Good night and joy be with you all

Back in early December, I was honored to volunteer with Wreaths Across America at Arlington National Cemetery. Wreaths Across America is an organization that places Christmas wreaths on the graves of American soldiers across the country.

Andrew has a friend, Lt. Mark Dooley, buried in Arlington. Lt. Dooley was killed during Andrew’s first deployment, in Iraq, and is buried in section 60. I promised Andrew that, while I was there, I would make sure Lt. Dooley had a wreath.

I went to Arlington with my friends Christy and Jess. When we drove toward the cemetery, traffic was backed up quite a bit; there were so many cars and buses full of people that I can’t begin to describe it. The scene at the cemetery was similar: thousands and thousands of people all walking toward the amphitheater for the opening ceremony. The amphitheater itself was packed; every seat was filled and it was standing room only around the perimeter. We learned later that there were still thousands standing around outside the amphitheater just waiting to lay wreaths.

Every military branch was represented. I don’t know ranks but there were kids–no really, they had to be barely 19–who were discussing where they were going to be stationed, all the way up to the very decorated veterans. There were also so many people who you could tell by the way they walked and carried themselves that they had once been in the military. There were families, single people, groups, even elderly.

The opening ceremony was beautiful. There were two highlights for me. One was that Wreaths Across America placed their millionth wreath today in Arlington. They gave the honor to Mary Beyer, who lost her son in Iraq and is part of the Gold Star mothers.

The second highlight was the couple who owns the farm in Maine that donates all of the wreaths (this year: 90,000). I honestly don’t think they truly understand what a gift they provide. The husband was very humble and said very little. The wife talked about how grateful they are to all of those in uniform. She reminded us that what we can take from those who have been lost is their character. She told stories about people she had met during the drive from Maine to Arlington that they take every year. In one instance, a man in New York pressed a picture of his son, whom he lost in the current conflicts, into her hand and asked her to bring him to Arlington. She told another story of Mary Beyer’s son, who was mortally wounded and told his troops to keep going forward, which may have saved many of their lives. I can’t really describe to you what the feeling was in the amphitheater. There was a profound sense of sadness mixed with gratitude.

We started laying wreaths at one of the closer sections — I think section 6. I placed two wreaths in this section. Both of them (Col. Bundy and 1st Lt. Ford) happened to be in the Army, but I didn’t plan it that way. There were so many people, and so many wreaths; it was a bit overwhelming to think that we are only able to honor a mere fraction of those buried there.

After section 6, we headed to section 60. Wreaths were becoming scarce at this point, so I held onto mine so that I could make sure Lt. Dooley had one. He lays with many who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan, so the feeling there was different than elsewhere in the cemetery. There were many, many families surrounding graves, leaving presents and wreaths and rocks. One family of a marine had left a miniature Christmas tree with little empty bottles of liquor hanging like ornaments. Every single tree in this section had Christmas ornaments and gold stars with the names of those lost. 

Lt. Dooley had a wreath already when I got there, so I just stood with him for awhile to keep him company. I wish I had brought a rock to place on top of his gravestone, but he had already had a number of visitors:

It Goes Like This

It goes like this.

I wake up, at sometime between 3 and 4:30am, depending on how long our dog lets me sleep. I walk the dog, then I fight to catch a few more minutes of sleep. Despite having a queen-sized bed, the dog and the cat insist on sleeping on me.

I finally wake up, officially, begrudgingly, between 4:30 and 5. I get ready. Make coffee, breakfast, lunch. Make sure I have a book with me. Walk the dog again.

I catch the train at 6.

I’m at my destination train station by around 6:30, and walk to the office, where I arrive by 6:45.

I make coffee and eat breakfast while my computer boots up. I check e-mail and start to work.

Most days, I get to talk to him at some point in the morning. Sometimes it’s periodically over an hour, sometimes it’s for 5 minutes, and sometimes it’s sporadic over the course of the morning. Regardless, this is the longest I get to talk to him all day. My workday begins as his comes to a close. If there is something important to say, now is the time to say it. In a quirky way, this arrangement works… I’m a morning person and he is a night owl. Our incongruities line up while he is across the world. He wishes me a good day while I tell him sweet dreams.

Some days I hear from him at night also, after he’s woken up, but that has become less frequent and for shorter periods of time. A few stolen moments, a quick “I love you” and he’s off to guard duty while I prepare for bed. I have a hard time falling asleep. Sometimes I curse the clock at 2am.

I know to the people in my life, my real life, I must make this look easy. (I do wonder whether I’m fooling anyone but myself though.) I keep things light. I try, every single day, to make sure he knows that I am okay, that I am smiling. I do everything in my power to make him laugh, to let him know I’m thinking of him always. I tell him stories of our cat and our dog. I write him letters.

