This house is empty; at least that’s how it feels once the kids are asleep. The hours between bedtime stories and sleep are usually my favorite of the day, when I drop the supermom cape and curl up with my husband for a few precious, tranquil hours.
But this house is empty and now these hours are eerily quiet. A few days ago, deployment four began.
It doesn’t feel real. I’m functioning like he’s coming home from work any minute, when in reality, I know we’re staring down nine, long months. He’s been gone so much for school and training this past year that we’ve only had a fraction of his time to spend together. I’ve grown so accustomed to his absence that it feels almost second nature, like this deployment isn’t really happening - he’s just TDY. It’s an odd mix of grief and denial. Yesterday, after I walked the boys home from the bus, I figured I’d better run the vacuum and start dinner before Jason came home. Oh. Wait. Yeah.
Little things force our reality to hit home, like tripping over the shoes he left in the mudroom or finding a baseball glove he left out from playing with the boys. I know it will be far too long, and too many birthdays, until he uses either of them again. He put on his deployment wedding band, inscribed “fly safe,” and for now, his formal one hangs on my necklace, resting against silver aviator wings.
His hoodie hangs on the bannister because it smells like him and I’m not ready to put it away yet, not when I can still breathe him in. My kids probably think I’m some deranged cat with catnip, the way I hold the sweatshirt to my face.
His shaving cream is on the bathroom counter and his scent still clings to his pillow, a minor comfort when I realize my laptop and two phones are sleeping in his place. There are moments when our reality hits me and then it feels like my chest might implode with pressure and choked back tears. The first week of a deployment is not for the faint of heart.
We have had four deployments in our 11 years of marriage. The truth is, none of this gets any easier; we just get better at it. The ache is just as fierce as it was during his first deployment in 2003, but we’ve grown to function, and even thrive through it all. That ache reminds me that a love that knows no distance is to be cherished and it is something to be thankful for. We’ve learned how to flourish in our marriage during deployments. Whether he’s sitting on the couch next to me, or 7,000 miles away, he’s still my best friend and my partner in our crazy existence. Skype, email, text, calls, care packages and good old fashioned love letters keep us connected when we can’t be together. The only thing that makes these deployments tolerable is that I can still feel him here, even when he’s so far away.
Yes, the first week is a doozy. It’s stepping off the cliff and hoping you fly, even though it feels more like a plummet than a glide. The good news is that the first week only happens once a deployment. The second week brings with it the passage of time, a better groove, a more stable schedule. Denial will fade, and we will have good days and bad. I’ll be thankful for the good ones, and push through the less-than-good ones, knowing that nothing stops the passage of time and that he will come home. Nine months does not last forever, it only feels like it.
Our house may be quiet for these few hours, but in a few more, the boys will be awake and up to their shenanigans. I’ll put away his shoes, his baseball gloves and his sweater, but the best reminders of him are still here to hug and kiss me good morning in the form of four wonderfully noisy boys. Besides, quiet houses are overrated.
Ding, Ding, Ding. Round four has begun.
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