"This is my mommy voice," my five year old daughter said in falsetto.
"This is my daddy voice. Whatever." I intoned deeply.
"This is my daddy voice. Uh... I forgot," our seven year old said.
We laughed. Karl and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.
"This is my daddy voice. My name is I forgot my name!" our five year old exclaimed.
We did not laugh. I thought of my daughter's play therapist with gratitude. Karl and I did not meet each other's eyes.
"Ok, that's enough voices. Finish eating," I told the kids.
The kids do not know that our biggest fears involve my husband forgetting who we are or who he is. Actually, maybe they do know. We don't hide Karl's brain damage. We talk openly about why he forgets things and, while he and I talk quietly about what will happen when he cannot recognize me, we do talk about it.
Our kids are kids. I know that many adults have trouble finding the line between dark humor and cruel mocking. I do not expect our kids to know the difference, especially not our five year old who was born to play to an audience. There is no blueprint for a happy family. We have no rules about how we may or may not come to terms with Karl's injuries. We just come to terms with them. As we feel our way forward together, we learn how far is too far.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
stories
As I was driving to get frozen yogurt with a friend today I remembered what I forgot yesterday.
Yesterday my daughter was playing Angry Birds and somehow we started talking about standing on piggies. We are nothing around here if not silly.
"You're standing on piggies!" I said to Karl.
"Twenty of them!"
Twenty? My husband is not a mutant. He has ten piggies like the rest of us.
Tonight he was pouring a slush from Sonic and he complained because he accidentally poured Frosty on his hand. Slushes and frosties are vastly different.
Documenting these little skips reminds me of the summer I kept a log of everything my husband forgot. I believe if I did the same exercise today my log would be a lot longer. Maybe I should... but it was depressing. It is depressing to reduce my husband to his lapses. That is not what I'm doing here, because this is a love story, not a clinical log. This is not for the VA. These words are not to prove how impaired my husband is for the sake of compensation. These words are to chronicle the love story between a 14 year old girl from a dysfunctional family and a boy she had a crush on. I make many jokes about how my husband had gorgeous thick long hair when we met and now he is bald. I also joke about how we met the only year he attended my high school. Then he switched to a Catholic high school. He looked so cute in those little skirts. He is tired of this joke, because he has heard me tell it so many times.
That's the point.
The point of our story is not my husband's brain damage or his joint pain. The point is that we have a story.
We have a story because of a chance meeting between a boy and a girl 16 years ago. We have a story because we had friends in common, most notably a flaky girl who brought us together time and again. We have a story because technology in military vehicles has gotten good enough that a man can drive over a bomb and live and because when Karl was driving that vehicle over a bomb, he had the hatch open because that vehicle's thermal camera was broken. We have a story today because a piece of equipment was broken. This is what I believe. I believe that having the hatch open provided somewhere for the explosive force to go. I am making this up. It is what I believe and I made it up. Having the hatch open let flames come in. This is true. I am not making it up. This is what my husband envisions when he is driving down the road and sees debris. Sometimes it is unconscious and he shivers. Sometimes he purposely draws up images of flames engulfing him.
This is part of our story. His twenty piggies are part of our story, but they are not a major plot line. Our story is populated by bit characters: the woman whom I met today in line registering my daughter for kindergarten, who said "aww" when I told her my husband was a disabled veteran (I said, "don't do that," laughing to take the edge off my words); a man in line to register his child for school had scars on one side of his face and the posture of a service member; two women in line were in uniform, one of whom had the same deployment patch as my husband; another woman was eavesdropping on my casual recitation of my husband's status as a disabled veteran. None of these people are central to our lives but they are there on the periphery, as are all the other men and women who have served our country. Not only do their lives contribute to statistics that correlate to our lives, but they are part of the seven percent of veterans in this country.
I am, obviously, not a veteran. When I was 18, I wasn't filled with enough conviction (or honor) to make a long term commitment to my country. In fact, I spent a lot of time feeling vaguely disgruntled with people who signed up to fight war. I was anti-war and I thought that being anti-soldier was the same thing as being anti-war. I still feel guilty over this mistake. My love of my husband, my compassion for him and my understanding of his motives were the keys in my being able to separate the soldier from the war. I went from thinking that soldiers joined the Army because they believed in war to believing that a variety of people join the military for a variety of reasons. Some of them come from generations of service members and honor their family and their legacy by enlisting. Some of them don't know what to do with their lives and think that earning some scholarship money will help them figure it out. Some of them want to earn their citizenship. Some of them are poor and see the military as their only lifeline. Some of them believe in war.
