R&R leave is recommended by the military so that the soldier can have two weeks of stress-free (as in nobody is shooting at you) relaxation and well earned family time. For the Army Wife, R&R should be described as a two-week virtual-out-of-body experience where your stressed out (as in somebody has been shooting at him for the past 6 months) husband returns home, sleeps, sleeps, and sleeps. Ironically, it is never a ‘restful’ sleep which fuels the fire for a greater need for more sleep. For two weeks, the Army Wife finds herself: reminding the kids that normal people have time to sit down as a family at the dinner table, cooking elaborate meals (while trying to disguise the fact that she hasn’t touched the oven in six months), and wearing X-rated lingerie (that she purchased from Victoria’s Secret with all of the gift cards that her friends generously donated once they learned that the hot soldier was finally coming home for two weeks). R&R is the time period where the kids can only be described as hyper-excited, the dog pees on the floor every time the soldier walks into the room, and your friends decide to ‘give you space’ and suddenly drop off the face of the planet. It’s a universal truth that R&R is the two week period where you find yourself going to bed with a cell phone that has a full battery—because nobody texts, calls, or dares to disturb the blissful reunion of the happy couple-- and gaining 5 lbs because you are suddenly eating three well balanced meals a day that all contain cheese, butter, and breadcrumbs. To the non-military, R&R is believed to be the second honeymoon, a time for googly-eyes, love poems, and beautiful families that blissfully cheer on the local soccer team while waving American flags… but to those involved, R&R is an emotional rollercoaster that is more exhausting then taking three kids to Disney World. It’s a surreal blip on the radar where suddenly- poof!-- your husband appears, your kids start behaving, and you have to remind yourself to shave your legs… but it is over in a heartbeat. You blink your eyes, and next thing you know you are back at the airport waving goodbye, pretending you have the strength to do the deployment dance for another 6 months. That’s where I am…five days into my own Pleasantville-version of R&R—a fully charged phone, three strung-out kids, and a suddenly incontinent dog.
My surreal blip started last Tuesday, when my soldier arrived home a good two days earlier than expected (Karma happens to support the troops). I had just finished up a spin class, and was dripping sweat ALL over the car, when I got the call that my hubs was in Dallas and would be landing in San Antonio in less than 1.5 hours. My initial reaction—YAY! OMG! He’s finally stateside! My three-second-later-reaction—OMG! HOLY SH#T! I CAN’T PICK HIM UP LIKE THIS?” A quick glance in the rearview mirror only confirmed my worst fears: I needed to shower, shave my legs, pick up my daughter from preschool, and somehow find a way to look smoking hot in a slutty sundress…. And I hadn’t even made it home from the gym yet. A quick mental survey of the house reminded me that the sink was still full of the morning dishes, the guinea pig hadn’t been changed in at least 5 days, and there was no telling when the last time the kids had last managed to get all of their dirty laundry out from under their beds and into the hamper. A quick regrouping of priorities (laundry and dishes were going to have to wait), the world’s fastest shower, and about a gallon of curl enhancer (flat ironing hair was no longer a viable option) and I was ready to go. I grabbed my cell phone, a new pair of sandals, and a tube of mascara and sprinted out the door.
Now, one would think Karma would have been done messing with the stressed out Army Wife-- after all, a 2.5 day early arrival had already wreaked enough havoc on my deployment-induced ulcer—but as usual she had only begun to rearrange the events in my life. At the same time as I was making a mad dash for the airport (while applying layers of mascara at every traffic light), I got a phone call from one of my closest friends who wanted to wish me luck (he totally agrees that Karma is out to get me) AND had some information about a job opening that I may be interested in. He gave me the brief details that he knew, and I half listened while occasionally grunting in acknowledgment—and mentally added ‘send out résumé’ to the ever growing list. I hung up the phone—feeling more strung out than a closet soccer mom on methamphetamines—and noticed that a new text had come in while I was driving. The text read, “In Dallas. See you soon.”…. and no, the text was not from Jim. The text was from Jim’s DAD—as in my father-in-law! There I was, flying down I-35 with hair big-enough and curly-enough to qualify me for the Miss America pageant to pick up my husband (who I hadn’t seen in 8 months) AND plan a rendezvous with his dad (who I hadn’t seen in a year) while wondering if I should I apply for this job AND wishing that University of Texas would hurry up and get back to me about grad school. In other words, I was a total big-haired-Yankee-biatch-train-wreck at a cross road in life… only I didn’t have time for any serious self-reflection (or a martini).
