I awaken with a jolt, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, trying to focus on the shapes and shadows in an unfamiliar room, one that doesn’t smell like home. Reality hits hard as consciousness kicks in.  I feel my heart sink as I recall what’s about to happen. My hand wanders slowly, quietly across the bed sheet, looking for a sign of warmth from my husband’s body heat, not wanting to disturb him, searching for his hand, reassurance that he’s still here, tangible proof that he hasn’t left yet. I feel his warm, familiar touch as his strong hand grasps mine in response to my reach. He’s still here…I’ll steal every second I can get, do anything I can to keep him here a little longer. I had sensed he wasn’t sleeping, he’d been as restless as I. I catch a glimpse of the clock/radio in the motel room. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’m thankful and sad. Thankful we have 3 more hours together, sad that at 4:00 am the alarm will signal it’s time … time to … stop Anthea, don’t think about it.

Chuck moves towards me and enfolds me in his arms, holding me so tight I can hardly breathe. At this point I don’t care, just don’t ever let go of me – please, please don’t go, don’t leave us. Our hearts are beating fast, hot silent tears are falling on each other, his dropping on my hair, mine running down his chest. I resist the urge to sob out loud. It’ll only make the pain worse. And I mustn’t wake up the kids. Oh Lord, I can’t imagine how painful this is for Chuck. I know his heart is breaking. He feels as though he’s abandoning his family. How will he live through this alone? At least I have the kids, our three beautiful children. Oh how both our hearts ache for our little kids – they must be so confused, not fully understanding all of this emotional upheaval. How will we help them through this, will we all come out of this unscathed, stronger and closer, or will the time and distance cause us to drift apart? Thirteen months is a long time.  A lot can happen.

There is no need for words at this point. It’s all been said, over and over in the weeks leading up to this dreaded moment. The professions of love and all the “how’s”…. how we’ll get through the forced separation, the letters we’ll write EVERY day, the photos we’ll share, the cassette tapes we’ll mail back and forth, how we’ll communicate with NO access to phones. How desperately we’ll miss one another, how I’ll keep him up to date with the little fun moments with each of the children, who their friends are, how they’re doing in school, how they’re dealing with life without their Dad. How I’ll convey to the kids how much their Dad loves them and hates being away from them, but duty calls and this is part of the mission of military life. How he’ll keep busy on the base when he’s not on duty, how he’ll take on extra jobs to make the time go by faster. How he’ll join us for R & R in Australia, where we’ll be with my parents for the year he’s in Thailand on a remote tour of duty. I‘m thankful it’s not Vietnam. I know that’s a selfish thought with so many friends heading to bases in Vietnam. Thailand is safer.

It’s 2:00 am. This is a living nightmare. Only two more hours together. Part of me is wishing it was 5:00 am. At least the torture of the parting moment would be over. It was the thought of let’s just get on with this now, say the gut-wrenching goodbyes, go our separate ways, and the sooner the year’s done, the sooner we are back to life again – life as a family. I project myself into the future. Life will go on, not as before, but it WILL go on and we WILL make it better than ever.

I glance around the room. The boys are in the other double bed, Chandra in the small cot close by. Our beautiful little kids are finally sleeping soundly, exhausted from the late night. It hasn’t been easy getting them settled in the motel after the trauma of leaving most of their belongings behind, saying goodbye to the empty house, which is to be rented by a new family in our absence. David and Stephen are 7 and 8, and know what’s coming down, even though they can’t possibly grasp the extent of it. Chandra is only 2 and just senses that something is different…not quite right. Anxiousness is in the air. My heart goes out to these adored children and I wonder if I have it in me to be Mom and ‘substitute’ Dad for over a year without the physical presence and support of my strong hero husband, my rock, my soul mate – my all. Even with my parents to offer their loving support, it seems like a daunting task ahead. How will I manage? And our car, our beautiful car only 10 months old, sold to a new owner. Ugh! There’s nothing sweet about the sadness of an isolated military deployment.

My eyes settle on the small shadowy stack of suitcases leaning against the wall. Beautiful little hands lovingly packed those cases with guidance from me, as I checked the contents, making sure there’s enough clothes and a few of their treasured possessions to lend comfort and familiarity amongst the upheaval that is imminent. Lord, please give me your strength, bear this burden for me … for us. The tears flow freely again as fear and uncertainty wrestles with the faint little bit of faith and hope I’ve managed to muster from deep within. It comes in painful waves like the ebb and flow of the tide. Fear and sadness, followed by whispers of hope that it isn’t forever, and then the faith that God will see us through and give us the strength we need. I snuggle even closer to the love of my life, as if to try to infuse myself into his very being, breathing deeply as if to inhale every part of his being into my soul. It is going to have to last me 13 months – well almost – at least we get a short R&R break over Christmas.  I’ll think about that – only 9 months to endure. Then another four.

Then it happens. The obnoxious clock radio sounds off, signaling the dreaded hour. The departure. Shakespeare, you were so wrong. Parting is a bitch – it’s NOT sweet sorrow. Parting is gut-wrenching hell, the anticipation of the separation and the actual moment of farewell. The feelings linger long afterwards, prolonging the torment.

There’s a knock on the door. One of Chuck’s crew stands in the doorway looking forlorn and dejected. He has volunteered to provide the transport. It’s no fun for him to take Chuck off to the base for his flight to Thailand. He’s been like family during our time together at Castle AFB, played with our kids, eaten at our table many times and even spent Christmas with us. He knows how hard this is for us all. He forces a smile at the pitiful family huddled together in the middle of the room, clinging to one another, wishing it weren’t so, but knowing it has to be. There is no avoiding the inevitable. It is all part and parcel of being in the military. Duty calls – one and all … the one in the military and all the family members.

One last hug, one more tear-stained kiss, one last longing glance and my love is gone. The door closes softly on a chapter of our life. We stand frozen in place – we are alone. Just me and the kids. They’re sad and bewildered and I’m trying to quiet my pounding heart and pull it together – to be strong for them. It’s now time for us to get ready. Next, it will be our turn to leave for the long flight to Australia. The year lies before us, an unknown entity.

Clearly we all survived the thirteen months. It wasn’t easy, in fact it was a bitch, but we made it back together, as a family intact. I thank God for that and feel so very blessed that my man came home … that we all readjusted to each other again {oh yes … there is a transition time} .  But we realized the experience caused us to grow stronger and closer than ever. My heart goes out to those whose loved ones didn’t make it back. Not just during the Vietnam conflict, but from any war. War sucks.

I know that some may be thinking a year apart is not such a big deal, and I agree that it’s not like the finality of losing a loved one to death, not even close. I wanted to share our moments of parting because it’s not just our story, it’s the story that needs to be told for the thousands of military families who go through this every day. Being away from one’s family is brutal – for the one leaving – and for the families left behind. It’s not just the parting either, it’s the entire year of a life that is changed forever, and our military families endure this every day with dignity. If you’ve never served in the military, or been part of a military family and experienced the hardship of a long, forced, isolated separation, I pray this post touches your heart in a special way.

I humbly dedicate this blog post to all our amazing, courageous military men and women, and their supportive, loving and strong families, who endure hardship and separation nobly, all in support of the mission, in the name of honor and duty to country.

May God bless them one and all.