Back on the Chain Gang

Well, things have settled into my post R&R routine, with an inevitability that was almost scary. Last night was pretty bad, after driving up to hand the parents over to my brother Tim so he can have some time with them before they return to New England.

Driving home wasn't so bad, I was eager to return. Once I got in the house, however, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was so quiet. I ended up watching the second half of "The Sound of Music" and eating popcorn for dinner. I felt full of unshed tears just sloshing around inside me, threatening to overspill the brim at every movement. I managed not to spill yet, but I will soon.

Keith has strangely and miraculously been able to call me on his American cell phone throughout almost the entire journey, so I had been getting calls from him every few hours or so. The last I heard from him he was going to sit up and look at pictures on his laptop while waiting the three hours for his flight further into the desert.

"Maybe I got you the international calling plan by accident" I suggested, when we talked about the impossible calls.

"I don't think so," he said. "Calls won't go through to anyone else, and no one else with me can reach anyone. I can only reach you."

The miracle must have ended some time last night, because I haven't heard from him. I'll have to wait for a call from "Keith?" which is what I labeled his Iraqi cell phone number, back when I wasn't quite sure.

So now I am back to waiting for a question mark to call, eating oatmeal for breakfast and obsessively carrying the phone around with me. My job has changed, however; due to my back injury I can no longer work as a Care Manager without being in extreme pain and causing further damage to it, so I am going in today to start training as the receptionist.

I've done that once before and really enjoyed it, mostly because I got to wear high heels to work. I'm also looking forward to working nine to five. I have to go upstairs and change soon, but before I do, I wanted to include pictures of another thing that has not returned to deployment mode-our bedroom!

I enlisted my creative genius of a father to make a floral arrangement for our bedroom to match the bedding Keith and I picked out this Christmas, and I ended up letting all the delicious fabrics and sheers and colors go to my head and picked out a new rug, drapes, throw pillows and blanket while out shopping, bringing the total expense to something that makes my head swim, but oh well. It was so well worth it. And anyway, Keith bought a truck. Fair's fair.

Snapfish Rebound

Today I finished the snapfish photo book that New Girl On Post was so awesome as to mention in her blog a couple days ago. (I would enclose a link here, but I have no idea how to do that; computer illiterate I am.) At first it frustrated the daylights out of me, but this morning, inspiration and ability both struck. I decided on the theme "The Story of Us!" and I was off.

It was great. I'd seen all the pictures before, many times, but combining them with the story helped me remember all over again what a fun and exciting summer it was. And how cute my husband is. I know he will love it so much; I wish I could send it to him in time for Christmas, but at least he will get it in time for his birthday.

I ordered two, because I knew I would want a copy here with me. I keep imagining our children begging to be read the book, about how Mommy and Daddy met, and how tattered and beloved it will be. (I know, because I would nag my Mom and Dad to tell me their story more times than I can remember and how enthralled I was at pictures of them before I was born; "Dad wore bell bottoms??? Mom had long hair???)

Also, one my new friends from the seminar suggested that I start a Christmas tradition, even if Keith is not here. I thought this was a great idea and now I am busy thinking about what it will be. Next year, probably, he will be with me and we will already have a tradition in place! And I will get a tree and decorate, and video tape while I do it, so Keith can watch later.

Still, before I got into that project, I could feel how heavy and exhausted I was this morning; it was as though I were moving underwater. I opened the door to the deck and my spirit lifted up, just enough to ease my breath and I left the door open while I did the dishes. By the time I left for work, I was much myself again.

How thankful I am for work! For the excuse to wander slowly around the large, empty dining room arranging napkins or silverware, or to sit at the top of the steps and watch as a group of volunteers played Sinatra on the saxophone, or to make jokes about how my job title should be "Catheter-Care-Taker-Manager!" or about how the latest new hire asked me, so seriously, how long he should go on wiping during toileting. Oh god, this makes me laugh again even now.

I knew the deployment would be hard, but I have to admit, I underestimated how hard. Thank God for the dogs, even if Abby did eat the corner off my couch recently, and for good books and free DVDs at the library and friends to call. And, it is true, as T suggested, that simply coming into the house reminds me of Keith and his love for me.

I am thankful and feel loved every time the heater comes on so quietly, every time I see how the sun falls so warmly on the wooden floors. I told Keith this and it caused him great satisfaction. He must show his love by doing such practical things, so it must have seemed to him that I was, in thanking him for the heater, suddenly speaking his personal language fluently.

I still remember the day after we met him hand washing my car and changing the oil, and then driving an hour into the city for the sole purpose of retrieving my dog Lynn so she could be with all of us for the rest of the day.