Thankfully, I somehow managed to arrive at the airport in one piece (and with eyelashes long enough to rival a llama) just as Jim was walking out of the USO. I froze mid-stride. Time seemed to stop. And for at least thirty-seconds everything in my own little Army Wife World ceased to exist. Jim had finally walked out of my dream and was suddenly standing in front of me—duffle bag casually slung over his shoulder his traditional lopsided grin gracing his face. He was tired, dusty, and smelled downright weird…. but he was there. Jim, the man who crushed my heart into a thousand tiny pieces when he boarded that DC-10 to Iraq eight months ago, was suddenly standing less than a foot away. And I instantly knew, that for the next two weeks all would be right with the world-- Karma couldn’t touch me.
Five days into R&R, and I am still dancing around taunting Karma. It hasn’t been an easy transition, nor has it always been a smooth one, but with every moment I learn a little more about sacrifice, honor, loneliness, and love. I know exactly who I am without him around—motivated, strong, passionate, and perhaps a bit of a binge drinker—but I also know what I am missing. And the answer is simply my other half. For eight months now, I have been walking around with this giant gaping hole in my soul that ripped open when Uncle Sam pulled him towards Iraq. I filled it with running, writing, service to others, late-night martinis with friends, and a desperate journey to figure out exactly where I fit into the world, but the wound never seemed to heal. Nothing could assuage the suffering. Loneliness was the ultimate enemy, and he was slowly choking away my vitality and strength with each day of the deployment.
But thankfully Karma wasn’t done with me yet—she may have shown me my weakness and presented me with a mountain of pain and more baggage than Paris Hilton to carry around, but she also gently reminded me that life is a gift. Each day is a blessing, and it is up to each of us to live life to its fullest. Pain teaches each of us that we are still alive and still struggling towards the ultimate goal. Loneliness reminds us that it is only the brave souls—those courageous enough to share their heart—that can ever truly define love. And I now know, without-a-doubt, that love—the real foot-popping, butterflies in the stomach, I miss you so much that it hurts kind of love-- truly exists. I found myself face-to-face—and against all odds-- with it five days ago in the San Antonio Airport. Love was beautiful, in need of a shower, and wearing the dusty uniform of a United States soldier. My soldier. At long last, Karma had presented me with the ultimate reward… Love had finally come home to me.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Mistaken Identity
Everyone knows the impact that a first impression can have. It becomes your instant branding, a virtual blinking-neon sign that flashes above your head forever linking you with a particular demographic of the population. We all practice the art of the instant-size-up, and it usually takes only seconds before we smack that label onto a person’s forehead and forever group them as: our superior, equal, or, God-forbid… throw them to the lions with the ‘going no-where-in-life’ status. THAT first impression is the kiss of death. Heck, if you exude that vibe, you might as well pack your bags and start the move back to mom and dad’s because you are only delaying the inevitable. Thankfully, I have never had much trouble with first impressions. I am friendly, outgoing, tiny, non-threatening, and believe it or not… usually come off as ‘sweet’. I make it a point to only surround myself with the non-idiot portion of the population, and I am opinionated (and sassy mouthed) enough to be viewed as one of the non-stupid. But as usual, Karma decided it was time to take this overly confident Army Wife down a few notches…
The life-lesson was dropped on me last Tuesday when I headed to the Warrior Support Center at Fort Sam Houston to eat dinner with my favorite wounded vet. His name is Charles, and I consider him family— my brother-from-another-mother-kind-of-family. I met Charles through the music and wellness program (Tunes for Wounds) at Soldier’s Angels a few months ago, and have spent every Tuesday and Thursday working with him musically since he first limped into the music lab. Anyway, Charles was planning on helping me advertise the music program to other wounded vets, and we set out to drop off some fliers and make some rounds to talk up the music program. A simple plan in the grand scheme of things, but with one fatal error… It was Fiesta time in San Antonio and the Warrior Support Center was all decked out with piñatas, chilli peppers, and the worlds loudest and most enthusiastic mariachi band. I couldn’t hear myself think, no less talk with any other soldiers, and unless I suddenly stood on top of my table, shook my God-given maracas, and shouted, ‘Ole!’ there was no way that anyone was ever going to notice my presence.
Anyway, I tried to make myself useful, forced Charles to grab extra guacamole (I have a slight addiction to avocados), and offered to carry his nachos (which I totally planned to scarf down when he wasn’t looking). We decided that eating outside would probably provide the least damage to our ear drums, and I precariously balanced the nachos, fliers… and a milk shake that I was offered (which I tried to politely reject—but as everyone knows, skinny girls are NOT allowed to publically refuse fattening food). I was inching my way to the back patio—the mariachi band in hot pursuit—when Karma decided to wreak havoc once again in my life. My grip slipped, the chips tipped, and as I desperately tried to re-establish the order of the universe to save the nachos, I somehow managed to forget that my other hand was holding that unwanted milkshake. I guess I could blame it on the incoming texts that were blowing up my phone, or the fact that I was wearing 4” heels, or the fact that I was totally preoccupied with finding a somewhat polite (or at the least a non-violent) way to request for the mariachi band to march back to Riverwalk—but for whatever the reason, I managed to spill that milkshake all down the front of me—and I mean, ALL DOWN THE FRONT OF ME.
