Full heart, empty arms #2
The second of my columns about deployment and separation from Jack as a co-column to his thoughts on Afghanistan column in his hometown paper.
On a bright note, I’ve taken to remembering one thing each day that he has done or said or that we did together in the past, as a way to focus on the happy things instead of missing him so much. We both tell each other our ‘thing’ of the day when it comes up in conversation (if we are able to chat online) but it serves more as a reminder to one another of what we both have to look forward to together. Jack has been keeping his in a text file while I’ve put mine as one word clues in my planner, so that I can see the reminders build up as the days (and assignment deadlines!) come and go. Not too bad of a coping strategy, I must say!
~FGirl
Finding a new normal?
In my daily routines, there are certain accepted differences from the lives of many of my friends. The demands of a shift worker as a nurse and a masters student at the University of Alberta means that although I do live with Jack, there can be stretches of days on end where our only contact is via telephone. We jokingly referred to this closeness to home, yet separate physical spaces as “ships passing in the night”. Ever since Jack has been deployed, even this psychological distance has become greater. Where I used to find comfort in knowing we were still sharing the same space despite our temporal differences, now it is as though we are further separated; we’ve become ships on separate seas. Jack is on an unknown sea, its characteristics and attributes a patchwork of media images, facebook photos and narrative consolidated by my imagination into a concept of where he is and what he is doing. We used to manage our routine separations with frequent phone contact and more often, physical contact. Now, we have to experience our relationship in bursts of e-chatting available between home, work and school demands in coordination with opposing time zones and at times, unreliable access to internet communications. Although Jack is on an adventure and surrounded by coworkers who are like second family, daily reminders of his missing presence at home highlight an obvious void for those of us counting down the days to his return.
Loneliness can be a strange friend and foe. The times when I get to see Jack’s smile, or hear his voice during our weekly 30 minute phone call allowances are that much more meaningful because of the other minutes when I can’t hear his voice or see his face. The time in the house alone provides a great deal of time for reflection, for processing of the meaning of his career, his choices, my life, my choices and the subsequent effects on our life together. The first month Jack was gone became more than just a time to miss him, it became a time to strengthen my belief in myself and in our lives together. Although I wanted him home more than anything, I appreciated the gift of the time to really think of how we were going to negotiate these kinds of separations. There were times when my emotions were so raw, so close to the surface that it took most of my energy to just manage not to cry and feel empty in order to soldier on at home. Other times, I was able to see the opportunity to experience something extraordinary in life and what benefits this could bring.
Initially, I sought out the companionship of others in my situation. A good web forum, http://www.canadianmilitarygirlfriends.ca has been a source of information, camaraderie and normalization of the deployment and separation experience while dating a member of the Canadian Forces. Along with others like it, this members only site moderated by a self identified MGF (Military Girlfriend) fills a need for the “women who wait”. Additional supports were provided by the local Military Family Resource Centre, (MFRC) including warm phone calls such that seeing the base phone number on your caller ID didn’t have to mean bad news was coming. Strange how at first this was an authentic fear of mine, a visceral response to strangers in dark clothes knocking at my front door or phone calls from unknown numbers immediately setting my nerves on edge, my heart racing as I would try to use self talk to calm down and act like a normal human being! I’m happy to report that with time this eases. The separation is never enjoyable, but it is also not as intense or upsetting as it was in the beginning.
We are separated from one another by time and space, but at the same time we enjoy a luxury uncommon to others in similar situations during past conflicts. Instead of the letter a month or less, never knowing when or where or how my man might return home as was common in the great world wars, I can have several chats during the week when our internet time and access coordinate. Even during Canadian peacekeeping missions in Rwanda a mere 15 years ago, this kind of live, frequent contact was unthinkable for the vast majority of separated families. What of those families who have gone through similar separations in years gone past, without the same supports and opportunities for contact that I am privy to? Looking at my own situation by comparison with the historical context of the past home warriors gives perspective, and with that perspective comes a small measure of comfort and the ability to turn this experience into an opportunity for meaningful self realization.
I drafted this week’s column from the back of an ambulance after returning from a patient transport between Edmonton and Red Deer, Alberta. It isn’t surprising that with all that technology has done to create different spaces for connecting with others, the same basic tenets of the human experience remain unchanged. It begs the question, is there really ever a ‘normal’ to begin with, when one is trying to describe life in the 21st century?