again the bending reaching thing is out of bounds.

If I were a girly girl I’d paint my toenails and fingernails to be all ready for the sandal season. But I’m not and I seem to have misplaced my one and only bottle of polish. Plus I can’t imagine painting my toes with this belly.

Sigh. Blah! Grr, and a few other onomatopoetic sounds.

I know a healthy baby is going to be worth all of this confinement. I know that the very second I hear her cry and see her face I’ll have forgotten all about these feelings of irritation. I know all of this – but as I’ve often said – you can’t control the way you feel. And today I’m – well I don’t know what I am – but the contented definitely isn’t it.

How is it possible that some women survive being completely on bed rest for the majority of their pregnancies? They’ve obviously got more patience than I do.

If I don’t figure something out soon you’re going to be reading about some crazy pregnant lady whose head exploded.

How long until the kids get home?

What they don't tell you...

2009-05-04T11:49:00.000-07:00

The boys from Rick’s crew are out of the sandbox.

They’re safely ensconced at a resort in Cyprus for “decompression” time and for the first time since he got home Rick is not logging onto the computer several times a day to check on them.

I think it’s a relief for him.

I feel that it’s a relief for him. He’s more relaxed.

We’re getting to the end of his leave period. Work will accommodate him to be here to get the kids off on the bus and to be here when they get home – but I’m soon back to spending the bulk of my days alone.

Believe it or not – I’m sort of looking forward to it.

Not that he hasn’t been wonderful - he’s been beyond wonderful. I haven’t had to worry about anything since he stepped foot in the house. But after a year (once you count work up time) of being in charge – sometimes letting go isn’t easy.

It’s, maybe, a good thing that I’m so restricted in what I’m allowed to do. He likes to be “in charge” and loves to have things his “way”. I do too. So it’s a fight looking for a place to happen. Fortunately our little ‘bun in the oven’ is playing the peacemaker for the time being and hopefully he’ll tire of being the one in charge by the time she makes her appearance.

They don’t tell you in the deployment briefings that you’ll have to get “used” to sleeping with your husband again. After months of just me and the kids, I’ve suddenly got this giant man in my bed. And somehow I’d forgotten just how loud that man snores.

Add that to the growing belly and pregnancy aches and pains and I’m pretty much playing musical beds all night long. Some nights I feel like Goldilocks looking for the perfect place to sleep. Typically I find it about five minutes before I have to go to the bathroom – again!

I know what you’re thinking. I’m such an ingrate. I’ve spent the last seven months hoping, wishing, praying and waiting for my man to get home. Now I’m complaining about it.

Sigh. Patience doesn’t seem to be a virtue that women in their third trimester are blessed with in abundance. At least this one isn’t. Thank goodness for a man that understands that.

Pedro's visit

2009-04-24T07:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Settling in

2009-04-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

*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.

Sometimes there aren't any words

2009-04-15T05:38:00.000-07:00

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

Sleepless in New Brunswick

2009-04-13T15:39:00.000-07:00

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

Sometimes you should let it go to voicemail

2009-04-11T08:13:00.000-07:00

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

The cavalry arrives

2009-04-10T13:04:00.001-07:00

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

Holding on for one more day

2009-04-09T06:04:00.000-07:00

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 MRI

2009-04-07T08:37:00.000-07:00

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

...Continued

2009-04-06T13:06:00.000-07:00

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…

Game called on account of rain

2009-04-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

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

Trying to find the blessings

2009-03-22T05:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve got the best friends.

I don’t know how I’d get through all of this without them.

I spoke to the neurologist after Kate’s episode on Tuesday. She’s ordering some other tests in addition to the already scheduled MRI. Talking to the doctor does nothing to alleviate my worries and I’m freaked out.

My friend Jenn comes by the house to see how we’re doing. It takes her all of five seconds to realize that I’m at the breaking point. And less time than that to tell me she’s coming with me for the appointments.

The first one is a 24-hour EKG in Saint John. We decide to make an overnight girls trip out of it. Just us and our daughters, instead of driving up and back both days. Liam is staying with another good friend of mine. Blessing number two.

Packing for the trip and readying the house in the morning before we leave – my mind is spinning with all I’ve got to do.
We’re just about to go through the door and I realize we need extra socks so I head down to the laundry room to get some – only to be greeted by muddy water on my laundry room floor.

The septic has backed up and has blown the backflow valve.

“Dear God – what do I do now?” I whisper.

I can’t miss Kate’s appointment. No one else can take her. It has to be a parent. And I’m the only one.

I’m fighting back tears of frustration as I dial my friend’s number. I know she’s probably still at physiotherapy but I’m hoping she can help.

I speak to her man. We sort out a plan. I’ll leave signed blank cheques – he’ll call the plumber and the septic guy and will come to the house to take care of things.

I can almost feel the tears spurt from the tips of my eyelashes.

“Go and get Kate taken care of,” he tells me. “We’ll take care of stuff here.” Blessing number three.

The drive down to the port city is faster than normal because of our delay in departure.

We head directly for the hospital and Kate goes right in to be set up with the EKG Halter machine. She’s none too pleased by the leads but once her jacket is on she’s resigned to the fact they’re going to stay.

An afternoon of shopping, eating and chatting is what is on the menu – and between frantic phone calls to check on progress at the house I somehow manage to have a good time.

We’re back at the hotel and we turn on the television. CTV News net is flashing the latest news from the desert. Four Canadian soldiers have lost their lives in two separate IED attacks. Eight soldiers are wounded.

My eyes flash from the screen to Jenn. “It’ll be okay – you know it’s not Rick,” she says. But as a fellow military spouse, I can see in her eyes that the news is a shock to her as well.

I feel as if I’ve swallowed a cannon ball. It feels like my stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of my ankles.

The media is at it again. They’re calling in obscure “experts” and asking them if the losses are “acceptable”.

Stupid questions. Of course losses aren’t “acceptable” a death of a soldier is not acceptable it’s tragic. They’ve managed to dig and discover that one of the soldiers has died on his birthday. Over and over again they play up that fact – as if four deaths weren’t tragic enough already.

Jenn knows I want to reach out to Rick. She’s brought her laptop and we go online so I can send him a message. I’m glad she’s here. I can’t imagine how much worse this day would be without her and her beautiful girl.

Somewhere in the night I discover Kate is allergic to the adhesive on the leads. Poor thing is turning very red – but I don’t dare remove them. Instead I cat nap all night to keep her from scratching them off in her sleep.

After Kate’s appointment on Saturday we’re heading home and I am struck by how I have been blessed by the friends I have.

They’re not a substitute for Rick. But since he can’t be here – they’re my strength and my support. They have given so much since we’ve been going through this and I am so grateful for their presence in my life.

Day 210

And the hits just keep on coming...

2009-03-18T05:35:00.000-07:00

You know that point where you’re so emotionally overwhelmed that you become numb?

I think I’m at that point.

I’m in the shower – the phone is ringing. My friend Jenn calls me every day so I think it’s her and know that it’ll go to voice mail and I’ll call her back. Then I hear my cell phone. Then the house phone again.

I stumble out of the shower – soapy hair, dripping wet and grab the phone. It’s Kate’s school.

My heart sinks. “O no,” is the only thing that passes my lips as I’m told she’s had another episode.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell the teacher and scramble to drag on Rick’s sweats and a t-shirt. Wet hair and all I head out the door.

I don’t feel the panic that I’ve felt in previous weeks. I drive fast, but then, that’s nothing new. I’m running though all the questions the doctors tend to ask me so I can ask the T.A.

I’m worried. I’m sad. But my heart isn’t beating like an African drum. Sometimes I’m amazed at what the human body can get used to.

As I drive I leave a message for Kate’s neurologist. Something in my voice must have indicated the urgency – or my lack of patience – because I’m assured that I’ll have a call back the same day.

I reach the school. Kate is lying on a gym mat. She’s wonky. She’s off kilter and moves like she’s had too much peach schnapps.

She’s wet herself twice and doesn’t look me in the face.

This time I opt for home instead of the emergency room. They’ve done all they can at emerge. At this point we’re waiting for the MRI, scheduled for next week.

She’s silent again. A rag doll that looks like my girl.

Her usual squeal as we pull in the driveway is absent and I feel an icy dagger through my stomach. I can’t let her see me cry. It isn’t fair to upset her – she’s the one going through this. I’m just along for the ride.

As we approach the house Kate leans heavily on me. She’s forgotten how to unzip her jacket or how to take off her boots and as I kneel before her removing them I wonder how much more she’s forgotten.

I must have stared too long at the floor trying to blink back tears because she leaned down and touched my face to make me look at her.

She’s my girl. She’s not easy. She’s sometimes not fun. But she’s my girl. And my heart breaks for the things she’s had to bear. When does it end?

