For those of you who are familiar with my writing, you are probably aware that my usual blog starts off with me telling a crazy story—some ultimate tale of insanity where everything goes wrong, I stress out, spaz, and usually end up calling in a repair man to undo whatever-the-hell I did in the first place. But this week, I am changing it up—because suddenly and without warning—everything is lined up exactly the way I wanted . I can honestly say, things went…. brace yourself for this…. really well this week. I can only think of two possible scenarios as to why I, Amy Kemter, the world’s most unlucky person on the planet, is receiving good news: 1. Karma must be on vacation or 2. The world is about to end, and we are all going to die. Either way…. I am still smiling.
So I know you’re wondering… what’s the news? To begin with, I was accepted to grad school. Now, if anyone knew me back in my college years, this should come as no surprise. I have always been the closet smart girl. Academics –first; everything else-- second. I graduated top of my class from Penn State’s Honors program, and had my pick of graduate schools. The world dared me to make a difference, but I was too young, impulsive (ok, I never really grew out of that one), and in love with a cadet from West Point to meet the challenge head on. I graduated from PSU on a Friday, had a full blown military wedding on Sunday, and flew half way across the country on Monday to start my career as Amy the Army Wife. Graduate school still whispered and beckoned in my ear, but over the years I learned to ignore it. I turned my cheek whenever I met up with old college friends, and pretended to laugh every time I heard the question, “ So, you mean you didn’t go to medical school?”
The honest answer frustrated and irritated me, and I would usually find myself counting to ten (in about 50 different dialects) so I wouldn’t snap back the obvious, “No. I could never start and finish a program during one duty assignment.” I started teaching music, and for the past ten years, I have been having babies and moving from state to state (6 to be exact). Now don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that I regret any decision… but what I am saying is that I could only cage my dreams for so long until the animal inside awoke. The goals I created at the young age of twenty-two were still calling out to me, and I finally decided it was time to follow where they led.
The crazy part of this whole equation for the purpose-filled-life, is that it took a twelve month deployment to serve as the catalyst for change—and for that, I am actually grateful. If my husband were still here in the states, it would have probably taken me another two or three years before I found the courage to close my eyes and leap. But he’s not here, and his absence has forced me to accept the fact that his career path will always take him away from us, and there is nothing I can do to protect him or guarantee myself that he will even come home to us. I gave up everything to be with a man—and my greatest fear was that in the end it wouldn’t matter. If I lost Jim, I would lose everything that remained of that strong-willed twenty-two year old that chose a life of service over money, and I knew I there was no way—in my current path—I could ever recover from that.
So for once, I told my husband, “It’s my turn. I need this.”, and he managed to hear me—even being 7000 miles away. Graduate school meant more time apart, and more stress on our already taxed marriage, but it also meant that the person I lost along the way—the person my husband met and fell head over heels for—was on her way home. Jim took a deep breath, paused for a few moments and quietly responded, “I know you do. Go get it Amy.”
So, on August 24th, I start my masters program at the University of Texas. My husband will still be in Iraq when I walk into the school hall for the first time in a decade, but I know he will be right there beside me whispering “Go get it Amy. This one is all you.” And I will—because sometimes it takes a fear of losing everything to realize that you only get one chance at life, but if you do it right, once is enough. Dreams can only turn into reality if you allow yourself to wake up, and lucky for me, I have learned to become an early riser. Heck, sometimes the secret to happiness is merely remembering what it is you wanted all along… and simply going for it.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Army Wife Zombies
Everyone is always asking me, “What is the secret for surviving a deployment?”, and I swear my response changes every time I answer. Some days it is the official, “A strong support network and plenty of me-time”. Other days it is the more honest answer of, “Coffee, chocolate, and wine.” And of course, there are those days—I am talking about those mornings when you really don’t care if you wear your slippers to work – when I hear myself responding, “Don’t know… but I will let you know when (and if) I make it.”
