The point of it all.

I’m standing in a crowded bar watching the UFC when it hits me.

There’s a stage of life that Dh and I missed.

I look around, listening to invincible young men give commentary on the fight and realize the reason I feel so out of place is not only my age now, but that at their age, Dh was in Afghanistan for the 3rd time and I was expecting my 3rd child.
Our life then was far removed from their lives, now.

Not better, or more important, or more mature.  Just removed.

Different.

Our life looks like the life of any Canadian middle class family. We go to work, our kids go to school.  We go to the gym, we drive kids to Youth Group, running club, babysitting, birthday parties and martial arts.

But then, someone in line behind me at Starbucks has a loud and mostly ignorant conversation with their partner about the current government and the illequiped Canadian Forces who are ‘war hungry‘.

And I think to myself, perhaps they confused ‘hungry‘ with ‘weary’.

In 2002 my country reacted with overwhelming pride when Dh left to fight a war against those responsible for acts of terror.  Surprisingly, the Prime Minister didn’t call and ask his opinion on whether was the right place to fight, or the right time, or with the right equipment.  The powers that be said ‘Go’ and Dh left.

In 2004 my community acted with overwhelming indifference when Dh went back to the same war again, as though somehow maybe he was at fault that they didn’t get it all sorted out those first 6 months.  When I responded to people by telling them Dh was in Afghanistan, the most common answer I got was ‘but I thought they came home years ago.’

In 2007 he was off again and this time indifference had moved over for indignation.  “Why would he keep leaving”  they would say.  “When this war was only ever about oil anyways?”

As though my family single handidly created foreign policy.

We don’t, we just live the consequence of it.

The truth is, my husband fought a war and came home, alive and not wounded.  There are no days to celebrate that, no monument for that honour.  Nor would he ever, ever want one.  He won’t even use a Veteran licence plate.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t live just a tiny bit differently.

In my house, we don’t point toy guns at people.

In my house wait lists are a thing we go on and never see the end of, because we’ll move before our turn.

In my house, we’ve spent months sleeping apart when reintegration didn’t go as planned, and even longer making it work afterwards.

In my house, when we go out I instinctively give Dh the seat against the wall, facing the room. And the exit.

In my house I will take time off work for any Remembrance Day ceremony my kids attend, because of that one time where the random Google images showed my son for the first time his dad carrying the flag draped coffin of a friend and I wasn’t there.

In my house if it’s been a day when the news has dredged up the 5ooth inquiry into the death of Dh’s comrade, we will probably skip the gym and go out for dinner.

In my house on September 24th, November 11th, March 2nd, April 17th our hearts hurt a little and it’s taken years to realize we can’t pretend they don’t.

In my house there have been sleepless nights, nightmares, spotless front entrances, 2am phonecalls, tears, memorials, fear, anger, pride and perseverance.

In my house there’s been YouTube worthy reunions and messy reintegrations.

In my house I will either avoid your conversation of the war, or respond with misdirected defensiveness.

And in my house this month our living room will fill with bags that will disappear into the night and that’s our normal.  

While the rest of the country will, sometimes loudly, debate, protest, argue or push for war, we stand a little quietly on the sidelines.

War isn’t just a theory that is debated by armchair generals from the comfort of their homes.

It’s fought by average Canadian men and women and it’s effects extend deeply into their families.

That doesn’t mean it should never happen, sometimes it does.  And that’s why the Canadian Forces exist. And that’s why men like Dh keep a green bag in the living room, getting underfoot.  It’s why some will spend 4-6 months a year in peacetime apart from their families training, or learning, or planning.

That decision to go is not ours to make.  But it is ours to bear the burden of.

And that’s OK.  We had a choice for this life and we continue to make it, because being a soldier is who Dh is.

Over a decade ago I watched a Welcome Home parade for Dh’s return from Kandahar.
As the soldiers marched past, a woman in the crowded downtown street called out “Babykillers!”

I looked up, unsure of what I’d heard.

Then I saw her run over to the sidewalk and spit the words at the men again, her eyes furious and hand clenching her crumpled ‘Thank You’ pamphlet.

“BABYKILLERS!”

My hands formed fists next my cartoonishly big pregnant belly, and my eyes filled up with tears.  The retired soldier standing nearby just said in a resigned tone “It’s OK.  They said the same things to us when we got back from Kosovo.  They just don’t know.”

Lately, I’ve thought a lot about my grandfather’s generation.  How little did we know about his personal struggles with the aftermath of the war.  The sacrifice of his coming home.

How many times did we take it for granted.  How many times did I?

I think my Grandfather would argue that every moment we didn’t have to think about the realities of his war was the reason he fought it in the first place.

These days, I think of how easily my social media news feed fills with media commentary, sarcastic responses to war rumours and tweets written by those who have never seen, from the comfort of homes that have never been afraid.

Then I look across my kitchen to the simple poppy and black bands adorning paintings of war, there to remind my family, as though there was a possibility we might forget, that we are the lucky ones.

And I look at that barrack box on the bedroom floor, half full, reminding me there’s always more to do.

And I realize that retired soldier was right.  

It’s OK.  They just don’t know.

I’m starting to think that’s not always a bad thing.

Maybe, maybe that was the whole point of it all.

Comments

comments