Now, standing in the middle of the Warrior Support Center covered in soupy ice cream was embarrassing enough, but the truly mortifying moment happened a few seconds later when the milk-shake-creator-extraordinaire looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said (ever so slowly AND emphasizing EVERY syllable), “It’s . .O.K…HON..EY. I..WILL… GET… YOU… SOME… MORE… NACH…OS.” Feeling a little confused, I dumbly nodded as I tried to figure out why this man was treating me like I was an idiot (because I was certain that a spilled milk-shake had no relevant bearing on one’s IQ). His warm eyes radiated pity as he handed me a towel so that I could wipe off my drenched chest, and he gave me the hint of a smile that I recognized in an instant. It was the ‘everything-is-going-to-be-ok’ smile, and I used it frequently when working with wounded veterans. I tried convincing myself that I had imagined that smile—really, there was no reason that I should be receiving a grin of support—and I numbly turned to head outside with Charles (who was still laughing so hard that I was fairly certain he was going wet his pants).
Charles looked at me, laughed, smiled, laughed some more, and lovingly pointed out that he would pay big bucks just to see a repeat performance—heck, Thursday was Italian food, maybe I could spill some raviolis down my shirt for a little variation. I, on the other hand, squished my eyebrows together, calmly waited for him to stop laughing (at some point he was going to need to come up for air), and finally pointed out the unthinkable, “Charles…. I am pretty sure that man just thought I was retarded.”
It wasn’t until the next day, when I was listening to one of my dearest friends, Toby, tell me about how some chic had just found his latest look smoking hot, that I finally accepted the annoying truth. That I, Amy Kemter—the woman who has a come-back for EVERYTHING—had somehow lost my edge in society. In desperation, I turned to Toby, held up a hand to interrupt his tale of glory and devastatingly shared my moment of woe. Thankfully Toby is more enlightened than the average male, and after he was done laughing at me (which took at least ten minutes) he pointed out the obvious fact that I missed. No, the milk-shake-man had not mistaken me for a developmentally delayed individual, but rather a wounded veteran—only one with a TBI (traumatic brain injury).
And all at once, I was ashamed. How could I claim to be a woman committed to helping wounded soldiers when I was still so blinded to their trials and daily struggles? I had somehow missed the unmistakable fact that war can do just as much damage to the heart as it does to the body. Sure, it is easy to feel pity for the amputees and burn victims- their scars are tangible and real--but what about those who wounds are internal? What about those soldiers, who at one time possessed a sassy Yankee mouth, but had lost part of their soul on the battle field? How can one even begin to heal when they can’t even remember who they were or how they once loved? My heart ached for these drifting veterans and the battles that they continue to fight on the homefront. The brave victims of a TBI have no scar to hide behind to explain their erratic behavior, but rather are forced to endure the looks of disdain and impatience as they try to create a new normalcy in their daily lives.
I made a promise to myself that night that I would learn to ignore the first impression that tries to whisper whether a person is worthy or not. Who am I to judge? I am only the Army Wife, safe on the homefront, blessed enough to still have my identity intact. Karma reminded me—via a milkshake down the chest-- that it’s not the outside of a person that defines and individual, nor is it necessarily the interior . A human life can only be truly understood when we show unconditional love, believe whole-heartedly that there is goodness inside everyone, and trust that healing—even if it is not the miraculous healing we pray for—is within us all.
Yes, last Tuesday I was mistaken for a TBI patient when I dumped a milkshake down the front of my shirt at the Warrior Support Center—a heroic first impression that I am nowhere near worthy enough to deserve.
The life-lesson was dropped on me last Tuesday when I headed to the Warrior Support Center at Fort Sam Houston to eat dinner with my favorite wounded vet. His name is Charles, and I consider him family— my brother-from-another-mother-kind-of-family. I met Charles through the music and wellness program (Tunes for Wounds) at Soldier’s Angels a few months ago, and have spent every Tuesday and Thursday working with him musically since he first limped into the music lab. Anyway, Charles was planning on helping me advertise the music program to other wounded vets, and we set out to drop off some fliers and make some rounds to talk up the music program. A simple plan in the grand scheme of things, but with one fatal error… It was Fiesta time in San Antonio and the Warrior Support Center was all decked out with piñatas, chilli peppers, and the worlds loudest and most enthusiastic mariachi band. I couldn’t hear myself think, no less talk with any other soldiers, and unless I suddenly stood on top of my table, shook my God-given maracas, and shouted, ‘Ole!’ there was no way that anyone was ever going to notice my presence.