She wants me to cuddle on the couch. That I can do.

I hold her hand until she falls asleep and I wait for the tears to slip down my face – but they don’t come.

I’m mesmerized by the sunlight on her red hair. And how her eyelashes are the same colour. I remember watching her sleep as a baby amazed in the same way and I’m overwhelmed.

My strength has been depleted. And I feel a shift. I’ve switched into automatic. As if I’m on autopilot I’m back to going through the motions. What I wouldn’t give for him to be here.

Day 206

The Army Giveth And The Army Taketh Away

2009-03-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

I should have known!

I freaking knew better than to get my hopes up!

Remember that “light at the end of the tunnel thing”? Well it turns out it’s a freight train – not the end of the tunnel.

The army, in it’s infinite wisdom and all powerful omnipotence, has decided that my husband is needed in Afghanistan and all our plans are out the window.

I shouldn’t have told the boy that his daddy would be here for his birthday. But when Rick called a week ago and said he would be home in March instead of April I figured it was a safe gamble.

He’s devastated. I’m devastated. The other kids are devastated.

Sigh – so now what?

I had my heart set on relief coming. Rick’s parents were even making the trek from Newfoundland. Help was on the horizon.

Not so much anymore.

He called me two days ago and said that it was a distant possibility that he could be extended and he would let me know as soon as he knew. When I answered the phone today and heard his voice say “Hi Baby” I knew.

The rest of the conversation was irrelevant. And, in all honesty, I don’t even remember it.

I’m sure he gave me a reason. I’m sure he outlined the importance of why he had to stay. But for the life of me I wouldn’t be able to give you that information if I tried.

All I know is that I was excited and happy and had hope for the first time in months. And now it’s gone. It’s gone, and I feel as bereft as when he got back on that plane after HLTA.

When he said good-bye I just sat here. I sat here and cried. I think Kate even sensed what was happening because she started to cry right along with me. Sometimes I forget that she knows what’s what.

So, the countdown has been suspended. The party revellers are dismissed from Times Square and we continue to slog through this winter alone.

Day 202

An amazing display of courage

2009-03-09T12:11:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Daw-jhNQ1vw

The above link will connect you to the most moving interviews I’ve ever seen. Michelle Brown, widow of Warrant Officer Dennis Brown recently killed in Afghanistan, stands before the cameras.

I’m purposely distancing myself against the news again. The insurgent attacks are increasing again and I’ve nearly got myself worried sick with Rick’s return so close.

I’m aware of the Canadian losses. I feel pain at the announcement of each new name. And I continue to marvel in anger at the collective rudeness of a majority of comments at the tail of each story on the CBC and CTV websites.

Yet in the midst of this one woman has gathered the courage to address the media.

It’s been less than a week since her husband was killed by an IED, and Michelle Brown decided to speak to the media. Not just in a prepared statement that so many families issue, she was willing to stand up and answer the media’s questions.

I wonder if she realized at the time that she was putting into words what so many of the wives are feeling. I wonder if she knew how proud we would be of her.

I’d like to think that if anything happened to Rick I would have the wherewithal to stand in front of strangers and tell the world that I am proud of him. I would like to think that I wouldn’t break down into a sobbing mess and that someone wouldn’t have to lead me off stage left.

I’d like to think I could stand there and tell them how much I love him. I’d like to think I could hold it together when the liberal media asked questions like whether or not I thought this war was in vain.

I would like to think all these things. In reality I know that I would stand there with tears running down my face while my throat closed off and reduced my speaking voice to an inaudible squeak.

So, to see her standing there, with such poise, made my heart swell and made me sit with my head a little higher. Her strength was enormous and I hope her message reached out and touched the Canadian public.

Wherever her husband is he must be so proud of her. I haven’t even met her and I’m proud of her.

Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Thank you for representing your fellow military spouses with the dignity, grace and courage we would all like to display. Your family is in my prayers, and thank you for your husband’s sacrifice.

Day 197

Dusting the Elephant

2009-02-27T05:51:00.001-08:00

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

Fighting the Darkness

2009-02-19T15:05:00.000-08:00

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

Feel the Love

2009-02-15T15:33:00.000-08:00

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

Running on a full stomach

2009-02-15T09:22:00.001-08:00

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

Praying for clean rope

2009-02-04T13:04:00.000-08:00

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

Watching the Snow

2009-01-29T08:31:00.000-08:00

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

Afraid to sleep

2009-01-23T05:51:00.000-08:00

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.

Bear Envy

2009-01-16T12:06:00.000-08:00

“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.

Responding to the Stupid

2009-01-08T07:34:00.000-08:00

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

Lord - If You're listening - give me strenth.

2009-01-06T07:57:00.000-08:00

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

Finding joy while eating an elephant

2008-12-29T15:13:00.000-08:00

I haven’t written anything new in nearly two weeks.

It’s not that I don’t want to. But I’m aware that many of my posts tend to be emotional – and Christmas isn’t the time to make others sad. It’s the time for joy.

So, for the past 10 days or so I’ve been working on finding my joy this Christmas.

It hasn’t been easy.

I’m usually one of “them”. Those people who shop in August and have decorations in every corner of the house. I love everything about the season – even down to the madness at the mall on December 23rd.

One of my favourite memories is of being in the junior choir and attending the candlelight service. I can remember how everything seemed magical by candlelight as if God were really listening to us sing.

This Christmas there weren’t any church services. To be honest – there haven’t been any for a long time. Katie doesn’t abide crowds very well and explaining to a group of strangers why she’s whooping and screaming isn’t my favourite pastime.

I try to make sure that the kids hear the nativity story every Christmas Eve. I remember to sing the hymns as well as the Santa carols. But this Christmas I longed for the white church on West Street, nearly as much as I longed for my husband.

I wanted to see the red carpet dusted with sprinkles from the angels’ wings. I wanted to see the Advent Candles lit at the front. I wanted to see the tree lit at the front, hear the pipe organ and hear the King James Version of the First Night.

On top of missing my husband, I’m homesick.

Funny – when you think that I’ve lived here for nearly eight years without one twinge of homesickness. I think Rick is my shield against the longing for where we grew up.

O – I’m sure I’ve built up a tough skin of my own. But its only so long one can scrape a rhinoceros before you reach the tender under skin. And the raw emotions of losing nine soldiers in Afghanistan this month as well as spending the holidays alone have all but removed my armour.

He called me on Christmas day, a full 15 minutes on the phone and another full hour online. I couldn’t have asked for a better present.

I know he senses my sadness. I know he feels my worry. I try to hide it. But my emotions have always danced across my face and although I may be able to hide it on the phone. He sees me online and knows that something isn’t right.

I went through the motions. I stuffed stockings, made big meals, the whole nine yards.
But I didn’t feel Christmas.

And now that it’s past I’m sorry for it.

Next year, Rick says, will be our best Christmas yet. A house full of love and laughter, children and merriment – and maybe even that trip to the white church.

My joy will be in the future. I look forward to feeling it. And in the meantime I’m eating this elephant.

Day 129.

Family Pride

2008-12-26T09:10:00.000-08:00

This letter was printed in our hometown newspaper. It's an open letter to Rick. It encompasses everything we're feeling this holiday season with Rick's deployment to Afghanistan.

Hi Honey;

I am proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you. And the fact that you are there – makes me even prouder.

This is our first deployment as a family and I won’t lie – it’s been harder than I thought it would be. We miss you. We’ve built our life together and while you’re away it’s like someone left the window open in a snowstorm.

Christmas is coming. I’ve shopped. I’ve baked. I’ve decorated. But it isn’t the same.

Liam keeps saying he’s writing Santa to bring you home for Christmas. I’ve been trying to explain that the magic doesn’t work that way and that you have to stay there to do your job this Christmas. He’s only six but I think he understands.

We’ve made the decision to stay here for the holidays. We want to be close to home. It makes us feel closer to you. And it will help the kids to be together even for a few hours.

I’ve put the presents under the tree. The ones for you have long been sent to the desert. I don’t know if you have them yet but the kids helped to wrap them and I hope you haven’t peeked.

We’re going to make this holiday the best we can. It won’t be like the others. It will pale in comparison.

But we’ll have other Christmases. Ones where we can sit on the front step and watch the snow fall onto the Christmas lights. Ones where we can stay up late and watch White Christmas and stuff stockings and you can steal the chocolate almonds and sneak the peanut butter cookies. Ones where you can sing off tune carols at the top of your lungs as you cook breakfast before the sun comes up.

But on Christmas Eve look up. Seek the North Star. Make a wish. We’ll do the same and in that moment we can have the Christmas magic together, even for just one second.

We love you. We miss you. And we are fiercely proud to be your family.

Louise, Liam, Holden, Katie and Danielle

Howling at the Wind

2008-12-20T07:17:00.000-08:00

“All ready?”

