Sever the tether

Well, we wish we could. We really do. We also wish we could buy those of you who don't understand why we can't, a clue.

We are tethered to our cell phones like our lives depend on it. Because they do.

In September, 2001, I began carrying a cell phone with me at all times, and I do mean ALL times--to the shower, to the bathroom, to bed, outside to garden, turned to vibrate and stashed in my bra while mowing the two acres of lawn at our old house on the rider mower, or while snow blowing the 190 foot driveway in the dead of winter.

September, 2001 is burned in my memory (and yours) for a number of reasons, including the fact that my only child, my son Zach, flew off to basic training like the little eagle he was. So the tether began. It continued through his being stationed in Germany, and on to his deployment to Iraq when the answering machine message on my home phone changed to "You have reached such n such number I am not available to answer your call, please leave a message and I will call you back. Zach, if this is you I love you and call my cell phone such n such number."

Zach was always sleep-deprived and there is a pretty large time difference between here and Iraq so I wanted to be sure he had the number and I would not miss that call. Add to that the fact that my son, my only child (yes, I'm repeating this--it's part of giving you a clue) often had to stand in line for a very long time to wait his turn to make this call in conditions that you know nothing about -- 120 degree temperatures, mortars dropping in close proximity, human bombs exploding, no sleep for a day or two, yeah, just your everyday sort of conditions.

If Zach called on the home phone and missed me he always left a message before calling my cell phone. I saved every single one of those messages. Every single one. Why? Because I never knew if that would be the last time I would hear his voice. Those messages are now all I have left of my son's voice, and one day, I know, I will not be able to hear it in my head any more and then I will have those recordings to listen to. To hear, I love you Mom one more time, to hear him call me a dork for not being home...priceless.

Zach left Iraq before his unit, he returned to Germany to begin the process of coming back to the states to start training in Special Forces, what he always wanted. On January 23, 2004, two days after his return to Germany he was killed by a drunk driver.

Oh life's irony. I thought he was safe. But we are never safe are we? No.

July 2, 2007. My best friend of 25 years went to the mall and never came back. She died of an aortic aneurysm. What if I didn't answer the phone the last time she called?

October, 2007. I married the love of my life after 7 years of history together. Lt Dan was not always Lt Dan though he wanted to be, instead he deferred to his parents and went to college and got his degree, then he owned and operated a successful business. He wanted desperately to be in a position to stand for our country on September 11, 2001 and he began to put a plan in motion to liquidate his comfortable and successful life, prepare himself mentally and physically, and get on the road to becoming Lt Dan. He did discuss this with me and before he submitted his final papers I had the option of saying no. I did not.

I am still tethered and will remain so for the duration. I am apart from those I love and those who are close to me more than I am together with them. Every single moment, every conversation, no matter how mundane is precious. Every I love you at the end of every phone call is precious. Severing the tether is not an option. Military families know this best though there are many others who know this as well. Some of you don't. You haven't gotten the clue.

The present moment is all you have, it is all you are guaranteed...cherish it.

Editors note: Lest you wonder what started this little rant, it began as a thought as I was reading this at SpouseBUZZ and became anger as I was reading this over at Trying's place, about this young man. Then it just had to come out somehow. I'm proud that I didn't cuss. ;)

How DO they DO that?

Tenacity? Sheer determination? Necessity? All of the above. I've been pondering lately on how military wives who are also mothers manage to do it. Alone. Mostly. Or even those who aren't mothers but who are younger than I and maybe not so stubbornly independent.

From where I'm sitting I know this. Today (and all of this week) Lt Dan has been at work at right around 3am and gotten home at right around 6pm. Tonight it was 8pm. Now, most nights he's sound asleep by 7pm. So where exactly does that really leave any time for actually having a conversation, or much of anything else. And who's children go to bed at 7? Do they actually tuck their Dad in? Does he stay up a little longer? Man. My child didn't go to bed until 8 and even then as he grew older he was allowed to read in bed, he just had to go to bed because *I* was tired. I always figured if getting to stay up was so important then after story time, or talk time as he grew older, he could read on his own, it worked, he read a lot as he grew up and I still got peace.

Plus, it's not even DARK at 7 right now, which is weird all by itself, sleeping when the sun hasn't even set yet.

