Our House

Many of you don't know what's been going on here for the last two months. I chose not to broadcast it here or on Facebook for a variety of reasons, but mostly so as not to come across (as I think I sometimes do) as the poor-martyr-of-a-woman-overcoming-so-many-of-life's-obstacles-thrown-in-her-path. I know that after awhile, it can get kind of tiresome to hear of yet another crisis in the life of someone who always seems to have a crisis. So, but for family and a few local friends, I kept it secret.

Back in late-July, when Adam was home on leave, we decided to get a new roof put on the house. He knew the existing roof was old, in poor shape and starting to compromise the integrity of the house. Since his deployment would end in the middle of a Michigan winter, and waiting until next summer wasn't an option, we decided to move forward with the project while Adam was home this summer. Well, long story short, we ended up leaving for our vacation to the Upper Peninsula while the roofing project was ongoing, the Storm of All Storms blew over eight inches of rain into the city while we were away, the tarp covering the exposed (unshingled) roof blew off, and we had major water and mold damage to half of our house. It was devastating.





Ceilings and floors in our kitchen, dining and living rooms were destroyed, as were a few pieces of furniture. Luckily, nothing of sentimental value was damaged, except for the antique writing desk I'd proudly bought just a few months earlier. Photographs, clothing and mementoes were untouched, thankfully. However, seeing your home lying, tattered in pieces in wet piles on the floor was overwhelming. Where were we going to live? How would I find a safe and sanitary place for my child?



The hardest part was knowing I'd have to deal with the lion's share of this on my own. By the time we arrived home from vacation to assess the damage, Adam only had three days left in town to help before needing to return to active duty in Iraq. I was panic-stricken, trying to imagine how I'd deal with insurance agents, contractors and living goodness-knows-where all while trying to work full-time and parent single-handedly. Luckily, our insurance company was amazing and took care of so many things that would have otherwise sent me over the edge. Just as I was sure I'd have to live in the house amidst the wreckage, we were told that we would be put up in a hotel until the house was renovated. Our hotel room was an extended-stay suite that offered many of the comforts of home, plus cable tv, free breakfast and dinner and housekeeping (!). Really, the majority of my stress was in knowing that strangers had open access to my home, between the mold abatement crew, the demolition crew, the drywallers, the floor installers, the painter, the electrician, the tilers...





But, the house turned out beautifully. I guess the best part of all this was that the parts of the house that were damaged were replaced, mostly in a better style or condition that what existed previously. New, darker-stained laminate wood floors. New ceiling fans and a new dining room chandelier. And, if you remember my story about Chuck , you'll know that I was convinced to replace the existing brick wall with a rustic tile instead. I am very pleased. Oh, and my antique desk was salvageable and is currently being restored.







Anyway, two months after the fact, Bryony, Greg House, Holiday and I are back in our house. While unpacking and organizing is taking a lot longer than I'd hoped, we are really happy to be back here, close to work and school and our friends. And, while I have to make my own bed and wash my own dishes once again, I can't say that I miss the hotel at all. There's just something about being in your own bed again.

Although, I do miss the cable tv. I don't get Burn Notice at home.

War Fatigue

A few days ago, I was on the phone with a friend who asked when Adam would be returning home. When I told him Adam's ETA was roughly early- to mid- December, he laughed and said, "Wow, that soon? His deployment has just flown by!" I tersely responded, "It hasn't flown by for me." Just a day or so later, a colleague also asked me his arrival status, and upon hearing the ETA, she said, "Oh, that's great! Only two and half more months!" I just looked at her, knowing that if her husband was gone for even a long weekend she'd be out of sorts.

I get annoyed when people make it seem like having my husband away for the last eight months has just been pages flipped on a calendar. They haven't had to deal with a two-year old asking everyday where her daddy is, or gravitating toward her friends' fathers because her own isn't around. They haven't had to deal with her waking up in the morning screaming that she wants her daddy and then not having the right words to soothe her. They haven't felt the fear that something bad will happen to him, that they'll get the heart-lurching knock on the door by a soldier speaking the words no one wants to hear. They haven't missed his comforting presence in the house at night, his strong arms wrapped around them, or his partnership in helping to raise a child. They haven't gone nearly a year without a break from being both a mother and father. They're not emotionally and physically exhausted from a year of loneliness, single-parenting and fear of the unknown. For them, the time has flown by, and the time ahead is short. But not for me. And not for our daughter.

