Friday, September 30, 2011

A day in the life of the able-bodied wife.

I am the able-bodied spouse in my house. My husband is a non-combat-injured, disabled veteran. I am a capable, organized, strong-willed, physically strong woman. I am a driven perfectionist by nature, who is working with a less-than-perfect situation. I have chosen a strange, non-conformist lifestyle by choosing to marry this man. I don't talk about it much because that's just what it is. There is stress. There is pain. There is frustration. There is joy. There is love. It is what it is. I realize it's not as bad as many people have it. I'm grateful that things are the way they are, even when they suck.

My husband is 33. Ten years ago, he was a happy, healthy, active guy who heard our nation's call to arms and answered it by choosing one of the most difficult jobs in the army, Forward Observer. Not exactly the most civilian-adaptable career choice, but recruiters don't tell their young enlistees this, and this guy was planning to do this for a VERY long time when he signed up. He certainly didn't expect to fall and hurt himself while helping move the new furniture into his barracks in Korea, nor did he expect to have someone shut a huge iron gate on his arm in Germany. Each of those injuries created a permanent wound that there isn't a surgical fix for. He left the army with not only these injuries, but he had also lost his ability to physically compete in the sports he once loved, perform jobs he once loved, and had not picked up any useful new job skills through his service that could translate to a life outside the army. It was very much like starting over from scratch for him. It was not in his original plans and was a HUGE adjustment. He is still adjusting in many ways.

It's just the everyday stupid shit that no one plans on that can forever alter the course of a life. Each of those injuries slightly altered his life trajectory. One could even argue that these injuries saved his life by making him undeployable. The guy who took his place downrange did not come home. My husband did... which still makes him incredibly sad. It makes me sad for him, but at the same time, had it not all happened as it did, what *would* my life look like? Would I be married at all? Would I be a mother? Hard to tell. In either case, I live a mildly isolated lifestyle because there are not many people around me who can relate to my lifestyle. Most people simply don't get why I married him in the first place since he

I daily do the little things, and many of the big things that make civilized life possible in our household. Sometimes that means putting aside my own needs and wants to make sure my husband and son are taken care of, but that's sorta part of the wife/mom job description in the first place. There are days when my husband quite literally cannot move (after working on a big project, during heavy weather systems, after a rough day with the kid, etc.) and our shared duties become my duties, period. Not many people understand how or why I 'put up with it', because in our great age of feminism, it looks like I'm the subservient doormat of a wife. The way I see it, I'm treating a man how I'd like to be treated if found in a similar situation. I walk the fine line between making it possible for him to live as independent a life as he can and doing too much. If I do too much, I make him feel like less of a person. If I do too little, I put too much pressure on him to do more than he is able. It has taken me nearly six years to get to where I understand what he truly needs me to do. That is mostly just being 'here' when he needs me. That's not to say I don't get it wrong from time to time.

I am never really off duty as his wife. Our life is a never-ending stream of paperwork from the VA, appointments to keep, medications to remember, reactions to watch out for with the meds, lots of explaining to others why we live the way we do. It's a strange kind of normal even for us. My husband does his best to be a part of my world and to integrate as much as possible into the able-bodied world. He loves yardwork, so we've had to find adaptive tools, and I tend to remain on standby while he works in the yard to make sure he doesn't aggravate his issues or give himself heatstroke in an effort to show the world he can still DO something. He likes to do home improvement projects, I standby to pick up the slack or to call in reinforcements to make sure he *can* do what he sets out to do. I help fill out and manage paperwork. I keep track of finances. I remind my husband that he is loved, because it's pretty easy to forget some days.

He is loved. Very much so. This is a man who is loyal to a fault. He doesn't do illicit drugs, troll the bars late at night, search for porn when I'm out, or any other act of bastardry I've had committed against me in a relationship. On his good days he's got a great sense of humor. He's socially awkward like me, but bless his heart he tries when I drag him to uncomfortable social functions. He loves me for who I am, not for what my dress size is. He trusts me. He treats me with dignity and respect. He stands up for me and stands with me in times of tragedy or trial in my life. He has seen me at my worst and never walked away from me. On top of all of this- he is a damn good father to our son. His body may be limited, but his heart is not.

For all the things he is to me, he is still a man with limitations to the outside world. He lives in an odd sort of limbo in our society. He is a stay-at-home dad. He's not exactly welcome at mommy-and-me playtime, and similarly unwelcome in the circle of men. Schoolwork is complicated for him by the fact that he may have to read the same chapter three times just to absorb part of it. Not many employers have shown interest in boosting their quotas of 'handicapped' employees in such a tight job market, either. When you're choosing an employee- do you go for the guys who are fully physically able, or do you go for the equally qualified guy who needs a little more time and some reasonable modifications to his work load?