Now, I’ll be honest, I am a pretty confident woman. Give me a challenge, and I will do everything in my power to conquer it. Marathon? Sounds like fun. Grad school? Who needs sleep. Take 3 kids to an indoor water park for Christmas break? Well…let’s just say that I will never attempt THAT kind of trip again solo! I try to the view the world as one amazing adventure—a finite journey where none of us are guaranteed another day. It is up to each of us to seize the moment and make it count-- even when our heart is broken and held loosely together with priority mail tape. I have learned a lot of life lessons during the past eight months of the deployment, but one of the most important is that life waits for no one-- the clock ticks at the same speed regardless if it is hanging in San Antonio or Baghdad. And that is precisely why I promised myself that I would continue to live—not just exist—during the 12 month deployment. I plum refuse to turn into one of the walking un-dead who simply goes through the motions of life without ever feeling pain or joy. There is absolutely no way that I plan to morph into a Stepford version of an Army-Wife-Zombie who flashes the thousand watt smile to all the rookie spouses and proclaims, “Chin up! It could always be worse!” Deployments sucks and separation can hurt so intensely that you forget to breathe. But I know, that at the end of the 12 months, I will still be standing strong. A battered, weary, and emotionally drained woman—but one who has the fortitude to hold her ground.
Thankfully, I have managed to safely evade the zombie transformation— and I finally got some reassurance that my kiddos hadn’t morphed into one of the ‘going-through-motions-undead’ yet either. Just the other night I had posted a photo on facebook showing my youngest daughter, Anna, reaching up to pet a horse (who had to be at least 18 hands high). Anna is a lot like me—bouncy, sarcastic, and probably more fearless then any 5 yr old rightly should be—and when the photo was snapped, she was begging me to let her ride him. I have to admit, I was a little taken back because in the stall next door there was a beautiful tiny pony—it’s mane braided and it’s coat all glossy and clean—but for some reason this real-life-version of My Little Pony didn’t even register on her radar. She saw the giant animal, with the legs longer then her entire body, and her eyes lit up with the possibilities of adventure. I could see it in her eyes, Anna was craving the journey; she wanted to climb on the back of that ridiculously overgrown animal and ride like the wind. For the first time in a long while, I felt at peace. My little angel was still the same free-spirited, curious, daring adventurer as eight pre-deployment months ago.
After I came home that evening (and showered the ten pounds of horse and human sweat off my body), I sat down on my bed and made a bucket list of some ‘realistic goals’—things that I could accomplish and reach—even as an Army mom and wife. I promised myself that I would run the Paris Marathon, and go on a cattle roundup in Montana. I want to take my kids swimming with dolphins, and hold their hands through an AIDS hospice when the time came to teach them about the consequences and fragility of life. I want my daughters to realize that beauty on the inside is infinitely more important then what’s on the outside—but confidence and good looks sometimes open the door to opportunities first. And I want my son to learn that true strength of character has nothing to do with biceps.
So, I promised myself that THIS summer—my second consecutive summer away from my husband—will be one of amazing journeys. Summer camps, weekends at the beach with the kids, a marathon in Seattle with friends, and an all girls weekend to Miami for the ‘pretend wedding’ of the century. I promised myself that THIS summer would be a season of growing—with more laughter then tears and more sunshine then rain. I will walk with my chin up, smile from my soul, and learn to answer, ‘Hell Yeah!’ a whole lot more frequently then plain old ‘No.’ I promised myself that THIS summer I would live a life of passion and purpose, and slaughter any attempt of ever becoming an Army-wife-zombie. After all, I now know the ultimate secret : How do you kill a zombie? The answer is unbelievably simple: By teaching it to live again.
Now, I’ll be honest, I am a pretty confident woman. Give me a challenge, and I will do everything in my power to conquer it. Marathon? Sounds like fun. Grad school? Who needs sleep. Take 3 kids to an indoor water park for Christmas break? Well…let’s just say that I will never attempt THAT kind of trip again solo! I try to the view the world as one amazing adventure—a finite journey where none of us are guaranteed another day. It is up to each of us to seize the moment and make it count-- even when our heart is broken and held loosely together with priority mail tape. I have learned a lot of life lessons during the past eight months of the deployment, but one of the most important is that life waits for no one-- the clock ticks at the same speed regardless if it is hanging in San Antonio or Baghdad. And that is precisely why I promised myself that I would continue to live—not just exist—during the 12 month deployment. I plum refuse to turn into one of the walking un-dead who simply goes through the motions of life without ever feeling pain or joy. There is absolutely no way that I plan to morph into a Stepford version of an Army-Wife-Zombie who flashes the thousand watt smile to all the rookie spouses and proclaims, “Chin up! It could always be worse!” Deployments sucks and separation can hurt so intensely that you forget to breathe. But I know, that at the end of the 12 months, I will still be standing strong. A battered, weary, and emotionally drained woman—but one who has the fortitude to hold her ground.