I wish that I had been able to separate the soldier from the war much much sooner. I wish someone had humanized the faceless men and women in uniforms for me when I was a seven year old parroting "peace in the middle east!" I am very sure that the reason I want to thank veterans and view them as kin is not just because I love my husband, but because I wish I had shown more compassion sooner. I want the veterans I encounter to know that I know they are people who deserve respect and compassion. They are not heroes to be held apart, separated into us and them. They are us. It is possible to recognize someone's honor and sacrifice in a way that does not express a mixture of pity and admiration. It is possible to recognize someone's humanity in their honor and sacrifice.
Karl is the most honorable person I know. If you ask him who the most honorable person he knows is, he'll name another man he served with. I bet if you ask that man, which I have not done yet, who the most honorable person he knows is, I'm sure he would name a third. Karl and his friend do not want to be treated as if they are heroes, not least because they know individuals more honorable than themselves. Karl and his friend want to be treated like people. This is the story of everything Karl forgets and everything I remember for him because I love him. This is also the story of Karl being sick of my jokes that are old to him and new to everyone we meet. This is the story of Karl and I being people.
Yesterday my daughter was playing Angry Birds and somehow we started talking about standing on piggies. We are nothing around here if not silly.
"You're standing on piggies!" I said to Karl.
"Twenty of them!"
Twenty? My husband is not a mutant. He has ten piggies like the rest of us.
Tonight he was pouring a slush from Sonic and he complained because he accidentally poured Frosty on his hand. Slushes and frosties are vastly different.
Documenting these little skips reminds me of the summer I kept a log of everything my husband forgot. I believe if I did the same exercise today my log would be a lot longer. Maybe I should... but it was depressing. It is depressing to reduce my husband to his lapses. That is not what I'm doing here, because this is a love story, not a clinical log. This is not for the VA. These words are not to prove how impaired my husband is for the sake of compensation. These words are to chronicle the love story between a 14 year old girl from a dysfunctional family and a boy she had a crush on. I make many jokes about how my husband had gorgeous thick long hair when we met and now he is bald. I also joke about how we met the only year he attended my high school. Then he switched to a Catholic high school. He looked so cute in those little skirts. He is tired of this joke, because he has heard me tell it so many times.
That's the point.
The point of our story is not my husband's brain damage or his joint pain. The point is that we have a story.
We have a story because of a chance meeting between a boy and a girl 16 years ago. We have a story because we had friends in common, most notably a flaky girl who brought us together time and again. We have a story because technology in military vehicles has gotten good enough that a man can drive over a bomb and live and because when Karl was driving that vehicle over a bomb, he had the hatch open because that vehicle's thermal camera was broken. We have a story today because a piece of equipment was broken. This is what I believe. I believe that having the hatch open provided somewhere for the explosive force to go. I am making this up. It is what I believe and I made it up. Having the hatch open let flames come in. This is true. I am not making it up. This is what my husband envisions when he is driving down the road and sees debris. Sometimes it is unconscious and he shivers. Sometimes he purposely draws up images of flames engulfing him.
This is part of our story. His twenty piggies are part of our story, but they are not a major plot line. Our story is populated by bit characters: the woman whom I met today in line registering my daughter for kindergarten, who said "aww" when I told her my husband was a disabled veteran (I said, "don't do that," laughing to take the edge off my words); a man in line to register his child for school had scars on one side of his face and the posture of a service member; two women in line were in uniform, one of whom had the same deployment patch as my husband; another woman was eavesdropping on my casual recitation of my husband's status as a disabled veteran. None of these people are central to our lives but they are there on the periphery, as are all the other men and women who have served our country. Not only do their lives contribute to statistics that correlate to our lives, but they are part of the seven percent of veterans in this country.
I am, obviously, not a veteran. When I was 18, I wasn't filled with enough conviction (or honor) to make a long term commitment to my country. In fact, I spent a lot of time feeling vaguely disgruntled with people who signed up to fight war. I was anti-war and I thought that being anti-soldier was the same thing as being anti-war. I still feel guilty over this mistake. My love of my husband, my compassion for him and my understanding of his motives were the keys in my being able to separate the soldier from the war. I went from thinking that soldiers joined the Army because they believed in war to believing that a variety of people join the military for a variety of reasons. Some of them come from generations of service members and honor their family and their legacy by enlisting. Some of them don't know what to do with their lives and think that earning some scholarship money will help them figure it out. Some of them want to earn their citizenship. Some of them are poor and see the military as their only lifeline. Some of them believe in war.
