Going Places

When we made the decision to move to Gainesville we were hoping it was a move in the right direction.
John had been home about a year at this point, and he was only just getting used to the flash from the stop-light cameras at night. He was still having a lot of trouble sleeping through the night and was uncomfortable in crowded places.

Before John and I were married, before he deployed, we had a conversation about our goals and expectations. Specifically, I wanted to stay in Miami, and I wanted to have more than one child. He hated Miami and wanted one kid, at most. I don't believe people can or should be changed, and I don't believe it's fair to force anything upon anyone, so I told him there are things that can be compromised and things that can't. Those two things were non-negotiable to me, so if they were for him as well we were better off ending our relationship before it became more serious. He thought about for a few days and then told me that he wouldn't take me away from my family because they were too important to me. And yes, he understood that siblings were important to a child.

Fast forward two years later and we were packing up our small apartment and two dogs to move five hours away from my home. John had requested an extension of his medical orders, and we were confident the request would be accepted since he had reported so many issues. At this point, he weighed almost 100lbs more than he did when he got back from Iraq due to the steroids his doctor had put him on. Our goal was for me to go back to school and for John to start the police academy. Having a huge Veteran Affairs hospital down the street was a plus. John could resume his treatments and get back in shape.

The saying goes: "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." And that's absolutely what happened to us. We moved into our new place March of 2012. By April, we received notice that John's orders would not be extended. My financial aid hadn't kicked in yet, and we still hadn't heard anything about John's GI Bill, which he had transferred to me. Thankfully, we had some money saved up and were able to pay our bills off for about a month. John went on unemployment and had all his medical paperwork transferred to the VA, where he began the process of filing for disability. We were hoping to have everything resolved before the end of the month. Then we found out that the VA office at my school had misinformed us. They weren't aware, they told me, that the law didn't allow the GI Bill to be transferred until the service member had 6 years of service. John had 5. Classes had already begun and the school had deferred my payments because they believed the GI Bill would kick in and cover it all. When that didn't happen, I was responsible for the whole 1500 dollars worth of classes I had taken. To add to that, financial aid wouldn't help me until I paid for and passed a math class I had previously failed. I couldn't take the class till I paid off the $1500, so I had to drop school and get a job. John had to get off unemployment and get a job as well in order for us to be able to pay our rent, so anything that took away from our ability to work, like the police academy, was out of the question for us.

We still bust our asses for every penny we make. We still have a hard time paying our bills. School is simply out of the question right now, and somethings honestly only got worse from there. Despite all of that though, it's an amazing thing that our relationship has improved beyond anything I could have ever expected. We had been best friends before Iraq, and that's why we got married. In the words of a friend, we're "cut from exactly the same cloth." We had a really rough period, but the thing that gets me through the financial struggle is enjoying coming home to see him, despite the bills piled up on the table. It's hard, though, not to feel angry at the fact that he has given so much of himself to his country and received so little help back. John is not a selfish man. He doesn't expect lifetime benefits. We were promised that he would be taken care of in return for his service, and that isn't happening in the way that it should. It's true that one should "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country," but when the suicide and divorce rates are higher among military than among civilians, maybe the country should do a little more asking.

My husband is the kind of man I always knew I wanted to marry. He is brave, loving, solid, determined, and smart. John came home with a bronze star for valor and didn't tell me for over a year because "it wasn't a big deal," and he still dreams about the lives he couldn't save. I know his deployment will stay with him forever, and it'll probably haunt him to differing degrees as long as he lives. He isn't angry that he was sent to fight a war most people don't believe in. He loves his country and hopes to serve as long as he can. And while he may not say it, I will: Our country needs to serve it's veterans back.

Surviving

John came back home from Iraq in bad shape. He'd experienced quite a few head injuries because of IED blasts. Toward the end of his deployment he fractured his sternum and broke ribs when his rifle was jammed into his torso. Had he not been wearing his Kevlar, he would have died instantly. While he was recovering on bed rest in Iraq, we got a call that his grandmother was passing away. I was on the phone for hours with the Red Cross trying to deliver him to her one last time, but there was no way to move him. If there's one thing he feels bitter about, that would be it.