Thankfully, I have managed to safely evade the zombie transformation— and I finally got some reassurance that my kiddos hadn’t morphed into one of the ‘going-through-motions-undead’ yet either. Just the other night I had posted a photo on facebook showing my youngest daughter, Anna, reaching up to pet a horse (who had to be at least 18 hands high). Anna is a lot like me—bouncy, sarcastic, and probably more fearless then any 5 yr old rightly should be—and when the photo was snapped, she was begging me to let her ride him. I have to admit, I was a little taken back because in the stall next door there was a beautiful tiny pony—it’s mane braided and it’s coat all glossy and clean—but for some reason this real-life-version of My Little Pony didn’t even register on her radar. She saw the giant animal, with the legs longer then her entire body, and her eyes lit up with the possibilities of adventure. I could see it in her eyes, Anna was craving the journey; she wanted to climb on the back of that ridiculously overgrown animal and ride like the wind. For the first time in a long while, I felt at peace. My little angel was still the same free-spirited, curious, daring adventurer as eight pre-deployment months ago.
After I came home that evening (and showered the ten pounds of horse and human sweat off my body), I sat down on my bed and made a bucket list of some ‘realistic goals’—things that I could accomplish and reach—even as an Army mom and wife. I promised myself that I would run the Paris Marathon, and go on a cattle roundup in Montana. I want to take my kids swimming with dolphins, and hold their hands through an AIDS hospice when the time came to teach them about the consequences and fragility of life. I want my daughters to realize that beauty on the inside is infinitely more important then what’s on the outside—but confidence and good looks sometimes open the door to opportunities first. And I want my son to learn that true strength of character has nothing to do with biceps.
So, I promised myself that THIS summer—my second consecutive summer away from my husband—will be one of amazing journeys. Summer camps, weekends at the beach with the kids, a marathon in Seattle with friends, and an all girls weekend to Miami for the ‘pretend wedding’ of the century. I promised myself that THIS summer would be a season of growing—with more laughter then tears and more sunshine then rain. I will walk with my chin up, smile from my soul, and learn to answer, ‘Hell Yeah!’ a whole lot more frequently then plain old ‘No.’ I promised myself that THIS summer I would live a life of passion and purpose, and slaughter any attempt of ever becoming an Army-wife-zombie. After all, I now know the ultimate secret : How do you kill a zombie? The answer is unbelievably simple: By teaching it to live again.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Fences
Last night I couldn’t sleep. I did all the usual tricks that my Army-Wife-Therapist recommended—sniffed lavender before bed, drank a glass of warm milk, and put down the smut book (reluctantly). Finally, after much tossing and turning I decided to throw in the towel. I gave up, got up, and decided I would do something productive with my extra three hours of wretched wakefulness. In fact, I decided that 2:00AM would be the perfect time to start staining the fence.
Yes, I am aware that probably only crazy people don a headlamp in the middle of the night, plop down on a kitchen stool, and start slapping stain onto a fence. It was muggy, dark, and I probably encountered at least seven different species of lizards. But the fence seemed to be calling me, and somewhere in my obsessive-stuck-in-overdrive brain I knew that I had to work on the tangible fence around my yard before I could ever tackle the one that I had unintentionally erected around my heart. I knew that I had constructed a fortress around myself—a barrier of strength, humor, and a breakneck pace of life-- just so that I could keep from completely falling apart. The walls I surrounded myself whispered a false sense of security to me—offering only sanctuary and isolation from what I really feared the most: the Army Wife’s worst nightmare, having life spiral out of control.
As I sat there in the dark, feeding half of the mosquito population of S. Texas, I realized that I was probably towing the line of the inevitable army-wife-nervous-breakdown. In my experience, Army Wives tend to crack in two directions: 1. Those that never can get out of bed, gain 20 lbs, and feed their sorrow with tacos, chocolate, and wine. OR 2. Those that can’t sit still, workout like the devil on speed, and are angry enough to take on a Mexican drug lord without so much as batting an eyelash. I am of the second subset. Feisty- yes. Sarcastic-yes. Likely to be assassinated for telling a ghetto-gold toothed-potential-pimp-daddy that his driving sucks—unfortunately, yes. I am half Irish/ half Russian, and was raised by a Texas- cattle-rancher-gone-New Yorker. Heck, just last weekend I found myself narrowing my eyes at a friend and proclaiming in my iciest voice, “There are those who were dropped on their heads at birth, and then there are those who were probably thrown…” Thankfully, he understood Army Wives well enough to forgive, forget…. and duck.
