The Day He Left for Basic

I would've posted this a week ago, back when it was actually relevant, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. Oops.

March 30th, 2010, was one of the most significant dates in history: the day Joe left for Basic. It was the first time we'd ever been separated for longer than a couple of days in our 2 years, 7 months (and 14 days) of being married.

That morning, once he made sure all the packing was done, we just sat there without enough time to do anything. Mentally, he was already halfway gone, focused on what he had to do. I was clinging to him, to every hollow, half-there minute we had.

It was a sunny, gorgeous day. We met his parents for lunch at Golden Corral, which was my idea and probably not something anyone else was that interested in. I was stuck to him still. Except when we were getting food, I constantly touched him or forced my way into his arms and just generally made a nuisance of myself.

When we were done eating, it was time to take him to the recruiter's office. Then it was time to leave him there. Time for me to be strong and not cry in front of everyone and make sure I drove home safely.

I pulled up to my parking spot at our house. Then, from habit, I pulled my car forward a little bit to make sure Joe would have enough room to park behind me.

But when I looked up, his car was in the driveway already, pulled way off to the side, because he wasn't going to need it and he wasn't home and he wasn't going to be coming home for a long time.

So I cried.

With my face all distorted and gross-looking and tear-covered, I got out of the car, locked it, jumped the ditch, walked across the lawn, unlocked the door, went inside, closed the door behind me, locked it. I was immediately faced with Joe's computer desk, all his stuff right there, with his chair swiveled away from the desk as if he had just gotten up and would be sitting down again any minute...except that the computer was shut down. Sobbing, I went upstairs to change my clothes. There were all his clothes on the other end of the closet, the hangers askew as if he'd just gone through them. Wailing and half-naked, I walked around the room trying to decide what to wear. I saw his running shoes next to each other on the floor as if he'd just taken them off, and it upset me even more (even though I knew that I was the one who'd put them there during chores a few days ago.) Every time I saw something else of his, I'd go into a fresh bout of hysteria: the wrapper on my nightstand from the new travel toothbrush he'd bought the other day and unwrapped this morning; his clothes from yesterday, on the floor where he put them when he took them off; then, downstairs, his Xbox and gaming stuff left like he would be there to pick it all up again.

I had to stop crying; my roommate would be home soon. I leaned against the wall of the bedroom, my arms wrapped around myself, and I imagined what Joe would say if he could talk to me. Shh...it's okay. It's okay. I love you and I need you need to calm down for me, baby. It worked. (Mostly.)

I had no idea what to do with the rest of the day. My life had become my own. I never realized that, when he was there, every single moment I could plan was planned around his schedule and how I could be with him and what I could do for him. I didn't even know that I didn't really have freedom. That day, my schedule became what I wanted when I wanted, and I just wanted him.

I decided that what I needed was a change in my environment, to make it more "mine" and less "ours." With a lot of help from my roommate, I spent the afternoon dragging my computer desk away from Joe's desk and up the stairs into the bedroom that, when I was on the phone with him for a few minutes, I accidentally called "my" and not "ours."

He called me periodically throughout the day for a few minutes at a time. I didn't have much to say. What could I say? The most pressing issue in my life at that point was keeping myself from hysteria, and that's not really something you tell your husband who has his own stuff to deal with. I was glad to hear his voice, but he couldn't give me the comfort I needed. And then there was the part where we had to say goodbye again and hang up and I didn't know how many weeks it would be before I'd hear his voice again...but a few hours later, there would be another call...and then, again, the unknowing.

My roommate, who had gone through the exact same thing just a month before when her husband left for Basic, helped me pass that first evening with a rented movie, hotdogs, and sweet tea. I learned what it's like to live under The First Law of the Army Wife: Thy phone shall be turned to full volume at all times and shall at all times be at a maximum of two feet from your person.

Eventually, it was time to go to sleep. I typed a short note to him, the first of what became a routine of nightly just-before-bedtime letters. Then, crying, I laid down to sleep.

I expected I'd stop crying and fall asleep at some point, but an hour later, it hadn't happened yet. So I read a book for a while, then laid down again...and started crying again. So I read some more, laid down again. But every single time I laid my head down, I started crying. I was exhausted, tired of crying and of not being able to breathe through my nose, but I couldn't fall asleep or calm down. Luckily, I had the possibility of a 4:00 a.m. phone call to look forward to, and I texted Joe to make sure I'd get that call. The phone rang at 4, we talked (well, I babbled incoherently through tears more than actually talking - which I felt guilty about, since I didn't want to bother him like that,) and when we got off the phone I finally was able to sleep.

And that was the first day.

On March 30th, 2011, I was alone again while he was at a field training exercise. It wouldn't have been so bad if I wasn't panicking about our next separation, which would be within a month but for which we had no certain date of departure.

So...soon, it all happens again. Soon, he'll have to leave me again. We don't know if I'll be able to follow him. When we say goodbye in a few weeks, we won't know if we're saying goodbye for two months or six or longer.

He won't be in danger. I should smile and take it all lightly and say "It's not so bad" because he'll be safe and because we'll be in constant contact. But I'm not that good.

I see days stretching out too numerous to even begin a countdown, countless empty hours without my best friend, and I'm just not that good.