Together we stand

For those who follow my blog, you may recall me mentioning a dear friend, Alison. Ali has been an inspiration to me, as she is a seasoned Army Wife with FOUR deployments under her belt, and is probably the only truly honest Army Wife friend that I have. Picture a librarian/stripper, and you have a visual of Ali. She is sassy, smart, loveable, and as of Friday…. Alone again. Deployment number five is looming in the foreground, and I wish I could say that Ali is handling it with all of the grace and poise of the ‘suffer-in-silence’ Army Wife, but the truth is, Ali is devastated.

Families like Alison’s have been put through the ringer, and although the Army has made great strides to improve the services available to families in crisis, there is still so much work to be done. Services need to be made more readily available to children, Military Wives need to have access to better counseling—not just medication--, and deployments NEED to be shortened to under a year. Military families across this great nation are broken and hurting, and this isn’t something that can be quickly fixed by some hot welcome-home-sex and a trip to Disney World. The hurt, bitterness, and isolation cuts deep, and my heart breaks for all that Ali will have to once again endure.

People are always asking me, “What’s the secret to success? How have you, the woman who has more red flags tagging her sanity than an after-Christmas sale at Walmart, managed to beat the odds?” And the answer is this: I haven’t beaten anything yet—I just continuously fight. A war can threaten to take your humanity—but it will never break your soul. So stand resolute.

Today, I want to shout out to Ali, my broken-hearted-friend , who is once again asked to walk through the fire of a deployment. Take time for yourself, never apologize for feeling pain, try not to blame your husband for this arduous journey you navigate, and know that I am here for you. Always. America owes more to you than it will ever fully realize, and I have to believe with all of my heart that in the end, these sacrifices you have made will be worth it. And remember, I am just an airplane ride away, and can be there in a heartbeat. Today, I am making a promise to Ali, and to all the military wives who are spending this weekend alone, that I have an ear to listen and a heart to bleed-- so contact me if you need to. Someday I hope to plop down in the sand next to you, give you a hug, hand you a glass, uncork a bottle and announce, “Friend--I am here for you. Dinner is poured.”

(The face of strength)

Perspective

Today I did two pull-ups on my kid’s overpriced Rainbow swing set. I dangled from the bright yellow bars, pulled up with all my strength—and miraculously, I lifted my chin (amongst my screams of, “Witnesses…. I NEED A WITNESS HERE!”) over my hands. I was thrilled, and immediately dropped to do the victory booty dance with my 5 yr old (she will do the booty dance for just about anything, and I am positive that she wasn’t the least bit interested in my new found bicep-super-power). I, on the other hand, was over-the-top excited. You see, in 1998, during one spring-break-gone-bad, I had a bit of a skiing accident and shattered my shoulder into about a bajillion pieces. Obviously, it has never been the same since, and it seemed that no matter how strong I became, or how much I lifted… I could never manage to do a pull up. Over the years, I kind of accepted that I would never be able to do THAT one aspect of physical fitness…. and frankly, never really cared… until 6 months ago, when I hired a personal trainer. I told him that I wanted to be able to do a pull up (AND out-plank any man who dared challenge me), and we started seriously working on it. Over the past 6 months, I flipped tires, lifted weights, probably did AT LEAST ten thousand pushups, and lifted more heavy objects then I thought was humanly possible. Six months later--amongst much popping and creaking noises in my damaged shoulder—I hoisted my chin above that bar. Success!

Was my arm suddenly healed? Nope. Does it still give me pain if I bump it against the refrigerator door (which seems to happen EVERY Monday morning)? Yes. Will it ever be like the pre-ski-jump shoulder of 1998? Nope. But that’s ok—sometimes being victorious has nothing to do with trying to surpass your all-time-best. The past is the past—and until Michael J. Fox shows up with his Delorian on my driveway, there is no hope that I could ever erase that accident. But what I can do—what we all should do—is realize that success is all about perspective. Yes, I could have had the ability to lift Volvos if I hadn’t gone off that ski jump in Killington, Vermont, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t celebrate the fact that I just displayed epic strength with a shoulder that is held together with pins and screws. Heck, if I have learned anything from being an Army Wife it is this: Sometimes you have to win a few battles before you can the win war. And I refuse to lose the war. Failure just isn’t in my vocabulary.