It is scary to feel the sorrow and the grief, but I've always believed that without the courage to move through those places, the joy and satisfaction that always does come would be felt a little less. And I've been through some deep places, so I know I can move through this. And there is always the knowledge that next Christmas, Keith will be here and probably annoying me to no end by inviting people over spontaneously, spending too much money and, no doubt, putting reindeer antlers on the dogs.

The Downswing

Maybe it is just tonight, but right now, I am at the lowest point since deployment day 1. I feel apathy and exhaustion. As I wander through the house, I force myself to do one small thing; like return a coat to a closet, or to wash a few dishes while waiting for the popcorn in the microwave. I stood for a long, long time under the hot water this morning, just stood there until there wasn't any more hot water left.

Keith is not coming home in December after all. I heard this as I was driving up to the city for a seminar, in the middle of the season's first snowfall. The snow was thick and lay heavy on the roads, long lines of cars and trucks slowly wound their way through the white, dull morning.

The phone rang and I thought it was someone from the seminar calling to see if I was alive and well, or overturned in some snowy ditch somewhere along the way.

"This is Jenny," I said in such a dull voice.

"Hey Sweetie," came the voice of my husband, very quiet and raspy with exhaustion, faintly tinged with humor at the way I had answered.

"Sweetie!" I cried out, the joy overtaking me. It was the first time I'd heard his voice in a long time and I wasn't expecting to hear from him at all.

That is when he told me that they had changed the leave dates. I remember exactly where I was; at an intersection in the city that I am very familiar with. Very near by was the posh, upper middle class neighborhood that used to be my home, down the street was Ruby Tuesdays that I used to eat at with Harry so often, dressed up and ready for a strawberry lemonade, in the balmy summer evenings.

I cried in the car, I cried at the horror of it. The horror of the Christmas decorations I had already put up, the way I had arranged time around him coming, at the desolation that was left.

Not only that, but they had moved him to another platoon, so he was not even with the men that he had known, some of whom he had trained and worked with for years. Quiet, capable Gunner and Driver, a laughing, cocky boy from mid America with a dirt bike and not much else.

His move was due to the fact that after being promoted, there was no place for him in his old platoon. So now, not only is he living in a shack with no electricity, but with men that he had not worked with before. And even though he is not working a classified mission, he cannot give me any details of what he is doing. I cannot say, "He is training Iraqi soldiers," or "He is on patrol missions in his tank." I do not know what he is doing.

He sounded defeated and exhausted over the phone. He had already ordered parts for his truck, so he could work on it during leave. In the next few days, they will show up at the front door. I will put them in the already crowded, cobwebbed garage or stack them downstairs in the family room.

There were countless little projects and things he was going to secure for me when he got here. We had gotten into the habit of saying, "But you can look into that when you come..."

I haven't sent packages for Christmas because of course, we were going to celebrate it here. Now, even if I mailed them today, they would arrive too late. He will celebrate Christmas with nothing at all.

Last night I had a strangely vivid dream of him. I dreamed we rode the four wheeler to the grocery story. It was winter and I was expecting it to be cold, but I didn't feel the chill, I felt warm and snug with my arms tightly around him. I remember the clear image of his boot as he climbed off and the look of impatience on his face, an impersonal look which I've seen often when he had to go grocery shopping.

He called me during the seminar, when I was on break. I told him the car had been slipping around the roads.

"Maybe I should put a chain the trunk to weigh it down," I suggested, which made him laugh, so unexpectedly tender. "What?" I asked. "What's funny about that?"

"Oh, my little wife," he said gently, "what am I going to do with you?"

"Keep me, I hope," I replied, grinning.

"Oh, that I will," he assured me with lazy confidence.

(It turns out my car has front wheel drive and therefore, putting weight in the truck would just make the sliding worse. "Slow down," was my husband's advice to me. He always suspects me of driving too fast. I wonder what in the world would cause him to think that? It's not as if I have three speeding tickets and two accidents under my belt...)

Time has been moving along in its irrevocable way all along, and will continue to. The horrible holiday season will pass by and it will be the cold, white clarity of January, which I have always appreciated, and by then, the days and the light will be growing.

I will mark the advent of spring, knowing that I will see him then, and spend the summer months preparing for a whole new life.

I just need to hold on through this horrible and tangled agony, knowing that it will pass by. And it won't be that bad. I'll spend Christmas with my family, my marvelous, courageous, inspiring family.

I just want so badly to hold my husband in my arms that it hurts.

Making Plans

I spent Veteran's Day raking the yard and lugging large plastic bags of leaves to the trailer, for my particular veteran to haul away when he comes home for R&R. Now I have an open blister on the inside of my right thumb, which has been catching on all the plastic gloves I have to pull on and take off through out the course of my day.

