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
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
And the hits just keep on coming...
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
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
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Army Giveth And The Army Taketh Away
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
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
Monday, March 9, 2009
An amazing display of courage
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
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
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