Anyway, as I made my way board by board around the yard, it slowly dawned on me that fences—although strong and resilient—take a lot of upkeep and energy to maintain. You can only shut the world out for so long before the foundation begins to crumble—and if that shielding damn breaks, the flooding of emotions will drown you. Who could ever possibly swim against a current of fear, anger, loneliness, and bitterness? No Army Wife—not even the ones who are viewed as the strong—can tread water for twelve continuous months. So, I made a promise to myself that night, with the crickets as my only vocal witness, to start shedding the armor that I had so carefully constructed to keep the grief at bay. Karma whispered and nudged me that night to set down the paintbrush and stain, and to allow the pain home—because only when it enters can it ever fully be overcome. Darkness comes before light; fear before bravery; pain ahead of healing. Hugging my knees into my chest, I closed my eyes, and granted myself that solitary moment of weakness. For twenty minutes I allowed my soul to splinter, and I cried my heart out under the spring stars.
When I was done, I carefully rose and closed the lid to the stain. I tossed the brush into the trash and made my way back towards my bed. Speckled and spotted, I crawled in between the sheets, and closed my heavy eyes. The ache was still there—and probably would be for a long while, but with the pain came hope and a glimmer of optimism. Karma was right. The dismantling of walls brought overwhelming grief, but also allowed the warmth of faith to penetrate my spirit. Yes, life was out of control— but no matter how much I shut out the world, it could still not offer any guarantee that my soldier would come home unharmed. All I could do was hope, pray, raise my kids, love unconditionally, and live each day likes it is our last. Unbelievably, I knew that Karma, for once, was on my side. In my weakest moment, she led me outside, reminded me that I was still alive, and urged me to fight for my dreams. On the whisper of the wind and in the simple task of staining a fence, she taught me that one day—whether on a battlefield or in a hospital bed-- we would all lose the final battle against Control and our lives would go flashing before our eyes. It is up to each of us to make sure it’s damn-well worth watching.
Yes, I am aware that probably only crazy people don a headlamp in the middle of the night, plop down on a kitchen stool, and start slapping stain onto a fence. It was muggy, dark, and I probably encountered at least seven different species of lizards. But the fence seemed to be calling me, and somewhere in my obsessive-stuck-in-overdrive brain I knew that I had to work on the tangible fence around my yard before I could ever tackle the one that I had unintentionally erected around my heart. I knew that I had constructed a fortress around myself—a barrier of strength, humor, and a breakneck pace of life-- just so that I could keep from completely falling apart. The walls I surrounded myself whispered a false sense of security to me—offering only sanctuary and isolation from what I really feared the most: the Army Wife’s worst nightmare, having life spiral out of control.
As I sat there in the dark, feeding half of the mosquito population of S. Texas, I realized that I was probably towing the line of the inevitable army-wife-nervous-breakdown. In my experience, Army Wives tend to crack in two directions: 1. Those that never can get out of bed, gain 20 lbs, and feed their sorrow with tacos, chocolate, and wine. OR 2. Those that can’t sit still, workout like the devil on speed, and are angry enough to take on a Mexican drug lord without so much as batting an eyelash. I am of the second subset. Feisty- yes. Sarcastic-yes. Likely to be assassinated for telling a ghetto-gold toothed-potential-pimp-daddy that his driving sucks—unfortunately, yes. I am half Irish/ half Russian, and was raised by a Texas- cattle-rancher-gone-New Yorker. Heck, just last weekend I found myself narrowing my eyes at a friend and proclaiming in my iciest voice, “There are those who were dropped on their heads at birth, and then there are those who were probably thrown…” Thankfully, he understood Army Wives well enough to forgive, forget…. and duck.
Anyway, as I made my way board by board around the yard, it slowly dawned on me that fences—although strong and resilient—take a lot of upkeep and energy to maintain. You can only shut the world out for so long before the foundation begins to crumble—and if that shielding damn breaks, the flooding of emotions will drown you. Who could ever possibly swim against a current of fear, anger, loneliness, and bitterness? No Army Wife—not even the ones who are viewed as the strong—can tread water for twelve continuous months. So, I made a promise to myself that night, with the crickets as my only vocal witness, to start shedding the armor that I had so carefully constructed to keep the grief at bay. Karma whispered and nudged me that night to set down the paintbrush and stain, and to allow the pain home—because only when it enters can it ever fully be overcome. Darkness comes before light; fear before bravery; pain ahead of healing. Hugging my knees into my chest, I closed my eyes, and granted myself that solitary moment of weakness. For twenty minutes I allowed my soul to splinter, and I cried my heart out under the spring stars.
