What Should Have Killed Me....

Though in fact I felt like I was going to die, like my heart was being brutally torn from my body, I somehow didn’t. Though I didn’t know it at the time (and if I had, would I have been able to see? Most likely not), much good would follow. But then, during that time and that place, my heart was too badly bruised to see anything further.

It was June of 2004. My husband had recently deployed, and our three-year-old daughter and I could look forward to the next ten months without him. For our child, the one he loved most next to me, it was devastating. Her prince, her hero, and the completion of our family just wasn’t there. There were no “Daddy stories” at bedtime, no games of the kind that only Daddies play, no dinners with all three of us sitting around the table laughing and being together. There was only a yawning gap which I was unable to fill. Being only three, she didn’t know, couldn’t understand the “why” behind it. She didn’t know that Daddy deploys to keep us safe and to protect us. She only knew that her Daddy was gone. Oh sure, occasionally she’d get to talk to him. But in some ways, I think that made it worse. Hearing Daddy’s voice, wondering when he might walk in the front door, only to be told yet again, “No, Daddy won’t be home tonight, but you can snuggle with Mommy. We’ll snuggle together and hold each other tight ‘til Daddy comes home.”

You see, I could handle it. I was fine, just fine. Didn’t like it of course, but I knew what to expect. I had been through a deployment before, I had done it. So I would be the rock for our girl, I would be her strength. I would answer the calls from my husband with a light heart so that our girl could see my smile, and be comforted. Because if Mommy’s doing ok, it must not be such a bad thing. I can look to Mommy, and as long as she looks ok, then we can make it through.

So I did. I knew to hide my tears, my anger, and my frustration from our little girl. I was the picture of resolve, strength, and grit. I was a Navy wife, after all, and I could hold my head up proud that I could bid my love good-bye with nary a whimper. I was wrong. Dreadfully wrong, as I was soon to find out.

It started with little things, like not being able to stop crying at night after our girl had fallen asleep curled up next to me. Or not being QUITE as thrilled with the coming of spring as I normally was. There was the lack of joy I was experiencing in most of my life. Then there was my extreme frustration over…..well, over everything. I no longer seemed able to cope with anything. Yet still, I told myself I was surviving.

These should have been warning flags. Maybe they were, but I was too lost to know it. My father was ill, having come back from a massive heart attack in December. I attributed my sadness to my man being gone, and my dad being sick. I convinced myself that it was natural to not be one’s perky self in these situations. Almost. I mean, one could be forgiven for not being Holly Happiness, right?

It turns out I wasn’t nearly as good as convincing myself of my health and well-being as I thought I was. Coincidently, I wasn’t really able to convince others as well. My husband, poor man, was subjected to the sound of his wife’s tears on the phone when he called. A sound that ripped his heart out, but that he could do nothing about. All he could do was reassure me, and our child, that he WOULD return, things WOULD be ok. And that he missed us and loved us very much. Our phone calls would end with tearful “I love you’s” followed by a gaping silence. A silence interrupted by our child’s small voice, and my tearful or angered voice.

My best girlfriend knew there was something wrong. She looked, she listened, she let me cry or rant or vent when I needed to. She loved on me. My parents knew things weren’t right. They talked, or joked, trying to lift me out of my ‘funk’ by pretending that all was good. I wasn’t having it. I think their love and concern only made me more frustrated, deep down inside knowing that I wasn’t handling things, I wasn’t coping, and I was just plain miserable.

One day I was at what seemed to be my breaking point. I called my dear friend, asked her to meet me so we could go walking. That was my cure, my anesthetic to my pain. Short-lived, usually, but sometimes it worked. Of course, I couldn’t tell my friend how upset I was with my child nearby (after all, I was quite sure that my language would NOT be G-rated!), but I knew that I could drop her off at my parents’ house.

I walked in the door, and the first person I saw was my father. With barely-contained tears and a look of desolation on my face, I didn’t have to say much.

“Watch my kid, watch my dog? Please, Dad? I don’t know when I’ll be back. A few hours, maybe?” After watching my child run happily off to the backyard, I glanced up at my mom. Naturally, she was concerned.

