I awake at 6:30 AM alone. This in itself is not so disturbing; after-all most days my husband is gone long before I rise.  The realization that my husband is not coming home for a very long time hits me when I glance over to his side of the bed and see the smooth bedcovers and tidy pillows. I pause for a moment to allow the sadness to wash over me. I have vowed not to dwell or wallow, but to fully feel the peaks and valleys of emotion that are sure to come. My hope is that by honoring and acknowledging all of the accompanying feelings that may arise throughout this journey that I will in some way ease the angst.

The moment has passed and it’s time to face the day. The thought occurs to me that making the bed will be easier with only one side to straighten. I rip the pillow case off his pillow as if to make a clean break and toss it in the dirty clothes basket. (I am sure there is some deep psychological meaning to that action, but I have no desire this morning to examine it.) I have not slept well and am in desperate need of a cup of coffee.

I pour my coffee and head up to turn on my laptop. I am berating myself for not getting up earlier so that I could exercise and spend some quiet time reading before starting my day, but that just makes me feel worse. My stomach is feeling queasy; most likely anxiety, the strain of the last few days and weeks of apprehension and stress. I begin my daily work regimen. Routine is my friend and my solace.

Unexpectedly Anthony calls from Germany and we catch up for a few minutes on what has happened since his departure. He asks how I am doing and about the children. I fill him in on the evening before; the tears, the conversations, my son’s excitement over getting a Facebook account, the donuts, the carwash and the $30 worth of candy I bought at Wal-Mart for the kids’ “countdown jars.” I neglect to mention that I have a “countdown jar” of my own. He fills me in on his schedule for the next few weeks in Germany (at least as much as he is allowed.) We may not be able to have any contact from him for the duration of the training. I wake my youngest son knowing that he will be devastated if he misses an opportunity to speak to his daddy and hand him the phone. They speak for a brief few minutes. Not much is said, but the connection is all that matters.

I feel so much lighter. I thought perhaps that I would be sad when I talked to him, but instead I am reassured and comforted. The ocean that separates us disappears and we are just having a conversation like so many other insignificant days. Words have power and the sound of his voice is like a touch, a connection that restores normalcy. The kids get up, the day goes on and it is like nothing has changed.

I take a break and remember to send an email/text to the rest of our family to let them know that Anthony has arrived safely in Germany. I am the information and communication portal. That is one of the many roles that a military spouse must fulfill. He cannot contact them all; he is only allowed a couple brief calls a week and that is barely enough for us. They must subsist on nuggets from me for the time being.

The day passes in uneventful fashion; work, household chores, dinner and activities, until it hits me…someone has to clean up the dog poop, clean the hamster cage and empty the dehumidifier. These are all tasks that usually fall under Anthony’s jurisdiction. We meant to divide them up and re-assign all of his home duties before he left, but just never got around to it. I have an emergency meeting after dinner with the two younger children at home and we quickly devise a plan to cover the chore gap left by Anthony’s absence. Elijah will do garbage day, Alex will vacuum the pool, I will empty the kitchen garbage, clean the Hamster cage, test and chlorinate the pool and we will split dehumidifier and poop duty. We have a game plan and we are off; how long that will last I do not know. All goes well until Bob the Hamster will not come out of his cage and into his rolling ball that is his home for the duration of his cage cleaning. My patience are thin and I refuse to be defeated by a small pet rodent. I get tired of coaxing and just reach into the cage, grab his wiggling, furry form. Elijah informs me that I am not cleaning the cage the way dad does it. This is met with a glare as I calmly explain to him that I am much more efficient than dad and from now on we will do it my way.

I finally settle into bed with my laptop to write my journal entry for the evening. It has been a long, mentally and physically exhausting day. I have a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers. I celebrate that we have made it through the first day unscathed. I am feeling very hopeful that all will be well and it might not be as awful as I had remembered from the last time. It was too good to be true; I should have known. As I got about two-thirds of the way through my writing, Alexandra came home from a friend’s birthday party, knocked on my door and said there was an awful burning smell coming from the VW Beetle or “Bug” as we affectionately call it. My stomach dropped and I asked the “burning” question, fearful of the answer. “Did you remember to take the emergency brake off?”  “Ooops!” she replied. “Is that really bad?” I put my hands over my face, trying to maintain my calm and composure and simply said, “Yes, that is kind of bad.” It will have to wait until morning.

We have made it through our first day safe and sound, but not quite unscathed…

Today was very strange. Almost like a surreal anticipation of a gruesome event. The anxiety and feelings are so difficult to put aside and so pervasive that it is almost as though they take over every thought and action.

Sleep was elusive and fitful the night before. Almost like a solemn black Christmas that you know is upon you and are powerless to circumvent. You’ve accepted the reality and stopped fighting, but have not quite given up hope for a last minute pardon. My husband and I cuddle for the last time and cling to each other for strength; perhaps as if we can soak up enough love and comfort to last for the next half year.

The early morning beginning is deceptively normal, quiet and unbelievably routine, were it not that my soldier is going off to war instead of to work. We wake, have coffee and eat breakfast surrounded by an eerie quiet that seems to fit the mood. We are both lost in thought and don’t know quite what to say. We finish the packing, checking and double checking the uniforms, supplies, toiletries and the rest. The reprieve can only last so long and then the drive to the airport begins. The check-in, security and flight departure are uneventful, boring actually and seem to drag on forever.

Finally the flight is called and we

D-Day

say our final goodbyes amongst tears and hugs. We are surrounded by “civilians” who look on, perhaps curious about the destination or purpose. Thought our soldiers are in street clothes (for security purposes) most have huge military issue green bags that very easily identify them as military members of some kind. Our loved ones wave as they disappear down the tunnel to board the waiting plane and then it is final.

We are left to offer comfort to the others left behind; the wife alone, the young mother, the young red-haired boy wailing his heart out and my children who are crying softly into my shoulder and clinging to each other. I hug the wife of my husband’s SMSgt and we promise to stay in touch. There are many other family members that I do not know.  Our soldiers train together on drill weekends and are a part of a team, but we are not. Many of these men, women and children I have never seen before and probably will not again until the homecoming. Still we share the loss and my heart goes out to them. We share a bond; that of sacrifice, strength and loneliness.  I square my shoulders, gather my children and take a deep breath.

This is D – day for us. It is the beginning of what will be a more than six month separation from the soldier we love. For this period of time at least we are all fighting a war; one we may not understand or approve. We are soldiers on the home front; the unnamed; the “ones left behind.”

And so it begins…