“Our small group is going paintballing” he tells me. “I saw that” I reply, hoping to end the conversation with my disinterest. “I signed us up.” “I hope” I sigh, “that by us, you mean you.” “You’re coming!” He laughs “it’s fun, you’re going to love it.” We’ve been married almost 15 years. He’s spent well over 2 of those years at war, as a combat soldier. We were just 20 the first time he left. The first 3 deployments happened almost like clockwork, 2 years apart. He just returned from his 4th this spring. He is pulling out clothes in the morning “we can both wear a pair of my combats.” I stare at him “uh… you realize you have 50lbs on me.” “It’s not a fashion show.” He’s holding them up to me. “They cinch. Paint washes off them well.” “I didn’t sign up for this” I huff while I pull them on. I feel like those first deployments happened quickly and I didn’t have a lot of time to process. Dh doesn’t talk about his time away much. I was overwhelmed at home with the kids while he was gone each time. By the middle of the third, it was sinking in harder. The casualties were close to home. I spent the last day of Dh’s 3rd deployment at a funeral for a member of his squadron. It hadn’t been the first. I don’t know why the fear hadn’t caught me before as…
The last several months have been seeped with attempts to win fear. First there was the incident in Quebec where military members were run down in their own country and one lost his life. Scary and heartbreaking, but seemed like a one-off incident. It was a little easier to breath after that one because maybe, maybe that coward behind his car was the only one. Then there was the shooting in Ottawa. Another soldier, this time gunned down by a madman who rushed into our Parliament. The country took notice. It was on everyone’s mind, everyone lips. It was around that time I was sending Dh on his 4th deployment. Everything was standing still. The memories of sending him to Afghanistan after 9/11 started to creep back in, reminding me of the time when the reasons seemed more obvious than they have become. After the years where deployments have started to blend together (“wait, was that during your 2nd tour or your 3rd?“), years where the quiet complacency that can only be found in countries like ours where war and terror are far removed from our normal, clouded the resolve that had once been clear. When I see the news and hear the coffee shop/break room chatter, I want it to feel like it used to. Removed. That while devastating to some, not life altering to me. Selfishly, so selfishly, I want to be one of those people in line at Starbucks who analyze every political talking point of these events with the ease of those who have never watched a bus pull away. I want to be one of those college students on the train who theorize conspiracies and…