When I was done, I carefully rose and closed the lid to the stain. I tossed the brush into the trash and made my way back towards my bed. Speckled and spotted, I crawled in between the sheets, and closed my heavy eyes. The ache was still there—and probably would be for a long while, but with the pain came hope and a glimmer of optimism. Karma was right. The dismantling of walls brought overwhelming grief, but also allowed the warmth of faith to penetrate my spirit. Yes, life was out of control— but no matter how much I shut out the world, it could still not offer any guarantee that my soldier would come home unharmed. All I could do was hope, pray, raise my kids, love unconditionally, and live each day likes it is our last. Unbelievably, I knew that Karma, for once, was on my side. In my weakest moment, she led me outside, reminded me that I was still alive, and urged me to fight for my dreams. On the whisper of the wind and in the simple task of staining a fence, she taught me that one day—whether on a battlefield or in a hospital bed-- we would all lose the final battle against Control and our lives would go flashing before our eyes. It is up to each of us to make sure it’s damn-well worth watching.
Monday, May 9, 2011
"A Farewell to Arms"
Osama’s death marked a turning point in America’s history. The devil was dead, shot twice in the face and dumped in the ocean for all eternity. America rejoiced. People ran to the streets to celebrate waving flags and chanting the Star Spangled Banner. Make shift memorials suddenly reappeared at Ground Zero, proclaiming “We never forgot…” And here at home, my phone blew up instantly with friends and family all celebrating the end of tyranny. Messages like: “Pick up the phone and let’s do a shot!” and “Sleep easy tonight Amy, Evil is dead” all flooded my inbox. But was it really dead and gone, or were the flames of hatred stoked even farther? Would the death of Osama Bin Laden, the Hitler of our generation, forever haunt the Army families on the home front? As I looked at my husband, who was only four days out from having to return to the front lines, it became crystal clear. Bin Laden is dead. But unfortunately, Bin Ladenism is very much alive—and as the world celebrated the death of a monster, I was bracing myself to send my husband back into the Devil’s backyard.
Don’t me get me wrong, I was overjoyed that the world contained one less immoral demon, but I also knew that Bin Laden was sitting in Hell enjoying the last laugh. The war wasn’t over—not by a long shot. And I, the sassy mouthed Army Wife from South Texas, was left helpless and out of options. There was no way I could battle a ghost. My husband was returning to a war zone, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to change that. No amount of praying, hoping, or wishing would keep him home with us. Somehow the world needed him more than I did, and with reluctance, I finally accepted that maybe the key to peace truly is selfless sacrifice. I learned that night that Karma was still breathing life lessons into my heart. I knew she was telling me that I had to let him go… but I desperately wished someone would teach me how. A crystal ball would have been perfect. Heck, by that point I would have settled for a pithy fortune cookie and an Ambien. I prayed for peace. I prayed for sleep. I prayed that someone—preferably an all-seeing oracle-- would hold me tight and whisper that it was going to be ok. All I wanted was the insurance that somehow this chaos-loving war would find a way to pass over my family. We would escape unharmed. I could shed my armor of toughness and strength and become the woman that I had always imagined I would be-- a mother, a lover, a writer. A women who fell slowly in love and had all the time in the world to breathe life into her dreams.
But, four short days later, I was forced to say good bye once more. In a fog, I dropped off the kids to school, and came home to a husband that was sitting quietly at the kitchen table. He was once again dressed in those all too familiar BDUs, a rucksack by his feet, and quietly mumbled, “It’s time.” Time. The one thing the universe keeps denying us. The one gift that 98% of my friends take for granted. I nodded slowly, closed my eyes, and conjured up the needed strength to prepare for my duty again. The mission of an Army Wife-- the protector of the children, the consoler of the grieving widow, the sturdy foundation to the broken spirited, and the one-woman Army for all those left to battle alone.