Anyway, I tried to make myself useful, forced Charles to grab extra guacamole (I have a slight addiction to avocados), and offered to carry his nachos (which I totally planned to scarf down when he wasn’t looking). We decided that eating outside would probably provide the least damage to our ear drums, and I precariously balanced the nachos, fliers… and a milk shake that I was offered (which I tried to politely reject—but as everyone knows, skinny girls are NOT allowed to publically refuse fattening food). I was inching my way to the back patio—the mariachi band in hot pursuit—when Karma decided to wreak havoc once again in my life. My grip slipped, the chips tipped, and as I desperately tried to re-establish the order of the universe to save the nachos, I somehow managed to forget that my other hand was holding that unwanted milkshake. I guess I could blame it on the incoming texts that were blowing up my phone, or the fact that I was wearing 4” heels, or the fact that I was totally preoccupied with finding a somewhat polite (or at the least a non-violent) way to request for the mariachi band to march back to Riverwalk—but for whatever the reason, I managed to spill that milkshake all down the front of me—and I mean, ALL DOWN THE FRONT OF ME.
Now, standing in the middle of the Warrior Support Center covered in soupy ice cream was embarrassing enough, but the truly mortifying moment happened a few seconds later when the milk-shake-creator-extraordinaire looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said (ever so slowly AND emphasizing EVERY syllable), “It’s . .O.K…HON..EY. I..WILL… GET… YOU… SOME… MORE… NACH…OS.” Feeling a little confused, I dumbly nodded as I tried to figure out why this man was treating me like I was an idiot (because I was certain that a spilled milk-shake had no relevant bearing on one’s IQ). His warm eyes radiated pity as he handed me a towel so that I could wipe off my drenched chest, and he gave me the hint of a smile that I recognized in an instant. It was the ‘everything-is-going-to-be-ok’ smile, and I used it frequently when working with wounded veterans. I tried convincing myself that I had imagined that smile—really, there was no reason that I should be receiving a grin of support—and I numbly turned to head outside with Charles (who was still laughing so hard that I was fairly certain he was going wet his pants).
Charles looked at me, laughed, smiled, laughed some more, and lovingly pointed out that he would pay big bucks just to see a repeat performance—heck, Thursday was Italian food, maybe I could spill some raviolis down my shirt for a little variation. I, on the other hand, squished my eyebrows together, calmly waited for him to stop laughing (at some point he was going to need to come up for air), and finally pointed out the unthinkable, “Charles…. I am pretty sure that man just thought I was retarded.”
It wasn’t until the next day, when I was listening to one of my dearest friends, Toby, tell me about how some chic had just found his latest look smoking hot, that I finally accepted the annoying truth. That I, Amy Kemter—the woman who has a come-back for EVERYTHING—had somehow lost my edge in society. In desperation, I turned to Toby, held up a hand to interrupt his tale of glory and devastatingly shared my moment of woe. Thankfully Toby is more enlightened than the average male, and after he was done laughing at me (which took at least ten minutes) he pointed out the obvious fact that I missed. No, the milk-shake-man had not mistaken me for a developmentally delayed individual, but rather a wounded veteran—only one with a TBI (traumatic brain injury).
And all at once, I was ashamed. How could I claim to be a woman committed to helping wounded soldiers when I was still so blinded to their trials and daily struggles? I had somehow missed the unmistakable fact that war can do just as much damage to the heart as it does to the body. Sure, it is easy to feel pity for the amputees and burn victims- their scars are tangible and real--but what about those who wounds are internal? What about those soldiers, who at one time possessed a sassy Yankee mouth, but had lost part of their soul on the battle field? How can one even begin to heal when they can’t even remember who they were or how they once loved? My heart ached for these drifting veterans and the battles that they continue to fight on the homefront. The brave victims of a TBI have no scar to hide behind to explain their erratic behavior, but rather are forced to endure the looks of disdain and impatience as they try to create a new normalcy in their daily lives.
I made a promise to myself that night that I would learn to ignore the first impression that tries to whisper whether a person is worthy or not. Who am I to judge? I am only the Army Wife, safe on the homefront, blessed enough to still have my identity intact. Karma reminded me—via a milkshake down the chest-- that it’s not the outside of a person that defines and individual, nor is it necessarily the interior . A human life can only be truly understood when we show unconditional love, believe whole-heartedly that there is goodness inside everyone, and trust that healing—even if it is not the miraculous healing we pray for—is within us all.