What kind of a stupid question is that?

Why do people feel it necessary to ask if I’m all ready for Christmas?

Of course I’m not all ready. Rick isn’t here! I’ll never be “ready” to celebrate a major holiday alone with the kids.

Have I shopped? Check.

Baked? Check.

Decorated? Not yet.

What’s my hold up? I can’t bear it. I can’t face it. I don’t want it. I don’t feel like it.

Pick one.

I normally love Christmas. Its sounds, its smells, its lights all make me smile. This year it’s like someone’s twisting a knife.

I know I’ve got to get my arse in gear. I know I’ve got to make the holidays as “normal” as I can for the children. But…I DON’T WANT TO!

I WANT MY HUSBAND!

I know he’s got a job to do. I know he’s doing important work. I know he’s a soldier first. I know all of it. I understand all of it. I really do. But I can’t stop feeling this way.

I want to scream and lay on the floor and kick my feet like a two-year-old. I want to climb to the top of Fishing Point Head and scream at the wind. I want to punch something. Howl at the moon – anything to make this feeling go away.

It’s petty. I realize that.

I’m just so tired.

I’m tired of sleeping with one eye open. I’m tired of chasing Kate and bearing the responsibilities of the house alone. I’m tied of not showering alone on the weekends. I’m tired of always being “on deck”.

And add to that stress the stresses of the holidays and I believe we’re seeing some hairline fractures in the delicate membrane that his holding this particular military spouse together.

Oh – I’ll get the decorating done. The presents will be wrapped. The tree will be trimmed. I know I’ve got enough strength to “go through the motions” for the sake of the kids. But I feel like this Energizer Bunny is running out of juice.

If anyone has a direct line to the big guy – could you please ask him to send a little extra strength, patience and Christmas spirit in my direction?

Day 119

Haunted

2008-12-15T12:05:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning.

I’m making breakfast. Great Big Sea is blaring from the stereo in the kitchen and Liam and I are dancing like fools. Kate laughs at us from her perch at the table.

The phone rings I rush laughing to the stereo and to the handset to answer.

I barely get the hello past my lips when my friend gushes

“Please tell me you’ve heard from Rick today.”

The smile fades from my face in an icy shiver.

“What’s happened?”

She has no details – just that her friend has been told he’s driving the padre. That means the dead is from here. I put my head down to keep the room from spinning out of control.

“Please God don’t let it be Rick” is the chant that flies around my brain. How would I tell my babies?

I spend the next hour jumping every time a car drives down the street. Then Rick is online.

I can’t describe the relief at seeing him pop online brings.

He can only stay online for a short time. He’s exhausted. Running on only 2 hours sleep and has to be back to work in a few more hours. He loves me and misses me and wants me to be brave. It’s not him or his guys and they haven’t been told any names yet.

Despite the brevity of our conversation I’m grateful. Like a huge weight is lifted off of me. It’s not Rick – thank God.

How horrible is that?

Some poor woman lost her husband today. And I’m taking comfort in the fact it’s not mine. I close my eyes and offer a prayer for the fallen.

Picking up Dani and Holden a few hours later I discover that it’s their neighbour that’s been lost. The sadness in the neighbourhood is palpable, baking off the houses like heat in July.

The kids are glad to be leaving the emotional turmoil behind for the night. I can see in their eyes that they’re scared and sad. Dani’s normally clear blue eyes are haunted and pained – something only her Dad can soothe.

As we turn to leave I see a car arrive next door. It’s her parents. And for a brief moment I see her face.

Her grief is etched on her countenance.

Her arms go around the couple that have just arrived and I see her shoulders tremble.

My nightmare. Played out in front of me.

My heart breaks for her and her children.

I want to help. I want to offer condolences. I want to take some of her pain. I don’t know how.

I don’t intrude. I don’t speak. I gather the kids into the car and drive away.

I try to be upbeat for the children. Keeping everything as normal as possible and letting them talk, if they want to, is priority.

As I slip between the sheets I close my eyes and see her face.

Hot tears slip between my lashes and run down my cheeks onto my pillow. More tears to go with the oceans cried for the soldiers lost and away.

God protect them.

Day 113

Wearing the Glad Rags

2008-12-14T06:49:00.000-08:00

I got up the nerve to go.

It took a bit. The invitation came a couple of weeks ago and I debated whether or not I should. But I responded to the RSVP and here I am – putting on the glad rags and waiting for the sitter.

I normally get really excited when we go out without the kids. Then again – I’m usually not heading out alone.

Usually he’s all ready standing at the foot of the stairs as I finish up some last minute preparations and he’s yelling at me to hurry up. Funny the things you miss.

The party is semi-formal. I’ve already run through three pairs of nylons and I sigh as my fingers go through the fourth. Socks and boots it is.

Looking in the mirror I long to hear him tell me how I look. He always says the same thing – “it’ll look better on the floor when we get home” – I smile despite the fact no one has spoken.

I’m zipping my boots as the sitter arrives. The afternoon snow has turned to freezing rain – it could be a slow drive in.

I pick up my “date”. A friend of Rick’s who has agreed to accompany me so I don’t wind up sitting at a table full of strangers.

The parking lot is packed as we arrive. Walking and sliding over the slushy, icy snow is not fun. I’m a klutz at the best of times. And I pray I don’t fall on my butt.

The Legion is warm. I put my coat away and get checked in. We’re at table 18.

I scan the room. I recognize maybe one person every 15 or so. I’m glad I didn’t come alone. There’s nothing worse than a party full of strangers.

I gravitate towards Rick’s friends. It’s good to see them. Everyone has been so busy this fall that I’ve done little more than to speak with them on the phone. It’s good to tease and talk to friends. I wish Rick was here.

Meal over and speeches begin. There’s always that one drunk idiot who makes an ass out of himself. I think it could be worse. I could be that guy’s date.

The Battery Commander and the Padre head to our table – we’re the deployed wives after all. Rick usually doesn’t let me speak to anyone over the rank of Lieutenant. His Commanding Officer once asked me, after Rick spending weeks in the field, how I liked being an Artillery wife – and I told him. Ever since then he’s kept me and the senior officers separated.

I grin and decide to get my picture taken with the Major and the Padre. Just for Rick.

The BC asks how our family is coping. I tell him that the MFRC is great – but 4AD needs to get on the ball and support the women more.

As if in echo to my sentiments to the BC, several of Rick’s friends ask me how I’m doing and tell me if I need anything to just call them. My smile is genuine but strained. I’m glad I came – but it’s time to go.

Being around Rick’s unit makes me feel both closer to him and further away. If I don’t leave now I’ll cry. A few stops to say good-bye to a few folks and I’ve collected my jacket and am headed for the door.

Just before I open it I remember something. Jim Reid is here – he’s with Rick in Afghanistan and is home on his HLTA. I search the room for him and make a beeline in his direction.

“Jim!” I yell over the music. He looks in my direction. I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Make sure my husband gets that.” And with a smile and a Merry Christmas to the folks at Jim’s table I leave the party.

As I walk to the car I realize I’m humming. Maybe the party was just what I needed.

Day 109

Deep Breaths and Little Steps

2008-12-06T05:50:00.000-08:00

Christmas spirit is creeping in.

Little by little I am feeling more myself. More solid instead of an apparition peeking through the keyholes at the celebrations around me.

I’ve started to shop. I haven’t decorated yet. But I’m at least thinking about it – a monumental improvement from the way I was feeling a week ago.

And then a friend pops onto MSN.

“Go read the news.”

“Which news?” I ask.

“Doesn’t matter.”

I sigh and open a new browser. I wait as the CBC fills the screen and feel myself blanch at what I see.

Throwing a bucket of ice water over me would have produced the same effect. I shiver.

Canadian soldiers. Three more Canadian soldiers. I want to be sick.

My friend pops on again and says – “It isn’t Rick – you’d know already.”

Tears are in my eyes. I can’t stop myself from thinking of the families. Just a few weeks before the holidays and they’ve lost their loved ones.

I can feel their pain. And it burns.

Rick has managed to send a short note via Facebook. He’s told me he likes indoor cats best. Code for the fact he hasn’t been outside the wire. I’d like to hear his voice but communication has been cut for obvious reasons.

“I’ll Be Home For Christmas” starts playing on the radio. I break down.

Deep breaths. Little steps. More tears.

I re-read the article and feel a thin anger. They haven’t led with the deaths. They’ve played up the fact that these deaths make it 101 killed. They’ve reduced them to numbers.

They’re so much more than numbers. They’re heroes. They all are. Willing to put their lives on the line. Willing to live in the harshest environments possible. Willing to die because their government and their country asks them to.

They’re not numbers. They’re husbands, and fathers and sons and brothers and they should be remembered that way.