There are those who think it's an abomination that my husband receives any sort of assistance from the government through the VA Health System for his 'invisible' disabilities. From those folks I have learned that in order for anyone to truly qualify as disabled, they must first be missing limbs or visibly and horribly disfigured. Or mentally handicapped in an obvious way- preferably with helmets and other external gear so no one has to guess. For a guy to look absolutely normal and to have all his limbs intact, and to not have some cool and heroic story to explain how he came to be injured, well, he's just not handicapped enough for anyone to really care.

He is working daily on rebuilding his life from the ground up. He had to learn how to cope with debilitating pain on a daily basis in order to back down on his pain meds enough to actually have a life. He is going to school to learn a trade that might some day support our family. He has to improvise quite often in order to adapt this world to fit his needs because let's face it- even for able-bodied people, this world is not user-friendly sometimes. So, our goal each day is to do a little better than the day before. We keep working out the bugs together, but always working toward giving him the independence and autonomy he deserves and so badly needs.

I hurt for him because he hurts both physically and mentally. To be a man in a society that places a high premium on a man's ability to be physical and to be a provider in a body that doesn't allow a man to be physical or to fully provide is hard. Being unable to wrestle and roughhouse with his son is hard. Knowing so many people who went downrange and came home under a blanket of stars and stripes is hard. Knowing that his whole existence was altered by a faulty piece of concrete is hard. I watch him struggle daily with pain that can't be fixed and meds that can't go away, and hope that someday modern medicine will find a way to fix him and make him whole again so he can enjoy life as a young man with a family does. My husband is 33, but feels eighty. It's hard to watch someone you love hurt so much and know that whatever you do to help might hurt more, either emotionally or physically, it might hurt more... but that doesn't stop me from being here and trying. His physical state does not make him unloveable. It may make him difficult to get along with some days, but I sure do love this man.

I wish I could say that I was ever the patient and doting wife, but truth is, there are days when I get so incredibly frustrated that I have difficulty holding back the flow of tears because I just want things to be normal. Not 'normal' as applies to us, but NORMAL as applies to most other families- a normal that doesn't involve medication schedules, lifting limits, memory problems, personality changes from meds, lack of understanding from those around us, adaptive equipment, and him being able to be a part of the traditional world of men as he'd like to do. I do. I despise the medications he has to take to be able to function. I especially despise the medications that make him drowsy and change his personality. I want a day to come where his body CAN be repaired, and he CAN do what he wants to do without limitations. That he can mow the yard like the neighbor guys do, then go play ball with his son instead of being immobilized by pain afterwards. With current medical technology, it's not going to happen, so it is what it is.

My husband is one of the many invisible people with disabilities among us. So, here I am telling the world about him. Maybe someone else will benefit. Maybe more people will see and understand.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Welcome to the Circle, little sister.

(To one specific sister at the moment, though I mean it for all of you, and eventually my little brother, when he finds a good woman to settle down with...)

Welcome to motherhood, little one.  I know you're not all the way there, you still have some months to go before you get to meet that sweet little girl you're carrying, but even so, you are still a mother who is making the best decisions possible for your child every day.  Even before the baby arrives, you're learning about her and preparing a place for her in your life.  Sometimes that's almost as hard to do as it is once the baby has arrived.

I have so much confidence in how strong and amazing you are as a woman, and how great a parent you will be.  You are going to do a great job.  You were born to do this!

Motherhood is a great gift.  There is no other relationship you will have on this earth as amazing and special as the one you are entering into.  When you first look at your baby- when you see those little eyes and hands and feet for the first time in your arms- you know that child has your heart wrapped up in those tiny fingers, and your heart will feel so huge in your chest.  You'll know in that moment that you are superwoman, and that you'd move mountains and fight off wolves barehanded for that small baby if you had to.  Of course there will also be days when you don't feel so super.  There will be ups and downs, and some days you'll wonder if you can really handle this child, how you can possibly do it with so little sleep... and on those days you'll discover a different strength. 

Birth is an amazing and life-changing event by whatever means it occurs.  I believe that a healthy baby is NOT all that matters, and hope that the birth you have is not only the birth you want, but is also one where you and your baby are treated with respect and love and kindness to get you off to the best start possible when you meet that beautiful baby.  It is an intense experience to go through, and only you can go through it.  It's like running a marathon- all your friends and loved ones can support you to the starting line, hand out drinks and snacks while you're running, but only you can run the race yourself.  No one can run the race for you, and you're a different person at the finish line than you were at the starting line because of the experience.  Run that race how you choose, and know that I will be cheering for you all the way through. 

