To those not part of the military community, it can be hard to describe the bond that exists between military wives. As has been said many times over the years, in the military community, your friends become your family and your family becomes your friends. It’s your friends that you call on in times of need because, most often, your family lives too far away to “be there” for you on a regular basis.
The walls of Patti’s hospital room are covered with photos and greeting cards. Anyone who ever visited her home knew how much she loved angels, and her friends picked up on that, bringing angels as gifts to watch over her. Wherever you look in her hospital room, a wonderful collection of angels gives visitors the same comfort they give Patti, who makes it easy for friends and family to visit her by putting them instantly at ease.
Patti’s friends showed just how much she means to them recently. Seven of her friends from the military community banded together, and, knowing of her love for angels, borrowed angel costumes, complete with halos and wings, and set out for Home Fires Park at CFB Petawawa along with a photographer. The setting was well chosen, since the park and monument are dedicated to military spouses and it is the first of its kind in Canada.
I happened to be sharing the hospital room as a patient with Patti when she was presented with her Angel Book. As I lay there in the next bed, I listened to her laugh as she looked at the results of their angelic photo shoot. These photos were like none I’d ever seen. The faces of her friends were filled with a genuine joy. You could tell that they were having a great time creating these special memories. Angels hugged trees, held hands around a lilac bush in full bloom, lay on the grass and sat on park benches.
I was so moved by Patti’s special angels that I couldn’t help but think what a wonderful keepsake calendar those photos would make. I was released from the hospital a few days later, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next time I visited Patti, she loved the idea. I went home and got on the computer, turning the photographs into Patti’s Angel Calendar, and made one for her and each of her friends. I only had one picture of Patty herself, and I decided to use it for the cover.
The photo was taken in my home with a group of military wives. As I prepared to crop the photo to a manageable size, I realized that she had been standing in front of my Christmas tree—a tree I decorate each year with crocheted angels. And, of course, those angels were in the photo with her, telling me that they would watch over Patti, and everyone else who received the calendar born of our love for our friend.
As military wives, our hearts really do beat as one. We continue to pray for Patti as she fights this difficult battle, surrounded by all the love and support we can give her.
Dianne Collier
6
NO LIFE LIKE
IT
If the military had wanted you to have a spouse, they would have issued you one.
Anonymous
The Difference
I never intended to become a run-of-the-mill person.
Barbara Jordan
When we consider the price the military pay for freedom, we need to remember the spouses. They pay a price, too. The funny thing about it is that most military spouses don’t consider themselves different from other husbands and wives. Is there a difference? I think there is.
Other spouses get married and look forward to building equity in a home and putting down family roots. Military spouses get married and know they’ll live in base housing or rent their homes. They must carry their roots with them, transplanting them frequently.
Other spouses decorate a home with a flair and personality that can last a lifetime. When military spouses decorate their homes, their flair is tempered with the knowledge that no two base houses have the same size windows or same size rooms. Curtains have to be flexible and multiple sets are a plus. Furniture must fit like puzzle pieces.
Other spouses have living rooms that are immaculate and seldomused. Military spouses have immaculate living-room/ dining-room combos. The coffee table got a scratch or two moving from Germany, but it still looks pretty good.
Other spouses say good-bye to their spouse for a business trip and know they won’t see them for a week. They are lonely, but can survive. Military spouses say good-bye to their deploying spouse and know they won’t see them for months; or for a remote, a year. They are lonely, but will survive.
Other spouses call Maytag when a washer hose blows off and then write a check for the repairman. Military spouses cut the water off and fix it themselves.
Other spouses are used to saying “hello” to friends they see all the time. Military spouses get used to saying “good-bye” to friends made over the last two years.
Other spouses worry about whether their child will be class president at school next year. Military spouses worry about whether their child will be accepted in yet another new school next year; and whether that school will be the worst in the city . . . again.
Other spouses can count on spouse participation in special events: birthdays, anniversaries, concerts, football games, graduations and especially the birth of a child. Military spouses only count on each other, because they realize that the flag has to come first if freedom is to survive. It has to be that way.
Other spouses put up yellow ribbons when the troops are imperiled across the globe and take them down when the troops come home. Military spouses wear yellow ribbons around their hearts—and they never take them off.
Other spouses worry about being late for Mom’s Thanksgiving dinner. Military spouses worry about getting back from Japan in time for Dad’s funeral.
Other spouses are touched by the television program showing an elderly lady putting a card down in front of a long, black wall that has names on it. The card simply says, “Happy birthday, sweetheart. You would have been sixty today.” A military spouse is the lady with the card. And the wall is the Vietnam Memorial.
I would never say military spouses are better or worse than other spouses. But I will say there is a difference. And I will say that our country asks more of military spouses than is asked of other spouses. And I will say, without hesitation, that military spouses pay just as high a price for freedom as do their active-duty husbands or wives. Perhaps the price they pay is even higher. They do what they have to do, bound together not only by blood or friendship, but with a shared spirit whose origin is in the very essence of what love truly is. Dying in service to our country is not nearly as hard as loving someone who has died in service to our country, and having to live without them.