Yes, last Tuesday I was mistaken for a TBI patient when I dumped a milkshake down the front of my shirt at the Warrior Support Center—a heroic first impression that I am nowhere near worthy enough to deserve.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tales from the Dark Side
Nobody ever said love was easy. In fact, I believe the one piece of advice my mother gave me before I walked down that infamous aisle was, “Never go to bed angry…just stay up all night plotting your revenge.” Marriage IS work, and contains equal amounts of blessings and heartbreak. Heck, I sometimes wish Cupid would just shoot himself in his own damn butt—at least then he would know how much it hurts! But for Army Wives, the situation is a little more complicated. We have a ten hour time difference, only twenty minutes to air out our dirty laundry, and probably enough skeletons in our closets that it would require a Human Rights Team from the United Nations to sort through it all. Maybe it’s the lack of sex that makes Army Wives so cranky, or maybe it’s due to some free radical chemical reaction resulting from frozen pizza mixing with cheap gas-station coffee (you need something to help keep you awake through the tenth soccer practice of the week), but the outcome is the same: there are those moments where your mouth comes completely unhinged and you hear yourself yelling hurtful words that are designed to sting the soul.
Unfortunately, Karma (and I am talking about fate here, not my pet goat) uses these situations to her advantage. It’s called the communication blackout, and it almost always occurs directly following a couple’s most heartbreaking conversations. I am talking about those phone calls where you hear yourself hissing, “Fine” in response to every question, and the call ends with a you chucking your cell phone with all of your strength against the wall (fyi: If Verizon is reading this, this is purely a hypothetical example). I am absolutely certain that Karma is a Navy fan, and loves to stir up sand storms just to make irritable Army Wives suffer in silence, but sometimes—in fact, many times—communication is interrupted due to the unthinkable. Days can go by without so much as a single email, and you find yourself scanning though all the news sites for any tidbit of information regarding a deployed unit. Is he not calling because you finally managed to permanently annoy him or is it because he is currently going through Hell and doesn’t have the time or patience to deal with any more mama drama? You find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed retracing every single moment of your last conversation, and hoping with every ounce of your soul that you remembered to say ‘I love you’ before you lobbed your phone out the window.
That was my last Saturday. That was my last phone call with my husband. I had spent the night in the city to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday, and to be honest had totally forgotten about the war by the time I finished my first Hurricane. We had decided to mark the occasion with San Antonio’s monthly pub run, and all of us were merrily drinking, running, writing totally immature catch-phrases all over each other’s arms, and doing rounds of birthday-shots. To be honest, it was a great time. I laughed for hours, salsa danced in running shoes (which means I sucked even more than usual), and came to the realization that I have some of the best friends on the planet. Unfortunately, what I failed to notice was that somewhere in my crazy evening, I had managed to drop my phone (nothing unusual there) and consequently turn off the skype app. Fast forward to morning, and by the time my slightly hung over eyes opened, I had already received several WTH emails from my husband in reference to my non-skypable status. Now, common sense should have kicked in and warned me that any conversation with a deployed spouse under these circumstances was going to end BAD, but when does an Army Wife EVER listen to common sense? The pearly angel on the shoulder went MIA about three days after Jim arrived in a war zone, and I haven’t heard the sounds of that heavenly harp since.
As expected, I answered the phone call, and all the bitterness, jealousy, and darkness from both sides of the connection came spilling out. Jim was infuriated that he couldn’t reach any member of the family when he finally had a few moments to talk (and also…. that his wife was out with friends having a fantastic time while he was stuck in Iraq), and I was enraged for taking the verbal beat-down over a situation that was out of my control (and also… felt tremendous guilt for having a fantastic time while he was stuck in Iraq). Both of us were right, and both of us were wrong. Once again, Iraq has presented us the perfect nuance, and neither one of us was willing to put on our sun glasses to help blend the two shades of the argument. The call ended horribly, with resentment boiling over on both sides. Anger had once again melted all aspects of joy, and as usual, I slammed down the phone, buried my head in a pillow, and screamed every four-lettered word I could muster.
I wish I could say that a few hours later Jim called, we both apologized, and spent the remainder of our twenty minute conversation blowing kisses towards each other, but that would be a lie. Over fifty hours crawled by as I waited to hear from Jim, and with each hour my heart sunk a little deeper into despair. I can’t tell you when it dawned on me that the 3d ACR was in the middle of another communication blackout, but I can tell you that when I did finally accept this, I held my breath and prayed that it was just a sandstorm or that some meathead had accidentally spilled his coffee down a transformer. I found myself wishing on every star that night that fate could find a way to obliterate that horrible phone conversation and that I could swallow back every wounding word.
But as we all know, the world as yet to create a do-over button, and we are simply stuck living and dealing with the crap we create. Anger had blinded us both, and it took over fifty hours for the fog to finally lift. When my husband did finally call, it came with the unimaginable news that two soldiers, Sergeant Christian Garcia and Sergeant Quadi Hudgins, were killed by enemy action. Both men were husbands. Both men were fathers. Both men are gone forever.
