Little Rituals

We would walk there in the mornings on our honeymoon, hand in hand, basking in the joy of being newly married. The traffic whipping by us, the smell of the beach not far behind us, we felt as though the world had nothing on us. The walk was less than five minutes, and we'd arrive at our breakfast place.

Little Rituals.

Even then, I found the name indescribably comforting. I am a person who derives great comfort and satisfaction from just that--little rituals. That this had become such a ritual for us was no coincidence.

That memory ran through my head as I meandered down the sidewalk with Elizabeth today. Our daily afternoon walk to get the mail, with cards to send off as well, we basked in the beauty of the coming evening. I felt such joy and comfort as she held tight to my finger waking along side me. It was precisely these moments, these emotions, I had wondered at the possibility of feeling before he left. But it is possible. And that brings me additional comfort.

Waking in the morning and drinking my coffee while she eats, as the morning sun shines through the windows. Naptime, and the quiet in the house as I clean. Cooking dinner for the two of us, as the evening sun envelopes the kitchen. Bedtime with its prayers and stolen giggles and kisses. These little rituals each day bring us comfort, bring us joy, bring us hope. We continue through our days, striving for something great, something far away yet always slowly coming. We work and do our chores for the same reason. Because some day, he will come home. Because each day that we fill with joy-filled tasks and comfort-infused moments are days that are successful, days that somehow bring him greater joy. Because he knows we are living happily, even in his absence. For we who are left at home, living days like this make us feel closer to him, make us feel as though we are fighting for him.

Tonight, as the evening sun shines lazily in the sky, I write letters, pen notes to Baby in my journal, listen as my little one falls asleep. Quiet. Comfort. Joy. Little Rituals, in his absence. In his honor.

Time to come clean. I have a major flaw. *Gasp.

I hate asking for help.

This is not a good trait for anyone, but especially a mother and a wife of a Soldier. I insist upon doing everything myself, and as quickly as possible. Last August, when we found out Richard's deployment had moved up six months, I immediately went outside in 110 degree weather, and mowed the yard. I am surprised I didn't pass out. Boy, was I in trouble when the husband got home. But, it needed doing, was bothering me, so I did it.

This morning, I decided to scrub down the entire kitchen. A lofty goal, yes, but not impossible. I broke it down into smaller tasks and was lenient: I gave myself the entire day. I would wash the countertops, put all the dishes away, move appliances and clean behind them, and pull everything out of the fridge and freezer to sort it all. I was motivated! I began my task and was just reaching my stride, when it happened. I went to clean the disposal with citrus fruit, and the entire unit fell into the bottom of the sink, spewing orange pulp water everywhere.

Then, the adventure started. I pulled everything out from under the sink, only to realize there was significant water damage from a previous leak. Bummer! I began sopping up moldy, citrus water and wringing it into buckets. My daughter was penned up, but demanding my attention. Once the mess was contained, I stared at that blasted appliance lying under the sink mocking me. I was going to fix this. By. My. Self.

I called my brother, who instructed me that "all I had to do was lift the disposal back into the sink and twist the collar." Ha. "Watch out. They can be heavy." Not too heavy for me, I thought. I went into the kitchen and lifted it. I got it maybe six inches in the air, and it weighed heavy in my arms and I put it back down. Crouching in a new position, I tried again. I got it back into the sink, and attempted to twist the collar. It wasn't lined up properly, and was too heavy to maneuver. It came crashing down. Onto my knee cap. I let out a tirade.

I can't do this, I thought horrified. I need a second set of hands. Hence, second tirade against appliance for deliberately breaking while the husband was gone. I stared at the royal mess in my kitchen. Not even my stubborn pride was strong enough to fix this. I looked at my gash. Well deserved, I thought. I should never have thought I could lift that thing alone, especially pregnant (and my back has suitably punished me for this all day, as well).

"Hello? Adrienne?....Oh, of course! Let me call your dad. We'll bring some dinner over and we'll help fix it!"

They came, with hot food and two sets of hands. It took the three of us to figure out the problem and reattach it to the sink. It's fixed, though. And in less than ten minutes. And between the three of us, there were no backs thrown out or knees gashed. Go figure.

So, hopefully, this has taught me a valuable lesson. While I have gotten better, I still struggle with asking for help. It's not my pride, completely. It's also a guilt of imposing on others. Imposing on those who have spouses with whom to spend time, their own problems to fix, and not a lot of free time. But, when I do ask for help, the most surprising thing happens: people usually say yes!

So, I will continue to work towards squelching my pride, and working on my humility. Because gashed knees and aching backs...well, they are just not worth the stubborn pride. At all.

I was on the phone with the TV muted last night, when the words on the bottom of the screen changed to USAMA BIN LADEN CONFIRMED DEAD. Goosebumps pricked up all over, and a sense of anticipation rose within me. I yelled the news to my mother over the phone, and we hung up as she ran towards her television to turn on the news.