But, we are still, another day closer.

What'll I Do?

While soaking in a nice bath yesterday morning, I realized with shock and regret that I haven't had a haircut in two and a half years. And, I know it's been two and a half years because I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with Bryony, and my mother was in town when together we went to the local salon for a total spa treatment, complete with full-body massage and haircuts. Delicious.

But since it takes a good 3+ hours for the young students at the teaching salon to wash, dry, straighten and cut my hair, I haven't afforded myself that luxury since Bryony's been born, but more particularly since I've been a single parent. Which got me to thinking...what am I going to indulge in once Adam is back in town?

So, I started a mental list that I decided to jot down, partly to share with you, but mostly so I don't forget to do them when I have the time (and built-in childcare) once more.


--Haircuts!

--Massages!

--Yoga classes!

--Resuming "relations" with my husband!

--Coffee dates and shopping trips with friends (sans baby)!

--Volunteering!

--Baths by myself!

--Time for reading, writing, and anything else I might want to do in my "alone time"!

--Most importantly, quality family time with Adam AND Bryony...!

The People You Meet

Last week, on my lunch break, I had to stop by the local brick and tile supply store to place an order for our kitchen remodel. The man who greeted me, Chuck, was incredibly charming. A self-described short, stocky Italian guy, he was easygoing and very personable. After convincing me that I did not actually want to replace the brick on my kitchen wall with more brick, but rather with rustic tile, I thought he was a nice guy I'd likely never see again. Later that day he called to tell me that he'd forgotten to have me pick out the mortar color, so I agreed to come in the following day.

After showing me several mortar samples, we got to talking. He started telling me about his wife and daughter and granddaughter, and how lucky he was to have them in his life. Then, he told me about how he had almost lost them. When Chuck was nineteen years old, he lost his father to a fall during a roofing project. Chuck had been working on the roof with his dad, but was late for a date with a girl and had rushed away when the project was finished. Minutes later, Chuck heard his father roll down the roof while he was inside getting ready for his date. After fourteen days in the hospital, Chuck's father succumbed to his injuries and died. Soon after, Chuck's brother turned to him and said, "This is all your fault." And for the next seventeen years, Chuck believed it. He got angry and didn't stop being angry. While he was never abusive or violent with his family, he allowed the poison of guilt to lash out at the world. He recounted incidents of fist fights at busy intersections, barroom brawls, and screaming matches with anyone who looked at him the wrong way. He was so desperately angry at the world, he wanted to release his fury on everyone.

He was on the brink of losing his marriage. He said his wife had had to explain to the neighbors too many times why the police had showed up at her house after yet another of Chuck's episodes. While he was never violent toward her, he was making her miserable, and he knew it. He just didn't know how to control himself.

Then, one day, Chuck and his wife were driving on one of the downtown streets when a car cut them off and peeled out ahead. His perpetual anger bubbled up inside him and he chased the car through town, honking and cursing out his window until finally he was able to force the car off the road. Chuck jumped out of his car and ran, red-faced and cursing, to the driver's window. "You f*&%$g a$$hole! What are you doing driving? You shouldn't even be on the road!" Chuck recalled that the young man in the car was likely several inches taller than him and could probably have taken Chuck out in an instant if he'd wanted to. But instead, he cowered in the car, apologizing over and over again. In the midst of his tantrum, Chuck wondered why this much bigger man didn't get out of the car and overpower him. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a single tear fall down the young man's face. Feeling his anger subside, he crouched down to the young man's window and asked, "Hey, man, what's going on?" The young man looked into Chuck's eyes and said, "I just found out my mom and dad were killed in an accident. I'm trying to get to the hospital." And then he started to weep.

It was the pivotal moment in Chuck's life. He said to me, "I realized right then, that that young guy was having the worst day of his life, and in all my anger and venom, I had made it even worse. I realized that I didn't deserve to be around other people because I made their lives worse...and that thought was paralyzing to me. I didn't want to be the guy that people didn't deserve to have to come across." After apologizing to the young man and giving him his heartfelt condolences, Chuck walked back to the car where his wife was waiting. Prepared to hear yet another tirade from her husband, she was surprised that Chuck didn't say a word has he settled behind the wheel. Looking perplexed at him, she asked what had happened. Chuck just shook his head and closed his eyes. His voice broke. "I don't want to be angry anymore...I'm just so tired of being angry all of the time. I think I need help." His wife started crying, hoping that he was telling the truth. He was. He sought counseling to help him get past his demons. He finally realized that his father's death was just an unfortunate accident that he could not have foreseen or prevented. He also recognized how lucky he was to have a great relationship with the family he treasures.