You will be swarmed with advice givers of all kinds the moment you give birth, if not before.  I have some advice for you myself.  So, here goes.

1.  No matter who is giving you the advice, you don't have to follow it (except for these four pieces of advice, because my advice is more awesome like that).  It could be a friend, a family member, a doctor, someone from church, some random stranger.  It doesn't matter.  If the advice doesn't seem right to you, or seems like something that you are not comfortable with, you can say no.  You don't have to do what everyone else says because this is your child, and you are a strong, capable person even if you are young and this is your first time doing it.  You get to make decisions for the first time about another person's life.  It can be scary.  You'll wonder if what you've chosen is okay sometimes, especially if everyone else seems to think it's weird or different... but if it feels right to you, keep going.  (this includes whether or not your baby wears socks, what you feed them, who gets to hold them, how much they get held, etc.)

2.  If you have a down day, or you have questions, or you just need someone to help you out, do not be afraid to ask.  Ask your friends, ask your family, ask your co-workers.  Do not hesitate to get people to help you in the first year or two- parenting is a challenge, and we were not meant to do it alone.  It really does take a village (just watch out for idiots in your village)!

3.  Don't be afraid of being imperfect.  Even when we do all the 'right' things, someone else thinks you're doing it wrong.  There is no such thing as a perfect parent.  There's what works for you, what works for me, what works for so-and-so, but no one thing will work for everyone... because your baby is yours. 

4.  Don't be afraid to learn more.  Every day more knowledge is added to the world about everything, and when we know better, we do better.  :-)

So, that's it.  I, of course have loads of knowledge on other things about birth and babies, and breastfeeding, and other stuff.  I'm here if you need me.  I'm only a text or call away.  Or skype.  In other words, even from nearly 1000 miles away, I'm backing you all the way to the finish line lady.

-<3, Me.

Monday, September 12, 2011

further down the rabbit hole...

In many ways, I'm putting my life back together.  There are so many projects around this house that I had intended to get to at some point in the last three years, but for one reason or another I just never got around to it.  Painting the bedroom.  Scrubbing down baseboards.  Untangling the mismatched pile of wreckage that is my office.  These things were further derailed this spring when my birth mom decided to finally make good on her talk about moving up here...  which you can guess didn't work out so well by the last post.

More stuff got piled into the office while she was here, and the level of disorganization is epic, if you ask me.  I had kitchen utensils in my second-floor office, for crying out loud.  This room is sort of a metaphor for what's been going on in my mind for a few years.  A gradual pile up of things from old lives, some still useful, most not.  I'd keep the door to the room closed all the time if it weren't for the cat who pries the door open to sun himself and to barf on the floor.  So, it's a room of clutter and cat barf stains on un-sealed wood floors with dreadful beige paint and a tan ceiling.  Worst. Room. Ever.  But I decided to tackle it for the month of September.  My thought process being that if I can unclutter and control a space, perhaps I can better control my thoughts and regain my focus.  Because being in this rut sucks.  I have things I need to do and just can't get moving because I keep circling back to this room.  This one room.

Ahem.  The office project.  Yes.

Has a great ring to it, right?

So, the grown-up books all live in the office on grown-up shelves, and it's taking shape wonderfully.  I'm gradually moving the flotsam out into a pile of garbage in the hallway neatly tagged and bagged for whatever mode of disposal (garbage, goodwill, recycle, shred) and unpacking the old dresser that's served as an inefficient supply cabinet for the last two years into nice little baskets on one of the bookshelves.  Order is happening as chaos is simultaneously created by sifting through each of the copier paper boxes in the room.  My crafting stuff found homes on top of the bookshelves.  My sewing tackle box also went up and overhead. The whole wall is becoming an OCD masterpiece where even my husband will be able to find things!

It WAS all going good, anyway.  Then I found the box marked "Lorelei's Artwork" in big, loopy letters.  Not my handwriting.  Hell, I haven't had artwork in years, I either realized that I had limited talent and stopped doing 'art' or I realized that nothing I made was really worth keeping and ditched it years ago.  So, it had to be left over from Her being here.  So, I unwrapped miles of newspaper in the box to find several ceramic projects of mine from middle school, an acrylic rendering of a still life involving rope, a horse skull, and two horse shoes- kinda odd composition.  Then there was a layer of more newspaper.  Then a ziploc bag containing newspaper clippings from her father's/my grandfather's funeral.  Then a stack of pictures marked "Return to Randy" (one of her many exes).  Then a few documents pertaining to a divorce and a pocket calendar from 1994-1995.  Pivotal timeframe for me.  So, I opened it.

Inside this calendar, I saw the exact dates for all the strange crap that happened in her final months with her fifth husband.  And now it makes sense.  Lovely.