Ten years. We have lost thousands of innocent civilians and military troops at the hands of this man. Americans and the world have lived in fear daily because of him. My husband is away fighting a war because of his influence. And now he's dead. Finally.

I am "happy." I am "joyful." I am "relieved." Unashamedly so. Many are criticizing others for their celebratory attitude. Bible verses posted about not taking pleasure in the death of the wicked, the negativity of a Christian rejoicing in another man's death are all over Facebook. I felt compelled to respond.

Yes, I am thrilled this man is dead. I am relieved that someone who took joy out of destroying others as violently as possible has been stopped. I wanted to grab my American Flag and run down the road cheering last night. I am so proud of the group of Soldiers who fought a fire fight with this evil man and his henchmen, and not one of them fell in the process. Thank God. I am even more proud of my husband and our military friends who have played a long and vital role in finally gaining this victory. I am proud--so proud--to be an American today.

I guess it's just different for me. My husband and his peers have been putting their lives on the line for ten years to ensure this man's capture. Countless lives have been lost. I rejoice that a man who stopped at nothing to kill others has met with justice. This is not to be confused with taking joy from a man's death.

At the same time that I am digging through and pulling out my patriotic and military wife shirts and am planning mini-celebrations with friends, I have a cold fear for this man's soul. At the moment of death and that opportunity to repent for his numerous and grave sins, likely he will not do so. I pity him. I almost feel sorry for him, for the eternal fate he is meeting.

No, I do not rejoice in a man's death. I fear for his soul. I celebrate that a man of evil has met with justice. After ten years and countless lives lost, we have achieved a great victory, in that a man who was a catalyst for thousands of deaths, separations of families for nearly ten years, and a daily fear for Americans and those around the world has been killed. While an attitude of "responding with love" is a Christ-like response most of the time, Jesus too grew justly angry at times, and acted justly as well.

So, while I pray he repented in his final moments, I unashamedly rejoice in the elimination of a threat to our peace, safety, and security. I celebrate the annihilation of a man who worked tirelessly to kill thousands. I am so proud of our troops stationed around the world who all played a vital role in achieving this victory, especially those separated from their loved ones.

God bless America, and God bless our Soldiers.

Life is crazy. I know. I'm pointing out the obvious. But, even when the husband's home, it's so easy to let life get in the way and take each other for granted. Children, housework, work, all get in the way. With my husband deployed, I knew I'd miss those "special moments" even more.

"Those Moments," where, suddenly your heart grows three times as big and the air catches in your chest. Where you're smiling from ear to ear, remembering precisely why you married him. Where you feel extra poignantly that overwhelming love for him. It happens for no reason--a particular jovial conversation, just "clicking" more than normal, support you desperately needed to hear.

I have felt "that moment" several times this week.

The first time was, after my husband had been out of his operation less than twelve hours in Landstuhl, when I mentioned my husband that it was my sister's birthday, he insisted we call her via Skype. Wow. This is why I married him--he's so selfless!

Even before that, as he was airlifted from base to base, in attempts to figure out what exactly was wrong, I felt it. He never complained. He was in pain. He was in foreign places. He had no idea what was going on. But, he comforted me in my panic, and told me how proud he was of me. Wow. I don't deserve him.

When, in the middle of the night he couldn't sleep because of the pain, he called me. I'd just gotten a grade back on my paper and was disappointed. Instead of telling me he had far more to complain about, he cheered me on to finish the semester. Wow. What a sweet man.

Even from so far away, I am reminded daily as to how committed this man is to me, to our family. He sacrifices daily his precious time (during 16-hour work days) to make sure we hear from him. He made sure that Mother's Day gifts went out in time so they would get here before next weekend. He had every right to forget, but that's not my husband. He says constantly, in the midst of pain, exhaustion, or stress, how proud he is of me. He thinks of others, not just me, always before himself both through his job as Soldier and as Richard himself.

I am truly blessed. I remember that, each time my heart swells, my breath catches in my chest, and I grin from ear to ear. What an incredible man to do all he does for his family, for his daughter, for his wife. He's an incredible man, and I am truly a blessed woman. He's still here, still committed to doing his best to serve us. I truly feel, because of this, that when he comes home for good, that we will be able to pick up like no time passed.

Every Military Spouse dreads "that phone call;" we literally live in fear of it daily. We are gripped with fear each time the doorbell rings. When I see "Unknown Caller," or "Withheld" my stomach tightens. But I never, for one second, thought it would actually happen.

"Mrs S--? This is Sgt. P---. I want you to know your husband's okay. But, he's in the clinic here with...." I didn't hear anything else.

Then the text message: "Hey. I'm in the clinic. Lots of pain, blood in---" It was cut off.

Yes, I panicked. Yes, I sobbed. Yes, I ran back into the FRG event I'd just left because my "family"--the women who understood, who could tell me what to do, were just inside. They hugged me, they comforted me, they walked me through the steps...of waiting.