Peace on earth is a beautiful concept. But it isn’t something that’s going to be brought about with a bunch of comments on the CBC website. I think people should remember that.

Be grateful for the sacrifice that these men and these families have made in the name of Peace. Honour them. Remember them. They are not numbers. They are our brothers.

Day 104

Stealing time....

2008-11-28T07:18:00.000-08:00

This week has been hard.

I’ve felt like a helium balloon. Slowly deflating from its festive best into a sad shape hovering near the floor.

I’m going through the motions. Sort of “phoning it in”. Getting up. Getting the kids off to school and then I blink and I’m getting them off the bus. Nothing accomplished in between.

I didn’t think the week after would be so lonely.

I thought I’d have a few days of weepiness followed by the whole “get back on your horse” type of thing. And I’m trying. I really am. But I’m still on the ground.

I’ve got some fantastic friends who call and check on me. I don’t think they realize how much I draw on their strength.

Rick calls every day. I’m grateful for that. His voice is my link to myself at this point.

I need something to give me a shake. If my mother were here she’d smack me and tell me to get on with it she’d incite me to anger and that would be better than this numbing feeling. But she’s not. So I remain the same.

I’m watching everyone get ready for the holidays. Hearing about their trees, their presents, their decorations. Seeing their lights. Their preparations are all but complete. Mine haven’t been thought about.

A favourite teacher of mine used to say, “procrastination is the thief of time.” Well I’m the willing accomplice this week. Let the time go. Let the holidays pass and let me crawl under the covers until spring.

Day 98

Goodbye again.

2008-11-21T06:42:00.000-08:00

Twenty days.

For twenty days I haven’t been alone. I’ve had my husband here to laugh with, talk with, argue with, love.

Nineteen nights I’ve not laid here alone. Nineteen nights I’ve not been awakened to a little boy screaming in terror. I’ve not had to cuddle into pillows to fall asleep. And I’ve not been the one to listen, even in my sleep, for noises outside the normal house sounds. I’ve slept.

Sixty meals I’ve not had to be a jack-in-the-box jumping up to get something. Dinner conversations were about something other than how many more bites before Liam could be done. Daytime meals were not eaten alone. I could look across the table and see his face.

Four hundred and eighty hours I’ve not had to be the “strong” one. Not had to be the only one responsible for everything in the house. Not had to keep an eye on Kate 24/7 and have been able to shower alone.

Twenty-eight thousand eight hundred minutes that I’ve not had to worry that something bad was going to happen to him. Not had to be on guard against that knock at the door.

But now it’s done.

Where did the time go?

Those twenty days flew by. I blinked and they were done.

I only picked him up at the airport the other day. I shouldn’t be dropping him off already.

We’ve spent a lot of time together, both as a couple and as a family. Storing memories like a squirrel stores food for the winter. I keep thinking of things we should have done.

I’ve had a dozen little breakdowns today. Little sobbing fits that he comforts me through. I’m trying hard to keep the kids from seeing them. I don’t want to make it worse. But it feels like my chest is being crushed and my stomach is in knots.

There are no other soldiers here this time. The other passengers appear to be mostly businesspeople. The tension is less. The sadness more contained in our little corner.

There is no luggage to check. He’s only got his carry on. The “official” airport business takes less than five minutes. He’s going to have to get new tickets at Heathrow for the second leg of his journey it seems the Air Canada/British Airways partnership isn’t that cosy.

Our good-bye is quicker than we’d like. Kate is upset and we want to avoid a meltdown. We watch him through the security glass for a few minutes and then decide to leave. I can’t breathe.

The drive home is in darkness and I offer a little prayer of thanksgiving. I’m crying hard by the time I hit the last set of lights on the way home. The darkness hides my face from the children. By the time we get home I’m more or less back under control.

Walking into the house after the airport is like walking into an empty shell. The home that was vibrantly alive for the last twenty days has somehow changed. Even the dogs sense it.

Liam has held it together all day. But by bedtime he’s emotionally wrung out and I hear him crying in his room. I sigh. Please God; don’t let the night terrors start again.

Day 90.

What's better than a hotel suite?

2008-11-10T04:41:00.000-08:00

So we’re at the hotel.

I’m sleeping. Let me repeat that part – I am sleeping. For those of you who are following my blog you’ll understand what a monumental thing that is.

I’m awakened by the absence of the weight that lay across me all night and the sudden difference in temperature. Rick has gotten out of bed.

A one-eyed scan of the room reveals that it’s still night. The alarm clock says 0430 and since the times went back at midnight it’s really 0330. I expect him to come back to bed. I expected wrong…

Instead my husband is turning on the lights and packing his bag. When he’s done with his he starts on mine. I pretend to still be asleep for the first 10 minutes of his rummaging but I’m a curious person by nature and I can’t resist asking him what the heck he’s doing at such a godforsaken hour of the morning.

“I’m going to see the kids,” is the response I receive.

“Umm, Honey, it’s 3:30 in the morning. The kids won’t be up for a few more hours.”

We argue about the time change for a few minutes and he sullenly flops onto the couch and turns on the TV.

I manage to nap. But by 0530 he’s back to rummaging in my stuff and banging around loud enough to wake Rip Van Winkle himself.

“Get up. I need to see my kids.” All the patience is gone out of his voice.

And with that our romantic night is officially over.

I manage to drag my feet getting ready. Manage to get another bath in the Jacuzzi tub. And convince him to stop at Timmies for a morning coffee. But by 0700 we’re pulling into our own driveway.

He can hardly contain himself.

Bags are left in the car and he doesn’t even wait for me to get the video camera adjusted. He’s up the stone steps like a shot.

The lights are on in the kitchen, so hopefully the kids are up.

I’m about 10 feet behind him, trying to provide some voiceover information for the camera as we burst into the house.

Kate is there. She stops like a deer caught in the headlights. Eyes wide she looks at Rick. You can see the disbelief in her eyes. She takes a step towards him and then backs up.

He speaks to her. She moves forward again only to back up and dance. On the third attempt she manages to touch him. He’s real! You can see the words practically dance across her face and she squeals in delight. She grabs him by the arm, drags him into the living room, pushes him down on the couch and flops on top of him. Mandatory cuddle time apparently.

I call Liam up from the family room where he’s playing with his friends. We’re expecting a big reaction. I tell him to come with me there’s something in the living room I want him to see. He spies his dad.

We’ve been talking about how Liam will lose his mind when he sees his daddy. Thinking we’re going to get a big reaction out of him I’m all positioned with the video camera. My friend and her children are watching from the dining room when my son walks up to his father and says “Oh, hi Daddy.”

No tears, no drama. Just a hug for his dad and a “hi Daddy” – talk about anticlimactic.

Just before noon. Rick wants me to go get the older two kids. Their mom and I have worked out a story to get the kids out for the night on a Sunday. We’re supposed to be making cookies.

As I pick them up, they’re less than enthusiastic about staying the night. Holden has even given his mom a hard time about it.

As we approach our street I call the house to ask if anyone needs anything from the corner store. It’s our signal for Rick to get into place.

T-Lynn is on the camera inside the house. And I’m biting my lip trying to herd them both into the house while getting a front row seat for their reactions while trying my best not to giggle.

Holden spies his Dad peeking out around the refrigerator first. He’s gob smacked. Mouth open, eyes wide, grinning type of gob smacked.

Dani is greeting our Shih Tzu, Scrunchon, who is dancing at her feet. She hasn’t even looked into the kitchen yet.

“Dan”, I say, “what do you think about this?” and she looks in our direction. Her immediate reaction is tear-filled joy.

Rick encloses both kids in a bear hug and closes his eyes.

Now he’s home. Day 72

Being the Cheshire Cat...............

2008-11-04T11:51:00.000-08:00

It’s Saturday.

Finally.

I’ve been keeping this secret for too long.

Rick will be home today.

He’s traded HLTAs with another member of the crew. We’ve made the decision to keep it under wraps and surprise the kids. For the last week I’ve been walking around like the Cheshire cat – I’m not sure I’m so good at keeping this secret.

His flight gets in at 2030. I look at the clock – sigh – just 11 more hours to go. I feel like I’m going to burst.

I had my hair done on Friday morning. I’ve been to Mulder’s – some gorgeous t-bone steaks are sitting in my refrigerator, special request from the sandbox.

We’ve rented a hotel room for tonight. My friend is coming over to stay with the kids. I’ve stripped and made the beds, packed my bags twice and have managed to get into the bath. Another quick glance at the clock reveals only 6 more hours to go.

This must be what the old lady felt like when she swallowed a bird. I’m still grinning.

I still have to pick up some wine, Red Bull – another request, and a fruit tray. T-Lynn and the kids will be here soon. I’m giggling…

T-Lynn sends me off with a “Have fun” and I grin even wider, if possible. “Oh, I plan on it” I hear myself reply with a laugh.