As I turned my eyes to Jim, I knew he had already mentally left me. His eyes were focused on Iraq, and his soul was with his troops. He was heading back into a land where Osama was now a wicked memory. My husband—like every other man and woman who has served this great nation—deserves every accolade for this monumental accomplishment. Osama is dead—the US has won a strategic battle. But I know I speak for so many other Army Wives when I pray that someday there will be an end to this War on Terror,and everyone that our hearts have ached for over the past ten years, will start the journey home to us. Our husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers can march home embracing their victory, and proclaiming the ultimate win. The only triumph that Karma teaches us is worth fighting for. The only win that I can justify another five months apart from my husband. Peace.
Don’t me get me wrong, I was overjoyed that the world contained one less immoral demon, but I also knew that Bin Laden was sitting in Hell enjoying the last laugh. The war wasn’t over—not by a long shot. And I, the sassy mouthed Army Wife from South Texas, was left helpless and out of options. There was no way I could battle a ghost. My husband was returning to a war zone, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to change that. No amount of praying, hoping, or wishing would keep him home with us. Somehow the world needed him more than I did, and with reluctance, I finally accepted that maybe the key to peace truly is selfless sacrifice. I learned that night that Karma was still breathing life lessons into my heart. I knew she was telling me that I had to let him go… but I desperately wished someone would teach me how. A crystal ball would have been perfect. Heck, by that point I would have settled for a pithy fortune cookie and an Ambien. I prayed for peace. I prayed for sleep. I prayed that someone—preferably an all-seeing oracle-- would hold me tight and whisper that it was going to be ok. All I wanted was the insurance that somehow this chaos-loving war would find a way to pass over my family. We would escape unharmed. I could shed my armor of toughness and strength and become the woman that I had always imagined I would be-- a mother, a lover, a writer. A women who fell slowly in love and had all the time in the world to breathe life into her dreams.
But, four short days later, I was forced to say good bye once more. In a fog, I dropped off the kids to school, and came home to a husband that was sitting quietly at the kitchen table. He was once again dressed in those all too familiar BDUs, a rucksack by his feet, and quietly mumbled, “It’s time.” Time. The one thing the universe keeps denying us. The one gift that 98% of my friends take for granted. I nodded slowly, closed my eyes, and conjured up the needed strength to prepare for my duty again. The mission of an Army Wife-- the protector of the children, the consoler of the grieving widow, the sturdy foundation to the broken spirited, and the one-woman Army for all those left to battle alone.
As I turned my eyes to Jim, I knew he had already mentally left me. His eyes were focused on Iraq, and his soul was with his troops. He was heading back into a land where Osama was now a wicked memory. My husband—like every other man and woman who has served this great nation—deserves every accolade for this monumental accomplishment. Osama is dead—the US has won a strategic battle. But I know I speak for so many other Army Wives when I pray that someday there will be an end to this War on Terror,and everyone that our hearts have ached for over the past ten years, will start the journey home to us. Our husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers can march home embracing their victory, and proclaiming the ultimate win. The only triumph that Karma teaches us is worth fighting for. The only win that I can justify another five months apart from my husband. Peace.
Monday, May 2, 2011
The fruit bearing change.
Change is inevitable. We grow older, wiser, and unfortunately… usually a little fatter as time continues its onward march. Nothing stays the same—heck, even my laptop somehow manages to update itself while I sleep. Our kids grow, our TV’s get flatter, and our cell phones become infinitely more complicated (yet still seem to drop about half the calls at the most inconvenient times). Luckily, change seems to happen at such a constant pace that we tend not to notice it in our everyday lives. In fact, we are usually blissfully unaware-- rarely, do our kids eat an entire pizza, go to bed, and wake-up two inches taller (or with the new-found maturity to suddenly take out the trash without being told a dozen times). But to the returning soldier, or one who is home for R&R (as in my case), change becomes the salient reminder of all they have missed. It is the thorn in the soldier’s side that painfully points out that life somehow continued on without them. Kiddos lost teeth, Santa Clause visited, mom learned to change a flat tire (without resorting to tears and showing a little leg on the side of the road)… all while the soldier was off fighting over seas. There is always that moment when the soldier walks in the front door—amidst the banners, balloons, and baked good—and glances around the room. He is searching for something familiar. He is looking for what he left behind, but what he sees is change. Suddenly, it becomes infinitely clear that he can’t go back to the beginning of the deployment to start again where he left off. The only option is to dig in, pray for grace and understanding, and work on making a new ending to your story.