Horrible, horrible waiting.

What started on Saturday is still far from over. My darling Soldier, in so much pain, was airlifted to three different bases, finishing his travels on Tuesday in Landstuhl, Germany. He did a lot of waiting, and so did I. We waited together, though separated by miles and an ocean. I waited for updates, for his instant messages. I longed to see his face, hear his voice. Yesterday, I saw it on Skype. There was that face, the one I miss so much.

We had tough decisions to make--I had to put my selfish desires to run off to Germany second to his need to rest and recover...it was like tearing my heart out knowing I wouldn't see him when he needed me most. His health was most important, but their was a desperate yearning to be at his bedside, hold his hand, to pray with him. But, as a wife and military spouse, I must always put my Soldier first.

Now, I wait some more. Wait to hear how the surgery went, wait to see how long recovery will take. Wait. "Hurry up and Wait." And I hate waiting.

While, praise God, this could have been much worse, the whole ordeal was a little too close for comfort. It could have been a different scenario, a different reason for the phone call. Thank God. But, I have not felt the need for him to be home safe since he left, as I have felt the last four days. When he's home, in this house, at his work on post, I know he's fine. I see he's fine. I can touch him, hold his hand, and take care of him. But, this will come in time.

Now, I just wait. Wait for news. Wait for R&R. Wait for his homecoming.

Hurry up. Wait.

When he walked away that Sunday morning, when he boarded that bus, I had no idea. As I drove home through blinding tears as Elizabeth slept in the back, I had no idea. I had no idea when we came home to an empty house, with Army gear scattered around. I knew my heart ached, that my chest was tight, and that I felt lost. I had lost my husband for a year. But, much to our surprise, he left me with something very special.

Less than a week later: PREGNANT

I gasped. And gasped again. "Tell me! Tell me!" He breathed across the DSN line. "Adrienne, what does it say?" "We're pregnant!"

And then I bawled.

He thought I was upset. "I'm sorry! I know you didn't want to do this alone." He couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "No! I'm really happy!" Tears of absolute joy. Another child, another life. A mission of great importance, I was in charge of nourishing the life that Richard had left in his stead. I had been so terrified of losing connection with him, but the tangible proof of our love was growing in my middle without either one of us knowing.

So, over the last three months, I have fought fear of miscarriage, nausea, exhaustion, and instead continued mission. Continued caring for our beautiful daughter, desperately seeking adequate health care for her, spending time with her and enjoying the laughs, smiles, tears, and hugs. I have dutifully gone to my doctor's appointments, nervously waiting for the other shoe to fall. Like last time. But, it has not. I have, thus far, ensured mission success.

I have a child growing within my womb--what a privilege! My deployed Soldier's son or daughter. And I am humbled that he gave me the honor of nourishing this tiny life. What have I done in life to deserve the gift of my husband, of my daughter, of this new life? I smile with happiness, with joy. Because part of my husband never left. No, he left a piece of himself, a piece of us, in his stead. In my care. We have our little deployment baby. Thank you, Jesus.

What Can I Say?

Recently, an interesting and legitimate question was posed to a group of military wives (including me) via Facebook. To note, this impromptu question-answer session followed an article regarding really insensitive questions and comments people make to spouses of deployed soldiers (most of which I've been asked/told). One of the women asked what one should say to a military wife when her husband is deployed. I think this is a totally legitimate question, and deserves an honest answer.

• Offer small help. And mean it.
  When my daughter became terribly ill while my husband was off at deployment training and I suddenly and desperately needed some help one afternoon, all the people who'd offer to help were busy or could not come. You don't need to rope the moon, but making a dinner for the family or give them the gift of your company makes all the difference. The other night, a friend stopped by with a tub of ice cream. I nearly cried.

• Put yourself in our shoes.
  If your husband were in a dangerous place for an extended period of time with severely limited communication, what wouldn't you want to hear? "Are you afraid of your husband dying?" "You are so blessed [to have Skype] or [that he's in Iraq]" (from a civilian). Not helpful. This should be common sense. No spouse of a deployed soldier wants to hear this form a civilian wife who has her husband at home in their bed every night. Think before you speak.

• Pick up the phone.
  Simply calling and checking on us means the world. It's so easy for us to feel forgotten, like you are swimming against the stream alone. For someone to remember you in their busy lives is so reassuring and comforting. And you'd be surprised how easily people forget to do this.
  

• If you life far away from a military spouse, send cards.
  When Richard left, I was overcome by all the mail from others that arrived in our mailbox. People who I was close with, and people I hadn't spoken to in years were offering prayers, Masses, thoughts. It was the nicest gesture.
  

• Admit you don't know what to say.
  Military wives don't expect anyone to have the answers or magic words to make this lifestyle better. To tell the painful truth, we don't have all the answers. Each day is a guess, a gamble. If you don't know what to say, say that: "I am sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through." How comforting, how reassuring, oddly, that statement is. You aren't trying to tell us how good we have it, or how blessed we are. This lifestyle stinks, and it's nice to hear from others the same thing.
  

