Home

Home is a funny thing. As we pass over the mountains on our descent to the Seattle airport, I look at the snow caps and think I'm home.... Then I feel a tug for all the places that I'm not. Home is Texas, where I probably won't live again. Home is being surrounded by caregivers and veterans, like we were this past weekend at the majestic Waldorf=Astoria, a place much cleaner than my house. Home is, sometimes, the 1600 square foot rambler we are returning to, but sometimes, sitting among our things, I feel heartbreakingly homesick.

 

I continuously thank Karl for serving in the military not because I am overly patriotic but because if he hadn't served, I would not have the extended family I am fortunate to be a part of.

This week, Karl and I attended the 9th Annual WWP Courage Awards. Karl packed his suit, but forgot his tie, belt and shoes.

 

I met famous people... Well, really, one famous person. I met Matthew Modine. Everyone knew who he was... Except me. I told him I didn't know who he was and he said, " you can google me." I got a little excited, not thinking about his vast acting career compared to my sparse writing career and said, "oh! You can google me!" And handed him a TBI pamphlet. I was excited that I am googleable, but I don't think he was impressed with me. I have googled him now and I have never seen anything he was in.

 

I also met heroes, scads of them, men and women who served our country, who fought for each other, and who count me, by mere fact of marriage, as family, which is a terrifyingly great honor.

 

I heard, again, the story of the amazing impact WWP has on great men and women in their lowest moments. On the way to the airport, heading home, a man asked me "you know how they take you to the hospital right?"

 

Yes, I know. I know that when you get injured in war, they cut your clothes off you and deliver you nude to whomever will continue to save your life.

 

"All I wanted," said the man before me, "was a pair of clean underwear."

Then someone walked in his room holding a backpack and in the backpack were clean clothes.

"And I said, 'What organization are you with?' Wounded Warrior Project. That was 10 years ago, in the beginning, and I've been involved with them ever since."

 

Under Armour has taken over the backpack program in conjunction with WWP and Under Armour was the recipient of The Talkhouse Award for Community Service this past week at the WWP Courage Awards.

 

Above all else, though, I spent four days in New York City at a family reunion, which is what WWP events feel like to me. The alumni and caregivers are our people. The people who work for WWP and have served themselves, the ones who don't stand up when everyone who has served our country is asked to stand, they are our people too. One man, who works for WWP, loaned my husband a pair of shoes then took off before we could return them. In many situations this would be horribly embarrassing, but instead, it is funny, because we know he gets it. He gets how easy it is to pack a suit but none of the accessories when you are living with a brain injury.

I saw several veterans, caregivers, and staff I have met before and I met several new "family members." If home is where the heart is, my home is no single place. Instead my home is everywhere these people go - the people who make up my tribe, the people who get me, who get Karl, who provide us a safe place to be broken and a safe place to work on being whole.