My husband went to Louisiana with our children this past weekend. I bought their tickets and contacted TSA about meeting him at the airport. When we got there, no TSA agent was there to meet us. I found an agent and asked her to help me figure out where our assigned agent was. I filled out luggage tags for the kids while calling TSA to find out where out assigned agent was. Finally our assigned agent found us, telling us we didn't need to wait in line. I knew we didn't need to wait in line if we had a TSA agent with us, but we hadn't had one.
I checked the bags while my husband waited with the TSA agent. Then I walked to security with them. Our agent brought us to the front of the line, in front of a uniformed service member. I asked my husband to take out his ID. I separated the boarding passes for him by flight. I said goodbye to our children. I went home. I got a phone call notification that their gate had been changed and I called to make sure my husband was at the new gate. He was.
My best friend landed hours later. We ate out then went to my house and watched tv. My husband called to tell me his mom had picked him and the kids up from the airport and I relaxed.
The next day, Friday, Elle and I went to the beach. It was a gorgeous drive. We got a little lost but found the beach and spent a few hours collecting sea glass. I found a tiny orange piece and a tiny cobalt piece. I brought them home to add to my collection, because despite their size, they are unique. We started to get chilly so we left. We saw a deer on the side of the road and I hollered, "hey baby." The deer did not seem impressed, but we spent the rest of Elle's trip giggling about it.
On Saturday, we went to the farmer's market then ate a feast of kale chips, smoked salmon, roasted radishes, fresh berries and whipped cream with a bit of honey instead of sugar. We pulled some chairs together in my backyard and drank strawberry infused vodka. We talked about my husband. There had been a time when she didn't think I should marry him. She was worried about me and thought we were moving too fast. Apparently, I allayed her fears by saying, "the worst that will happen is we'll get divorced."
Sitting in my backyard Saturday, I was amused and saddened by this. How naïve I was to assume that the worst thing that could happen was a divorce. That conversation happened before my husband, then my boyfriend, drove over a bomb. It was years before I diagnosed him with TBI and even longer before someone at the VA confirmed my diagnosis. I was only thinking about big heartbreak. I did not know all the little ways your heart can break every single day. Elle and I talked about this. This is the benefit of having a best friend of almost two decades, you can dissect everything.
"I almost wish I had married someone I didn't love so much," I told her.
"But think," she said, "of how sad that would be."
She is right. It would be sad. No matter how many times my heart skips a painful beat because my husband has a moment where he is lost, there are an equal number of times my heart skips a beat because I know, to my core, that I am spending my days with the love of my life. I know more pain and joy than I ever would have if I had married someone I liked well enough.
On Sunday we went to Mt. Rainier and hiked on an unmarked trail outside of the Mt. Rainier national park. We walked by a rushing stream, loud among quiet moss covered rocks. Then we went home and watched tv.
We complained a lot about how sore our thighs were from squatting on the beach looking through puddles for treasure. We complained about our dirty feet, our hunger, our long drives. We could have just spent her entire visit sitting on the couch and watching tv or reading books. We would have been happy enough. Instead we chose to have a visit punctuated by both unimaginable beauty and by discomfort. It was better than good enough.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
teaching honor
I don't write here about my kids very much, except as they relate to my husband. I don't even write about myself much here except as I relate to my husband. In wanting to share my husband's story and educate people about the struggles veterans face, I forget that we are all part of his story.
It is hard to raise kids with someone who has a brain injury. It is hard for kids to understand brain injury.
"Daddy," our four year old said months ago, "you're not very smart because you drove over a bomb."
Since then, whenever my husband does something completely ridiculous, I say to him in my most earnest voice, "you're not very smart because you ran over a bomb" and we laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Our seven year old tells me things like "I'm glad Daddy doesn't remember things because he forgets that we're supposed to go to bed and we get to play."
They are also sad that he can't remember things sometimes, but they get that there is a silver lining.
Another silver lining is that neither of us has to work to support our families. We have steady paychecks based on him living impaired. I wonder, often, how to raise children who want to work or expect to work when neither of us works. My eldest wants to be an acrobat though, so maybe I have nothing to worry about.
In spite of all the ways my husband sets a bad example, his life is a good example. He is an Eagle Scout. He was a soldier. He is a moral, upstanding, honorable individual, which I think shines through more than his impulsiveness and short fuse, especially if my children can understand that those traits are a by-product of an injury.