• Pray.
  I firmly believe, at least for our little family, that the prayers have brought us thus far. The last two months have been difficult in moving forward through this deployment, and we've had a lot on our plate. I can feel the prayers when I start to get overwhelmed. It's also nice to hear someone is praying for you.
  

I can't imagine how tough it must be to respond or communicate to a military wives when coming from a totally different perspective. Our lives are so strange and, admittedly, abnormal. It's tough. But, the aforementioned suggestions might hopefully help others reach out. Because, though we are a proud and sometimes defiant group, we secretly long to have someone reach out to us. Oftentimes, that's the only thing that gets us through.

Most of the time, I'm moving so quickly, I hardly have time to notice it. I move through the days at ninety miles an hour. Cleaning, studying, changing diapers, bathing my girl, feeding her. Dinner time comes, and goes. Bedtime for her. Then time slows immensely. I throw myself into my studies. I keep running.

But, sometimes, the quick pace is overcome. The nagging pain surfaces. And I remember how much, how intensely I miss my Soldier. My husband.

I have been struggling with this the last few days, which is frustrating since I'd been doing really well the last few months. I missed him, yes. But, I kept moving. Quickly. The last few days, I've been stumbling a bit.

I stood outside the other night during intermission of a play. I stared into the sky, watching the thumbnail of the moon. He has the same sky, I tried to comfort myself. But, I wanted him to have the same square footage, the same piece of concrete, the same moment. Tonight, I looked at his pictures, the ones where he is sitting in our living room, our den. My mind is confused; was he here, it asks. It's odd how quickly it seems like eons. He was here, I tell myself. And, God willing, he'll be here again.

I know in a few days I will be back to my breakneck speed. I just have to acknowledge this. But not wallow. After that, I will be at the top of my game again. I just needed to reset, I guess.

So, I miss you. A lot.

Now, to finis that silly paper.

Sitting here writing a paper, I notice a light outside the window next to my desk. I look out, and realize it's the light my husband had put up to light up the American Flag that perpetually hangs outside our front door. As I stare out and look at the flag in the fading night, I watch it wave and dance proudly. My husband diligently goes outside daily to straighten it, and makes sure the light never goes out. He will take it down and place it respectfully in the closet when a nasty storm is heading our way. He gets upset each time he sees the flag disrespected or hanging tattered. He strapped his boots, packed his bags, and left his family to defend that same piece of cloth that hangs outside our house.

And now he might not get paid. This seems so unjust.

When he left, I knew I'd worry about how the deployment would impact my daughter. I knew I'd worry every second about his life and safety. I would worry about making sure all the tedious and important household tasks were done. I would worry about a lot. But I never thought I'd have to worry about whether or not he and I would get paid.

The same man, who treats the flag like a small child or aged person--so lovingly and respectfully--will likely be working without pay. The man who left his family behind to defend freedom, who said good-bye to his young daughter, who hugged his wife outside of a giant white bus, that man will not be paid.

But, he will still do his job.

He won't do it because he has to. He will do it for the same reason he make sure to unravel the tangled flag on the doorstep. He will do it for the same reason he bought the most expensive light at Wal-Mart for the flag. He will do it for the same reason he tied his boots, stuffed his bag, left his wife and daughter and walked tall with his head down towards that God awful bus.

He loves his country. He loves America. Despite the fact that his own country won't pay him, he'll still stand in defense of them. He stand tall and continue mission. Without one word of complaint or resentment, he'll fulfill his mission. Pay or no pay.

My husband will do this, because he's an American Soldier. It's in his blood.

I entered the waiting room, pushing her bright red stroller as she grasped her Daddy Doll. Stopping behind the red line, I noticed him. He sat, straight up, in his chair. A handsome, confident face laced with kindness. A high and tight haircut. Strong arms that occasionally reached up to adjust his baseball cap. A toned torso that seemed relaxed and also ready. And that was it. No legs. His wife, tough and vigilant sat next to him, holding his hand.

What if that were Richard?

The question came into my head so quickly, I hardly had time to process it when I glanced up at the TV screen. The words floated across the bottom:

Two killed and 20 injured in separate Iraq attacks.

My stomach fell to the floor, my heart stopped beating. I couldn't breathe, and my hands curled into desperate fists.

Please God. Let him call this afternoon. Don't let that be him.

The phone rang in the middle of lunch. My stomach lurched, heart started beating again. I could breathe and my body relaxed.

Thank you, Jesus.