As I solemnly took in this news, I came to the epiphany that life may not come with a convenient do-over button, but it does offer brief moments of clarity—even when you are in the middle of a storm. Karma could not help me take back my biting words, but rather taught me that the fragile heart is the one true Achilles heel of the army wife. Sometimes, Karma needs to hit you over the head with a 2x4 for you to realize that life can change in an instant. The world may shift, and your heart may temporarily fall to pieces, but as long as you still have each other there is still hope that those pieces can find their way home. I learned a valuable lesson that day: that life is more than a brief candle that flickers and goes out, but rather a vivid torch that helps illuminate the path for those you love. It is bright enough to navigate you through the storm, strong enough to keep you together even when you are 7000 miles apart, and gentle enough to allow you to find forgiveness within. Life may threaten to drown us, but it is also warm, bold, and bright enough to drive out the darkness. I wish Cupid’s arrow led to a love filled with sunshine and unicorns, but unfortunately people are going to continue to make hideous and painful mistakes. Just don’t give up on yourself. Quitting is not an option. After all, I can promise you this: I would rather walk a few moments in the darkness with Jim, then spend a lifetime in the light alone.
Unfortunately, Karma (and I am talking about fate here, not my pet goat) uses these situations to her advantage. It’s called the communication blackout, and it almost always occurs directly following a couple’s most heartbreaking conversations. I am talking about those phone calls where you hear yourself hissing, “Fine” in response to every question, and the call ends with a you chucking your cell phone with all of your strength against the wall (fyi: If Verizon is reading this, this is purely a hypothetical example). I am absolutely certain that Karma is a Navy fan, and loves to stir up sand storms just to make irritable Army Wives suffer in silence, but sometimes—in fact, many times—communication is interrupted due to the unthinkable. Days can go by without so much as a single email, and you find yourself scanning though all the news sites for any tidbit of information regarding a deployed unit. Is he not calling because you finally managed to permanently annoy him or is it because he is currently going through Hell and doesn’t have the time or patience to deal with any more mama drama? You find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed retracing every single moment of your last conversation, and hoping with every ounce of your soul that you remembered to say ‘I love you’ before you lobbed your phone out the window.
That was my last Saturday. That was my last phone call with my husband. I had spent the night in the city to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday, and to be honest had totally forgotten about the war by the time I finished my first Hurricane. We had decided to mark the occasion with San Antonio’s monthly pub run, and all of us were merrily drinking, running, writing totally immature catch-phrases all over each other’s arms, and doing rounds of birthday-shots. To be honest, it was a great time. I laughed for hours, salsa danced in running shoes (which means I sucked even more than usual), and came to the realization that I have some of the best friends on the planet. Unfortunately, what I failed to notice was that somewhere in my crazy evening, I had managed to drop my phone (nothing unusual there) and consequently turn off the skype app. Fast forward to morning, and by the time my slightly hung over eyes opened, I had already received several WTH emails from my husband in reference to my non-skypable status. Now, common sense should have kicked in and warned me that any conversation with a deployed spouse under these circumstances was going to end BAD, but when does an Army Wife EVER listen to common sense? The pearly angel on the shoulder went MIA about three days after Jim arrived in a war zone, and I haven’t heard the sounds of that heavenly harp since.
As expected, I answered the phone call, and all the bitterness, jealousy, and darkness from both sides of the connection came spilling out. Jim was infuriated that he couldn’t reach any member of the family when he finally had a few moments to talk (and also…. that his wife was out with friends having a fantastic time while he was stuck in Iraq), and I was enraged for taking the verbal beat-down over a situation that was out of my control (and also… felt tremendous guilt for having a fantastic time while he was stuck in Iraq). Both of us were right, and both of us were wrong. Once again, Iraq has presented us the perfect nuance, and neither one of us was willing to put on our sun glasses to help blend the two shades of the argument. The call ended horribly, with resentment boiling over on both sides. Anger had once again melted all aspects of joy, and as usual, I slammed down the phone, buried my head in a pillow, and screamed every four-lettered word I could muster.
I wish I could say that a few hours later Jim called, we both apologized, and spent the remainder of our twenty minute conversation blowing kisses towards each other, but that would be a lie. Over fifty hours crawled by as I waited to hear from Jim, and with each hour my heart sunk a little deeper into despair. I can’t tell you when it dawned on me that the 3d ACR was in the middle of another communication blackout, but I can tell you that when I did finally accept this, I held my breath and prayed that it was just a sandstorm or that some meathead had accidentally spilled his coffee down a transformer. I found myself wishing on every star that night that fate could find a way to obliterate that horrible phone conversation and that I could swallow back every wounding word.
But as we all know, the world as yet to create a do-over button, and we are simply stuck living and dealing with the crap we create. Anger had blinded us both, and it took over fifty hours for the fog to finally lift. When my husband did finally call, it came with the unimaginable news that two soldiers, Sergeant Christian Garcia and Sergeant Quadi Hudgins, were killed by enemy action. Both men were husbands. Both men were fathers. Both men are gone forever.