I don’t think the drive in has ever taken this long. Time is both rushing and standing still. It’s almost a surreal feeling – like being dropped down the rabbit hole.

My giddy feelings of euphoria must be contagious. I’ve got the lady at the front desk grinning for me as well. We’re on the fourth floor. Normally I hate the confines of an elevator – today it’s not even a blip on the radar.

Room 416. I stand in front of the door and take a deep breath. It’s real.

My hands are full as I try to juggle bottles of wine, my bag, my boots, a fruit tray and Lord knows what else as I attempt to open the door with the swipe card thing. It’s a miracle the whole lot didn’t wind up on the floor.

The door opens. The room is big. A mini-suite with a bar fridge, sitting area, fireplace, king sized bed, I giggle again. What the heck is wrong with me? – Am I twelve?

The bathroom is massive, with a Jacuzzi tub made for two. I’ve bought candles and I set them up around the edges.

Time to get ready.

Only an hour until his plane lands.

I take my time on my make-up. It isn’t something I wear everyday. I want to look extra special for him. I’ve lost weight since he left. Will he notice?

“Stop worrying,” my brain tells me. “The man loves you. And he’s been living in the middle of a wasteland with 10,000 other army guys – you at least look cuter than they do.”

I shake my head and zip up my boots. It’s a half hour until his plane lands. It’s only 15 minutes, more or less, from the hotel to the airport. I’m nervous.

As I walk through the lobby the front desk chick gives me a low whistle. I hope Rick concurs.

I drive too fast. I always do. It’s worse when I’m excited or nervous. I make it to the airport in 10 minutes. I can see his plane on approach.

The butterflies in my stomach have turned into giant birds. My heart is pounding. They’ve changed the parking area since he left and I circle the place twice before I figure out where I have to be.

I walk in just in time to see the Jazz plane land and taxi up to the terminal. My face hurts from grinning.

I can see the passengers disembark. They’re entering the terminal and finding their loved ones. No sign of my man.

Five minutes. Ten. Then there he is!

He’s dark. He looks tired. He looks like the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. My heart leaps. I lose sight of him for a minute behind two businessmen who seem to be having an argument. I fight the urge to clothesline them and instead step around them.

He’s standing in front of me. He’s smiling. He’s blurry. Tears have jumped into my eyes. And he reaches for me. I’m in his arms. I breathe in the scent of him. I can hear his heart.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Day 71

You've got Mail

2008-10-25T12:17:00.001-07:00

The mail comes every day at noon.

What does that matter? You ask – well it doesn’t if you don’t live on our street, I suppose.

But it’s comforting to know that sometimes things run on schedule. Especially now.

So by 1300 I’m checking the mail. What else have I got to do?

Today there’s a package card. I’m not expecting a package.

After the deployment coffee break I head to the post office.

The trip into the post office is fast. Partly because I’ve got a lead foot and partly because I’m excited – the kind of little-kid-on-Christmas-Eve excited. Because I think I know who sent the package!

I’m an avid E-Bayer so the lady at the post office knows me. And she hands me this monster huge package. It must weigh 30 pounds and I can’t get my arms around it.

But it’s from Reid RT and my heart skips.

Getting it from the car to the house is a challenge. I’m half swearing about the size and weight of the package and scared to death I’ll drop it and break it so it’s a slow walk up the stone steps.

Panting by the time I get to the door I wedge it between me and the doorframe to rest my arms. What in the world is in this, rocks?

I half stagger into the kitchen and put it on the table with a thump. It looks even bigger here.

I check the clock. Sigh – not enough time to open it – I have to get the kids washed and jammied and into bed.

An hour later and it’s just me. I sit – staring at the box as if it’s the answer to some eternal riddle.

Scissors, a knife and a few cut knuckles later and the treasures are in front of me. Beautiful things. Colourful pashminas, a marble tea set, a marble chess set. He knows me so well that everything is perfect. As if I had been there with him to choose it.

I hope he calls tomorrow. Day 62

Finding Pollyanna

2008-10-18T11:59:00.000-07:00

I’m a horrible parent.

Before you say “don’t be silly” - hear me out.

I’ve always felt like a horrible parent.

I think it started when Kate was diagnosed. I felt like I could have or should have done something to prevent her Autism. I know that’s foolish. My head tells me it’s foolish. My heart – well my heart tells me something else.

It wasn’t until I had Liam that I had proof that I’m actually a pretty decent mom. Parenting a child with special needs and one with normal needs is a completely different experience. Doing both together….well….that’s why I’ve got grey hair.

After going through all of the medical emergencies that come with a child with Autism, Cerebral Palsy and Epilepsy a little blood or scrapes doesn’t even rate on the Louise-stress-o-meter.

So when Liam comes in with a huge scrape and bruise on his belly from flipping over the handle bars on his bike I am unflappable. I clean up the scrape and put a dressing on it, give him some chewable Motrin, rock him a bit and put him to bed.

Several times in the night I hear him get up to use the washroom – nothing new. But early in the morning I hear him being sick. When I go to see what’s happening I’m gob smacked by his pallor. He’s the colour of cold oatmeal.

“Damn, damn, damn” I think. “I should have brought him to Emerge to be checked last night, Rick would have insisted we get him checked last night. I check the clock – 0815 – emerge is open – let’s go.”

Katie is actually compliant to get washed and dressed – a novelty. Liam goes like he is in a grey tee and pirate jammie bottoms.

We get right in – no waiting. My stomach is tied in knots. The doctor orders blood work. Directly under his injury is his liver. They think it’s in trouble. The room grows fuzzy as tears spring into my eyes. This is my baby.

Blood work then x-rays. Kate is hungry and is starting to get antsy sitting around doing nothing. If this is going to take long or if they admit him – what am I supposed to do? I can’t leave him in the hospital alone and I can’t leave her either.

My mind spins. I pick up the phone and call my friend. She’s on her way. I look at my oatmeal coloured boy on the hospital gurney and try not to cry.

I wish Rick was here. I am so horrible in these situations. He’s the better parent. He’s the calm one. He’s the one who wouldn’t be standing here bawling in the middle of the triage area.

Just as my friend arrives we’re transferred from Oromocto to Fredericton. They’re aware we’re coming and the surgeon will meet us there. My heart sinks. A surgeon.

My friend takes one look at my face and decides to accompany us to Fredericton. For the billionth time I thank God for that French Course.

A rat maze of rooms and checking in leads us to the ultrasound area. Liam is crying as she moves the gel-covered wand over his belly. I let him play with my hair and I use the singsong shushing thing that used to work on him when he was a baby. My nerves are frayed as I search the alien like grey pictures for damage – as if I’d know if I saw it.

Kate dumps a red Gatorade onto the floor in the waiting area. She’s had enough and wants my attention. I can’t be in both places.

His liver is bruised but here appears to be no further damage. The surgeon gives us the green light to go home along with a warning, if he starts passing blood to bring him back immediately.

The drive home is a blur – I don’t know if I’ve ever felt such relief.

Relieved for his diagnosis. Relieved for the discharge. Relieved that I have a support system of friends that can and will help me in times of need.

Maybe this is my Pollyanna time.

Day 57.

Strapping it On....

2008-10-13T06:11:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving.

I wasn’t prepared to feel this lonely today.

Usually I’ve got a house full of people laughing, playing cards, cooking, eating and yelling to be heard over each other. This year…..well this year I don’t.

I started the day determined to make it as special as possible. As the kids eat their cereal I make apple pies. I realize I’m concentrating too hard on blocking out my feelings when Liam yells at me “Mom! Look at me, will ya?” From his tone I guess he’s been calling to me for a while.

I don’t dare look in his direction. The tears are still welled up in my eyes. I’m thinking of the times when holidays meant our family crossed the street and celebrated together.

But home now is where the army sends us. I don’t even know my neighbours.

“Strap it on, woman”, I think. “They can’t see you like this.”

“Yeah Buddy, what do you need?” I respond.

“Will Daddy have turkey and pie in Ganistan?” It’s the closest he can come to saying the name of the country.

“I think so, Dude.”

“That’s good.”

The dog noses the back of my knee. I can still smell the faint whiff of skunk. I sigh. I hope the smell doesn’t spoil the turkey dinner.

Turkey. For me and two kids. The dogs are going to eat well tonight.

The pies are done. Crust crispy and golden. I don’t have my mother’s knack – but they’re passable.

I try to pull a Pollyanna – think about the positives. It’s harder than I thought.

I reach for the phone and then decide I don’t want to drag down anyone’s mood and set it back it its cradle.

It scares me that I feel like this on Thanksgiving. Especially in the daytime. Especially when I’m busy.

If I feel like this now – how am I supposed to make it through Christmas? Day 52.