I wish that I had been able to separate the soldier from the war much much sooner. I wish someone had humanized the faceless men and women in uniforms for me when I was a seven year old parroting "peace in the middle east!" I am very sure that the reason I want to thank veterans and view them as kin is not just because I love my husband, but because I wish I had shown more compassion sooner. I want the veterans I encounter to know that I know they are people who deserve respect and compassion. They are not heroes to be held apart, separated into us and them. They are us. It is possible to recognize someone's honor and sacrifice in a way that does not express a mixture of pity and admiration. It is possible to recognize someone's humanity in their honor and sacrifice.
Karl is the most honorable person I know. If you ask him who the most honorable person he knows is, he'll name another man he served with. I bet if you ask that man, which I have not done yet, who the most honorable person he knows is, I'm sure he would name a third. Karl and his friend do not want to be treated as if they are heroes, not least because they know individuals more honorable than themselves. Karl and his friend want to be treated like people. This is the story of everything Karl forgets and everything I remember for him because I love him. This is also the story of Karl being sick of my jokes that are old to him and new to everyone we meet. This is the story of Karl and I being people.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
blip
"1 - 2 - 3 - 4," he counts as he moves his marker.
"Babe, what did you roll?"
"Four plus two. Six."
"And you went...."
"Four."
"Babe, four plus two."
"Oh!" He moves his marker two more spaces.
We are playing Sum Swamp, a simple addition and subtraction game that includes three dice - two with numbers and one with pluses and minuses. Our seven year old and five year old don't notice when their father misses the simple math. I look at him with what I feel is a trademark expression of shock. It is not pity and I hope Karl doesn't think it is. It is simply what I look like when I am absolutely mystified by what his brain is doing.
As I am typing he wonders aloud if he fed the dogs. I don't know. He checks their empty bowls as I pause Top Shot. He did not feed them. I don't know why I need to keep track of these moments. Actually, that's a lie. I need to keep track of these moments because sometimes he is so utterly normal that people ask me what we're getting paid for. Sometimes he is so utterly normal that I feel like I must be going mad.
Yesterday as we were driving to the lake, he told me he hopes that when it comes down to it, I have enough money to hire someone to care for him.
"Luckily," I said, "you'll probably still remember how to wipe your butt. I can do everything else."
Today another little brain blip happened. I don't even remember what is was he forgot, but I said "brain damage" and he rolled his eyes.
"You know, I have to... I'm sorry. If you don't laugh, you cry." I told him.
"It's okay to cry," he said. Then he started singing "It's All Right to Cry" from Free to Be You and Me, which, of course, made me laugh.
"Babe, what did you roll?"
"Four plus two. Six."
"And you went...."
"Four."
"Babe, four plus two."
"Oh!" He moves his marker two more spaces.
We are playing Sum Swamp, a simple addition and subtraction game that includes three dice - two with numbers and one with pluses and minuses. Our seven year old and five year old don't notice when their father misses the simple math. I look at him with what I feel is a trademark expression of shock. It is not pity and I hope Karl doesn't think it is. It is simply what I look like when I am absolutely mystified by what his brain is doing.
As I am typing he wonders aloud if he fed the dogs. I don't know. He checks their empty bowls as I pause Top Shot. He did not feed them. I don't know why I need to keep track of these moments. Actually, that's a lie. I need to keep track of these moments because sometimes he is so utterly normal that people ask me what we're getting paid for. Sometimes he is so utterly normal that I feel like I must be going mad.
Yesterday as we were driving to the lake, he told me he hopes that when it comes down to it, I have enough money to hire someone to care for him.
"Luckily," I said, "you'll probably still remember how to wipe your butt. I can do everything else."
Today another little brain blip happened. I don't even remember what is was he forgot, but I said "brain damage" and he rolled his eyes.
"You know, I have to... I'm sorry. If you don't laugh, you cry." I told him.
"It's okay to cry," he said. Then he started singing "It's All Right to Cry" from Free to Be You and Me, which, of course, made me laugh.
Friday, August 2, 2013
the guys
I wake up Thursday to a facebook message from one of the guys.
"I'd like to come visit you guys some time! I've been thinking about you and your husband for a minute and I've missed you!"
"Ok, come visit us," I type, "You can come over tonight if you want, dude. You have our address? Or you can come over tomorrow night, or Saturday during the day, or Sunday anytime after we get home from church, or anytime next week, lol."
After all, he lives maybe 20 minutes away.
"Hahahahahaha! I'm actually stuck at the SeaTac airport right now. I've missed Hot Karl!"