“What’s wrong? Are you ok?” I heard her ask. I couldn’t answer that. I honestly wasn’t sure then if I was ok or not. I thought my head was going to explode, I hurt so bad. I shook my head, and looked back at my dad with what had to be a pleading look. He held his arms out to me with a nod, and gave me a kiss.

“Whatever you need, honey. You take what time you need, we’ll be right here.” I kissed my dad on the cheek, and left without another word.

We walked, my friend and I. Ok, so maybe we were running. Maybe I thought I could outrun the pain I was feeling. And we talked. At least, I think we talked. I’m pretty sure she had things to say, but all I remember is words of pain and anger and hurt and frustration pouring out of me. I was hurting so much without my wonderful husband, and I just didn’t get WHY I was having such a hard time. I had done this before, remember? WHY was this so difficult? Why was I failing? How come I was such a bad parent, and a bad daughter, and a bad friend, and a bad WIFE? How could I say I was a strong Navy wife, when the only thing my husband had heard lately was how badly I was hurting? I remember walking, and saying over and over, WHY and HOW.

My dear friend, bless her heart, let me walk and walk and rant and rave until I had lessened some of the horrible pain I felt. Always possessing of just the right wisdom at just the right time, by the end of the night, I was definitely feeling better. Not great, mind you, just better. Ok, this is good, things are ok, I can handle this. Apparently all I needed to do was just vent. That’s my problem, I’ve just been keeping everything locked up inside. Silly me, I know I can’t do this alone. We made a ‘date’ to talk more, to keep sane by being together, and I returned to my parents’ feeling lighter of heart.

My mom, though still concerned, noticed that I was no longer running as if the Devil himself were after me. We talked and laughed a bit, but after such a day, I was exhausted. I only wanted to take my girl home, snuggle into Daddy’s pillows, and laugh and joke and talk and fall asleep cuddled together. I think my dad knew that all had not been resolved, but never said anything. Again, he simply gave me a gigantic hug and kiss, and told me he loved me.

“Thanks, Dad. I can’t tell you how much,” I whispered to him when I said goodbye. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” he said with a smile. “Now take our girl home and you two get some rest.”

The fragile hold I had on ‘control’ seemed to slip day by day. No, I wasn’t able cope. No, I wasn’t going to feel better. And NO, I didn’t want anyone’s help! I just needed to figure out WHY I wasn’t feeling any better with the passage of time. I just needed to figure out WHY I couldn’t do this, when I obviously did just fine before!! And seriously, quit bugging me about it, I’m FINE! Can’t you SEE that I’m FINE? I’m JUST FINE, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I’m not sure who I was trying to convince. But it obviously wasn’t working.

Then came the day I was so upset with my child ( I think she committed the horrible sin of spilling milk) that I yelled at her until she cried. And I was filled with a horrible, shameful loathing of myself. I sat on my floor (spilled milk regardless) and rocked my girl over and over and over again, sobbing and telling her how sorry I was. I hated myself at that moment, I hated that I had hurt my child over my own folly and stupidity. I loathed myself, and begged her forgiveness. Being the wonderful, delightful, and innocent child that she is, it took very little hesitation on her part to sandwich my face between her small hands. She kissed my tear-stained cheeks, gave me the biggest hug her little arms could, and said in her pure sweet child’s voice, “I love you Mommy. I forgive you.” Her sunny smile made me feel so much better…and yet, it made me feel worse at the same time.

What kind of person was I that I could ignore all these flags? Would I truly continue to subject my child to this anger and heartache because I was too stubborn to admit that I really COULDN’T DO IT? I was terrified. And resolved. I knew I needed help. Big time. Not an easy thing to ask for, me being a strong type-A and all. I was so ashamed of needing to ask for help that I didn’t tell anyone. Not a soul, not at first. I figured I’d make an appointment with the psychiatrist and see what came of things. Then after, and only if I needed to, would I disclose what little tidbits I felt necessary.

All those red flags I mentioned before? Well, turns out they were pretty strong signs of Major Depression Disorder. I was aghast. I was mentally ill? I was one of “THOSE” who couldn’t control their feelings and needed medication? I was supposed to ‘lie back and tell me what you see in the ink-blot’? Great! How the heck was I going to explain this turn events! What would my husband think, my parents, my friends? How would I tell anyone at all? Well, that’s easy. I wouldn’t! No one needed to know.