Our children are very ethical. They may not listen well. In fact, my husband's grandmother told me my children don't mind, but she likes them. My daughter, especially, at four and as the baby of the family, is incredibly impulsive. Their rooms are often messy. They don't go to bed easily. However, they pick up litter. They help people in need. They pay for things they break. Today my eldest forgot their lunch so they borrowed money from the principal to buy lunch. When they got home, I saw that it was $3.20.
"Do you think you should pay some of this since you're the one who forgot your lunch?" I asked, thinking maybe they would pay half.
"I have 5 dollars," they said, "so I can use 3 dollars."
I think sometimes people feel sorry for us. My children either didn't know or won't remember their Daddy before he was injured. Sometimes he forgets them at school. He yells at them with little provocation. There are a lot of drawbacks to having a Daddy who cannot remember anything, and there are benefits to having a disabled veteran as a Daddy. There are also benefits to having their Daddy as a Daddy. He is living a life of honor. Not just his military service or his boy scout days, but every day. If there is an opportunity to better the world or someone else's day, he takes it. Our children see that and they live it.
It is hard to raise kids with someone who has a brain injury. It is hard for kids to understand brain injury.
"Daddy," our four year old said months ago, "you're not very smart because you drove over a bomb."
Since then, whenever my husband does something completely ridiculous, I say to him in my most earnest voice, "you're not very smart because you ran over a bomb" and we laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Our seven year old tells me things like "I'm glad Daddy doesn't remember things because he forgets that we're supposed to go to bed and we get to play."
They are also sad that he can't remember things sometimes, but they get that there is a silver lining.
Another silver lining is that neither of us has to work to support our families. We have steady paychecks based on him living impaired. I wonder, often, how to raise children who want to work or expect to work when neither of us works. My eldest wants to be an acrobat though, so maybe I have nothing to worry about.
In spite of all the ways my husband sets a bad example, his life is a good example. He is an Eagle Scout. He was a soldier. He is a moral, upstanding, honorable individual, which I think shines through more than his impulsiveness and short fuse, especially if my children can understand that those traits are a by-product of an injury.
Our children are very ethical. They may not listen well. In fact, my husband's grandmother told me my children don't mind, but she likes them. My daughter, especially, at four and as the baby of the family, is incredibly impulsive. Their rooms are often messy. They don't go to bed easily. However, they pick up litter. They help people in need. They pay for things they break. Today my eldest forgot their lunch so they borrowed money from the principal to buy lunch. When they got home, I saw that it was $3.20.
"Do you think you should pay some of this since you're the one who forgot your lunch?" I asked, thinking maybe they would pay half.
"I have 5 dollars," they said, "so I can use 3 dollars."
I think sometimes people feel sorry for us. My children either didn't know or won't remember their Daddy before he was injured. Sometimes he forgets them at school. He yells at them with little provocation. There are a lot of drawbacks to having a Daddy who cannot remember anything, and there are benefits to having a disabled veteran as a Daddy. There are also benefits to having their Daddy as a Daddy. He is living a life of honor. Not just his military service or his boy scout days, but every day. If there is an opportunity to better the world or someone else's day, he takes it. Our children see that and they live it.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
thin ice
"What I am hearing you say is that you want me to trust you to make adult decisions."
"Yeah," my husband says.
I stare at him, knowing this is not what he wants to hear, but it is what I need to say.
"I don't," I say, thinking of the credit card he impulsively applied for and forgot to tell me about, "I don't trust you to make adult decisions. If that's a problem, then it is a problem in our marriage."
"Well," he says, getting off the couch and walking into the other room, "then I guess it is."
I find it humorous that he is protesting my distrust by walking away from the discussion, but when I call him back, he tells me he is angry and doesn't want to fight. So, maybe, walking away was the mature decision.
The problem is I do not know when he is going to make a mature decision and when he is going to impulsively react. Sometimes he defends his behavior by telling me that our four year old did it first. Then I remind him that he is an adult. I wonder though if he thinks I should honestly expect more rational behavior from him than a four year old. Maybe he expects the four year old to be more rational.
