It's Time

It's been a year. I know. For a writer to not write much of anything, nary a word, is sacrilege. Perhaps I will be forgiven if I account for my departure of the writing world. So we go back.

The Monster did come back, but not nearly as voracious as I thought it would. I found a doctor, close by, whom I am not exactly thrilled with, but supplies me with the meds that keep the pain at bay. He still doesn't actually believe that I have TN, but - hey - you can't have everything. A doctor that actually believes you AND prescribes the right meds? Puhlease.



Fortunately for my writing (and perhaps for my readers), this year will prove to be prolific in giving me plenty to vent, rant and rave about. Yes, the Army has wrapped it's long spidery arms around my husband again, and he is off to pay his dues in the sun and sand. Sounds lovely doesn't it? Sun, sand? Oh, to be truly a vacation. Not war. Not danger. Not....what it is.



And this time around (is it the fourth, fifth? I can't even keep it straight anymore) the deployment will bring new challenges as the kids are older, wiser and won't be placated with "Daddy's at work" anymore. They will know. Well, the older two will know. Not only because they are older and go to school with other Army kids with Dads and Moms "over there" but because we have seen far too many military funeral processions pass by our school, our grocery store, our church. They know to stop what they are doing and just be quiet. They know that for every white stone we pass on our travels across Post, lies a soldier who "went to work" and never came back.



Oh, how to get through it AGAIN? How to say good bye, turn to my children with a plastered-on smile and say, "Ok guys, let's have some fun." It worked the first three (four?) times....not sure it will work this time.



And so I will write. The ups, the downs, the in's the outs. And along the way...perhaps I will find a way to get through it -- again. For the fourth (fifth?) time.

Until

Can you hear that noise? A slight, slow scratch. A deep and low groan. Beneath the surface, the electric pain is starting to erupt. Two years to the day the monster reared it's ugly head and threw my world upside down. Then -- reprieve. Almost a year and a half of glorious days with nary a twitch. Until last Saturday, when the first twinges woke me up in the middle of the night.

No. No way. Just a twinge. Must be the weather. (Yes, when the weather is changing, I can feel it in my teeth.) But then Sunday came, then the next day, the next. Oh no. What have I done? What can I do? I look back at my records. My multiple notes from the neurologists. I dig out from my safe, my last remains of my meds -- are they expired? Will they work again? I cry. I pray. I beg -- please no! Not again! Not now!

And so I wait for the beast to show full and strong. I remain quiet, waiting for my face to contort to the pain mask that I wore. I am already saying goodbye to the life I have built here, to the Mom I have been. Because when the trigeminal neuralgia monster awakens fully, it consumes everyone and everything in it's path.

Will I survive it this time? Will my family? Will I find a doctor here that will believe me? And isn't it ironic, that on February 12, 2008 I wrote a very similar note on a scraggly piece of paper. Only then, I didn't recognize the monster. We hadn't yet formally met.

Fringe

Ahh..the military life. There is something to be said for those of us caught up in 'life on the fringe.' Where our existence is known "out there" but no one really knows what goes on "in here". There are definite differences. For instance: we become friends much quicker than civilians. We move somewhere, start unpacking and before the kitchen is filled with steins, plates and strange looking utensils from all over the world, there is a knock on the door from our new (best friend) neighbor, dropping off a bag, basket, or dinner. Because she has been there. She has been up to her neck in moving boxes, every other year for the past ten years. She has moved to a neighborhood site unseen, trusting her husband (or his buddy, or -- God forbid -- the lady at Housing) to okay the house and all if it's glory.

Another example, we sign up our kids for anything and everything since we don't know how long we will have the chance to learn: wrestling, bowling, basket weaving, princess wand making, horse back riding or a plethora of other MWR classes. Not much research into any of these sports...not enough time to do that! Sign them up, hope they like it and hope the times work with the rest of the family.