For three days my husband walked around with the anti-change blinders on, pretending not to notice how his family had morphed into bigger, smarter, and in some cases… more hormonal versions of themselves. He nonchalantly went about life like it had always been normal for his now-twelve-year-old daughter to have a pair of earbuds permanently attached to her head. But the moment—the real soul awakening moment—happened last Saturday on a trip back from my own personal Hell… Lowes. Jim wanted a garden—just like he had every year—and he was determined to make the biggest, best, and most amazing plot of earth the world had ever known. He envisioned the kids working together (yes, he is obviously delusional) to bring in the bountiful harvest, neighbors stopping by for a chat AND to collect their portion of the 100 lbs of squash, and me (probably wearing a stained apron, a thong, and a pair of stiletto heels) dutifully canning tomatoes for the winter.
Now let’s be honest, I can barely keep the few potted plants alive on the front porch. I usually only notice those when I am walking in at the end of the day -- when they are all limp, flaccid, and near death—and ‘generously’ give them all the remaining water and gatoraid from my son’s soccer bottles (all of about 10 drops). In fact, I am living breathing proof that the green-thumb-gene skips a generation. My mother can plant a tire and grow a car. I, on the other hand, can plant a tire and grow a headache. Gardening is just not my thing. It never has been, but every year I make the dutiful pilgrimage to Lowes for tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash like the true Southern woman I have learned to become. Jim sweats in the heat while he plants the garden, and I sit in the shade and look pretty. Everyone is happy. Everyone wins.
Of course, this year it would be a little different—Jim is going back to Iraq on May 5th—and the person sweating out in the heat is going to be me! There I was standing in Lowes, looking at a cart full of tomatoes, seeds, potting soil, and… an inconceivable peach TREE thinking to myself, ‘fantastic, I now get to add itinerant farmer to my résumé.’ I tried to act enthusiastic and supportive. I applauded his search for the perfect fruit-bearing peach tree, but when he was about to add a nectarine tree to the cart, something snapped. I needed to put my foot down. I barely had time to shower-- there was no way I had time to care for the abundant orchard of his dreams. I did what every pushed-over-the-edge-Army-Wife does, I smiled seductively, suggested we make some mojitos, and used all my feminine voodoo to make him forget about the nectarine tree. And it worked… for about five minutes. Until we were driving home—a peach tree on my lap AND extending out the back window—when he turned to me and dropped the bomb.
My heart sunk as his words bounced around my head, “Amy who are you? Are we even compatible anymore?”
It was that moment that I really saw Jim for the first time. In fact, sometimes it’s easier to see the forest through the trees when you are actually holding one on your lap in a little Honda Civic. Yes, we are different people. The war has changed us both. It somehow managed to touch our family with pain and sorrow, but it has also brought a new perspective on life. Some things just aren’t important anymore—and some things probably never will be again. But the lessons the war have taught us have been profound. When we were young, we went to school, and studied and prepared for the tests that life threw at us. Now that we are grown, life presents us with a test, and with it comes a lesson—and it’s what we do with these bitter teachings that truly define us. It’s how we manage to walk through the fire that reveals our true strength. As I sat there, holding that ridiculous peach tree on my lap, I suddenly knew the answer. We may be different people, and we may not see eye to eye on many things, but that is because we both have been busy growing, adapting, and surviving. Karma has been busy teaching us both lessons. We may not be growing together as the tight unit that we once were, but I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that we were both still growing in the same direction. We both still want to do amazing things with our lives—help people, love on our kids, advance our education, and grow. Jim and I are still tethered together— two souls entwined that have witnessed true beauty and sadness; the greatest obstacles and yet the most amazing miracles. Suddenly the forest was as clear as day, I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that I would love Jim until the day my heart quit beating.
So tomorrow, I plan to make a trip to Hell again. I plan to walk into Lowes and pick up the biggest, greenest, and most productive nectarine tree that I can fit into the Honda. I will dig a hole (hopefully without snagging any power lines), and drop that baby into my backyard. I know Jim will understand its meaning—compromise, resilience, and growth. I hope he comes homes in six months, and sees that tree still standing strong and realizes it’s a symbol for us— for every army family separated by war—that even in adversity we can still produce fruit. Change is inevitable, but as along as the foundation holds strong, then there is always hope that you can weather any storm— even the never-ending war on terror.