Chuck finished his story, shaking his head, saying, "Sorry to go on and on like this. It's a part of my past I'm not proud of." I told him he should be proud that he was able to turn his life around so successfully. Then his phone rang, and my lunch hour was almost over, so I said good-bye and left.

And, that's Chuck's story.

A Decade of Remembrance

Every night for the last few days I've dreamt of terrorist attacks--planes crashing, entire cities falling, people dying, not being able to find Adam. But what's been weird is that they haven't been nightmares...just dreams, slow and documentary-style, of a world in chaos. They've been almost matter-of-fact, a reality my dream self has come to accept.

I didn't know how I'd feel when this tenth anniversary arrived. I haven't lived in New York in nine years, and my life in Michigan has been such that my city days sometimes feel far behind me. But you never forget your first love, and New York has always been the place I wanted to be even since I was a little girl in suburban Ohio dreaming big dreams. I'll never truly leave my love behind.

This weekend, the internal DVD I keep stashed in the recesses of my brain came out, and I allowed it to be played over and over again. There are the images we've all become familiar with over the years--the fire fighters panning their documentary camera up to just catch the first plane crashing into the North Tower, with crowds soon gathering; the second plane flying into the South Tower, the crowds screaming below; people in the towers jumping to their deaths with the heat of the raging blaze behind them; the South Tower, and then the North Tower falling; images of the crash into the Pentagon, and then the devastation in Pennsylvania. But I also carry my own images around, ones that impart guilt, disappointment, and fear.

I asked for something to happen that day. Sitting behind my desk at the aviation college across from LaGuardia Airport, I didn't feel like being at work. I wanted something to happen so that I could go home early. An electrical outage, a major pipe rupture, something that would justify me going home to spend the day with Adam. But in the absence of such luck, I turned my radio on to the local NPR station and booted up my desktop computer, in preparation for the day ahead. Roughly forty-five minutes into my workday, the NPR broadcast stopped short and settled into static. Adjusting my antenna, I realized the station was experiencing difficulties, so I reluctantly turned the dial to a morning radio program on another station. Roughly ten minutes later, the morning shock jock laughed at incoming report that a plane had struck one of the towers of the World Trade Center; early news was reporting that it had been a radio-controlled plane. Minutes later, an update noted it had actually been a small engine aircraft, and the tower was ablaze. I refreshed the CNN homepage on my computer to find a red screen emblazoned with the headline "Breaking News" and a large photo of the WTC on fire. Shocked, I knocked on the office door my coworker, Frank, to tell him the news. His usually stern and patriarchal face slipped into one of concern as he told me to follow him to the school's observation tower. We climbed the stairs to the tower to find several colleagues already there, shocked and agitated as they announced that a second plane had just flown into the other tower. We all looked toward the Manhattan skyline, and as people commented on the blaze and the absurdity of it all, I could only think of the hundreds or thousands of people inside the burning buildings. Quietly, I said, "We're looking at people die right now." Even from a distance of thirteen miles, it was the worst scene I had ever witnessed.

Back at my desk, I could hardly sit still. I just wanted to get in touch with Adam, but all phone lines were jammed. I switched over to e-mail to find a string of messages from family and friends inquiring about my location and safety. One friend noted that the country appeared to be under attack, but I scoffed at what I thought was his overreaction. Only minutes later reports of the Pentagon being attacked surfaced, and then I realized he had been right. My childhood nightmares of faceless terrorists in the night seemed to be coming true. I ran outside of my building as I heard people screaming. Reaching them, I followed their gaze to the Manhattan skyline in the distance to see that only one tower remained standing. At that point, word made it through the school that all students, faculty and staff were to leave the premises. I tried once more to call Adam, without success, then ran to my car. I drove the normally seven-minute trip at 80 mph, hearing sirens blaring as paramedics and fire trucks from Queens raced toward the 59th Street Bridge to Manhattan. It was absolutely surreal.

