One of the reasons I love these so much is because I’ve been
there. My first husband was a U.S. Marine. He is a great man. I remember
waiting for him at K-Bay (Kane’ohe Marine Corps Base). My stomach in knots.
Nervous. I don’t know why you’re so nervous about seeing them again. It’s like
you’re worried they won’t recognize you or be happy to see you. The biggest
fear is they won’t be there. I scanned faces, frowning, you always get so
depressed when you don’t see them immediately that fear they missed the
plane/boat/bus or something much worse becomes palpable. I had my leis, my
gifts in the car. There’s this monumental build. At any moment you feel like
you’re just going to crumble to dust. Somehow, he got behind me. Tricky
bastard. He wrapped his arms around my waist and whispered softly in my
ear. I spun around on my heels so quick
I was dizzy and I fell into him and there was such a release in me. I clung to
him like if I let go I was going to lose myself. My body quivered and heaved and shook. I cried
and shrieked and wailed and clawed at him.
I crushed the leis in my hand and couldn’t find words. There are no
words for the relief, for the joy of a safe return. I was scared to let him go.
We stood there for a long time while the tears slipped out and my voice was
foreign to me. Even when he was putting his bags in the car I clung to him. His
friend, who we called “Fez” had no one waiting for him, so I brought him a lei
and a gift too and hugged him but kept one hand on my husband.
We spent nine months apart from each other. I wrote him
letters every day and he told me some weeks when the mail got backed up he’d
get a literal garbage bag full of mail from me. He was in Okinawa, Tinian,
Philippines, Guam. When he was in Okinawa we could talk on the phone. Sometimes I’d drive to the base to be able to
have video chats (this was 2002 after all). I’d leave parties or friend’s
houses early just to race home and be able to talk to him on the phone before
he’d be out in the field for weeks.
It takes a special breed to wait and stay dedicated. The
only reason I could do it that time was I had my family and friends as a
support system. I lived in Hawaii (where I grew up) and my routine wasn’t
demolished by his absence. When his next big deployment to Iraq rolled around
in 2007, we had moved to North Carolina. I had no support system I had a few
friends, no family and was looking for work after graduating college. I
couldn’t do an indefinite deployment. I just couldn’t do it.
I’ll never forget what that marriage taught me. I watch
those videos because I can relate to what I see in their eyes. The mixture of
love, relief, joy. I cry when I see these reunions because I know how scared
they were. When they’re gone you’re terrified all the time. At least I was. I
interacted socially. I kept myself busy but I was truly afraid every minute of
the day. I slept with one of his dirty PT shirts on a pillow so I wouldn’t
forget his scent. I kept pictures of him everywhere so I wouldn’t forget his
face. I was recording TV shows on VHS tapes to mail him so he knew he was in my
thoughts.
When you have a loved one in the military and they are
deployed it’s life consuming. It’s in your thoughts minute-to-minute. You have
nightmares, you have intimate dreams, you talk and talk and talk about them until people stop coming
around. Then you act like you’re fine, give the semblance of normalcy, but you
cry at night and when they call, you breakdown.
Hearing their voice creates a physical response. My body would shake.
Their return to your life is like a gift you never thought
possible. I tricked myself into thinking him being away was normal; this was
how it was going to be forever. When he was standing, in front of me, grinning,
I never thought I could be so happy.
My husband now, was a submariner in the Navy when we met. We
dated long distance and through his underways and when I’d see him at the
airport it was that same euphoric happiness. It was the
I-never-believed-this-was-going-to-happen relief.
The military has a way of putting that finality in your
thoughts. The depressing, consuming thought that This.Could.Be.The.Last.Time.
It’s heart-wrenching. It’s nerve-wracking. It’s life-altering. When they
return. When you see their face. When you can hug them, kiss them, smell them
again. There is no greater bliss.
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