As I solemnly took in this news, I came to the epiphany that life may not come with a convenient do-over button, but it does offer brief moments of clarity—even when you are in the middle of a storm. Karma could not help me take back my biting words, but rather taught me that the fragile heart is the one true Achilles heel of the army wife. Sometimes, Karma needs to hit you over the head with a 2x4 for you to realize that life can change in an instant. The world may shift, and your heart may temporarily fall to pieces, but as long as you still have each other there is still hope that those pieces can find their way home. I learned a valuable lesson that day: that life is more than a brief candle that flickers and goes out, but rather a vivid torch that helps illuminate the path for those you love. It is bright enough to navigate you through the storm, strong enough to keep you together even when you are 7000 miles apart, and gentle enough to allow you to find forgiveness within. Life may threaten to drown us, but it is also warm, bold, and bright enough to drive out the darkness. I wish Cupid’s arrow led to a love filled with sunshine and unicorns, but unfortunately people are going to continue to make hideous and painful mistakes. Just don’t give up on yourself. Quitting is not an option. After all, I can promise you this: I would rather walk a few moments in the darkness with Jim, then spend a lifetime in the light alone.
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Naked Truth
I have always been a bit of a closet free-spirit. On the outside, I am exceedingly type A: I have schedules for each kiddo posted on the fridge, I graph my running splits, and even have a spreadsheet for each dollar that we spend. But there is ALSO this free-reigning–chaos-butterfly-effect side of my soul that forces me to question authority and jump at the triple-dog-dare challenge… in a nut-shell, do stupid shit. This week I was apparently ruled by the chaos-loving side of my brain.
Now, you’re probably wondering, how much trouble can one tiny army wife get into??? And unfortunately, the answer to that question is A LOT! I was born with a bit of a sassy mouth on me, and it tends to work at much higher velocity than my brain. I speak before I think, and I am way too emotional, competitive, and sarcastic. Draw a line in the sand, and not only am I going to want to cross it, but I will plot a wild leap of faith—regardless of the consequences-- across the transcribed void. And THAT is exactly how I ended up in my latest triple-dog dare nightmare…
Triple-dog-darer: “Hey Amy... Have you ever sent your husband naked photos to Iraq?”
Me: “Yep, all the time.”
Triple-dog-darer: “Liar. You don’t even like showering in the women’s locker room when there is a crowd around.”
Me: “Duh. I don’t want to make them jealous.”
Triple-dog-darer (while laughing uncontrollably): “Well ok then, Miss Liberated. If you’re so comfortable without your clothes, I dare you to strip in front of the camera .”
Me (while screaming ‘F#CK!” inside my head): “Fine. No problem. But if I am doing this, I am having them done right.” (as in a studio that has the skill level (and lack of ethics) to photoshop my head onto Angelina Jolie’s body).
Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t pose for any Hustler photos, and all the dirty bits were basically covered, but that didn’t change the fact that I was lying naked on a hardwood floor in a room full of strangers. A hair stylist, make-up artist, lighting assistant, and a woman who kept re-positioning my various body parts (it is harder than it looks to retain a sultry expression for minutes on end) continually stepped over and around me for two hours. Honestly, I really had no clue it took that many people to get one person photographed almost-naked. Let’s be honest, drunk MMS messages are so simple—especially for non-shy, slightly buzzed, females like myself. Everyone LOVES receiving those—even if the photos are grainy and dark.
Obviously, this situation was a little different. I was completely sober (ok, moment of confessions: I had ONE teensy-weensy mimosa), and this photo shoot was premeditated. I actually walked into a room full of strangers and stripped… completely ignoring the fact that I have housed three children at various times underneath my abs of steel. Now I know what you are thinking?? How far on the crazy ladder did Amy actually climb to willingly agree to be photographed naked? And more importantly why?
Let me address the second question first. Deployments are not just a twelve month separation, but rather a twelve month breakdown of communication. Conversations are clocked into twenty minute increments, and tend to rotate around the managerial aspects of a family: kids, money, and bills. No mention is ever made on emotional health, but rather focused on the tangible— and if every member of the family still has a pulse, then you should probably be giving yourself a high five. Furthermore, if every member of the family has a pulse AND isn’t lighting themselves on fire, robbing a bank, or mouthing off to their superiors, then you might as well nominate yourself for the military-parent-of-the-year. Family phone calls are, at best, maintained on a superficial level, and at the worst, become outright lies of omission. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I answered the question, “So Amy, how is everything going?” truthfully. The truth would be brutal, raw, and heartbreaking, and would serve more as a distraction then any type of panacea. What problems on the homefront could ever be solved over a three thousand mile separation and a crappy phone connection?