They weren't at work, they weren't out banging down doors. The soldiers were supposed to be in a safe place, a place that was supposed to protect them. But, in a moment, two of them were gone. I prayed it wasn't Richard, and later felt guilty. Someone had to be behind those words, letters. Two persons had to be the reason that chaplains knocked on the doors of two spouses this week, telling them their Soldier was not coming home. Twenty families were told that their Soldiers were badly injured. I prayed it wasn't Richard. It wasn't. So, it had to be someone else.
I can proudly say that we are staying brave, that we are moving forward in this life confidently, happily. But it's such a different happy. A forced, strong happy. For him, my Soldier. For her, my daughter. For me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I am fine--I'm great. But moments like that, seeing the man who gave his legs for my freedom, reading that two people died and 20 more men and women lost limbs, sustained injuries. And you don't know if those numbers include your husband. You wait. You either hear the doorbell ring, or you get his phone call. You can only wait.

This is by far the scariest and most terrifying thing I've ever done. And only a military spouse can understand fully what it means to live a day at a time. Each day, each night, praying that the doorbell doesn't ring.

I'm sorry, ma'm. He's not coming home.

He's in a hospital....

What do you do? What do you say? How do you stay strong when fate takes a fatal stab at your soul? You can't plan for that.

I cannot prevent it. I cannot hold my arms about him to protect him from harm. All I can do is pray. That is simultaneously the most comforting and most frustrating thought.

God, I ask you to hold your mantle of protection around all of our deployed men and women. Be with the families left behind. Keep the doorbells from ringing, stop the numbers from climbing. Bring our Soldiers home safely. Soon. And protect my husband. Please keep him safe. Keep them all safe.

Recently, I was a guest poster on the blog To Love a Soldier. It's a truly wonderful blog, with great resources for military families and where I can empathize with the author's lifestyle and vice versa. I believe that this vocation is much easier when surrounded with people who can completely understand. But, that's a blog for another day. Below, is my posting.
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As I stood on the brink, in the midst of the boxes, camo bags, groceries and general mess, the reality of it all would grab me in the gut. Fear of living without him, of losing him, of losing connection with him. Anger at him leaving, being so brave, and feeling so insecure. I was terrified at the prospect of not just surviving life without him for a year, but living life without him for a year. Of living life joyfully. Truly, this seemed impossible. Living life without my husband and enjoying it seemed impossible.

But, we are doing it! This morning, I sit here with my cup of coffee, not just content but truly happy. He's not home, but I have a fantastic husband fighting a fight that not many can. Though she missed her Daddy terribly, I have a beautiful daughter, with whom I've been given a chance to bond in a way I wouldn't have. Together, she and I fight together. Who knew a sixteen month old could bring me such comfort, love, and security? Though it takes longer to clean and keep up, I have a stable home full of fond memories with my husband and our child.

I have realized that happiness doesn't depend on someone else. Happiness is not my husband, not a clean house, not stability, structure, and schedule. Happiness lies not in a cooked meal set on the table, steaming hot. Happiness does not disappear when the husband leaves, when the daughter struggles to understand why her father vanished.

Happiness lies in you.

Every morning, when my alarm pierces the air, I have a decision to make. I can wallow in self-pity and remain in bed. I can pull the sheets over my head and cry about the empty space next to me. I can be miserable and mourn my husband's absence.

Or, I can decide to be happy. When my alarm pierces the air, I can choose to be giddy about waking my daughter, get excited about sharing precious and intimate moments shared with her while the early morning sun creeps into the kitchen. I can focus on the sound of the coffee brewing, the dates with friends, the Skype-calls with my husband. I can garner strength from the many prayers being said for our family. I can focus on the structure we've carefully and consciously constructed on the Homefront.

No, happiness, I have learned, does not lie in foreign things. We pull the happiness from ourselves, especially as military wives. We choose to reach deep down inside of ourselves, even in the dark moments when we miss the call, appliances begin shutting down, or the R&R gets pushed way back. We decide to reach down, and we pull out the happiness. We shift our perspectives, and force ourselves to focus on what we do have. Because, when we shift that perspective, though initially painful, we are winning our fight.

This morning, I choose to focus on the amazing and heroic courage my husband has in fighting a war far from his family. I choose to focus on how this incredibly difficult lifestyle has not destroyed our relationship but, thank God, has brought us closer. Taught me humility, patience, courage. I choose to focus on having learned incredible flexibility in life's twists and turns. I choose to revel in our beautiful family, my daughter, the laughs and intimate conversations shared over Skype. I choose to find joy in my daughter still loving her Daddy, even if he is not home right now.

Here, on this Homefront, we are not merely surviving. We are living. Living Joyfully. Because that is what we choose to do.

I knew it had happened. That's exactly when it would happen.

The husband usually calls around a certain time in the afternoon. Time changes and long work hours contribute to this. So, anywhere I go, my cell phone goes. It's leashed to me. Always. Ask me if it follows me into the bathroom--yes, it does.

Unless you've lived this lifestyle, you cannot understand how precious, how vital that phone call is. I spent every moment of my life previously knowing that, if he wasn't here, I could still get ahold of him. Pick up the phone. Dial his number. Send a text. He'd call back. He was always accessible. He was physically here in the mornings, evenings, nights, weekends. His body was in this house.

