It's been a tough three weeks as we planned, cried, packed, bickered, cried some more, and then moved. And then we said good-bye: to friends, to Texas, and to each other. Good-byes are always the hardest part.
Adam's unit deployed ahead of him; since he's a reservist, he had to go through deployment processing in Georgia before he could mobilize with the rest of his colleagues. I was grateful to have a few extra days with him; we spent part of that time packing, part of it making silly home movies for Bryony to watch this year, and part of it just getting lots of "hug time" in to make up for the months ahead when our arms will be devoid of each other. I cried at the most insignificant moments--when Bryony would run up to Adam's leg and hang on, laughing; when I secretly examined my handsome husband's long, lean and muscular frame, thinking of how sexy he is; when he laughed his great big Adam laugh, all toothy and dimply. I knew how hard it was going to be to give up those moments in the coming year, and so I took mental snapshots so I could have something to hold on to.
In mid-February, we attended the farewell ceremony for Adam's unit in a large gymnasium on base. Although Adam has been on two previous deployments, neither of us had ever attended anything like this since reservists don't usually get ceremonial sendoffs. This affair, however, was commonplace for active duty servicemembers and their families and I was curious to see what it would be like. I wasn't prepared. The gym was packed with soldiers in formation, their M-16s dangling at their sides, their gearpacks resting near them. Our men and women in uniform were gearing up for a year away from their country, their families, from the comforts of home. It was a humbling experience to witness. I wondered, briefly, if some of them might not make it back home. Looking out into the crowd of faces I didn't know, the thought of their sacrifice made tears glide down my face. Soon after we arrived and found seats in the bleachers, a senior non-commissioned officer got the ball rolling. He talked about how much the military appreciates the families who take care of the homefront while the troops are away, and how much he knew the year would be difficult for those of us left behind. I don't know how much weight I put in his words; like many before him, it often feels like a scripted speech when military leaders acknowledge the families. I felt bitterness bubbling up inside me when I thought about how little they truly understand what it's like to be the one left behind to handle life, to worry about your spouse, to deal with your own loneliness. Next to speak was a chaplain, whose words felt more sincere when he acknowledged that most of us attending that night were full of sadness and grief for an impending separation. I appreciated the lack of "hoo-ah!" (Army rallying call) behind the sentiment of his commiseration; he really was speaking to the families, not giving a canned pep talk. Finally, a general stood up and gave a short speech, mostly filled with call-and-repeat jargon that was meant to motivate the troops, but felt like a harsh slap to those of us who were quietly grieving. After the speeches, the troops were given thirty minutes to say goodbye to their families before boarding the bus that would take them to the airport. Adam, Bryony and I walked around, and I found myself looking down at the floor so as not to intrude upon the private family despair that was being unleashed all around me. Fathers holding crying, trembling sons and daughters who were old enough to understand; husbands and wives tearfully holding on to each other; pregnant wives who knew their husband would miss the birth of their baby; mothers leaving small children behind knowing the kids would be so different upon return. I cried silently for their pain for the pain I knew I was facing ahead. It all just seemed so unfair. Who else in America is subject to this lifestyle? Who else has to go through this, has to know how this feels? Just then my girlfriend and her family walked up, minutes away from bidding her husband good-bye. I saw the tears on my friend's face and my heart broke. She is a new friend, but a good one and I had never imagined having to see her in pain; now our grief was out for public display and we hugged, finding strength in our friendship and shared experience.
And then, the thirty minutes was over much too soon and the troops assembled in formation once more to exit the building. Those of us on the sidelines continued a sustained applause for each of them as they made their way to the busses. Soon, the gymnasium was nearly empty but for the few stragglers and those in charge of cleaning. We let Bryony run around wild, yelling and waving her arms over her head like a mad child, in utter delight. Mental snapshot.
The next couple days were a blur as Adam packed his car for the drive to Georgia and finalized administrative paperwork. The night before he left, we stayed up until 3:00 am finishing our taxes. It was like cramming for an exam the night before; we were so extremely tired but giddy at the same time. Even in the midst of extreme fatigure, my husband insisted on printing the addresses of the envelopes to the feds, state and local governments; no handwritten addressing for him! No matter what the circumstances, he believes things should always be done the "right" way. I think we didn't actually fall asleep until around 4:00 am because in our last night together, we had so many things we still wanted to talk about as we drifted off to sleep.