Lead, Follow or Get Out of the Way!

2008-10-10T15:25:00.001-07:00

I’m at a loss.

I know I’m going to do it – but to who? Who do I trust?

Who do I trust with everything?

Usually Rick and I would sit and discuss anything this important. We debate – (a polite way to say we argue loudly) the pros and cons of the issues and come to some sort of consensus and stick to that plan.

This time the whole thing seems both more monumental and more insignificant than anything before. Monumental because Rick’s life, not just his livelihood, is on the line this time and insignificant because of the choices themselves.

I’ve watched, with varying degrees of amusement and annoyance, the mudslinging between the parties. But I’ve yet to see one genuine sliver of real emotion from any of them.

They’re political Milli Vanillis. Mouthing what they think we want to hear. Looking us in the eye and making promises while keeping their fingers crossed behind their backs. It’s mentally exhausting to watch them carrying favour with the special interest groups.

Harper lost my respect last spring with the “retirement” of Canada’s top soldier. I guess Steve couldn’t take the fact that there was a real leader in his midst.

Dion never had it. He comes across as one of those people who would wring their hands in the face of a crisis instead of forging through. As far as I’m concerned it’ll take the Liberals a long time to recover from his proposed Carbon Tax. I’m from a place where two income families had to go to food banks last winter because they couldn’t afford the heating fuel for their homes and he wants to add a tax to that???

I like Layton’s social policies. Hate his stance on the military. Maybe if I smoked more marijuana in college….

And May? Well, I think the environment is important too – but not more important than people.

So where does that leave me? In a perfect world I’d use genetic splicing - I’d smash May and Layton together and use Rick Hiller for glue – maybe then we’d have someone worth voting for.

One of my husband’s favourite quotes is “it’s better to die for something than to live for nothing.” A brave statement from a brave soldier. I just hope whoever wins next week can appreciate the fact that there are people from this country willing to do whatever they’re asked by the people who spent the last month accusing each other of plagiarism, heavy handedness, stupidity and more.
Pony up boys and girls. You’ve got my husband’s life in your hands. Day 49.

Welcome to the Madness

2008-10-03T05:16:00.000-07:00

It’s been a busy week.

Well, I’ve been on the go a lot – can’t really say I’ve accomplished much.

Things seem to be happening for the better. I’ve got that anticipatory feeling that you almost don’t want to breathe for fear that it’ll disappear.

The MFRC came through, thanks Shelly, and the home care company is sending over a lady to meet us.

I’ve cleaned the house twice. I know I’m not supposed to be this nervous. If she doesn’t work out they’ll send someone else. But it’s always like this when I meet someone who is going to work with Kate.

I brush her hair and whisper to her about who’s coming and what they’re going to be doing here. I pray she doesn’t act out. I don’t know why I always feel like we’re going to be rejected when it comes to things like this. My stomach is doing flips. Please like us.

Kate squeals from her perch staring out the window. She’s here. Liam makes it to the door before I do. Terra and Scrunch run past his legs. I run to call them back. I hope she’s not afraid.

Dogs barking, me yelling at one, Liam yelling at the other, Kate squealing – oh yeah we’re making a great impression. “Please see through this madness,” I think in her general direction. “We’re really not that bad.”

Kate takes to her right away. She holds her hand and brings her some things. She even hides her purse. One issue out of the way. Kate likes her. I was worried about that, because Kate is a person who either likes you or she doesn’t. And if she doesn’t – then watch out!

We talk about expectations, availabilities, cancellation policies, and I’m watching. Watching for the fear that so many people have shown when Katie is near. If she exhibits fear then she’s not the one for us.

I used to only be able to see the fear in children. But since Katie has grown I now see it in adults and it saddens me.

It’s not there! I expel a long breath. Issue two – check.

I’ve not had respite for so long that when she asked me about schedules I look at her dumbfounded, madly scrambling to come up with somewhere to go, something to do. I guess it really has been a long time since I had time to myself.

We’ve decided that she’ll come on Tuesdays. That way I can go to deployment coffee breaks, or shopping, or to see my friends. Is it wrong to be this excited about two hours to myself?

I can’t wait to tell Rick. I can’t wait for next Tuesday. Day 42.

Roses from the Desert

2008-09-28T06:26:00.000-07:00

It’s my anniversary.

More accurately it’s our anniversary.

He usually forgets. Well to be correct – he usually remembers at least half way through the day and scrambles to call the florist and makes something special for dinner.

Last year Liam helped with supper. We wound up with salmon and Kraft Dinner. His favourites. I fed most of mine to the dog.

So how does one spend their 5th wedding anniversary when their significant other is “over there?” Should I light candles and have a glass of wine? Should I get dressed up? Go out?

There should be a manual somewhere advising protocols in this situation - some socially acceptable thing to do when you find yourself alone on your anniversary. Because honestly, today, I would have gladly pulled the sheets up over my head and awakened tomorrow.

With two kids that’s not really an option – a fleeting idea maybe, but not a real option.

Some good friends brought me flowers yesterday, Gerbera daisies. They knew I’d be feeling low. Their cheery faces greet me as I enter the kitchen.

It’s raining – the remnants of a hurricane. The weekend we got married Juan hit Halifax. I hope this one will be kinder. The dogs are soaked.

I sigh. A jammie day, if there ever was one.

And the doorbell rings.

A man is standing there with a dozen roses. Red and pink – my favourite.

I grin the grin of the Cheshire cat. Laughter bubbles up from within. He remembered!!

And somehow he’s managed to send me roses from the middle of a war zone!

Liam is mesmerized by the fact that Daddy sent something. He can’t stop touching the soft petals. He’s six. He still believes in magic. And he believes his daddy can do anything. I start to explain about tele-florists and credit cards but I stop.

Let him have the magic for a little longer.

I don’t quite know how he managed it. I don’t really care.

He remembered.

And I can get through today. Day 36.

Letting her out of the box

2008-09-23T06:44:00.001-07:00

I hate shopping.

I’ve always hated shopping. I’ve got friends and family who are quite happy to go into a mall for hours on end and look at everything on the shelves, me - not so much.

Maybe that’s why I love big box stores. Any time I can one stop shop I go for it.

Which is why I find myself in Wal-Mart on a sunny morning purchasing dog food, sneakers, and a new bathmat. Only department stores have that sort of combo shopping.

It’s red Friday – so I’m wearing my red “Support our Troops” tee.

I’m standing in line – the Wal-Mart checkout chick is asking me if I found everything I was looking for and I hear this nasally, heavy accented, voice say “I hate those red t-shirts. I can’t believe people are supporting the war, Canada has no right to be there” and something else that the blood rushing to my head blocks out.

She’s obviously meant for me to hear her opinion – we’re two cart lengths away from each other. She could have leaned over to her friend and whispered her thoughts – she’s chosen not to – bad move on her part.

“Excuse me?” I hear myself say.

“You heard me,” she replies. “It’s disgraceful that Canadian soldiers are over there and supporting that is shameful.”

I look at my hands and I actually hear the snap as my hold on my temper, and my mouth, simultaneously let go.

I hate stupid people. I hate them as much as I hate shopping. More even. And how dare this foreign-born cow even open her mouth about the Canadian military? Especially since she’s standing not even 20 Kms away from the largest military training base in the Commonwealth? She doesn’t realize that she’s stepped in a hornets’ nest.

I’m livid. I’m at that point where you’re so angry you can feel your body vibrate. I can feel the hair on my head. It’s not going to be pretty. The little cashier is waving frantically for a supervisor and I open my mouth.

My brain-mouth filter has been completely removed and the R-rated version of my deepest thoughts and beliefs come flooding out.

Miss Opinion opens her mouth to respond but takes one look at my face and understands what speaking at this point would mean.

I’m ranting and I know it. And it feels good.

A crowd is gathering. Watching a harried military spouse in a red t-shirt tear a strip off of a beautifully coiffed dark skinned lady at the top of her lungs. At one point I hear them clap.

I’m sick of the CBC ending every story from Afghanistan with the line “96 soldiers and one politician have been killed since 2002” – how many people were killed in Canada since 2002??

I am sick to death of the election making Afghanistan a campaign issue. I am sick of that group in Fredericton protesting at the Freedom of the City Parade. I am sick of the website and the group that wants businesses to remove the support our troops signs in their windows. They hide behind the “freedom of speech” banner – who the heck do they think defends the right to that??? I am sick of it all and this woman will hear every word.

“I, for one, am extremely proud of the fact that the military exists. I am proud that my husband is a soldier. I am proud that these men and women are willing to put their lives on the line and go to some third world part of this planet and do whatever they are asked to do. I am proud that I am a military spouse and I will not be ashamed to show that pride, in what I wear, in where I live, in who I am. And if you don’t like it – feel free to get back on whichever boat that brought you here.”

