Plan B

Every person has those special friends that just ‘get it’. The ones you share late night margaritas with —while wearing pajamas, slippers, and a ratty bathrobe—on your front porch. Or the ones whom you can 911-message when your parents show up unexpectedly, and willingly rush over to throw some of your empty wine bottles into their recycling bin. Or even the ones who understand that you are so burned out from doing everything on the homefront for the past two years that they plan an escape to Miami for a weekend of sunshine, bikinis, and strawberry daiquiris. In this department, I am blessed! My friends are my lifeline. They understand that I am hurting, and they faithfully point me home when I am lost. They have sent me flowers and fruit baskets when I am too depressed to get out of bed, and have peeled me off the bathroom floor at fallen soldiers’ memorial services when I found myself too terrified to breathe. They have whispered, “You can do this,” a thousand times—when I run, when I have to meet with the gold-star families, when I scream at the top of my lungs, “Why?”.

My world has seemed to become a series of finish lines—and the marathon has become my icon of life. Race through the deployment; live through the soccer season; finish up the masters degree; run your heart out for 26 miles of Hell. I find myself looking towards the women who have done it before me—the wives of WWII veterans, the spouses of Vietnam, the women of our generation that have spent more holidays apart then together—to give me strength on my journey. Their suffering helps soften the blows to my heart, and their pain reminds me that I am not alone. I wish I could share all of their stories—and probably someday I will since I find myself addicted to writing—but one Army Wife, in particular, has touched my soul. Her name is Ali, and she is the mother of four kids, an elementary school teacher, and an Army Wife survivor of FOUR combat tours. She has seen it all—pain, betrayal, farewells, and homecomings—and she shares with me all of her experiences. Ali is the only woman I ever believe when the words, “Oh sweets, that is totally normal,” are uttered in my direction. I watched her fall to pieces last year when her husband was in Afghanistan, and she has held me upright this year while my husband was in Iraq. She understands the paranoia that flows from the communication blackout, she identifies with insomnia, and she gets that loneliness can make you desperate. Heck, there are days when I would be willing to trade in my car for a hug—and according to Ali, that’s standard strung-out-Army-Wife-behavior-normal.

And that is precisely why I am asking Ali to run the Army Ten Miler with me next spring. The race starts at the Pentagon, and takes us past almost every office where the fate of our Army families is decided upon. Did the Secretary of the Army realize the impact that the ongoing war would have on my babies? Did he ever picture the women like me, like Ali, -- young, smart, educated—become crippled with anxiety? Did he ever once think about our pain? About our husband’s PTSD? Could he feel it now, if just looked out the window and saw us running by? Would he be able to understand that we are desperate for peace; desperate to try to salvage what’s left of our broken families; desperate to bring our soldiers home alive, unchanged, and healed?

A few months back, Ali called me in a panic and asked the very same questions to me. She was crying on the phone, giant gulps burying her words, but she asked, “Why don’t they see us? How can they keep sending them away?” My response was typical Amy, “Honey, we could lay naked in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the President still wouldn’t notice the Army Wives of the world.” And just like that, a brilliant idea was conceived. We would make the world notice us. Bit by bit—through writing, running, and speaking—our stories would get out there. No, I am not going to lay naked in front of the Oval Office—although, to be honest, it does sound like something that I would do. But I will make sure that next May—when I run by the White House, adorned with every fallen soldier’s name that has served under my husband, that someone will notice. They will hear our stories and feel our heartache. Washington D.C. will be ready for Ali and I, and someone will grieve with us over all we have willingly lost in this war.

And if not? There will always be plan B… Ali and I naked on the White House front lawn. Letting go of our fears, forcing doors open to change, and probably getting a wicked sunburn on our butt. Changing the world, one pair of panties at a time, before the world completely changes us. That’s what strong Army Wives do-- they follow their own crazy ass code, drink more wine then the Irish at communion, and never give up. After all, it’s about damn time that someone took notice. In the words of the most notorious Army Wife, “The Army is the wife and we are the mistresses. I am sick of that bitch getting all of that attention."