Two weeks ago, my husband returned home from that war. My inbox, facebook, and phone were filled with well wishes, and everyone was waiting for the romantic story of the reunion of the century. The Lifetime Channel (which frankly, should be banned from all female viewers) loves to display homecomings as this honeymoon where the soldier walks into the kitchen , everyone squeals in surprise (but ironically has hair and makeup perfect), and they hop right back into their pre-deployment life. But that’s the point I am trying to make here- you can never go backwards in life— you can’t pretend that a deployment never happened and you can’t bottle up all the emotions that a year of separation, worry, war, and a foreign country has left swimming around your soul. But what you can do is face them head on. Tackle those issues, find strength in your weaknesses, and celebrate the small victories of life. All it takes, is a little change of perspective, a deep breath, and a never-going-to-quit attitude. And I have that. Piece of cake. Heck, by next week I will be doing three pull ups--- the only difference is Jim will be swinging from the bar next to me. (And for those who are wondering…. I am 100% positive I could out plank him in a heart beat).

(Total bad ass, right??)

Lost and Found

Last Friday night, I did a fundraiser at San Antonio’s monthly pub run. I drove downtown, threw on a red text-to-donate- t-shirt, grabbed an empty beer pitcher, and hit up the drunken crowd for cash donations for Soldiers’ Angels. There were five of us working the crowd, and we definitely had a great time ‘working’… and sipping a Hurricane… but mainly working… (you know, when we weren’t sipping the Hurricane). My friends were amazing, and it was my first time seeing any of them since Jim had arrived home from Iraq. I could tell instantly that they were a little uncomfortable around me— the husband who had only been in photos for the past two years had suddenly appeared and no one was sure where exactly this left them. Would I still go out with the pack? Would I start inviting everyone over for movie night and greet them at the door wearing slippers and a sweater vest? Would I be pregnant by September and trade in my new kick-ass Jetta for a minivan?

I tried to act normal—you know, questionably-sane-Army-Wife normal-- gave everyone hugs and made my usual smart ass comments. I passed out fliers for our upcoming races, sprinted against people from bar to bar, and smiled from ear to ear. You see, being with my friends felt normal. I was comfortable around them—they were safe—and I could be myself (without worrying that they would throw me into jail for ‘borrowing’ some Mardi Gras beads from Pat O’Brians.). I knew exactly where I stood with them (heck, they were wearing ‘borrowed’ Mardi Gras beads too). For two years, my friends had supported and loved me unconditionally—even when my husband could not— and I knew that I could never repay them in a million years. What they gave me was priceless, and I considered them my family.

Later that night—after the traditional post-pub-run- Mexican-meal- of-heartburn—my friends and I walked to my car. Monica, Craig, and I strolled to the River Center Parking garage where we had dropped off our vehicles earlier that evening. It was getting late, and I was ready to crash (and more importantly, shower—it was still over 100 degrees outside), and I didn’t want to be out late knowing that Jim was waiting at home. I walked in to the steamy garage, trekked up to the third level, and searched for my car…. Only it wasn’t there. At first it was funny, Craig declared that my new car, affectingly named Vespa Whilfflebottom (VW for short), was playing hide and seek (she was a baby after all), and we all laughed and looked for the ‘baby’… checking levels two and four just to be on the safe side. It took about fifteen minutes until we realized that Vespa, my new barely paid-for-Jetta, was MIA…. And I started to go all questionably-sane-Army-Wife-Crazy.

After much discussion, gazing over the concrete slab, taking note of landmarks, and pretending that we had the ability to navigate via the stars we FINALLY came to the conclusion that THIS River Center Parking Garage was the WRONG River Center Parking Garage. And like the true family that my friends had become, they escorted me to the OTHER River Center Parking Garage to where Vespa sat patiently , just waiting to take me home.

