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.
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.
2 comments:
Lousie...Reading your blog i can almost feel your pain.and as i read it i was tearing up right along with you. Stay positive and hold your head high...everything will be ok and time will fly and Rick will be back home b-4 u know it...
I know I was supposed to wait to read until I was "in a better place" but I could not. Now my desk and paperwork are wet with tears.
Lousie, you need to write a book, I will market it for you and we will make millions, lol.
That shall be our hobby to make the next leg of time pass by sooner. That or maybe doing over your kitchen, lol.
You know I am here anytime day or night. I remember those thoughts and feelings but I can say that I know you and you will get through this. You are such a wonderful friend, I only hope I am half as good. Before you know it we will be drinking the rest of that rum in your kitchen and they boys will be outside BBQing in the chilly spring air.
I love you hun, be strong when you can and when you can't I will be for/with you.
XO
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