And now, I am left living for that phone call.

We military wives are a proud and independent people. We have to be. No one else is going to take out the trash, no one else is going to change the dirty diaper, feed the children, clean the house, pay the bills. Before, someone else would have. But, now we are left doing it ourselves. We become incredibly self-sufficient to the point that when the husband does come home, many wives have a difficult time adjusting. Pride. Independence. Survival. We can do it all.

One thing can knock us to our knees.

ONE MISSED CALL

I left the phone in the car during the FRG meeting. As Murphy's Law would have it, he called early--while the phone was not next to me. Realizing I'd left my phone in the car, I ran mid-meeting out the door and into the yard. I retrieved my phone and saw it. One Missed Call. Three times.

I came inside ranting and raving, and the women surrounded me. Stories of times when they missed calls, comforting words, and well-wishes for the call tomorrow. They get it. They get me. They get the situation. And that is such a comfort, especially when you miss that call.

I heard the nasty thing before I saw it. And, for the record, volume is an excellent indicator on size.

We were enjoyed an idyllic lunch. Elizabeth was munching on a cookie in the high chair, while I prepared my victuals. The backdoor was open, and the spring sun was streaming through the windows and door. Apparently, he had streamed through the door, too. I am surprised he even fit through the door. Regardless, as I warmed my chicken and laid my sodabread on my plate, I heard it.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I froze. Every muscle in my admittedly starving body stiffened. I slowly turned around, searching for the source of the noise. Quickly, I located it. The wasp topped the ruler at nearly 2 inches, and was a bright red.

I freaked. And then I screamed.

I walked over, despite my inclination to run in my room and shut the door, and closed the blinds. I located a broom and proceeded to beat the window senseless. The buzzing ceased, and I did my victory dance.

Suddenly, he rose from the dead...or possibly from behind the blinds. Regardless, he floated into the air and began moving towards me. My life flashed before my eyes. After running Elizabeth to her crib, I ran into my bathroom and grabbed my aerosol hair spray. I reentered the room, stealthily approached my enemy, and fired. Perpetually. Practically until the can was empty. When he fell the floor, I attacked him repeatedly with my broom. I might have been screaming a little.

His dead carcass was swept out of the back door. Victory was officially mine.

Skype is a huge blessing. I acknowledge that, especially in light of the next statement: Skype can be painful.

I hear stories from veterans' brides who tell me all they had was letter writing, and my heart aches for them. Letters, such a distant form of communication, and with no guarantee that they would reach their Soldier. They tell me I'm lucky. I understand, and feel blessed. When civilian wives tell me I'm blessed to have Skype, I have to quell the urge to tell them that they are in turn lucky to have their spouse in the same bed every night. But, I know they are right. Sometimes, though, it can be such a painful reminder.

Today, for a reason I still haven't realized, was hard. I was really missing my husband. I teared up a few times and felt that ache in my heart that I'd been able to ignore the last few weeks. While Skyping this afternoon, we had to discuss a few important topics, and the conversation was anything but fun. Not that we argued, but the tone was mostly serious, and this only reminded me further that he was not here today.

His face is there, on my lap. But once in awhile, a voice tells me that it's not his real face. It's only an image. Most of the time, seeing his face on the computer, hearing his tone change with his facial expressions, listening to him describe his day alleviates some of the pain of his absence. The connection we have through this medium is a blessing.

"I wish I could reach through Skype and touch you." Hearing him say this made me a little sad. Soon, I say. Soon is so relative.

Still, I'm grateful it allows him to interact with his daughter, who says only Dadda or Daddy, never Mommy. It provides a way for he and I to stay united in so many ways. It lets him call his extended family and friends to stay in touch with them. I can see his face, even if I can't touch it. And that is a wonderful thing.

When given blessings, we are reminded they are never perfect. But, these blessings are stepping stones to aid us in getting further in our vocation or on our path. While Skype certainly does not make him appear in our living room, I still get excited when I see his face pop onto the screen. Because I can see him. And seeing him--that's the highlight to my day.

One Month

So, the Stravitsch Homefront survived the first month of deployment.

I remember for so long dreading this lifestyle. I would hear stories from women about FRG events and their camaraderie. Stories about "everything seeming like it was going wrong." The delays in phone conversations from him and living leashed to various electronic devices. The stories about phone lines getting cut mid-conversation and about desperately needing to talk to the spouse, but knowing it could be awhile. I did not know if I could handle it. I questioned whether I could live a year with out my spouse. Whether I had the emotional and physical stamina to live under that kind of pressure.

While envisioning this lifestyle, I never factored in a sick daughter, shuttling her to various hospital visits. I never foresaw standing there, holding her down by myself while doctors and nurses poked her with needles, some of them laughing. I couldn't have imagined watching her bruise everywhere, undergo multiple tests, and get the brush-off by doctors and hospitals.