From where I'm sitting I know this as well. I'm not sure I would have been in any way prepared as a twenty-something to deal with the kind of hours Lt Dan and I deal with now. At my current age I'm pretty well grounded, very independent, very secure, I have lots of coping skills. Add children to the mix, young ones, and flu, and projectile vomiting, and runny noses, and broken bones, all the myriad things that children get and do... We're not even talking about laundry and bill paying and cooking and groceries... Or deployment. Or even being in the field. I can't imagine how hard it must be.

Of course, as I think back, I did go to college full time, work nearly full time, and be the single mother of a not-quite-human two year old. I did that successfully, somehow. I even graduated and then got my MBA --my son cheered YAY MOM when the Cardinal was giving me my diploma because he was five and more human by that time.

Then I think about how lucky I am that I don't have to try to manage a career while moving every couple of years, also with children who must adapt and adjust to new schools and environments right along with their parents. I don't know how wives with (normal) careers do it either.

I am just filled with admiration for those who do this military spouse job, and try very hard to do it well. For years. Amazing.

For my part, by comparison, I think I have it easy. I just go about my solitary way, knowing my husband loves me, knowing I will get that kiss goodbye at 2 or 3am, and a solid hug and kisses when he comes home, or maybe some time in "the nook" (you know, the nook, that place your head lays in his shoulder where everything that isn't right is made all better) as he falls asleep. I have to run the households and take the dog out, but other than that I am all good. I manage. I tell him what I'm going to do, get feedback, and do it.

Edit April 12
I am very much a lucky one. I'll repeat that to myself all day today, and maybe all night since I have been at The Cave all week, seen my husband maybe three hours, and now he's off spending the next 24 hours on post doing some duty or other. I'll also constantly remind myself to shut up, he's not deployed. Maybe kids would be ok too, at least they are another human being to talk to :)

A Quart of Milk

Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk.--Northern Exposure, Three Doctors, 1993

My Dad's mind has gone out for a quart of milk and I'm thinking it's not coming back. This is difficult. It is yet another lesson in acceptance (have I mentioned I'm really tired of these?). My Dad has written and published I think four books, maybe five, he's been a soldier, an engineer, a painter, a master bird carver, a teacher, a furniture builder, a civil war historian, an author. He always said for his next project he would write a concerto, simply because it was one of the things he hadn't done. Dad played piano by ear, he didn't read music, I'm not sure how he would have written this concerto, but probably he would have taught himself how to read music and done it--he was just that kind of guy.

Dad still remembers me, he amazes me in conversation once in a while by remembering exactly when I was born and when his father died, but not remembering his sisters who visited. Our last conversation we talked about Easter Sunday when my brother and his wife and the wonderful little grandson were coming. Except...he couldn't remember who it was that was coming, just "alot of people, which means a big day." He can't remember words, words were his best friend. I credit my love of reading to my Dad, and now he can't remember lots and lots of words. Or what time it is, or how to get home if he goes too far walking the dog (she brings him home he says and she probably does), he can't drive any more or work in his woodworking shop.

His sense of humor is intact, and there are other things that are very "Dad-like" but I know I am experiencing the long goodbye. So counting blessings of what is still there, accepting what is, that is the mission for me. I don't have to like it though, nobody said that.

My, I'm chatty today

I saw this as I was getting ready to try yet another call to my Mom (who is still not in her room tonight so I've heard the "magical day" thing twice tonight already.)

It made me sad. The Christmas Zach was in Iraq he got to see Robin Williams. Every conversation was about Robin Williams is coming and I get to see him! It was wonderful. I eventually wrote Robin Williams after much searching about just HOW to do that, and thanked him for going to Baghdad to make my son and everyone else there laugh rather than be home with his own family at Christmas. What a wonderful thing he did. I actually wrote him to thank him because it was on my "to do" list before that knock on the door came, and I wanted to let him know he made my son's last Christmas special. So I write, and I check that off my list and carry on.

A month or so later I get this envelope in the mail with the return address "Robin and Marsha Williams" Of course I've forgotten and I'm confused, I don't know who this is. I open the envelope and there is a letter from Robin Williams and his wife thanking me for my letter and Zach's service, and telling me that he has a son named Zach and that they have made a donation for a redwood tree to be planted in my Zach's memory. Wow. Sweet. Talk about caring, real, and going beyond anything expected.

So, that they are getting a divorce after so many years together is just kinda sad and I wish him the very best.