Personally, my husband has been deployed for eight months now, and is scheduled to come home for his fourteen day R&R in three weeks. All of those suppressed emotions that have been put in a box and shoved into the back of the closet are most likely going to come exploding out. No shelf—not even one from the all-powerful Container Store-- is strong enough to support all of those unspoken words. In three short weeks, my husband is going to walk into our home and look into my eyes for the first time in eight months, and I have absolutely no clue if he will even recognize a single shred of the pre-deployment Amy. I am changed. He has changed, and about the only common ground we have is the life we built together prior to the army ripping us apart. Sometimes when your life has been completely turned inside out, the only place you can start is back at the beginning—when a ‘bill’ was merely an annoying stalker ex-boyfriend and you shaved your legs daily. Sometimes, you need to step out of your comfort zone and climb a few rungs of that crazy ladder to remember what it was like to be kissed long and soft and slow.
Heck, sometimes, when an endless war wages to keep you apart, you just have to fight a little dirty.
Now, you’re probably wondering, how much trouble can one tiny army wife get into??? And unfortunately, the answer to that question is A LOT! I was born with a bit of a sassy mouth on me, and it tends to work at much higher velocity than my brain. I speak before I think, and I am way too emotional, competitive, and sarcastic. Draw a line in the sand, and not only am I going to want to cross it, but I will plot a wild leap of faith—regardless of the consequences-- across the transcribed void. And THAT is exactly how I ended up in my latest triple-dog dare nightmare…
Triple-dog-darer: “Hey Amy... Have you ever sent your husband naked photos to Iraq?”
Me: “Yep, all the time.”
Triple-dog-darer: “Liar. You don’t even like showering in the women’s locker room when there is a crowd around.”
Me: “Duh. I don’t want to make them jealous.”
Triple-dog-darer (while laughing uncontrollably): “Well ok then, Miss Liberated. If you’re so comfortable without your clothes, I dare you to strip in front of the camera .”
Me (while screaming ‘F#CK!” inside my head): “Fine. No problem. But if I am doing this, I am having them done right.” (as in a studio that has the skill level (and lack of ethics) to photoshop my head onto Angelina Jolie’s body).
Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t pose for any Hustler photos, and all the dirty bits were basically covered, but that didn’t change the fact that I was lying naked on a hardwood floor in a room full of strangers. A hair stylist, make-up artist, lighting assistant, and a woman who kept re-positioning my various body parts (it is harder than it looks to retain a sultry expression for minutes on end) continually stepped over and around me for two hours. Honestly, I really had no clue it took that many people to get one person photographed almost-naked. Let’s be honest, drunk MMS messages are so simple—especially for non-shy, slightly buzzed, females like myself. Everyone LOVES receiving those—even if the photos are grainy and dark.
Obviously, this situation was a little different. I was completely sober (ok, moment of confessions: I had ONE teensy-weensy mimosa), and this photo shoot was premeditated. I actually walked into a room full of strangers and stripped… completely ignoring the fact that I have housed three children at various times underneath my abs of steel. Now I know what you are thinking?? How far on the crazy ladder did Amy actually climb to willingly agree to be photographed naked? And more importantly why?
Let me address the second question first. Deployments are not just a twelve month separation, but rather a twelve month breakdown of communication. Conversations are clocked into twenty minute increments, and tend to rotate around the managerial aspects of a family: kids, money, and bills. No mention is ever made on emotional health, but rather focused on the tangible— and if every member of the family still has a pulse, then you should probably be giving yourself a high five. Furthermore, if every member of the family has a pulse AND isn’t lighting themselves on fire, robbing a bank, or mouthing off to their superiors, then you might as well nominate yourself for the military-parent-of-the-year. Family phone calls are, at best, maintained on a superficial level, and at the worst, become outright lies of omission. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I answered the question, “So Amy, how is everything going?” truthfully. The truth would be brutal, raw, and heartbreaking, and would serve more as a distraction then any type of panacea. What problems on the homefront could ever be solved over a three thousand mile separation and a crappy phone connection?
Personally, my husband has been deployed for eight months now, and is scheduled to come home for his fourteen day R&R in three weeks. All of those suppressed emotions that have been put in a box and shoved into the back of the closet are most likely going to come exploding out. No shelf—not even one from the all-powerful Container Store-- is strong enough to support all of those unspoken words. In three short weeks, my husband is going to walk into our home and look into my eyes for the first time in eight months, and I have absolutely no clue if he will even recognize a single shred of the pre-deployment Amy. I am changed. He has changed, and about the only common ground we have is the life we built together prior to the army ripping us apart. Sometimes when your life has been completely turned inside out, the only place you can start is back at the beginning—when a ‘bill’ was merely an annoying stalker ex-boyfriend and you shaved your legs daily. Sometimes, you need to step out of your comfort zone and climb a few rungs of that crazy ladder to remember what it was like to be kissed long and soft and slow.
Heck, sometimes, when an endless war wages to keep you apart, you just have to fight a little dirty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)