The cashier looks like she’s about to be sick. Miss Opinion and her friend are pale. I’m shaking.

I pay for my stuff and head for the exit. The cops have probably been called. All I can think of is getting to the car. I want to puke.

Halfway across the parking lot an employee, maybe he’s a manager, catches up to me.

“Great – I’m going to be banned from the stupid Wal-Mart” is what I’m thinking.

But Wal-Mart knows which side its bread is buttered on and I actually get apologized to for the staff not stepping in when the other lady attempted her bullying. I look at him like I’m half stunned.

Thank you, I manage to squeak out.

In my car I burst into tears, ashamed I couldn’t hold it together, and worried that it’ll make the news. I can see the headline now “Military Spouse Goes Postal at Wal-Mart” news at 11.

Can I do eight more months? Day 32.

Holding On

2008-09-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

It has been a busy week.

I’m testing the theory that if I kept us all on the move then time won’t seem so long.

So far it doesn’t seem to hold much water.

Martial Arts with Liam three times per week, Beavers, school and to top it off my friend offers to watch the kiddies for me so I can attend a “deployment coffee break” at the Military Family Resource Centre (MFRC). And this week it’s also Rick and Dani’s birthdays. Next week it’s Kate’s turn.

With all this excitement and activity you’d think Liam would be sleeping better. You’d think his mind and body would be so exhausted that a full nights’ sleep would at occur at least once. But no – he continues his broken pattern of sleep so we continue ours.

There are times when our emotions are so close to the surface that you can almost reach out and touch them, like coy carp in a pond. I can’t remember how many Advil I’ve taken and still the throbbing headache above my left eye continues.

Rick calls on his birthday and we talk longer than usual. I know it will mean we’ll run out of minutes before the end of the week but I don’t care.

He’s read my blog. I knew it wouldn’t take long before someone told him about it. What surprises me is that another soldier in Afghanistan is the one to bring it up. I’m nervous about what he thinks and I ask if he wants me to stop.

“Don’t stop. If it helps – keep going,” is what I hear and am reminded for the millionth time why I love him. He’s worried about Liam and upset I didn’t tell him how bad it’s gotten.

I have no response. He knows about the “golden rule”.

“We’ll get through it,” I say.

The deployment coffee break is a pleasant surprise. I had somehow gotten the image of a darkened room full of bawling women imbedded in my brain. Instead, I find a room full of women laughing and telling stories about their spouses and families.

I’m approached by one of the staff to talk about my childcare situation. There are no spaces available for a special needs child – let alone a 13-year-old. She advises she’ll work on something for me. I’m almost hopeful.

It’s not easy for Kate. She can’t express what she’s feeling or thinking.

Because she’s non-verbal it’s sometimes easy to think she’s not feeling the stress. But today she ran away from school at lunchtime and another child had to chase her down.

It’s the second time my phone has rung today. This morning there was an incident on the bus. I have no idea how to respond, much less how to curb her actions.

The resource teacher is meeting with the vice-principal over both incidents. I have no idea what that means.

Once again I feel woefully inadequate as Kate’s mom. I wish Rick was here. Day 27.

Missing U

2008-09-12T15:39:00.000-07:00

Another school week over.

Time is passing. Summer is maturing into autumn. But there are times when this deployment is yawning out in front of me into an abyss. If I think about it too much I feel like I’ll drown in it. Lost forever in some imaginary hourglass.

To help the kids cope with the time I’ve numbered the calendar with how many days since we said good-bye and each day we cross it off. Liam’s job is to make the X. He’s gotten very good at it.

I’m using all the tips and hints I can find to help them both cope with this time. I know when I was his age it was an eon between the first day of school and Christmas holidays - if I’m feeling that time is crawling then I can only imagine how he feels.

Katie, thankfully, is almost impervious to time. Sometimes Katie’s disability is a glass half full thing. Sometimes it’s not.

Rick calls and at some point I mention how many days he’s been away.

“Wow,” he says, “I can’t believe it’s gone so fast.”

I bite my lip against the sarcasm that is bubbling up from within. It’s not his fault that he’s so busy.

“Feels much longer on this end, Hon,” is what eventually passes my lips.

Five minutes is a tease, it helps him to touch base every day. It keeps him grounded, linked to home via satellites and clicking relays. I wouldn’t trade those five minutes for anything but what I wouldn’t give for more…..

I struggle to keep the sadness out of my voice. Being upbeat for these five-minute phone calls should win me an Oscar; I’m feeling anything but chipper.

I’m lonely. It’s not as bad during the days – there are chores to be done. But at night, when the kids are sleeping and the house is quiet I feel it steal around my shoulders like a blanket and it takes my breath away.

Tomorrow we’re off to the Expo on base. We’re searching for extra-curricular activities for Liam. I’d love to find something for Kate – but I’ve lived here long enough to know better.

If I can get him involved in some groups or teams then he’ll have a male figurehead while his dad is away. Maybe he’ll talk to a man. For the hundredth time I wish we were back home.

Maybe tomorrow will be just what we need. I can only hope. Day 21.

Links and Prayers

2008-09-08T05:23:00.000-07:00

This weekend the mood in the house is better.

Liam’s face lights up on Saturday afternoon when his brother and sister arrive. Their presence links him to their dad and he gains security from that.

Having all the kids at once is overwhelming and heart warming. To top it off friends drop over and the house feels full for the first time since he left. We talk about everything and nothing, shouting to be heard over little boys and toys and dogs and Kate, I know Rick would love it.

Holden is helping with the lasagne and salad. Clowning around and dancing to the ’80s retro show on the radio he’s a younger version of his dad in looks and actions. My friend’s daughter is smitten.

Eight people around the table for supper, bellies full, everyone is happy. Rick will call tomorrow, a special call for kids only. They’re excited.

Sunday morning and its pancakes with peanut butter and syrup, a nasty looking combination that Dani came up with years ago and that all of them have adopted. Everyone is tired and happy, the way you feel when you’re 10 and you go for a sleepover.

The phone doesn’t ring.

By 3:30 the older kids have to go home.

“Daddy probably had to work,” I tell them.

They understand. They’ve been down this road last year with their stepfather. They know that sometimes you can’t call. Liam, however, is dwelling on it.

I drive them home and with kisses and love yous and promises to call they’re back at their mom’s. Liam is now visibly upset and the lack of sleep has made him whiny, I feel the vein above my left eye start to throb.

We enter the house to the sound of the phone ringing. It’s Rick.

“You just missed the kids,” I tell him. “Do you want to call them at home? Why are you so late calling?”

I know he’s only got 10 minutes left on his weekly calling card.

He seems slow to respond. I don’t know if it’s the delay or something else.

“We were under COMS lockdown,” he tells me.

My heart sinks. It’s clear in his voice that it’s one of ours.

“Killed?” I ask.

“Yes.”

More silence.

His voice is low when he says, “I knew him.”

The words drop like a stone into the pit of my stomach. The pause between each word relays more information than many would realize.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He feels guilty. Yesterday while enjoying his first day off, while he was at the market haggling for treasures and drinking Tim Horton’s coffee, someone he knew lost his life. Someone only a week away from going home to his children had died.

I close my eyes and can see the pain in his eyes as he asks me to call and explain to the kids that he wasn’t able to call.

“Tell them I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“I promise.”

And then he’s gone. The card has run out.

The vein above my eye continues to throb. Another prayer. I hope He’s listening. – Day 16

Prayers and sympathy

2008-09-03T15:00:00.000-07:00

Time is moving. Not fast enough for my liking, but moving nonetheless.

Getting the kids up and out the door for school feels normal, familiar, like putting on your old sneakers. I can almost trick myself into thinking everything is how it should be.

We’re quickly falling into our old morning routines. Me yelling at the kids to hurry up and them ignoring me. Every parent goes through it.

Kate started her graduated back to school reintegration program (a fancy way to say she’s going half days this week and full days next week). Her TA (Teacher’s Aide) is familiar to her so I anticipate a successful first day.

I do another load of laundry. Feed the dogs. Check Facebook. Look for work. My life reads like a laundry list, a really boring laundry list.

And then a friend calls.

“How are you?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone that puts me on edge.

“Fine,” I respond.

“You haven’t been online, have you?”

I’m one of those news junkies that has CNN, CBC, CTV, and the BBC all book-marked but for some reason I haven’t been reading or watching the news - my own way of insulating myself against the world, perhaps.

I tell her I haven’t and she tells me the news. Three more Canadians killed in Afghanistan. My skin is cold despite the 25+ degree temperature. It’s as if I’ve been tossed into an icy bath.

We stay on the phone but my brain doesn’t absorb what she’s saying. I hope she understands. My over active brain is miles away.