(River Center Parking Garage #2 is just like River Center Parking Garage #1.... only different. And down the street. And now missing a few $20 to park signs)


And that’s the lesson here. True friends point you home—even when you are scared, out of your comfort zone, and a little lost. The Monica’s, Craigs’s, Loren’s, and Toby’s of our lives are God’s way of taking care of us, and I know for a fact, that the friends I have encountered on this journey were placed there to help guide me in the direction that I needed to be going. Last Friday, my friends stayed with me until my lost car was found, and one by one they all hugged me and whispered that everything was going to be ok. Jim would heal, he would adapt to life again in the US, and we would learn to navigate a new life together. It may be different, but how could it not be—war changes us all—but it also teaches us to appreciate-- and to love with all of our hearts--the true blessings that are placed in front of us. And I am blessed.

There is the family you are born with, and the family you choose… and I choose all of my red-shirt-co-conspirators.

(The Red Shirt Family)

The End- The Beginning

Today was the day that I had been anticipating for the past twelve months. The call came through to my cell, land line, text message, and email (the Army really didn’t want me to miss THIS one) that “my soldier’s flight is tentatively scheduled to arrive within 72 hours to Ft Hood.” The message took my breath away.

When the call came through, I was just playing a board game with the kids at my parent’s ranch, all four of us sprawled out on the bedroom carpet like cats basking in the sun. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the sky was crystal clear—not a cloud marred the Texas horizon, and I suddenly remembered noticing the very same sky twelve months ago when he hoisted that duffle bag onto his shoulder and walked out of our lives. Twelve months. Seven thousand miles. Heartaches. Life lessons. Growth. Pain. So much had changed-- heck, there are days when I barely recognize the reflection in the mirror—but the view of life, whether it is through a bedroom window in South Texas or through the window to my soul, remained unchanged. We had survived—maybe broken and bleeding, but we were both still standing.

I wish I could say I hung up the phone and did cartwheels around the room while whooping it up, but that’s not how it happened. I quietly hung up the phone, walked silently to the bathroom, turned the faucet on high, lowered myself to the edge of the tub, and cried. A year of heartache was finally over, and with it came tears of joy, relief, gratitude, and grief over all we had lost and all we were forced to gain.

I am not the same woman that he left. I no longer believe in ‘Happily Ever After’, my heart bleeds for the wounded soldiers, and I no longer bring a casserole to the grieving widows home (I come armed with vodka). I say things as I see them, I refuse to kiss anyone’s ass—regardless if there is a clover leaf pinned on their shoulder or not—and I no longer ever apologize for being me.

Twelve months ago, I was forced to learn how to stand on my own two feet again—like a baby learning to walk, I had to learn how to carry my family through this war. And I did. I went back to school, I learned how to be two places at once, I held my children close during their nightmares, and I allowed my friends to hold me upright when the fear threatened to drown me. I learned that true strength has nothing to do with how many burdens you can shoulder, but rather how you can still live a life of purpose and joy while juggling the weight of the world. Sometimes, the secret to strength is looking fear straight into the eye, smiling like a bad ass, and faking bravery really well.

Jim returns to us in 72 short hours, but it will be a new life that we will have to navigate together. The journey of a deployment does not end with the homecoming—that’s only the beginning. And thank God, I am blessed enough to have my soldier return home unharmed. In 72 hours, I will be standing on the tarmac waiting for the troops to arrive, just watching the other spouses of the 3rd ACR. I may not know many by name, but I will be able to pick them out instantly in the crowd. THEY are the ones stronger then steel. THEY are the ones tougher than a hungry street fighter. THEY are the ones braver than a condemned saint. THEY are the ones who can break a Reeses Peanut butter Cup into three pieces, and eat only one. And I am not surprised one bit—after all, it takes ALL of that to be an Army Wife… and more.

("Between the wish and the thing called life, lies waiting.")