Church? Welcome one and all! By the way, I see you in church...could you be my kid's Godparent? We have no family nearby. Or....can you be my Sponsor? I am converting...and I see you around Church and the mess hall. The wonderful thing is: no one even hesitates. Sure! No problem! Do you need me to pick up Grandma from the airport?

The Military Life is a complex system of emotional highs and lows (a lot of lows!) that many outsiders don't get. I am still trying to get it all. I've only been at it for ten years! (My husband has never known anything else) I am beginning to learn that once it is in your blood, it is hard to get over it. Witness my husband, who is supposed to be retiring in two years...and is now hemming and hawing about staying in for a while longer. Which means another deployment. Which means some more moving around, unpacking and all the rest that follows.

Luckily there will be that knock on the door from my future new (best friend) neighbor .

Standing

I don't get people sometimes. People who treat others like dirt, just because they can. People who talk down to, or patronize others are so annoying, and really not anyone I would want to hang with. And yet, there are a few people like that in my life that I can not seem to get away from! Does everyone have "one of those" in their life? And do you run into him/her everywhere you go? EVERYWHERE?

It is really quite embarrassing when the attitude flares when you are "with" this person, or even just standing near them. Everyone around just assumes you are the same way. I try to smile and look away, like I have NO idea what this person is talking about as she bitches and talks as if everyone was so very beneath her. Oh, the nerve.

I remember the male nurse who still haunts me to this day. I have fake conversations with him in my head -- now that I am healthy and able to defend myself. He was one of those types. Attitude, degrading...you know. As I sit there in his little pod of an office, my hands holding my head, tears streaming down my nose, dripping onto my sweat pants... I get, "You should really figure out who is going to manage your health care." I was in so much pain at the time I couldn't defend myself, so in shock that someone would think that of me, I couldn't respond at all. Now...now I review that conversation in my head every now and then and I have all sorts of replies.

But what good is it now? What is it with us polite, nice people who sit in shock when the male nurses of the world have the upper hand in banter? Why can't we just tell them to shove it? To stop talking that way to others? Why let them get away with it over and over?

And why...why must I always be standing in line with them when it is happening?

Looking

This time of year always calls upon a memory of mine. A little girl from 30 years ago awakes in me and her body gets dug up again and again. I don't remember her name. Lisa, Jennifer... one of those 1970's names. The crisp fall air, the sounds of kids playing outside, the noise of a helicopter nearing, then leaving, then nearing again. Where is Lisa? Anyone....anyone....where is Lis-- and then nothing.

It happened while my cousin and I were playing "Love Boat" (I was Vicki, she was Julie) in her backyard in Connecticut. My how our imaginations worked back then! All there was: a field, a bunch of trees, a garden of some sort. But we turned it into a luxury ocean liner on its way to Alcupulco, ready and filled with guests from all over the world. My brother would skimper his way to the back yard, and he was suddenly Gopher. Or Isaac. Didn't matter, he never stayed around long enough to play.

We were trying to solve some water bound problem of one of our guests when we heard the helicopters in the distance. This was a foreign noise to the sleepy town. A town that had one flashing light in the one intersection on the one main road. Fump, fump, fump, fump, fump. We shaded our eyes to the sun, looking to see where this noise was coming from, where it was heading. Suddenly, over the tops of the trees, the helicopter. We waved, jumping up and down...hoping that the people on board could see us! Maybe they would land and tell us what they were doing! They were so low to the ground...maybe they were looking for something fun to do! WE were fun!! Wait for us!!!!!!!!!

Fump fump fump fump fum.......off they went. We stood with our eyes still shaded. Looking towards the dying sound. But then...the sound started getting closer again! They are coming back! We ran inside this time -- surely our Moms would want to witness this extravagant event! A helicopter wanting to land in our story land backyard. We told our Moms, they looked out the window at the returning copter. They exchanged glances. We were so excited...they were not.