For three days my husband walked around with the anti-change blinders on, pretending not to notice how his family had morphed into bigger, smarter, and in some cases… more hormonal versions of themselves. He nonchalantly went about life like it had always been normal for his now-twelve-year-old daughter to have a pair of earbuds permanently attached to her head. But the moment—the real soul awakening moment—happened last Saturday on a trip back from my own personal Hell… Lowes. Jim wanted a garden—just like he had every year—and he was determined to make the biggest, best, and most amazing plot of earth the world had ever known. He envisioned the kids working together (yes, he is obviously delusional) to bring in the bountiful harvest, neighbors stopping by for a chat AND to collect their portion of the 100 lbs of squash, and me (probably wearing a stained apron, a thong, and a pair of stiletto heels) dutifully canning tomatoes for the winter.
Now let’s be honest, I can barely keep the few potted plants alive on the front porch. I usually only notice those when I am walking in at the end of the day -- when they are all limp, flaccid, and near death—and ‘generously’ give them all the remaining water and gatoraid from my son’s soccer bottles (all of about 10 drops). In fact, I am living breathing proof that the green-thumb-gene skips a generation. My mother can plant a tire and grow a car. I, on the other hand, can plant a tire and grow a headache. Gardening is just not my thing. It never has been, but every year I make the dutiful pilgrimage to Lowes for tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash like the true Southern woman I have learned to become. Jim sweats in the heat while he plants the garden, and I sit in the shade and look pretty. Everyone is happy. Everyone wins.
Of course, this year it would be a little different—Jim is going back to Iraq on May 5th—and the person sweating out in the heat is going to be me! There I was standing in Lowes, looking at a cart full of tomatoes, seeds, potting soil, and… an inconceivable peach TREE thinking to myself, ‘fantastic, I now get to add itinerant farmer to my résumé.’ I tried to act enthusiastic and supportive. I applauded his search for the perfect fruit-bearing peach tree, but when he was about to add a nectarine tree to the cart, something snapped. I needed to put my foot down. I barely had time to shower-- there was no way I had time to care for the abundant orchard of his dreams. I did what every pushed-over-the-edge-Army-Wife does, I smiled seductively, suggested we make some mojitos, and used all my feminine voodoo to make him forget about the nectarine tree. And it worked… for about five minutes. Until we were driving home—a peach tree on my lap AND extending out the back window—when he turned to me and dropped the bomb.
My heart sunk as his words bounced around my head, “Amy who are you? Are we even compatible anymore?”
It was that moment that I really saw Jim for the first time. In fact, sometimes it’s easier to see the forest through the trees when you are actually holding one on your lap in a little Honda Civic. Yes, we are different people. The war has changed us both. It somehow managed to touch our family with pain and sorrow, but it has also brought a new perspective on life. Some things just aren’t important anymore—and some things probably never will be again. But the lessons the war have taught us have been profound. When we were young, we went to school, and studied and prepared for the tests that life threw at us. Now that we are grown, life presents us with a test, and with it comes a lesson—and it’s what we do with these bitter teachings that truly define us. It’s how we manage to walk through the fire that reveals our true strength. As I sat there, holding that ridiculous peach tree on my lap, I suddenly knew the answer. We may be different people, and we may not see eye to eye on many things, but that is because we both have been busy growing, adapting, and surviving. Karma has been busy teaching us both lessons. We may not be growing together as the tight unit that we once were, but I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that we were both still growing in the same direction. We both still want to do amazing things with our lives—help people, love on our kids, advance our education, and grow. Jim and I are still tethered together— two souls entwined that have witnessed true beauty and sadness; the greatest obstacles and yet the most amazing miracles. Suddenly the forest was as clear as day, I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that I would love Jim until the day my heart quit beating.
So tomorrow, I plan to make a trip to Hell again. I plan to walk into Lowes and pick up the biggest, greenest, and most productive nectarine tree that I can fit into the Honda. I will dig a hole (hopefully without snagging any power lines), and drop that baby into my backyard. I know Jim will understand its meaning—compromise, resilience, and growth. I hope he comes homes in six months, and sees that tree still standing strong and realizes it’s a symbol for us— for every army family separated by war—that even in adversity we can still produce fruit. Change is inevitable, but as along as the foundation holds strong, then there is always hope that you can weather any storm— even the never-ending war on terror.
Monday, April 25, 2011
R&R: Rest, Relaxation, and brief moments of sanity.
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.
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 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.
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