I got home to find Adam on the couch watching coverage of the attacks on tv. I fell into his arms just in time for him to tell me that the second tower had fallen. I dissolved into tears as we held each other, watching footage of the thick plume of smoke and debris funnel through the city, thousands of people evacuate Manhattan on foot, eventually WTC Building Seven collapse that evening. Two of Adam's closest friends worked in mid-town Manhattan, and so we worried for their well-being. With no cell phone service, we had to just sit and wait. In the early evening hours, there was a knock on our door, and his friend Tom, weary and forlorn, stumbled over our threshold. Normally sarcastic and quick with a wisecrack, that day he simply engulfed us in hugs. On some personal level, I finally felt the enormity of the situation if a guy like Tom could be so effected. He told us he had walked the thirteen miles from Manhattan to eastern Queens along with thousands of other New Yorkers. Bridges and tunnels had been closed to traffic and all public transportation had been halted. It had taken him all day to walk the distance and his fatigue apparent. For him, and us, it was a day of all days.

For Adam and me, however, the attacks of September 11th didn't end on that day, or even once the smoke had cleared and the wreckage hauled away. In fact, 9/11 was just the beginning. Just minutes after I arrived home to find both buildings had fallen, Adam announced he had to call his contact at the New York State Naval Militia, an all-volunteer service organization to which he belonged, due to his service in the US Navy. My heart sank into my stomach as I realized that with our country at war, my Adam would be at war, too. He eventually spent the next two weeks of his life at Ground Zero, conducting crowd control and assisting where he could with recovery and relief. It was a haunting, lonely and fearful time as I contemplated what the future had in store for us. Ten years and three deployments later, I feel grateful to have my husband safe and alive, and yet still so pointedly changed by they way 9/11 impacted our lives.

Guilt. I feel guilt for wishing something would happen that day so I could get out of work. Of course, I didn't wish for 9/11, but I carry feelings of shame that the very day such murder and carnage occurred, I was hoping for an event that would send me home. Unfortunately, I got my wish. I also feel guilt for racing home so quickly when we were told we could leave. It was only days later, when I returned to work, that the administration praised many faculty and staff members who used their personal vehicles to shepard students (all commuter students unable to use public transportation that day) to their homes. I had been so scared that I didn't stop to think about anyone I might be able to help. We all wonder how we'll act in the face of disaster, and I am ashamed by how I ran, and didn't look back.

Fear. I used to carry my fear around all the time. In the days and weeks immediately following the attacks, most New Yorkers were afraid to trust anyone or go anywhere. In the years after, that fear subsided, but was replaced by a new fear of Adam's well-being in the face of war. Even now, I end every Skype session with him with a reminder of how much he is loved, and a command to stay safe. Despite his insistence that he is in the safest possible situation, I know full well that you can't be absolutely certain that something won't happen. I know that life can change--or end--in the blink of an eye.

Today was a day of reflection and heartache, for me and for America. I so deeply wanted Adam here with me; it seemed wrong not to have him beside me on the anniversary of the events that so drastically changed the course of our lives. But, I reminded myself that he is away, but still alive; not every person touched by 9/11 is that fortunate.

And so I wait, and reflect...with gratitude.

Good-bye, Ryley

Though I never met you, I already loved you. You are missed and loved, friend. Rest in peace, Wonder Dog.

Apply Liberally

I have started to wonder how the word liberal has become a bad word, mocked in public discourse and used as an example of "what-not-to-be" amongst those on the other side of the aisle.

I am most perplexed, because by definition, liberal means:

"broad-minded; not limited to or by the established, traditional, orthodox or authoritarian attitudes, views or dogmas; open to new ideas; tolerant of the ideas and behaviors of others; and tending to give freely and generously."

That definition encompasses the very tenets by which we teach our kids to live--respect those who are different from you, make up your own mind about situations instead of letting others make it for you, be generous in helping others, etc. Since when is it okay to tell our kids to be something that we then disparage as an adult? Is this a case of "do as I say, not as I do?"

Not for me. I'll let Bryony decide for herself who she's going to be, but I will also impart the values of being generous, respectful and open-minded toward others. I think those are universal qualities to embrace, regardless of your political ideals.

And hey, if being liberal is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.