Somewhere in the pre-dawn hours a mother; sister; wife was awakened by a knock at the door. Somewhere in Canada the families of three PPCLI (Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry) soldiers opened their doors to find…..to find who? A clergy? Some MP’s? A commanding officer?

Somewhere today someone lived and is living my nightmare.

My mind flies instantly to Rick. It will be his first ramp ceremony.

I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, how he is.

We learned at the pre-deployment briefings that when tragedies happen all communication with KAF is shut down. No one can call or e-mail. I haven’t heard from him and now I know why.

In one five-second span of time I was reminded that the Canadian Army is at war and that my husband, my best friend, is there.

I close my eyes and pray for strength. – Day 13

Night Terrors and Sardines

2008-09-01T07:01:00.002-07:00

Night Terrors and Sardines

I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept since the night before he left.

Not that I don’t want to. Believe me - I want to. But I’m not the only one dealing with the raw emotion of the Afghanistan tour. And Liam is not handling it well.

Daytime it’s almost like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Well, other than the fact that he won’t go outside and play with his friends and he gets upset if I’m any further than one room away…

Night is a different story. At night he can’t distract himself from the fact that his daddy is on the other side of the planet and that he is so afraid for him. We tried to shield him from learning of the dangers over there but he plays with children whose parents speak freely of the injuries and deaths and he’s latched onto the negative.

He’s cried himself to sleep every night since his daddy left. He doesn’t think I know. The first night he was so fraught with emotion that his sobs were loud and heartbreaking. That night, he didn’t want me to comfort him and the next day he didn’t want to talk about it. Since that night he’s cried quietly. But when I check on him he’s fallen asleep with the tears still wet on his cheeks.

I’m used to nightmares – he gets those occasionally. They wake him up and he winds up in bed with us.

These night terrors are other animals, altogether.

He howls like the hounds of hell are chasing him. Screaming and sweating, heart beating like it’s trying to escape his body. Yelling at the top of his lungs for Daddy to save him. But Daddy can’t come.

I don’t even think I sit up – my feet hit the floor running, occasionally stubbing my toe on the doorjamb and cursing under my breath, Kate close on my heels.

He calms slowly, but doesn’t really wake up fully. Kate and I doze in his bed with him, jammed in like sweaty sardines, until his breathing becomes slow and regular once more. Somewhere in the pre-dawn hours I take Kate back to her bed.

She’s an angel on these nightly rescue missions. It’s almost as if in these moments she realizes she’s the big sister and I give thanks for the little mercies.

In the morning, he says he doesn’t remember the night before. But the circles under his eyes are getting darker and his emotions are more on edge. I thought speaking to his Daddy might help. But so far things are not getting better.

He starts school tomorrow. I’ve got to remember to tell his teacher about how he’s handling the deployment. Maybe school will be the outlet he needs to calm his mind, get it focused somewhere else. Perhaps he will talk to the guidance counsellor.

The alarm goes off and up we get. What I wouldn’t give for a nap. Day 10.

A voice in the darkness

2008-08-28T06:36:00.002-07:00

I hadn’t realized how high strung I’d become until the phone rang early this morning. Stumbling around in the semi-darkness, groping for the handset, hoping, praying, knowing already who was at the other end.

“Hello?” A pause. Then, “Hi Baby”.

Whoosh – I let my breath out. I hadn’t realized that I had been holding it since the phone first pealed. Those two words wrapped around me like a hug and I closed my eyes. Finally.

I expected a snap and crackle to the satellite phone. But there’s only a slight delay. He could be down the street.

Liam is anxiously standing next to me and I hand him the phone. “Hi Daddy” – all the sadness of the last 5 days has melted away. You could literally hear the smile in his voice. He walks away from me – sharing secrets only meant for his dad.

Time is short, however, and soon he is handing me back the phone promising he’ll be a good boy and the ever famous “love you too.”

I smile. They’re close. And maybe hearing his daddy’s voice will mean that tonight he won’t cry himself to sleep and wake up screaming. I think I should tell Rick about those episodes – but I remember the ‘golden rule’* of speaking to our husbands – and I hear myself saying; “Everything is fine.”

He doesn’t know that I’m writing. When he gets home I’ll show him. But for now his mind has to remain on his job over there. People’s lives depend on it.

It’s good to hear his voice. He sounds tired. He hasn’t slept and he’s exhausted. It’s already nearly suppertime over there.

I get snippets of his life over there. They’re still in the BATS (Big Assed TentS) – the army has an acronym for everything, and should get their “permanent” quarters soon.

The heat is awful, like being in the oven. Dubai felt worse because of the humidity, but Afghanistan is nasty too and he wishes for our pool.

He’s bought himself a pair of new desert boots – the ones issued to him in Canada were cheap hurt his feet. It’s almost like he’s apologizing for buying the boots. Anything to make his work more comfortable is AOK with me.

He tells me to hug the kids for him and promises he’ll call me when he can. I tell him to stay safe. And click its over.

I shudder and catch myself before the tears spill over my lids. I go over our conversation in my head. I’ll have to repeat it for friends and family several times before today is over but for now it’s just between us.

I straighten my spine. Bring it on. Day six.

*Army wives are told not to tell their husbands about anything that would make them feel bad because they (the husband) can’t do anything to help and it will just take their minds off their main objective.

When you say good-bye

2008-08-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

He’s gone.

Off to a part of this world where the only thing that resembles home is what he’s brought with him.

I thought I’d be stronger, more stoic, more poised, more anything – other than the hiccupping mess I’ve somehow managed to dissolve into.

The recent news out of the Afghanistan doesn’t help my mood – three more Canadian soldiers killed in a roadside explosion.

“ Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll be fine. Most of my job isn’t outside the wire. I’ve got the best kit. I’ve got the best team. We’ve trained hard. I’ll be fine.” All of these things he says over and over. I think it’s his way of comforting me, and maybe himself, too.

I nod, mostly to distract myself rather than agree with him. I imagine that those three on their way home said the same things to their loved ones and I bite my lip.

I hadn’t intended to become so emotional. I don’t like the kids seeing me like this. It makes it harder for them. I try to remember all the little things he’s been telling me all morning.
“Don’t forget to feed the dogs when you get home. Scrunch has to go to the groomer. Call Porter to help take the air conditioner out of the window when it starts to get cool. Donny will come over to help you winterize the pool. Call and get my cell phone suspended.” The list seems endless. My sleep-deprived brain picks up on maybe one line out of five.

I watched him sleep last night. Listened to him breathe. Prayed a little. Cried more. My head hurts and I reach for some more Advil.

I try to think of something else. Anything else. A security guard is fighting with a paraplegic lady over where she’s parked her vehicle. She’s demanding a manager – he claims he is the manager. I breathe and look at my feet.

Kate has taken her sandals off. I bend down for the umpteenth time to put them back on. The airport is full of soldiers and their families saying good-bye. She’s picking up on the worry and sadness like an emotional sponge. She doesn’t know how to process it all. She tries to protect herself by distracting her mind with the tactile difference between her sandals and the cool smoothness of the floor. I grapple to get my run away thoughts under control. The kids have to be my priority.

His Commanding Officer comes over with the Regimental Sergeant Major. They’ve driven down from Moncton to see the troops off. I smile and make the appropriate responses to their questions. “How do I feel about the support from the Regiment?” “It’s fine.” “Have I gotten all the numbers for the Deployment Centre?” “Yes I received the newsletter and the C.O.’s personal letter, thank you.”

I know they’re trying to be supportive, but all I can think of is that I want them to go away. Thank God I’ve worn my sunglasses, they hide my face and, hopefully, disguise my thoughts.

“The army is getting him for the next nine months, this time is ours, ” is the petty thought that rises from my overwrought mind. Thank goodness my brain-mouth filter is firmly in place.

Kate’s hand is hot in mine. She pats me - her version of comfort. She senses my agitation.

Liam is jumping from one foot to the other. He’s itching to join the two little boys who are running back and forth through the terminal but his hand doesn’t leave his dad’s. He’s only six. His dad is the world. My lower lip trembles.

The announcement over the loudspeaker makes me jump. It’s time for everyone to go through security. He’s randomly chosen from the group to unpack his carry on. The irritated look on his face makes me laugh and a dozen other wives and mothers scowl in my general direction. I've intruded on their sadness.

Then he’s on the other side of the security glass. The departure area is built like a goldfish bowl for travellers, completely glassed in. We can’t hear each other – the glass is soundproof, but we improvise with some sign language. “ I love you. I’ll call you. Don’t worry. I’m proud of you. I’ll be fine. It’s time to go. Don’t cry.”

And then he’s gone.

He’ll join the battle group in Petawawa for briefings and then fly to Afghanistan on a charter flight. I’ll hear from him tonight. But the real good bye was said today.

I let out a shuddering sigh. Day one.