Wait. He's at the airport? A few messages later and he finally lets me know he has moved out of state and is in town for National Guard duty, which he reports for in 48 hours.
"Oh," I type, "so where are you staying until then?"
"I stayed last night at the USO in the Airport. They have these amazing little tuna fish sandwich things!"
"Ok, we'll come pick you up and you can stay with us and Karl agrees about the sandwiches."
"haha! As he should. They're pretty delightful. I would love to enjoy your hospitality!"
"Dummy, of course you would. We'll be there in 30 minutes."
I tell my husband to hurry up and get dressed so we can go pick up Mulligan. Then I read him the messages.
"Did you really call him a dummy?" My husband laughs.
Yes! Of course I called Mulligan a dummy. Why didn't he just ask if he could stay with us? Later, when I ask him, he tells me it is because if I offered instead of him asking, he would feel less like he was imposing on us. He wasn't imposing on us of course.
It's funny though because one of the things I least expected about marrying my husband was the amount of men who were about to become my family. I know other wives go through this too. I have heard numerous stories about the husband's combat buddy who moved in after the deployment. He was the husband's best friend and neither guy wanted to be alone so the single soldier just moved in with the married one. Some of those arrangements work out okay for years. Some of them last only months before the single soldier is just too much of a burden. The wife feels guilty but with the care her husband needs, she just cannot shoulder the emotional burden of another wounded soldier. No one moved in with us but I know that it is just circumstance. There could easily come a day when one of the guys needs a place to stay and we have a place to stay.
When a combat buddy of my husband's calls or texts or facebook messages with a need, I know I will do my best to meet that need. The guys are family. In fact, sometimes, they are better than family because they have stood by my husband in the scariest moments of his life. They have shared his fear. They know things about Karl I can only guess when I wake up alone and he is watching war movies at three in the morning. More than that, I owe these guys. I owe them a debt I can never repay because they had my husband's back. They helped him survive to come home to me. They covered him. They made him laugh. They sheltered his body and his soul and I will never be able to thank them properly for all the parts of my husband that came home to me.
"I'd like to come visit you guys some time! I've been thinking about you and your husband for a minute and I've missed you!"
"Ok, come visit us," I type, "You can come over tonight if you want, dude. You have our address? Or you can come over tomorrow night, or Saturday during the day, or Sunday anytime after we get home from church, or anytime next week, lol."
After all, he lives maybe 20 minutes away.
"Hahahahahaha! I'm actually stuck at the SeaTac airport right now. I've missed Hot Karl!"
Wait. He's at the airport? A few messages later and he finally lets me know he has moved out of state and is in town for National Guard duty, which he reports for in 48 hours.
"Oh," I type, "so where are you staying until then?"
"I stayed last night at the USO in the Airport. They have these amazing little tuna fish sandwich things!"
"Ok, we'll come pick you up and you can stay with us and Karl agrees about the sandwiches."
"haha! As he should. They're pretty delightful. I would love to enjoy your hospitality!"
"Dummy, of course you would. We'll be there in 30 minutes."
I tell my husband to hurry up and get dressed so we can go pick up Mulligan. Then I read him the messages.
"Did you really call him a dummy?" My husband laughs.
Yes! Of course I called Mulligan a dummy. Why didn't he just ask if he could stay with us? Later, when I ask him, he tells me it is because if I offered instead of him asking, he would feel less like he was imposing on us. He wasn't imposing on us of course.
It's funny though because one of the things I least expected about marrying my husband was the amount of men who were about to become my family. I know other wives go through this too. I have heard numerous stories about the husband's combat buddy who moved in after the deployment. He was the husband's best friend and neither guy wanted to be alone so the single soldier just moved in with the married one. Some of those arrangements work out okay for years. Some of them last only months before the single soldier is just too much of a burden. The wife feels guilty but with the care her husband needs, she just cannot shoulder the emotional burden of another wounded soldier. No one moved in with us but I know that it is just circumstance. There could easily come a day when one of the guys needs a place to stay and we have a place to stay.
When a combat buddy of my husband's calls or texts or facebook messages with a need, I know I will do my best to meet that need. The guys are family. In fact, sometimes, they are better than family because they have stood by my husband in the scariest moments of his life. They have shared his fear. They know things about Karl I can only guess when I wake up alone and he is watching war movies at three in the morning. More than that, I owe these guys. I owe them a debt I can never repay because they had my husband's back. They helped him survive to come home to me. They covered him. They made him laugh. They sheltered his body and his soul and I will never be able to thank them properly for all the parts of my husband that came home to me.
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