No one, of course, except my husband whom I tell everything to. I couldn’t go through something as major as this without his advice and support. My best friend also had to know. She’s always listened when I had something going on. In my heart, I was a little shy of telling the two of them, but not afraid. I knew neither of them would ever hurt me or laugh at me; on the contrary, I knew that both my husband and my friend would always support me. Especially through the tough times.


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A little while passed, although to this day I have no idea how long. A few weeks, maybe? Things were doing mostly ok. Still not terrific, but ok. I was learning much about my illness, and that it truly was an illness, and not a state of mind. I began taking anti-depressive medication, and quickly realized that I had been hurting unnecessarily. There had been no reason (other than my own stubbornness and ignorance) for subjecting my girl and myself to the pain of the last months. I apologized again to her, and we began taking shaky steps towards finding the peace we once enjoyed. We were coping, our girl and I. Mostly.

My parents went to the coast for a few days with my sister and her husband and their two girls. It was a great vacation for them. Playing on the beach, shopping, barbequing, relaxing. One evening, about five pm, my brother-in-law called.
“Dad’s had a heart attack.”

Those words tore at me. I had hope, though. After all, Dad had had a heart attack in December, and had come through it. Things were going to be ok.

“The ambulance is coming, they are taking him to the hospital. I’ll call you when I know more. I’ll keep you posted. I promise.”

I called my youngest brother immediately. We talked and worried, the two of us together. Should we get in the car and drive to the coast? It was a three-hour drive, but at least we would be there if something happened, if my mom needed support, if they needed to do surgery or anything. We could be there. Ok, let’s go. You make the arrangements on your end, I’ll make them on mine. Get ready, meet me here in about twenty minutes.

About fifteen minutes later, my phone rang again. Somehow, I knew before I answered, as soon as I saw that out-of-state area code, I knew. My brother-in-law’s voice came from many, many miles away.

“Dad’s dead.” Silence. Only silence. I’m sure he could hear the tears running down my face, as I could hear his. “He had a massive heart attack on the deck, they think he died instantly. They doctors don’t think he felt any pain. Mom was here, and we were. The girls were just in the other room. He was on the deck, looking out at the ocean. “ More silence. What in heaven’s name could I say? Since December, we had all sort of expected it….that didn’t make the reality any easier.

“Andy, you’ll take care of Mom and Tess, right? And the girls? Take care of them.” That was all I could say. Of course, he said. We’ll call you when we know more.

I hung up the phone that night, and started dialing. I couldn’t yet tell my child that her Poppa had died. I couldn’t yet reconcile my own heart; how was I to tell my girl? I called my brother to tell him we didn’t need to head to the coast. I called my friends and I called my parents’ friends so my mom wouldn‘t have to. I called the Red Cross to find out how to get the news to my husband. In between phone calls, I hoped (with little expectation) that my husband would call me back.

Over the next hour, friends started showing up. They sat on my couch, mostly just being there for me. I think one of them brought food, but I really have no idea. At about eight that night, my phone rang again. By this time, I was numb, yet answered every phone call. I was the strong one, you see. I was the backbone of the family. I related the same information over and over. Then, from very far away, I heard the voice I most longed to hear but most feared I wouldn’t. Since the Red Cross message had already gone out, my husband already knew what had happened. I sat on my porch and talked with him for about fifteen minutes or so. Since he was calling on a ship-to-shore connection, we didn’t have long. We ended the conversation far too soon, with his promise to do all he could to get emergency leave. Don’t count on it, he warned me, considering where we are right now. No, I didn’t count on it. Honestly, I really didn’t think he would come home. Needs of the Navy and all that. But it was a nice hope, at the end of a horrible day.

After hanging up the phone, it slowly dawned on me that three of my dearest friends had been sitting on my couch for hours while I did nothing but talk on the phone. They smiled when I said this. Its ok, they said. That’s what we’re here for. You do what you need to, and we’ll just be here. We’ll take care of you and your girl. MY GIRL!!! Oh no, it was nearly nine pm, and I hadn’t fed my girl. What kind of horrible mother was I, that I had gotten so wrapped up in phone calls that I had forgotten the time, and neglected to feed my girl. I was horrified!

