LIfe Goes On 

Picture courtesy of http://dailyphalanx.blogspot.com

My husband and I settled in Fayetteville, North Carolina on October 1, 1991.  Ft. Bragg is where I transitioned into life as an Army wife.  

We had married earlier that year but I did not considered myself an Army wife because I was already in the Air Force Reserve.  That seemed to define me more than my marital status.  

Before making our way from California to North Carolina, I had made arrangements to transfer from the Public Affairs Office at Travis Air Force Base to the PA office at Charleston, AFB.  With that transfer came lots of paperwork and appointments.  I had to reenlist in order to have enough time left in the Reserve to be accepted into the unit at Charleston.  Before I could do that, though, I had to pass a physical.  Not a problem, just make the appointment.

Then, October 16th arrived, the day of my appointment.  My husband had just returned from training in Georgia.  His timing was perfect, by the way.  I had lived the first two weeks alond in our new house and he had avoided all of the unpacking and furniture arranging to arrive to a fairly settled home.  That was fine, though, since I was able to put things exactly where I wanted (but I would have done that anyway).  

That morning, George was elbow deep in pancake batter when the phone rang.  I was surprised to hear my aunt's voice on the other end and she was relieved to hear that I wasn't alone.  She asked to speak to George and, a little puzzled, I handed him the phone.  When I saw him lean against the door frame that connected the kitchen to our dining room, the alarms resounded in my ears.  I struggled to keep it together, to keep emotions at bay, and not to jump to conclusions.  But I knew.


My Aunt Bettye was the involuntary designee to tell me that wretched day that my father had died.  Impossible.  I had just spoken to him the day before.  He was planning to come for Christmas.  It was the first holiday that I would have been driving distance from him in over seven years.  All of that came rushing at me as George hung up the phone and tried to console me.  


It was a dark, stormy day as I stood in the yard watching my husband load the car with suitcases bound for Tennessee.  I thought of earlier that morning, when everything in my world was still normal, of the dream I had where my father rubbed his hand across my face. 


This turn of events on that fateful day spiraled me into months of depression.  So often in my childhood I had felt like it was my dad and me against the world. I needed him.  I couldn't live without him.  Yet, here I was being forced to do so.  I prayed daily.  Hourly.  Please let me have him in my dreams if I can't have him in my world.  


Toward the end of December, the dream came.  He didn't speak in my dream.  I did all of the talking, nothing unusual.  He was parked at the top of a hill in his yucky-yellow-colored Datsun.  I was a teenager sporting braided pigtails, dressed in softball attire, and waiting near the ballfield for my ride.  I spotted his truck at the top of a hill and jogged up to meet him, a bat in one hand and a glove in the other. I hopped into his truck and began chattering incessantly.  I complained of my stomach hurting and with one simple motion, he reached over and popped the button off of my pants.  My stomach instantly grew to the dash and I remember feeling instant relief.  Then I awoke.


This dream came to me about two weeks before my doctor's visit.  I needed to get back on track with transitioning to my new Reserve unit but I was waiting until I felt better physically and mentally.  The depression was subsiding slowly but continued to affect my health.  I was sluggish, just going through the motions, and all I wanted to do was sleep.  By accident I happened upon an off-post medical clinic designated for military members and their families.  Without giving it a second thought, I turned around, checked in at the front desk, and began my hour-long wait in the lobby.  I wasn't sure why I was there.  Something told me that I needed to be there.  I needed to feel better, to pull myself out of this slump.  I needed help doing that.  I had tried too long to do it by myself.  

It was January 6, 1992, my husband's birthday, when the doctor walked into that office and began a series of routine questions, questions that came after blood had been drawn and analyzed.  Then it came.  The question that rocked my world: "Is this your first pregnancy?"


I realized then that God blessed me by allowing my dad to deliver the news of my first child.  And with this news came an entirely different path that I never planned on traveling. It wasn't that I didn't plan on children--I didn't plan on leaving the military.  I had no choice, though, or at least I couldn't choose taking the chance that the day might arrive where military responsibilities would hinder parental responsibilities.  

It was January 6th that I became an Army wife and not begrudgingly.  I realized that I was many things and that each role played a part in the person I was going and growing to be.