...no return date in sight.
I received some devastating news today. A childhood friend of mine, the son of my father's best friend, is dying. Under lights and wires, my children and I were at Oktoberfest on base at our local post. Three amazed faces at the excitement and energy as their faces would light up with the flashing lights of yet another ride as it went round and round. I rode until my tummy hurt. I chatted with my son about Westpoint. My daughter educated me on box braids. The four of us shared a funnel cake, each of us with powdered sugar on our faces. We talked. I feel like those lines are constructed so that there is forced bonding. Ultimately, conversation starts to occur...partly to distract from the nervousness of the anticipation...partly because you're just sharing a moment with your most precious, loved ones.
As I was waiting in the car for the three not-so-littles to arrive after their last ride of the night, I plugged in my phone and received a barrage of texts informing me of the unfolding events half a world away.
My heart sank. I was already on the brink of tears, and I've just needed a good cry for some time. Between riding the people-flingers and eating the bratwurst and listening to music, I would catch myself people watching. Every family reminded me of my own....father with shaved head, tactical sunglasses and watch, fit trim waist with broad shoulders. Every woman pretty, smiling eyes, kid in tow or pregnant...or both. Catching moments together. Camera. Ice cream. Slide, ride. I felt sadness and gladness at the same time. There's a sense of family. There's a sense of community. All different colors, all different races, yet a common thread. Me and my three don't stand out because there are so many partial families with a deployed soldier running around. Life must go on living, nothing stops when he's gone. So, we don't endure. We live.
And then I checked my phone. The tears that were squeezed down tight emerged and spilled over. A man I barely know, but shared a childhood with...his daughter the same age as my son. He won't live to see Thanksgiving. I wonder if last Christmas, when he was opening presents with his daughter...if he knew that was the last Christmas he'd spend with her.
I've come to realize that with each deployment, I am going to feel every single emotion. And not just feel it...but FEEL it. In my bones. Anger, sadness, jealousy, and resentment are all committed for the stay. They've become long term residents who leave to do their daily activities, but come knocking back on the door come dinnertime. To try to keep them at bay is fruitless. To pretend they don't exist is unnatural. Even though its a choice to be here, these emotions are going to stop in to raid my fridge. It's okay. I get it. Then, there are the other emotions that are harder to pinpoint. Gratitude. Solidarity. Community. Solidarity and community because there are just no words that need to be said....people take care of each other when there are deployments. Nobody knows how you feel more than the woman standing next to you, and she has your back. And the gratitude...that comes because you know that complacency cannot exist in a relationship with as many ups and downs and unexpected turns as the one the ARMY gives you.
I wanted him to hug me and wipe away my tears. I wanted him to make me a cup of coffee and give me some good conversation, to validate my feelings of loss over a man I barely know. I wanted him to hold me tonight in the crisp autumn air. Let one of those other men leave their families behind, tonight let him be the one here to share an ice cream cone with me.
But it doesn't work that way.
Soon, he'll be under lights and wires with me. And it will be someone else's turn. We all sacrifice, we all learn to self-soothe. We all learn who we are in the absence of one who can hold us when we hurt. Sometimes, we look in the mirror and we don't like what we see. But sometimes....we realize that we are built of more solid stuff than we thought.