My husband shape shifts. Being around him is like skating on a frozen lake. I cannot tell how deep the ice is at any given point and skating along the surface is okay until it isn't and I am drowning in a freezing lake. If I assume all the ice is safe, I will surely break through when I am not paying attention. If I assume all the ice is too fragile to hold, I will live, no matter what joy I miss out on by not ice-skating. So, I seldom ice skate. I seldom trust my husband to hold the weight of adult decisions. It may not be as much fun, but we will all live.
"Yeah," my husband says.
I stare at him, knowing this is not what he wants to hear, but it is what I need to say.
"I don't," I say, thinking of the credit card he impulsively applied for and forgot to tell me about, "I don't trust you to make adult decisions. If that's a problem, then it is a problem in our marriage."
"Well," he says, getting off the couch and walking into the other room, "then I guess it is."
I find it humorous that he is protesting my distrust by walking away from the discussion, but when I call him back, he tells me he is angry and doesn't want to fight. So, maybe, walking away was the mature decision.
The problem is I do not know when he is going to make a mature decision and when he is going to impulsively react. Sometimes he defends his behavior by telling me that our four year old did it first. Then I remind him that he is an adult. I wonder though if he thinks I should honestly expect more rational behavior from him than a four year old. Maybe he expects the four year old to be more rational.
My husband shape shifts. Being around him is like skating on a frozen lake. I cannot tell how deep the ice is at any given point and skating along the surface is okay until it isn't and I am drowning in a freezing lake. If I assume all the ice is safe, I will surely break through when I am not paying attention. If I assume all the ice is too fragile to hold, I will live, no matter what joy I miss out on by not ice-skating. So, I seldom ice skate. I seldom trust my husband to hold the weight of adult decisions. It may not be as much fun, but we will all live.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
fairy tale romance
When you marry a soldier, you have some element of a classic American fairy tale in your life. He goes off to war; you cry yourself to sleep. He brings freedom to oppressed peoples; you hold down the home front. He is noble and you are selfless. When your soldier becomes disabled, it really only adds to this fairy tale. He, who was strong and noble, now needs you to be strong and noble.
It is a love story.
The worst part of being married to a disabled veteran is not the endless fighting with faceless bureaucrats or the continual shock over everything he cannot do. The worst part is when I am in need. Because my noble soldier is incapable of fulfilling my need to be taken care of. He is the one who is taken care of. For better or worse, he is the one who is taken care of.
I am struggling with our cross-country move. I am not struggling with the things I thought I would struggle with. Selling the house, buying a house, transferring mail and bills and kids, adjusting to a highway speed limit 20 miles slower - these things were surprisingly easy. The hard part is living here.
I feel like every reason we had for moving has proven to be a complete bust. The VA is supposed to be better but they don't even have an intake appointment for my husband until August. The schools are supposed to be better but I am having trouble getting my daughter into the correct programs. My husband is supposed to have friends here - none of whom came to his birthday celebration or have invited him to do anything with them. We are supposed to be happier. My husband is happier. My kids are about the same, honestly. I am miserable.
I thought if my husband was happier and other things were better then it would be easy for me to be happier.
I forgot that if my husband cannot take care of me when I need it, there is no one here to support me.
I am very lonely.
It is a love story.
The worst part of being married to a disabled veteran is not the endless fighting with faceless bureaucrats or the continual shock over everything he cannot do. The worst part is when I am in need. Because my noble soldier is incapable of fulfilling my need to be taken care of. He is the one who is taken care of. For better or worse, he is the one who is taken care of.
I am struggling with our cross-country move. I am not struggling with the things I thought I would struggle with. Selling the house, buying a house, transferring mail and bills and kids, adjusting to a highway speed limit 20 miles slower - these things were surprisingly easy. The hard part is living here.
I feel like every reason we had for moving has proven to be a complete bust. The VA is supposed to be better but they don't even have an intake appointment for my husband until August. The schools are supposed to be better but I am having trouble getting my daughter into the correct programs. My husband is supposed to have friends here - none of whom came to his birthday celebration or have invited him to do anything with them. We are supposed to be happier. My husband is happier. My kids are about the same, honestly. I am miserable.
I thought if my husband was happier and other things were better then it would be easy for me to be happier.
I forgot that if my husband cannot take care of me when I need it, there is no one here to support me.
I am very lonely.
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