Chris and Miss

Chris returned to Iraq last week.  It was wonderful having him home, yet also bittersweet because we knew he would be leaving again.  Despite the short amount of time we had together; it was exciting beyond words to wake up and see him each morning, and to be able to watch him tuck the kids into bed, each night.  I thought I would share a short story I wrote last month and submitted for publication.  I am unsure if it will be picked up, but because I will retain the copyright, either way, I decided to post it as a blog.  I titled it My Hero, although just yesterday Maddie caught sight of the file on our computer and asked about it.  I explained that the story is about her Dad.  She suggested I rename it Our Hero because Daddy is her hero too.  Therefore, I dedicate this blog to Chris- our hero.

 Our Hero

The caption of the newspaper read, Good Luck Heroes.  The gates near Fort Lewis were strewn with yellow ribbons, and the overpasses filled with supporters waving flags and cheering.  One might have thought it was a Veteran’s Day celebration—an opportunity to salute the brave men and women who have fought for our country, on foreign soil.  Of course, things are not always as they appear.  It had been just two weeks since we received his Mobilization Order.  I wondered how I got here, how my life had changed so much that I was going from anticipating the moment my husband walks through the door for dinner to praying for his convoy, as they advance into Iraq.  This November day was when I realized sometimes patriotism is more than fastening a yellow magnet to my car and waving a flag.  Today it means bidding the man I love farewell, as he prepares to go fight for our country—knowing he might come home in a flag-draped coffin.

            The reality that I might lose him is not one I want to face; yet, it is always there, in the back of my mind, as I will myself to get out of bed in the morning.  It would be naïve of me to think he is completely safe; amid reports of casualties, mortars, rockets, and car bombs.  Some might think it is an overreaction to get our finances and insurance documents in order, but for me, it is merely survival.  On this day, as I bid my husband farewell, others salute him and call him a hero—but I know the truth, he was a hero long before the military called on him to be.

            When I was a little girl, I envisioned a life of fairy tales, as most little girls do.  I pictured a tiara-wearing existence with Prince Charming, to hold my hand, as he guided me down the spiral staircase, of our castle.  Never once did it occur to me that my Prince would be escorting me to a Militia Ball, wearing Dress Blues and introducing me to his fellow soldiers.  As a young girl, I would never have imagined my husband would wear an Army uniform to work each day, or that he would have a rank in front of his name.  Nor did I realize by marrying a soldier, I would be entering a world of ritual, of sacrifice, of pride— I never before knew existed.

            I have watched his career progress with awards and honors.  I stood alongside his Mom as he was commissioned an Officer in the United States Army, right out of college.  I proudly watched as he took his position as Troop Commander.  I took pictures when he was inducted into the Order of Saint George.  I framed his Bronze Star award, and smiled with pride, on the day he received it.  I have witnessed the bars and awards on his uniform grow larger with each passing year.  I have seen the efforts of his work recognized with promotions and Meritorious Service Awards.  I have witnessed the accomplishments of his military career—the accomplishments which make him a hero, in the eyes of others.

            Yet, I believe the true hero is the man I wake up to every morning.  He is the person that rubs my forehead when I am sad, and who never forgets to say I love you, at the end of the day.  He is the man who tells me to drive safely and calls to check how my appointment went.  My husband is the man that sat in a rocking chair looking over me the night I delivered our stillborn daughter.  He is the one who cut the umbilical cords of our children, when they were born.

            The hero I know is the person who stays up at night holding his sick daughter, and teaches his son how to add and subtract.  He is the man that stood beside his baby, in the emergency room, as the nurses administered an IV.  He is the son who helped plan his Dad’s funeral and then delivered the eulogy.  My husband is the father that is willing to do anything to make the world a safer place for his children, even if it means sacrificing time with them.  He is the man who can paint a room, reprogram a computer and organize the garage—all in one day.  He is my best friend, and the man I want to grow old with.  He is my hero.

            When I remember that cold November day, I find it hard to believe five years have passed.  I can recall the helplessness I felt, surrounded by the overwhelming loneliness which crept out of the shadows when the kids were sleeping soundly in their beds.  I forced myself to get out of bed each day, and fought off the nightmares that consumed my sleep, while worrying he would not return to me.  I embraced him with joy when he eventually did come home; a veteran, a hero.  We picked up right where we left off, both of us—together, a team. 

            I now sit on my front porch, watching the flag float in the breeze, an unobstructed view of Mount Rainier, in the distance.  My husband has been gone for seven months of his second tour, to Iraq.  We knew another deployment was inevitable, yet no matter how long you have to prepare yourself, it still manages to sneak up on you, and shock your senses.  I look forward to his return, to witnessing the excitement of my children when they once again see the man whose face lights up a room.  He is a hero in the eyes of any American who sleeps comfortably in their bed at night knowing the sacrifices he makes for their freedom.  He is a soldier who has served his county twice, on foreign soil.  Yet, in my house, we know the real hero.  He is my husband, and he is the bravest man I know.