He does not have the privilege of time nor leisure. He doesn’t write me back… he’s too exhausted. I get frustrated. I breathe. Keep calm and carry on. People have it much worse. Hearing from him everyday is a blessing many would do anything for.

It goes like this… one month down.

I had been doing surprisingly well with Andrew being on deployment. Two weeks came and went. It was difficult but I was feeling optimistic.

Then last night happened.

I was trying to pick up the apartment a bit. I had been putting it off pretty much ever since he left. In all honesty, I’ve been putting off a lot of things ever since he left. Last night I started putting his clothes away. I had washed most of them, folded them, and put them in these little makeshift drawers I bought once he moved in.

Then I went to put his duffel bag in the closet, and I saw a hint of green peeking through the opening at the top. I reached my hand in and pulled out a green t-shirt.

You should know that Andrew has something like 6 t-shirts. That’s it. He has his favorites that he wears, and he wears them until they’re nothing more than thread and memory. This green one might be the favorite of his favorites. It’s a Flogging Molly t-shirt; I think 3 of his 6 t-shirts are. This one is all green with white lettering. Green is my favorite color, and he’s Irish so he looks really good in green. I might be biased, but it still stands.

I was about to throw it in the wash pile when I wondered whether it was already clean. It looked unworn, so I smelled it. And suddenly, Andrew was there in the room. No, not really, this wasn’t some portkey that pulled him from Kuwait back into the United States. But it smelled like him, a mixture of Acqua Di Gio cologne and Head and Shoulders shampoo.

That was all it took. I wish I could say that I took one breath, smiled, and tossed it into the wash pile to go about my business. That’s not what happened.

Instead, I crumpled on the floor. That’s the only word for it: crumpled. I grasped the t-shirt in both hands, wringing it in distress, feeling it against my cheek when the tears came. I’ve been sad since he left, and I’ve had bad moments, but they were fleeting and shallow, puddles of unhappiness that you can jump over and keep moving. This was different. It was short, but it was deep, and I felt the weight of 9 months apart pressing on me.

Our cat, Boots, came over to me and rubbed against my leg, purring, and I was back again, out of the ocean and safely on the shore. My next thought was about all those men and women who would never see their loved ones again, and how lucky… how incredibly lucky… I am. And also how melodramatic the entire incident must seem from the outside.

Then I folded up the t-shirt and placed it in a drawer for another day.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Two weeks ago was the best day of my life so far.

He came home.

I picked him up from the airport, and we went home. What a word, home. If you’re missing part of it–a roof, a door, even if you just have a large crack in a window–it no longer feels like home. The rain gets in, the wind batters the inhabitants, the chill permeates every corner. And then when that part is made whole again, it’s bliss. He came home, and it was whole.

And then he did the unthinkable, something so unexpected and out-of-character that I’m still not sure it’s real. He asked me to marry him.

I spent that next week, with him, on a white fluffy cloud of joy, like I had woken up in Care-A-Lot with a fuzzy face and the ability to Care Bear Stare. I woke up each morning looking at my finger in disbelief of my good luck. I don’t deserve to feel so happy and so optimistic about my future.

A week ago, he was back on a plane heading to Mississippi. That was hard.

Then on Sunday he was on a plane en route to a foreign country. That was harder.

I heard from him very briefly on Tuesday. Somehow… and you may not believe this… that was even harder.

And THEN this morning he sent a longer e-mail about how things were, and that was the worst.

Suddenly it’s all real and it’s all here and it’s all at once and I’m all alone and I’ve got to figure it all out. Suddenly the week we had together was a minute and the nine months ahead is 100 years. It feels bizarre to me that a little over a year ago, I was all alone and it didn’t bother me. And now… now I’m alone. Alone on a dark gray thundercloud, Care Bear Stare long forgotten.

The funny thing about life is that it goes on, whether you want it to or not, and if I don’t get on the train I could be stuck at the pity party station forever. So I’ve gotta put on my big girl pants, “line my skies with all the silver I can use,” and get going. I’ve gotta. I don’t really remember how to do that, but I think if I just put one foot in front of the other, I’ll be getting somewhere.

It will be the best Thanksgiving ever

He left today for his two months or so of training before Kuwait. I will get him for 6 days during the next 11 months.

I am so sad. That is an understatement that I don’t even know how to quantify. I want to eat everything and eat nothing. I want to run away but I want to lay in bed. I don’t know how to describe it. I’ve had my heart broken but this is different. It’s not a break but a pull… a strained muscle…. the tie that binds his heart and mine is pulling, pulling, pulling and I don’t want it to stop because then that means the string broke.

I would go through all of this, a million times over, if it meant I got to experience the 10+ months that preceded it.

Tomorrow I will be strong like he always is.

I am so proud of you.