I should be happy, excited. Keith should be coming home in maybe four weeks. That stretch of time is nothing; it will pass by so quickly I can easily discount it. And that entire time will be spent getting ready, making the house look Christmasy, preparing.

But I am not happy and excited. Mule-like, my emotions have dug their heels in and I'm stuck in anxiety and loss. Because it's true; four weeks will fly by quickly and two weeks even more quickly, the two weeks that he will be home for. And then he will be gone again, and gone for close to nine months.

How can I prepare for him to come and also prepare for him to go? Both happen in such a short space of time, and are so intense, that I'm left feeling numb all over. Of course thinking of seeing him again and being with him is an incredible draw and I know I'll be obnoxious with the camera because I'll want as many pictures as humanly possible. This summer I took what I thought was a great deal of pictures, but three months into deployment and I know all of them by heart.

I let some Kirby salesladies into the house night before last. One of them was married to a Staff Sergeant in Keith's division and also deployed. She had to call her husband to see if they knew one another, and he said he couldn't officially say if he knew my husband or not-I wonder if that was because at the time Keith was still running the classified mission, the details of which I am intensely curious to know about.

It turns out she has also left clutter lying around the house; she still hasn't washed the last load of laundry left from before he deployed, even though pieces of her clothing are mixed up in it. I remember the excruciating pain of washing the last load; folding and putting away the clothes, so hideously like normal.

She also had to earn her husband's financial trust, and still includes him in every single purchase, to help him feel included. The lady who was doing the demonstration had a brother in the Air Force and she said that his first wife had run off with everything he owned while he was deployed, cleaned out his bank account, everything.

"Ah ha!" I cried, "so it does happen!" (I wasn't sure if maybe Keith had been exaggerating, I hadn't heard of any other stories than the ones he had told me.)

She nodded soberly. I told her how Keith's first wife had done him; telling him she was going out shopping the day after Christmas in Indiana, and instead, getting on a plane and flying back here and pulling up with a UHaul to take everything back with her.

"That's balls to the wall bad," drawled the woman; she was from Maine and we clicked. Her quirky personality and the way she talked were very familiar to me.

The past two days were dismal and depressing for me. The military wife saleslady talked about how sometimes it's impossible to "get through the bubble" and I knew just what she was talking about. I've been in the bubble ever since Keith told me he wouldn't be able to call and, naturally, hasn't called.

I had no idea how much I truly was counting on those calls, how marvelous to be able to reach him any time I needed to, if I needed to. The thought was enough. It was like this at the beginning of deployment, I just have to get used to it being like this again.

And, I must find a way, or a place, where I can feel everything I need to about him coming home and yet, be able to let him go again. What I feel like is simply falling all to pieces.

However, I do have vague but growing plans to buy a ticket back home, so that, soon after Keith leaves, I leave for the safety of a small hamlet in the backwoods of New England and spend some time opposite a little library and down the street from the little General store and where I can hear the church bells ring every morning from under my quilts. Mom, put on the tea, I need you!!!

Distances

Well, this morning I woke to a text that read, "call me asap." I did, naturally. My husband is returning to his platoon and his tanks and leaving cell phone reception far behind. I always knew I was incredibly blessed to be able to talk with him as much as I could, it seemed amazing to me and now, like all good things, it has come to an end.

Now, I may not hear his voice until he comes home in December. It is also a grey, overcast day with a nasty drizzle that is definitely not snow. I was putting off my holiday shopping until my next paycheck, but damn it, I need retail therapy and I need it now.

I am right now in my ratty flannel PJs, hair unwashed and uncombed, drinking cold coffee in my darkened and dusty house. I wondered last night if I could be depressed, but I don't think so, because isn't one of the criteria loss of interest in hobbies? I've never been more prolific in my writing. But still, maybe I should get out more. But I just don't want to. Hmm.

Definitely it is time for Managing Winter Depression Stage 2. (Stage one was the buying and keeping alive of indoor plants. That is going very well. No deaths to report so far, though the cat appears to be nibbling on the potted ginger plant leaves. But the geranium in the bedroom is about to blossom, miraculously.)

Stage 2 is the early buying and putting up of Christmas lights; many of them. I already know how I will manage the outdoor lights; I have a ridiculously long extension cord in the back of my car where it has sat since the day I dropped Keith off on post, deployment day.

I will stretch that from the deck, where there are outside outlets, all the way to the front and I will drape glittering stands of light across the bushes and along the outlines of the house and possibly, up in the birch tree, or winding up around its trunk.

