By Hannah Carey
Exactly 199 days ago, I ran from window to window at the airport until I saw the last glimpse of my husband’s plane fly away.
I stood in a dusty corner of Terminal B jammed between glass and about a dozen wheelchairs. I watched intently to see if he would pop up from the clouds for just one more look. He didn’t. I grasped tightly the card in my hand, that I’ve read every day since, a pink dog with a blue backdrop. “I love you, and I’ll be home before you know it. Go get some food,” he wrote. This made me giggle. He always reminded me to eat when I got caught up with daily tasks. I’d miss that.
I have not weathered deployment after deployment like other spouses I know, and it’s made me feel a bit inferior. I haven’t felt comfortable enough to reach out about my fears. At twenty-five it’s difficult to approach an older spouse who seems to have it all together. Either way, time went by and like he said, he’ll be home before I know it – tomorrow in fact.
I look back through my planner, every teal marker line slashing through the days. Crossing over doctor’s appointments, business meetings, alternating school assignments. Amongst this chaos, one appointment remains the same, “B. Cross at 10:30”.
I see Bethany every Wednesday for what Tricare will read as “adjustment disorder.” Bethany explained that this is a health code they put in, to bill for service, but it doesn’t really mean anything. Though, this deployment has been a huge adjustment, and I’m not sure that either of us really knew how to handle it. I wanted to be a supportive wife. I didn’t tell him the hot water heater went out the week he left, or that the ceiling started crumbling due to a roof leak. I just fixed it.
But halfway through when I was diagnosed with Hashimotos, an autoimmune disease of the thyroid, I couldn’t just “fix it.”
Receiving this diagnosis was alarming, but also a relief. It explained mysterious joint pain, fatigue, and anxiety that I’ve battled for years. At least now, I know what I’m fighting. I was given a natural hormone to combat its effects, but after a few weeks on it, I took a turn for the worst. I began to lose vision upon standing up, had extreme palpitations, and there was no one physically there to support me. Even then, I didn’t reach out.
Instead, becoming scared I chose to confide in my husband about my strange symptoms. I expected a show of reflective listening, to hear the words “I understand.” I was quickly met with a flood of frustration; I suppose due to my husband’s mounting stress at work. After all, we were halfway through the deployment now. The sappy conversations and late-night talks melted into the occasional sprinkle of “I miss you” throughout the week. Conversation became stale, two strangers trying to make the other smile. I suppose a stranger can’t be expected to comfort another, so we didn’t talk much about my Hashimotos anymore.
Initially, I believed this deployment would heal our marriage. Last fall was treacherous for us. Arguing about finances, about the house, about who is going to get up and grab a towel to clean up a spilled drink. Then one afternoon, Jon came home and sat me down on the couch. “After our meeting, Maj. Hartzell came in and patted me on my back, said I’m deploying to Iraq in the Spring,” he said. I knew this was inevitable, but I hadn’t imagined such pain, short months after saying “I do.”
As disfunction faded, I began to jolt up in my sleep dressed in beads of sweat. I felt like someone was choking me just thinking about the days ahead, “Day 1, day 2…day 30…day 67…day 89…day 150…” I couldn’t imagine going each and every day against our routine. Our routine would be broken.
Preparing for the deployment pushed us together. We began the countdown to March 31st when he would have to leave. Arguing over bills became nonexistent, and we would both jump at opportunities to clean the kitchen or take out the trash. Nothing seemed to matter anymore except getting the six months started so that he could get back home to me.
Yet, here we are. The six months are over, and I’m not ready to have him home with me. I hesitate to share this, because I’m not sure any “supportive wife” will say this out loud. I still read my card every day, and when I do get to talk to him it’s the best part of my evening. Though, I’m not yet ready to give him my heart again, to be vulnerable.
These last three months have been hard, and I mean hard. How do you fight with someone who is 7,000 miles away, someone you can’t touch? And when these fights are so intense, how can you trust each other again? These thoughts ravage my mind as I wait. I suppose the good old-fashioned Google search would tell us to try counseling, to go out to dinner, or to take a short vacation somewhere. That’s another thing. A vacation would be great! The tricky part is that when your deployed spouse is getting home, they probably aren’t going to want to jump up and rush off to some great adventure just yet. This can be challenging after being stuck in the same house alone for six months, but we must give them time to readjust.
Another fear that spouses often have is the fear of awkwardness. I certainly share in this fear. I think back to the airport on the day he left. We sat cuddled up together, I’m not sure that we could have been any closer. I sat in his lap making a mental note of each freckle on his face.
I kissed them one by one before he boarded the plane. After the heavy doors shut, one of the desk attendants came over to me with a box of tissues. And there I sat, a wad of tissues in my hand clinging to the card he gave me just moments before.
I now think of tomorrow, when he returns. Will my emotions be as strong? My hope is that they just pour back into me, like a geyser awakening in the earth. We’ve often joked about the awkwardness that may follow, comparing ourselves to teenagers in movies. You know, when they’re leaning in for a first kiss, but instead they bump their noses. Will it be weird to share a bed now? What will he think of how I’ve changed?
All of these thoughts race through my mind. Probably the biggest being, “What will he think of how I’ve changed.”
Seeing Bethany each week has taught me how to set reasonable expectations for him as we both grow in communication. It’s taught me how to overcome anxieties and be more independent. Once you’ve gotten the hang of life with a deployed spouse, it’s easy to begin to believe that you don’t need anyone. Relinquishing certain roles back to my husband might be a challenge, but it’s for the benefit of our family.
If I could go back and speak to myself before my husband deployed, I would set more reasonable expectations. I knew that each day wouldn’t be perfect, and that our new responsibilities may cause friction. When conflict arises, it’s in my nature to try to tie things up with a neat little bow. Unfortunately, this is not always easy to do when your communicating at different times of day.
I would usually speak to him around one o’clock at night, whereas it would be nine o’clock in the morning for him. This alone can be a recipe for disaster. People are often much more introspective at night, but given the time difference, it’s typically not an appropriate time for heavy conversation. It goes the other way too. When he’s feeling more introspective in the evenings and ready to have a more serious discussion, it’s before work for me.
Another thing I would go back and remind myself is to better discuss my needs before he left. It’s important to know yourself so that you recognize those needs. Mine are intimate conversation and affection. Affection isn’t really an option, so intimate conversation it is. Again, this is hard to achieve among such vast time changes.
I’ve concluded that this is an unspoken part of the territory. What once felt intimate will go through stages of disconnection. The good news is that we will be united again. For me, it’s tomorrow. Even though I’m fearful of the awkwardness and vulnerability, I’m ready for it. Maybe we will go to counseling, or out to dinner sometime. But for now, we’ll just start with grabbing his bags and going home. Maybe all it takes is to kiss each freckle again. We’ll see.