I was glad to have John home, hoping I could help him heal. He was put into the Wounded Warrior program, which pays severely injured soldiers to go to therapy and continue treatments. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. There are a lot of things I love about Miami, but it's organizational skills are lacking. His nurse case practitioner, who was in charge of his appointments, never returned his calls. He was never reassigned a doctor after he complained that the one he was seeing told him to "suck up" his pain. It took weeks of badgering to get an appointment to see a dermatologist when he broke out into a rash that we later found out was an illness he had contracted in Iraq that had been dormant in his system. Apart from his shoulder surgery and the resulting physical therapy, his needs weren't really tended to. Had it not been for the Traumatic Brain Injuries, it may not have been so bad.

Some of the scariest experiences with John have resulted from his TBI. One night in particular we were returning home from a party. He was driving and we were having a conversation. As we turned at a light he started screaming, and it was evident he couldn't control what was going on. Thankfully, I was able to maneuver us into a parking lot and get him over to the passenger side. I should have driven straight to the hospital but I panicked and called my aunt, a nurse, instead and drove to her house. John had no idea where we were or what was happening. He was completely disoriented. My uncle, a paramedic, later told me what I was describing was probably a mild stroke, a symptom of his brain injuries. He recovered within a few hours, but it happened again, and much worse. The second time it happened we were home. Again he was screaming from the pain and grabbing his head, so I shoved him into the shower and turned on the hot water hoping to ease some of the tension and pain with the heat. Once he calmed down I asked him if he knew where he was. He didn't, and he didn't know his name. I dressed him and sat him in our room while I went outside and called my aunt and uncle, unsure what to do. When I came back inside I could see the panic in his face. He didn't want me to leave because I was the only thing he recognized. I asked him if he knew who I was and he started laughing, and said, "of course I do." He still didn't know his name.

The first year that John was home was the hardest time of my life, no question. There was more hardship than there was true happiness. But I was afforded the small mercy of getting a glimpse into my broken husband's heart. He knew me, even when he didn't know himself. The military wasn't doing much to help us. It was a struggle every day to choose to keep going and not give up. I had to learn to be more patient and forgiving because arguments and stress strained John so much that he'd get nosebleeds and migraines. Sometimes he'd even pass out. He was incapable of giving me what I needed or of expressing himself in the simplest ways. He just couldn't. But in his worst moment, when he was least conscious of it, he gave me the strength I needed to push ahead and showed me, without a doubt, that he loved me and appreciated me. 

It's amazing what the human heart is capable of remembering when the rest of you is broken.

Beginnings....

When writing poetry, you should begin at the end. You should know where you want your piece to go.
When writing a blog, the opposite is true. Here, I have to start at the beginning, and I have no idea where this, or anything really, is going.

Like all wives that have experienced deployment, I had a hard time accepting my husband's deployment. I was emotional and sensitive. Still, I knew that his absence wouldn't be the hardest part; and I was right. Having John home was much harder on our marriage than deployment was. The honest truth is that no one comes back whole once they've experienced the absolute worst that humanity has to offer. Intellectually, it's easy to understand that your husband will have difficulty readjusting. In practice, it's hard to sympathize when he's at his absolute worst. There is a reason the divorce rate among military is higher than among civilians.

And so you begin again, build your marriage up from the ground and try to change your perception of what it should be. You sacrifice yourself and what you want to help your husband heal, and that's what's right because he can't really help himself. In time it all gets better if you're strong enough to stick it out. Beginnings come in many shapes when a person needs to remember what it's like to be a husband, a friend, and a member of society.

Our biggest "beginning" happened two years ago when we left our families in Miami to move to Gainesville. Miami was too much to handle for someone who couldn't be around crowds or handle flashing lights. "Divorce" was a word that was coming up much too often, so when the opportunity to move to a smaller town came up, we took it. We hoped the slower paced life would help heal us both, and it has. I had always planned to stay close to my family, but I reminded myself that my husband was my family, too, and his well being was my priority.

Being on our own has been a much bigger struggle than we anticipated. We have weeks where our money is gone as soon as we make it. We've been overwhelmed with bad luck, but we're blessed with a supportive family that never hesitates to help us. And really, despite every terrible thing we experience, we are so happy. John has overcome his head injuries and can control his emotions. He's thankful that I was patient and waited him out, and I'm proud of him. His life is a blessing to me, and I never take it for granted that there were many times he almost didn't come home.

We struggle, like many military families. But there is so much to be thankful for.
This is only the beginning.