Sometimes the guilt I feel for bringing children into this deployment life suffocates me. No, I didn’t know this would continue, year after year. But, I was an adult. And perhaps I should have known better.
Our first child wasn’t planned. And he left before I knew I was pregnant. And left again just after she was born. She has lived her entire six years stuck in this cyclone of emotion. This rotation of goodbye and readjustment.
I want to give her something better. She and my son don’t deserve this. They don’t deserve to feel so ripped and shredded because of a war they have no stake in.
I have told myself for years now that she will be okay. That this won’t touch her.
But it has. Finally, the fear, worry, and understanding of war gripped her with icy hands. And I could do nothing. Nothing.
“I’m so tired of this military. Daddy is gone for no reason at all,” she screamed. I understood. Completely.
“Honey, daddy is a special person and there is a reason. Do you remember those pictures he sent of him with those kids? He is trying to help them,” I responded. Hoping that was the end of our conversation.
No such luck.
“He is just over there playing with them when he could be here,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. And I needed something to help her. Something to soothe her. How could I explain that he has no choice when other fathers do? How could I explain that while some fathers choose to leave, hers has no choice. Or did he? Then my guilt overwhelms me again.
How do you justify doing this to a child? How do you explain service and need to protect to a small child? How do you tell her that although her father adores her, he is willing to die and leave her? For her. For everyone. How do you tell a six-year-old little girl that he does love her that much. That we both do.
I searched for a way.
“Honey, there are wars going on, and Daddy is the kind of daddy who fights them. He is trying to protect those little kids,” I said.
Her eyes widened. Her chin trembled. Dear God. I did it. Brought that fear into her. I handed her the worst possible feeling. Waiting. With the knowledge that she may never touch him ever again. Before my eyes, she began to mirror my pain.
And I hate myself for showing it to her. I want her to stay innocent forever. I want her to never know what it feels like to adore someone so much that your chest concaves just thinking of a “last goodbye” over and over again.
Her entire body trembled.
“Who will win the war?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know, honey,” I answered.
“Will someone try to kill Daddy?” she asked, terrified.
I have been dreading this question for six years. I rarely have the ability to think it myself. This is too much for a child! Too much for a six-year-old child to even consider! She is supposed to be thinking of merry-go-round spinning, valentine giving, duck-duck-goosing. Not war. Not a wooden box.
“There are people who want to. I know you know some daddies have been killed,” I said, terrified of the truth I was handing her.
“But, you remember Daddy’s tank? You remember his truck? And his very heavy uniform he let you try on?” I asked her.
She nodded her head. “All of those things are to protect him. He is doing everything he can to get home to you,” I said. She turned her head away from me, staring out her door. Everything in me wanted to take this conversation away. Destroy it. Demolish it. It is my job to protect. Not arm.
“What will we do if he dies?” she asked.
Tears sprang to my eyes. My mind rattled. Ringing filled my ears. If he dies, I have no concept of how I could live one moment without him. How could I ever allow that final prayer with him in our living room be the last touch of his hands? His arms around his family. His strength as he asked God to protect us. How could I ever move again without him in my world? Just somewhere in my world.
“If daddy were to die, we will find a way to keep him in our hearts. We have so many fun memories, and those are the things we will remember,” I said, praying it was what she needed to hear.
It wasn’t. “If someone can take Daddy from me, can they take my memories?” she asked.
There it was—my chance to give her some sense of control.
“No. It is impossible. Those feelings you have only belong to you. Nothing can take him away from you as long as you have memories and thoughts of him,” I said.
My heart ached. I have done this to my child. I have handed her the truth, and I fear what it will do to her while she waits for him.
But for that moment, she was content. Knowing that she controlled her heart. And, even though I know her questions are far from over, at least I know she slept that night, and awoke with a calmness I haven’t seen in a while.
I just pray it lasts long enough to bring him home.