After I got off the phone with Keith for the last time in a long, long while, I was barraged by incredibly vivid and intimate memories of him. Of the top of his head, narrow and adorable looking because of that little swirl of hair at the crown, which always aroused in me the most delectable of maternal instincts. Or of his arm flung over my rib cage, enclosing me and the sight of his hand, half curled in sleep and the light glinting golden on the hairs along the back of his hand and the raw, scraped looking knuckles from the constant upkeep that his tank required of him.

I saw his face so clearly, the features heavy and worried looking even in sleep, and the marvelously long sweep of his eyelashes, so incongruous and yet adorable on him, adding to the innocent charm of his clear blue eyes, or making shadows along the curve of his cheeks.

(He would hate it if he knew I was describing him in this way, so just for the record, I must state that he is by far the most manly and tough guy I have ever known.)

Heh. Which makes me remember one time right after I had moved in. I had bought a new loofah to replace the old one in the bathroom, and the next morning, at breakfast, Keith thanked me for getting it. He's always very good at showing gratitude, it's one of the best things about him, and the smallest gestures delight him. I remember the look of wonder and awe on his face when he realized I had swept the floor. He had to call one of his friends to brag of this. The poor man was dying for some domestic attention...but anyway, I digress...he thanked me for buying the loofah.

"I didn't realize you used that loofah, I thought it was left there...from..." my voice trailed off.

"No, I use it every day," he said and then caught the look on my face and leaned forward. "What?" he said, ominously, his eyes bright. His whole body took on the posture of a predator. I felt the thrill of delight and danger.

"I just find it funny that you, of all people, would use a loofah," I dared to say.

"What are you saying, woman?" he cried, "Are you saying I'm not manly?" Then he did pounce and I was caught up inescapably in his huge arms, shrieking with laughter because, of course, he had found out early on how horribly ticklish I am, which always leaves me at such a terrible disadvantage. If he hadn't of been holding me up, I would have collapsed on the floor, completely incapacitated by laughter.

"Say I'm the toughest man you know," he demanded, bending his head to my ear. "Say it!"

"You're the toughest man I know!" I declared, throwing my head back against his chest, and shouting out, not just with the energy of laughter, but with the utter certainty of truth.

Fortunately, we had just resolved a serious argument just before he left the land of cell phone reception. Navigating that argument was a delicate, time taking process. The fact that we couldn't talk long, or reconnect physically to take the tension off, and more importantly, the over all context of danger and uncertainty meant that the argument was conducted in small, almost choreographed stages.

First he would state his position and then I would state mine and then we would put aside angry feelings and move away from the argument. Then we would call again and restate or renegotiate then put it aside again, to reconnect before the call was ended. By these gradual stages, we reached, eventually, a stale mate.

I felt I could not move from my position and he could not move from his. "I don't want to talk about it any more," Keith said simply, when we realized this. "I love you," he said, soon after and we ended that call.

I was sitting out on the veranda at work, in the crisp, winter air. All the trees are bare now, the mountain side subdued, I could see the traffic rushing by endlessly on the interstate at the foot of the hill, everyone heading home for dinner and the evening news, to bath the children and oversee the homework, to load the dishwasher and read in bed.

Keith's ability to put the argument aside gave me an unexpected gift of freedom. He was letting me be and yet still validating our relationship. In that gift of space, I was able to look in a new perspective at my emotions, to sort through my priorities. Once I had done so, I understood then that I could give him what he needed from me. I let go of the baggage and told him where I now stood. In doing this, I completely undid him, which is a marvelously rewarding thing to do.

This was all happening in the overheated, overstressed atmosphere at work, during the one shift that is mine to manage. I feel my natural instincts to lead coming back to life after being so badly burnt out by the one year of being Department Head. But I can't seem to help myself; given enough time, I will start to messing around in policy, taking on more responsibility than is mine, problem solving and teaching and investing in my team mates.

It just happens and then I find myself suddenly with a weight on my shoulders, with my team mates looking at me for direction, to be saved, redirected or wincing away from me, fearful and resentful. It is impossible to have one with out the other.

But it is, despite the weight of this, ultimately a profound relief to see the burnt out edges of me fall off to reveal the strength still there, and stronger than before. Effortlessly now I manage emergencies, redirect, teach and advise. Almost before I realize it is my own, I hear my voice rising out of the melee, calm and clear and confident. Where did I find that voice?

But then at night, I lie in bed, tossing and turning, fearful of the consequences of taking a stand, of putting myself out there, of making changes. Who now will pull me aside and accuse me of lying, say to my face that they know I am trying to get them fired? What swirling eddies of power will create the cross currents that I wade through each shift, the alliances forming and reforming around me at work and how do I keep my path straight through all this, keep my integrity and my courage? I know so clearly my own weaknesses, my failures are always before me.

I must go and take a shower, dress up for morale and take on Stage 2: Christmas lights!