God bless our military spouses for all they freely give. And God bless America.
Col. Steven A. Arrington
Wow
Pleasure is always derived from something outside you, whereas joy arises from within.
Eckhart Tolle
It’s no big deal. It’s only six months. We’ve been through this before! I must have told myself this a thousand times over the last six months. Now the day is here. As I drive through the ribbon-festooned streets of Camp Lejeune to the reunion site, my heart is pounding and my stomach is jumpy. I glance down at my clothes and wonder if they complement my figure. I check my makeup in the mirror and wipe the mascara that is already running.
Finally, I find a place to park and see that the crowd is forming. No definite time, no surprise, just a cattle call for between ten and six. (I was there at nine.) It’s June, and it’s hot. I see a friendly face and take a seat. The usual conversation begins. “Are you excited?” “What do you think he’s going to say?” “When did you talk to him last?” You see, to some, six months is long; to others, six months is longer. Of course I am excited. I have no idea what he’s going to say! The last question, I think, was to check up on her husband. If mine called me, why didn’t hers call her? (I’ve been there.)
There’s always something new to tell or show someone after half a year: a new bedspread, a new pet, a new baby. Oh, yeah, did I forget to mention that I’m nine months pregnant? My friend had a baby the month af
ter our husbands left. We were both scared. That jumpy stomach feeling is back. Our little girl can sense my anxiety. Now I’m regretting that Pop-Tart.
As I glance down at the woman’s small baby, I start to cry again. At least my husband will be here in time to see her born. Ouch! Okay, not funny—contraction! Just a Braxton-Hicks one, I know, but still, wouldn’t that be something? “Well, honey, you almost made it in time!” I grab a drink of water, to take the edge off, or does that saying only apply to hard liquor?
I didn’t sleep much last night, and although it’s bright and hot, I find myself starting to doze. I take one more look down the parking lot: no buses. As soon as I start to close my eyes, someone screams; now I hear laughter. I snap my eyes open and look again: still nothing. I notice everyone is looking in the opposite direction. It’s a dirt road and there are three big trucks and a line of buses coming up from behind for a sneak attack. It works!
Well, my nap long forgotten, I jump up—okay, not jump, more like awkwardly slide—out of my chair. After much scrambling and waddling about, I decide it will be much easier if I stand still. So, I wait by the sea of green sea bags. I run my fingers through my hair and smooth my new pink shirt over my belly, and then I remember. Oh no! I’m pregnant! For some absurd reason, I try to suck in my gut. All I achieve by that is to anger the baby, and am punished by a swift kick to the ribs and a head butt to the bladder. Note to self: Don’t try that again. So, I stand there and wait.
Finally, the mass of green camouflage starts to thin as other wives snatch their husbands out of line. Over someone’s head, I see familiar eyes. Exactly the same, yet somehow different. It could be that he’s tanned, or, no . . . tears?! Surely not. But as he draws closer I see him bite his lower lip. It’s true! As if in an old movie, time slows down. I see his eyes flicker to my stomach and widen. I search for something profound to say, and I’m sure he does as well. All I can do is protectively place my hands over my baby and hope her daddy doesn’t turn away and run screaming at the impending responsibility. He does just the opposite. He drops his bags and pulls my body as close as possible and whispers a small but heartfelt word: “Wow.”
Amy Hollings worth
The Delivery of Finding Strength
Giving birth is little more than a set of contractions granting passage of a child. Then the mother is born.
Erma Bombeck
“I can’t believe you went to work with your water broken!” The nurse ordered me to the hospital immediately. “You are too strong! Get down here, now.”
Cradling the phone, I thought about what she had said. “Too strong” were not words that I had ever associated with myself. She had not seen me at home during the past five months, wanting my husband desperately, wondering how on earth I was going to deliver this precious baby without my partner by my side. Even though it was not wartime, Joe was halfway across the country, completing engineer officer basic course, and was not allowed to come back for the birth of our daughter without having to start the course over. We had already decided months prior to his leaving that he would stay there and be able to return when our baby girl was a few weeks old. Easier said than done! I was beginning to regret that decision.
I called my mother-in-law and gathered my things. As I walked down the hall of the school, my students cheered, while I wondered how long this would take and how quickly I could get word to Joe.
After picking some things up at home, I was off to the hospital, where the maternity ward was full. This was typical. Nothing in my life has come easy! So I labored here, there and everywhere until a delivery room opened up. This was painful. Having my son had been a walk in the park compared to this. Joe had been so wonderful through the birth of our son, coaching, comforting and joking. I was pretty much flying solo this time. Yes, my sister-in-law and mother-in-law were with me, and I was thankful for them, but I craved my husband’s warmth, encouragement and strength. I could barely stop crying with wishing that Joe was with me. Then the phone rang.