You think people will take it easy on you because he's gone. That doors will open, just because you committed yourself to this lifestyle. That other people will suddenly comprehend all you are going through and help you when you need it most. You think, somehow, the world will comprehend the massive load you are carrying in your heart, trying desperately not to breakdown. You are wrong. I was wrong.

I survived a month. Very few people know what I've carried through this last month as I trudge through this time without my help-mate. But they who know, celebrate with me at this hard won, though small, victory. Prayers have carried us, comfort has lifted us, and help has sustained us. We will continue to attain victory. Despite great struggle, huge crosses, and intense stress, my family will continue to move through the months. Through the weeks. Through the days. With the prayers, the comfort, and the help, we will conquer in the end. We celebrate not alone, but with those who have helped us through.

No mother ever envisions it for their own child. Walking through the giant sliding doors, down the hall, last door on the right. There's an adult-size door, and a child-size door. Fish tanks stretch from floor to ceiling, and there are stars on the linoleum. The walls are painted bright colors, and the desk is low, so the children can feel involved. Despite attempting to provide an inviting environment, the place is still scary as hell. On the wall: Scott and White Pediatric Hematology and Oncology.

Twice I've walked through those doors. And twice I've felt like throwing up. Twice, we've there in the waiting room while Elizabeth fawns over the fishies. Twice, we've waiting for the doctor to come in and see her bruising. Twice, we've had him order blood tests. Twice, we've been sent away, knowing no more than when we'd walked through the doors.

I feel like I'm living in one of those movies, where the parents are pushing against all odds to figure out what's wrong with their child. Where no one is listening to the parents. They stand by their child's side, arguing and standing their ground. But, they always find out answers. The movies make it look easy. The parents appear heroic. I feel broken. They seem indefatigable. I am exhausted. They have their helpmate their. I stand alone. Lost. Losing.

Tonight, I am at a dead end. Where do I go from here? How far am I willing to take this fight? To whom do I present Elizabeth's situation next? I don't know.

I do know that something is clearly wrong with my daughter. I do know that my husband is halfway across the globe, so far removed from all of this. I do believe in the power of prayer and the support of family and friends. And, I absolutely know that this mother will stop at nothing to find out what is wrong with my child. No distance is too far, no fear too great, no medical personnel too elite for me to overcome that obstacle and achieve a correct diagnosis.

I ask for your prayers, dear readers. Those of you who do read. I know not how many there are. But, if you could leave a comment letting me know you are praying so that I might take great peace from that, I'd be eternally grateful. I desperately need them right now. Elizabeth needs them right now. Thank you.

"Everytime I pulled out the camera the day I left, you stopped crying or looking sad, and would smile."

Yes, I did. The day that I felt like my heart was being ripped from chest, the day that I saw my daughter's favorite person board a bus, the that day I saw my best friend pull away--I smiled only in the pictures. There were moments of intense heartache, that panic overtook me, that I was gripping wildly at my last shred of self-control to not break into desperate tears. I watched you holding your daughter, with that calm, sad look in your eyes, I watched as you looked intently at me while holding her hand, I noticed how extra hard you held me as we hugged the last time.

You deserve better. I swallowed desperately, to hide the tears, the sadness. I smiled for you. And only for you. I knew you'd look at those pictures every day for the next twelve months, garnering strength, peace, fond memories. And what strength, what peace, what fond memories would you have received, if those photos showed a crying, down-trodden wife?

No. I stand tall for you. I walk forward for you. I sleep in a bed alone at night, not for myself, but for you. Because you deserve better. You deserve a wife who can hide tears behind a smile, shadow sadness behind laughter. You deserve a family who stands behind you 110%. You, sir, deserve a family that is heartbroken by your departure, but is strong enough to stand in your absence.

I will move forward for you. I hide my tears, shadow my sadness. I smile and laugh. I do all this for you. Because, while you fight the war, I hold down the homefront. While you are separated from loved ones, I instill joy in them. While you sleep on a cot in sand and stand in defense of our freedom, I sleep in an empty bed, and stand in defense of our family. I do not do this for me. I do not do this for pity or credit. I do this for you. Though separated by thousands of miles, we still fight together through prayer and isolation. We fight battles that are mirrored in their motives. I don't fight for myself. I fight for you. I stand for you. I smile and laugh for you. My Soldier.

I did it. I hadn't really ventured beyond my door, except twice to my parents' house, since Sunday. Maybe I'm the only one, but going somewhere without someone with whom you go almost everywhere can be daunting. Especially when you're still having major emotional ups and downs. I kept almost changing my mind. But, I promised my husband I would get involved and stay busy. So, I came home this morning after having crashed at my parents, threw together some Valentine's, and off we went to the children's Valentine's Party at Church. It was so nice to get out and be somewhere busy. Elizabeth was somewhat clingy, but really enjoyed watching the children all run around.