Plan A was that I was going to leave Texas at the end of February and either drive out to Georgia to give Adam one final sendoff, or else move up to Michigan. But then, just days before Adam's departure, I received a phone call from the Michigan Dept of Natural Resources, asking if I could come in for an interview the following week. I couldn't turn it down, so we decided that Bryony, both cats and I would pack up my car and leave at the same time as Adam (aka, Plan B). And that's what we did. It was crazy and hectic and overwhelming, but I'm so glad we did it. After an entire day of the two of us packing the apartment up, Adam commented that he didn't know how I would have been able to do it by myself with a toddler running around. Plus, Adam is the master packer, so he managed to make just about everything fit, save for most of our groceries which we left for friends to pick up.
We caravaned from Killeen north to Dallas, where we stopped at a Chili's for dinner. It was surreal to know that it was our last dinner together for such a long time. I kept trying to hide my tears in my pasta dinner, and busied myself with taking pictures of Adam and Bryony as they played across the table from me. And then, dinner was over and we both needed to be on the road. My eyes were floodgates that had burst open from the pressure of rushing tears behind them. I saw Bryony looking at me with those intelligent eyes, knowing something was wrong even as I tried to smile and laugh through my tears. Adam held us both and whispered to me, "It'll be okay. Your job is to be strong for our little girl." I nodded and told him that his job was to safely come back home to both of us. So, so hard to tear myself away from him, I finally did, and weeping, got behind the wheel. We drove in tandem another ten miles before he peeled off to go east, and I kept driving northeast. Our horns blared at each other like two geese flying away in different v-formations. My guy, in his little red sports coup, went under an overpass and was gone from sight. Snapshot.
Bryony, Greg House, Holiday and I took three days to make it up to Michigan. The trip went really well overall, but for the final day when we hit a bad snowstorm in Indiana. I toyed with pulling over as I saw car after car nose-down in ditches after sliding off the road, semis jackknifed and accidents a-plenty. But, by day three, we all just wanted to be out of the car and in our own house, and we were only a five hour drive from home at that point. Long story short, I drove 40 mph the entire way, stopping as accident scenes held up traffic and allowing for bathroo breaks. Five hours turned into almost ten as holdups and slow driving stretched the trip out in front of us. But finally, we made it home at 9:45pm and it was glorious. I didn't bother to unpack anything other than the essentials for the night, and we all rested well and easily. It was so good to be home.
Adam left Georgia this past Friday. We didn't get a chance to say good-bye because his cell phone had no service in the building he was in before flying out. I fretted all of Friday from not hearing from him, checking the news to make sure there wasn't a story of something happening to his unit. I'm a worrywart, if you haven't noticed. Saturday morning at 1:00am my phone rang; I had just gone to bed a half hour earlier and was entering the haze of sleepy thoughts of him. I saw a number beginning with "011" and knew it was him, calling me from overseas. It was so good to hear his tired voice, but we only had a few minutes to talk so I whispered as many "I love you's" into the phone as I could before he had to go. I choked up as he was about to hang up and he said, "No tears, honey. It's going to be okay." He's my rock.
And now I have to be Bryony's. She's already showing some signs of reaction to this whole situation so I am only allowing myself to feel at night, when she's in bed. In her waking hours, I'm her pillar to lean on, the one who takes care of her basic needs, her emotional needs, and reminds her of who her daddy is and how very much he loves her. We kiss Daddy's photo everyday just to feel connected.
And so a long good-bye is going to turn into a long year apart, but I feel like once again, I'm in planning phase. I mean, what else can you do? Life must move on, and I had darn well better keep up. I have to be strong for Bryony, for Adam and for me. As much as I want the year to pass quickly so I can see my husband again, I don't want to wish away a year of my daughter's life. She is sure to grow and change so much and I want to capture those special moments--snapshots in time--for Adam to experience and for me to look back on. It is going to be quite a year.
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