No, they said. Its ok, we fed her about two hours ago. We’ve been entertaining her, and playing with her, she’s just fine. I collapsed into tears (again, still?) and told them again how grateful I was for them. Its what friends do, they assured me. You do what you need to, and we’ll take care of you and her. Possibly the first smile in four hours may have peeked out, realizing how blessed I was by those around me. As that exhausting day drew to a close, my dear friends went back to their families, promising to be only a phone call away. I dropped into a catatonic-sort of sleep somewhere in the darkest part of the morning.

I really have no memory of those next few days. I ate, I slept ( I think?), I talked to countless people. I know I leaned on lots of people, since I seemed unable to keep myself upright. I’m not sure which one of my friends were there at which times, but I do know that my child was fed and happy. For that, I can never thank them enough.

Contrary to everything I thought, my husband was approved for emergency leave. He was coming home! In my head, I knew that the reason for his short leave was because of my father’s death. But in my heart, all that mattered was that he was coming home. Oh, I knew it was only for a brief period. But it meant that I wouldn’t have to go through my father’s funeral without him. It also meant that I wouldn’t have to tell our daughter alone about the loss of her beloved Poppa.

Between that last ship-to-shore phone call and seeing my husband at the airport, I had nothing but time to fill. Time, great rolling waves of time that seemed to stretch on forever. Days were ok; after all, I had a three-year-old. A three-year-old who still required food, love, and attention. But her bedtime was at eight. And the hours between eight pm and eight am are the longest, darkest, dreariest hours ever seen. My tears flowed, my heart ached (because by now, some of the numbness was wearing off, and pain was seeping in), and I was lonely.

I desperately missed my husband, the love of my life but I would see him soon, so that was good. I hadn’t even begun to miss my father yet, and yet his loss was so poignant that I could barely stand it. I couldn’t begin to recount the things that would never be again, the things we would never share, the things I would never hear or say to him. I couldn’t even imagine my mother’s pain at losing her life’s partner. I thought my heart would simply swell up and break in two. At least if that happened, it might not hurt so badly, I reasoned. The pain I thought I had felt before? That was nothing compared to the heartache I experienced now. And so I wrote.

I wrote and wrote and wrote until I thought I would incinerate my keyboard. I wrote of happy things, and of sad things, of things that made me angry, and things that filled me with joy. I wrote about things that popped into my mind on the spur of a moment, and I wrote about things I ruminated about all day long. I simply wrote. I committed to paper (well, Word, anyway) all the things roiling through my brain at two and three and four in the morning. And, funny thing was, I started feeling better. Not all at once, of course, but gradually the stone began to lessen on my heart.

My husband’s brief return was marked with sadness of course, but also with so much relief and joy I could hardly stand it. And after my father’s services, we talked, my man and I. Late into the night we talked, and we cried, and we remembered, and we laughed. We talked about my parents’, and about my childhood memories, about the things we would miss, and the way we felt. When we finished talking about my dad, we talked about me. About my illness, and the steps I had taken to combat it. He told me how proud of me he was, to conquer my fears for the sake of our family, our child, and my health. He told me how smart I was to realize that I couldn’t, and shouldn’t, try to ‘go it alone’, and he commended me for looking for help.

I did much healing in my husband’s arms the week of my father’s memorial. God has a purpose for all things in life. As I grow closer to Him, I realize that there are no coincidences. To this day, I look upon that week not so much as a painful time, but as my father’s last and greatest gift to me. I now know that my father’s passing was well-timed, as his body had started to shut down and give out. He died peacefully, in the company of his beloved wife, darling daughter and husband, and two of his adored nieces, overlooking the ocean at sunset. Some may say that I didn’t get to say good bye to my dad. I don’t believe that is true; many weeks before, a few simple words had said all that needed saying between my father and I.

“Whatever you need, honey. You take what time you need, we’ll be right here.” “Thanks, Dad. I can’t tell you how much,” I whispered to him when I said goodbye. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” he said with a smile.