“Hi, babe! How are you doing?” said my sweet husband. “I wish I could be with you. I love you! You’re doing great!”
My spirits soared! My soldier had gotten the message, and knew just what to do to “be with me.” The epidural took effect, and I actually slept through the hardest part of the birth. Sweet dreams of my camouflaged hero coming home took over. There he was, holding our baby girl and five-year-old son, hugging me. . . .
“Honey, it’s time to push,” were the words that awakened me a few hours later. And push I did! Just after midnight, our beautiful Kaitlin Rose was born, looking identical to her brother and dad. Shortly after, another phone call came. It was the proud papa!
“I just know my baby girl and beautiful wife are perfect in every way! Thank you, Kim, for being so strong,” he exclaimed.
This was the second time in a day that I had been told that I was strong. A calm, peaceful, quiet and proud feeling came over me. It was all going to be all right! I really could do this! I had done this!
All along, I thought I was a marshmallow. It took a difficult situation to teach me that I was actually a rock. Now that my husband is deployed overseas in Iraq, I ponder this remarkable turning point in my life and thank God above for helping me to come to this realization. My children and soldier husband will be depending on me to call upon that inner strength quite often in the months to come. I will, for I am an army wife—a very proud, very strong, army wife.
Kimberly L. Shaffer
Operation Enduring Freedom
There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle, the other as if everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein
E-mail has changed the military wife’s daily operations during deployments. In World War II, most had to rely on what we now refer to as snail mail, which could take months each way. Now, we have this glorious and almost instant communication to keep us together. During his last deployment to Pakistan, my husband and I kept in touch this way every few days. I would tell him about his then eight-month-old son and all that was new or funny or sad with him. He would tell me what he could about life in the Middle East, which was next to nothing.
During one tough week, I had our baby at the doctor’s office five or six times. Upon reading this, Daniel asked me how he could ever repay me. This was my response:
“Well, you can never repay me. You will never get back these days that your son grew without you watching. You can never go back and hug me when I was feeling my loneliest or most frustrated, no matter how many millions of hugs you are planning for me upon your return. You will never know what the eighth, ninth and tenth months of your first child’s development were like. You can’t ever witness those firsts: the first time he kissed, the first time he climbed, the first time he chewed food. . . .
“You can never repay me, just as I can never repay you. No matter how many times I say thank you, it won’t be enough for the endless days of endless heat. No matter how many flags I fly or prayers I say or votes I cast, it won’t be enough to make up for the freedoms and liberties you sacrificed for mine. No matter how many nights I stay up with our son, it won’t rival the numbers of night skies you soar, keeping watch over a distant land that poses a threat to your homeland.
“Yes, it is hard to be without you. If you were a businessman on a trip, it would be hard to be without you. Yes, I worry about you, and I worry about us without you. No, it isn’t easy to be the ones left behind. In fact, I was feeling a little bad about it today, after a particularly bad night with Zaden and his impending teeth, when I received an e-mail with a picture of soldiers (the lucky ones) sleeping. Sleeping, they were, on the sand, in full gear, with masks over their faces because of the dust.
“All of a sudden, I was ashamed at my ungratefulness, and so thankful for my bed and pillow, and the blanket of security that they were affording me by giving up their own. I get a bed, a house and a sand-free life. I get to kiss our baby, get to feel his soft skin on my lips. I
get to hug him and hold him and rock him. I get to sit at complete peace while he lies in my arms and contentedly sucks on a bottle. I get to smell him every day. I get to listen to him babble and to laugh. I get to be with him.
“You get to sleep on a cot, if it’s not too hot or too noisy. You get to carry a radio and be on alert. You get to watch your friends die in a helicopter crash. You get to attend their memorials. You get to open America in a small box that was mailed weeks ago. You get three months of trying, harsh conditions, the full extent of which I will never understand.
“If I ever complain about my situation, it will happen in a moment of weakness and selfishness, and I will be wrong to do it. The truth is that I am very proud of you. I am proud of who you are and what you chose to do for a living. I am in awe of your selflessness. I am in your debt forever, and I know it.
“I love you to the ends of the earth, and I just hope that’s enough to encompass your current twenty.”
Heidi Boortz
Hair Humor
We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.
Carlos Castaneda
I’ve been burned, blonded, streaked, foiled, bobbed, stripped, layered, shaved, treated, ironed and turned into a brunette—all in the name of beauty. It’s been part of my journey on the U.S. military–wife hairstyle circuit, and one of the treats of being married to a serviceman. Every time we get PCS orders, panic strikes not only my heart, but my hair as well. You know when your husband walks in the door with “The Look” that soon you will not only be unpacking hundreds of mislabeled boxes in a new home, but you will also be on the adventure of looking for a new stylist. And, after five distinctly different haircuts and finding the stylist who finally suits you in the ninety-mile vicinity of your new home, your husband comes home with “The Look” again, and you know you’re soon off on another hair-raising adventure.
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 11
