It is Monday night at about 8:30pm as I decide to sit down and write this, out of lack of both another human outlet and further drive to fold yet another load of laundry. My husband is not home and I have not heard from him since he left home almost 14 hours ago. I quite literally do not know where in the world he is right now.
This is significant only because I make it a point to (as much as possible) always know where my husband is. Being a Marine Corps pilot, he spends much of his time flying thousands of feet above the Earth, and then landing his C-130 on all parts of it. My husband loves his job, and I could not be prouder of him; but I would be lying if I said I don’t worry about him from time to time. Over the past month and a half, there have been three crashes involving military aircraft, two of which hit (figuratively) very close to home for us.
In February, a CH-46 helicopter crashed in Thailand and my husband was in the first plane on the scene. They called in rescue support for the burning helicopter and its crew, Marines who go to work in the hangar next to my husband’s. These men were our neighbors, and while I did not know them personally, I can only imagine the moments in which their wives heard of the accident. None of the crew died that day, but at least one was critically injured, and I continue to follow his recovery on Facebook.
Last week, an EA-6B Prowler went down during a training flight near Whidbey Island, Washington. One of our very good friends from flight school is attached to that squadron, and he knew personally each of the three people that died in the crash. While I was relieved to hear that our friend was not piloting that aircraft, my heart goes out to the families of his squadron in the face of this terrible tragedy. Finally, again this week another military aircraft went down, this one an Army UH-60 Blackhawk in Afghanistan, of all places. Another five lives were taken from their families that day.
These are the events that linger in my mind as I go throughout my day, reading articles and Facebook updates that disparage the military, referring to their “lavish lifestyle” or “wrongful actions” in combat. (I do not plan on going on an angry political tirade tonight, but these ignorant and offensive statements are upsetting to someone in my position). These are the events that color my world. Tonight I do not like that my husband is not home because I worry about him, despite the four huge engines and good safety record of the C-130.
I usually know where he is, even if I can’t talk to him while he is there. The issue with tonight is that I expected him to be home. I rushed to get home by 6, when I thought he would be home. I prepared dinner, but not having heard from him, I set it aside rather than putting it in the oven. I learned that lesson years ago, when we ate the world’s driest spaghetti because I kept it warm on the stove for almost 4 hours on a Friday night while he was at The Basic School (the Marine Corps’ 6-month officer training school where they learn everything from leading marines into terrorist encampments to dressing sucking flesh wounds with saran wrap and duct tape).
Now, at 9pm I am just sitting down to eat part of our dinner, having depleted our snacks and realizing that he may not be coming home tonight. I trust that wherever he is, he is alright. I write this post tonight because these moments are difficult for me because I hate letting go of the smaller moments I like to have control over in my life. I’ve had to give a lot of the big decisions in our marriage to the Corps, so I struggle with relinquishing control of the little ones. This is a learning process. As they say, Semper Fidelis, Semper Gumby.
Now, back to that laundry!