"Girls. That helicopter is looking for a little girl who has been lost." Lost? What? Like can't find her way home (like I got lost in Jamesway and the nice lady lead me out of the sock isle and stood by me like a soldier whilst calling "if you are missing your little girl wearing a blue shirt please come to Guest Services" over the mushy sounding speakers)? My cousin and I suddenly are not wanting the Helicopter to land. We want it to find the little girl. WE want to find the little girl. We went looking.

For what seemed like hours we went looking, but probably was only a few minutes. We sunk the Love Boat, put on our hiking boots and searched for Lisa or Jennifer. We couldn't find her in the area of our house. Poor girl. Poor poor girl. How we wished she had wandered into our yard and we could help her get home.

They did end up finding her (we found out the next morning). She had drowned in a grain silo a few towns over. I couldn't comprehend how someone could drown with no water involved. Since then, I have always looked at silos as nothing but dangerous and foreboding. But beautiful nonetheless.

I think of the little girl this time of year. She has been living with me for the last thirty years, this Jennifer, Lisa. We never saw another helicopter fly so close to my cousin's yard after that day they found the girl's body. Yet, somehow, I never stopped looking for her...

Isle Seat

So the Oscars are on again...and they get me thinking. Beyond the glitz and the glam, beyond the self indulging proclamations, the self congratulating is recognition of art...or at least serious events that inspire art. This time last year I sat in pain watching the Oscars, crying to myself because my husband was about to leave me to go to war, my body was rebelling against me and I was on the verge of brain surgery. I couldn't think beyond one trophy, one commercial, one sparkly dress.

This year. This year I am at rest. I am in no pain. Husband is upstairs snoozing away. Kids are safe (22 month old vs. coffee table ended in a six stitch win for the table, but 22 month old is safe now). No surgeries on my calendar. And I am still annoyed by all the pomp and circumstance by these "artists". Until...until I see Werner Herzog on my screen. I feel like I have a bit of a connection with this director. It is a stretch of a connection, but it is there.

My father in law was best friends with a man named Dieter Dengler. Dieter Dengler lived an amazing life that was brought to light by a documentary by Werner Herzog called, "Little Dieter Needs to Fly". This man survived incredible odds, witnessed horrible bouts of humanity and befriended someone in my family. Then Hollywood grabbed hold of the story and made it into a Christian Bale movie called "Rescue Dawn." My father in law actually had a character in this movie (actually two-- one his first name, one our last). It is not a happy story mostly, but if you were to ask my father in law about it, he only tells of the good stuff.

The thing is, it was someones real life. It was my father in law's life. It wasn't just a story. And after the credits and all of the hype, there was still the real memories, the real scars, the real pain. I remember people like Dieter, like my father in law...I remember my pain from last year. And I guess the connection I feel with the director in the crowd of the Academy Awards is a stretch (a long, long stretch), but at least I feel something more than pain this year -- and isn't that the true goal of art? To feel something?

Channels

So I had the worst dream last night. My husband was killed overseas and they forgot to tell me. Which, now in the light of day, is laughable -- especially to my fellow military wives -- because how like them to forget to tell the wife! But when I was in the midst of the dream, it was horrible. The weight of the grief and the loss of our future was palpable. I remember just walking in circles in my dream trying to understand it all. And then the doorbell rang and he was standing there in a fast food type uniform so, obviously the serious part had given way to the Gatorade I had consumed before sleeping last night.

But I can't shake that feeling of grief. My husband, of course is milking it (when am I going to learn to not tell him dreams where he comes out a hero?). I think a lot of closure is happening right now in my life. I am feeling a bit more settled. I am not in constant wonder if hubby is going to be sent somewhere for months. I feel like my kids are in a safe school. My best friend's husband is finally home from a 15 month deployment. My family is all relatively healthy (if only my parents would stop falling down stairs!) The Monster 'Neath the Skin is a memory that I push out of my head so as to not wake it.

So I guess the dream just needs to dissolve a little more through the day. You know how dreams are...one minute they are messengers of a different outcome- a different world, the next they are excerpts from a short lived show. I just hope tonight's show is a comedy.