I've realized that victory sometimes lies in the small things, like realizing your crying less and less as each day goes by (so far, today's count is zero--that's unprecedented!). It lies in finishing the laundry all by yourself, even though you're used to help. It's getting through making a healthy meal for yourself and daughter and eating the entire plate, especially without getting a stomach ache. Victory really is making it through another day.

So, I feel good this evening, for the most part. I am still adjusting, still adapting. Still coming up with plans to make the time fly faster, and methods to stay more connected with the husband. I keep telling myself that if the deployment date came and went, so will the homecoming day.

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I would like to take a moment to thank friends and family for their prayers. Please, please keep them up. I know they are being answered. I might post a prayer that those of you who'd want, could say it for a particular intention of mine. But, regardless, God bless you all.

And Then He was Gone

The alarm pierced the morning, and my stomach burned with hot rocks. That had been happening every morning for the last few weeks, but today it was especially bad. I tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't going off . I even shut it off quickly and hoped he hadn't heard it. If he didn't hear it, we wouldn't have to get up, and if we didn't have to get up, the rest of the day didn't have to happen. But, he was already up. He crawled back into bed next to me, and snuggled up close. I don't want you to go, I said.

But, he had to, and he did. It was a long morning that went by quickly. I don't want to relate it, right now, because my mind is in a good place. I like those waves to last as long as possible. I will say that he left a gargantuan hole. His departure broke my heart immensely and has destroyed our routine. Now, in some ways, we are re-shaping our days and re-centering our lives.

Sometimes, I am okay, and other moments I am really sad and angry. During those negative waves, the emotion is so intense and so hard to overcome. I quickly realized not to fight it. I just let myself cry. Once the crying is done, I usually feel better and enter the next wave of being okay. My prayer is that the okay-waves start lasting longer and come more frequently than the intense negative waves.

This morning, I started having a bad negative-wave. I just went into overdrive. I took a shower, got dressed, did my hair. I have to get dressed and do my hair, because doing this makes me feel better. I came out, and lit a fire. Yes, I started a fire all by myself. Not that I've never done this before, but doing things for myself makes me feel like I am fulfilling my mission. I am fulfilling my promise to hold down the homefront. I am staying confident and adding warmth to our house. I see the irony. The unit spouses' motto for this deployment is, "Keep the home fires burning." I intend to.

I see myself like this:

Standing in the middle of a giant football field, with the stands full. It's dark, but the stadium lights are lighting up the field. All of our friends and family are watching as I play in my first game. Only thing is, this game is the most important of the season and I know the plays and victory rely on solely on me. I am standing there, facing our family and friends, waving my arms up and down, asking for the cheering and rooting to get louder. For me, the cheering and rooting signifies the prayers and affirmation. The game is long and arduous and I am playing against a team of eclectic players. Terrorists, military orders, someone named separation, even my own self-doubt. Each quarter finds me closer to victory, though each lasts so long. Three months. The game, right now, is only seconds in. But, I am still leading on the scoreboard. And I guarantee that when the last second ticks off the board, when the game is over, and the stands are still hopefully full of our cheering friends and family, my team will have won. At the end of that game, I will still be standing, though covered in the blood, sweat, and tears. And, just as this battle ends, that one lone and empty seat in the stands will be occupied. Because for me, victory is only attained when my husband comes home.

Twas the Night Before....

So, here we are. The Night Before. His bags are packed, and one's already in the car. The house is cleaned and organized. The laundry's all done, and should be for the next six weeks, since I've been doing laundry all week. His nightstand is cleared off, and all of his clothes are neatly put away. Even the shoes he wears everyday. They're in the closet. Away.

It's starting to feel weird around here.

Recently, someone gave me great advice. Don't try to make this a great week. It wasn't. It was extremely special in its own way; but great, it was not. Errands took up most of our time, misunderstandings ate into a few hours, and I learned to force myself to be flexible yet again. I had his favorite dinner planned for tonight. I wanted to cook for him on his last night. But, as we left Mass, he asked for Cracker Barrel. So, dinnertime found me running in and grabbing our food, after having sat in the parking lot so he could pick up magazines for the plane. I was not resentful. I started to panic at one point, though, because I could feel the second hand ticking. I forced myself to calm down. At that moment, he came sprinting out of the store. I think we share a second hand.

I have been wallowing in these last few and precious moments. Watching while he plays with his daughter, who won't understand where Daddy has gone. Watching while he darts through the house cleaning to avoid his sadness. Watching him store items he won't be needing for twelve months. Watching him pack up his bags while Elizabeth tries to climb on his lap. Watching him laugh, smile, frown, and cry.

Watching him. Here. Now. Because he's going to leave a huge hole.

But, I do this for him. He's worth it. He's such a great and amazing and courageous man. I couldn't do what he's about to do. I would run. I would be far too scared. I hope people can see how phenomenal this man, this Soldier is. And I have the honor of being his wife. So, he's worth it. And, in a strange way, I take this as a major compliment. Apparently, he sees me as strong, brave, and worth it, too.