My husband never ceases to amaze me...underneath the gruff exterior, there beats a heart of gold. Over the years, with time, maturity, and hard knocks of life, one learns to hold in emotions and develop a thicker skin; I tried to learn to roll with the ups and downs of life as a law enforcement wife. A person hears much about the sacrifices of military wives and families, especially in war time--I can also testify to the fact that the families of police and correctional officers have their own very real, if less publicized, challenges to face. (And in no way do I mean any disrespect to our military families--I am so grateful for them and what they do. And many law enforcement families are, or have been, military families too. I simply mean that we who have loved ones in law enforcement have our hurdles as well, that are unique to the job.) From the naive, trusting, romantic child I was during the teenage years, realism--and oh, maybe just a touch of cynicism, from time to time--gradually set in.
Hubby and I were married in 1997. Our love grew deep, strong, and tough with the years. We worked together, laughed together, raised children together, and shared annoyance for stupidity (sometimes other people’s, sometimes mine) together. We lacked nothing that we truly needed--the Lord provided abundantly for our needs. Sometimes I knew my dear hubby was weary of me and my faults. He loved me a lot; his thoughts on divorce were always (tongue-in-cheek, of course) “it’s cheaper to keep her...” Which, considering that divorce and child support can financially ruin a man, is most certainly true...but I knew that it was not finances that kept him by my side. He really loved me, in spite of everything. I had never really felt worthy of such love, especially one as deep as his.
There was nothing lacking in our marriage that we truly needed...although I must admit that we didn’t have an overabundance of romantic moments. But often, just when I was worn out with the mundane and the routine of life, or just plain worn out and discouraged, I would see a glimpse of the depth of his love for me that was beautiful enough to satisfy even the long-ago romantic ideals of my teenage years. And my heart would almost burst with joy, and at the same time ache with the knowledge that I was not good enough to deserve such love.
The term “best friend” is thrown around rather loosely these days...and I have been guilty of it too. In my husband--in his love, integrity, and loyalty--I have found my best friend here on earth.
In L. M. Montgomery’s “Anne” series, written in the early part of the 20th century, Anne Shirley and Diana Barry take an oath of friendship to be “bosom friends.” I loved this description of their faithful friendship--showing what a truly innocent child I was when I first read these books. I understood immediately that they were “friends who knew each other’s hearts.” I didn’t have a bosom friend, but I knew exactly what the author meant by it. In our way over-sexualized culture of 100 years later, I sometimes hesitate to use the term “bosom friends.” But there is no modern equivalent to it. It would be a disservice to my husband to equate another friendship to what he and I have been through together through the years. My husband is, and has been my best friend for many years. But, because he is male and I am female, I often have to explain things to him. And he understands partially, the best he can, as a man. He has my heart, holds it in his hand completely. But it takes another girl to be a “bosom friend,” I think--to know another girl's heart and understand as only another lady can do...and such a rare friendship is a gem not to be taken for granted, and never to be forgotten. And this was the friendship that God gave to my dear friend Anne and me. And this, of course, is why i have named her Anne for the purposes of these stories.
And, my husband, in his wisdom, saw what a good thing this friendship was. He was determined that, if it were in his power to do so, he would see that Anne and I got to meet each other here--here on earth, before God called one or the other of us Home. So, for Christmas, he bought me a plane ticket west.
I was a bit frightened. I was barely able to function normally in my own home territory. What would I do 2000 miles away? With hours on an airplane (in a confined space--a terribly, small, confined space of a seat) between here and there? Anne had her own misgivings...but she only confided them to me later. The wild excitement that I was actually coming to visit was all that I heard at the time. The plane tickets were purchased for the last week in January, in order to give both of us time to recover from Christmas--and to give me a little more time to get stabilized.
Christmas was coming. I tried to do the normal stuff--what I remembered to be normal from years past, anyway. (I was doing a lot of guessing at normal...watching people around me for social cues when I was out “among people,” trying to remember what I had done in previous years for holidays and other seasonal things.) In spite of my best efforts, I don’t think I was doing very well.
I didn’t do crowds; when they were unavoidable--such as family gatherings, I often hid out away from any noise or lots of activity. Church was next to impossible; Sunday School was sometimes do-able, but I often got claustrophobic since our room was small and had this tendency to shrink when it got full. I couldn’t concentrate anyway...most of what I got out of class was practicing techniques for controlling panic attacks. Guess there is always something useful a person can be doing, even when one’s brain is a little foggy...
A few days before Christmas, a dear lady my husband had known from childhood and the mother of two of his close friends--passed away very suddenly from a heart attack. When I found out, it felt like someone punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t bear it, but I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t cry, I just ached too deep in my soul. She had always treated us like members of the family--she was so accepting and loving to us. We were often included in their family gatherings, even though technically we weren’t family (so far, even my 89 year old grandfather, who has been a historian and geneologist for most of his adult life, hasn‘t found any geneological connection between our families). I don’t know why she seemed to love us so, but we loved her for it. I felt as though I lost a very dear aunt. And there was nothing we could do to make it better. All we could do was to be there, to grieve with these people we had come to love so much.
I took the maximum doses of my panic meds and did the best I could to get through the viewing and funeral. It was very hard, but if I had hidden out at home, I would have always regretted it. Dear patient hubby described my demeanor at times as a “sullen teenager;” I attributed it to the meds and the fact that I was still in survival mode. (I didn’t realize how very withdrawn I had become until later, when I started to come out of my shell. Several months later, he said, I began to talk again.) But none of us were ourselves...we sat in shocked, grief-stricken silence or making small talk to fill the silence and to keep from thinking about the matters at hand.
The funeral was on Christmas Eve. After that, we tried to settle back into the Christmas festivities, but there was a sadness hanging over us that did not leave for a long time. It seemed like, no matter where I turned, I was surrounded by the possibility or reality of losing someone dear to me.
I was never sorry for my training and experience as an EMT, but images and thoughts would pop into my mind, and I could not stop them. Thanks to field experiences and training classes, I had a wealth of terrible images and scenarios to draw from. But, as with all other mountains to climb, this too had to be conquered one step at a time. Again, there was always something useful I could be doing--even if it was just to put the techniques for dealing with this stuff into practice. I had to keep reminding myself that these were just disturbing thoughts. Not reality. At least, not my reality, not now. (Sadly, every bit of it was reality for somebody, at some time.) But I had to put it aside and look at the real life around me. The good things, the blessings God had given me. I kept telling myself this, kept trying to work with the panic attacks...and slowly, with time, the horrible thoughts and images became less bothersome. Never completely gone, but less bothersome.
I firmly pushed the thought of the potential of losing Anne out of my mind. I would think about that later, when I was stronger. Meanwhile, I concentrated on getting through each day as it came. And, as slowly the clouds lifted, I was finally able to feel happy. I could look forward to things again. I was truly excited to go see her.
January 30, 2013
It was a cold, windy, beautiful day out west, where the skies were huge and brilliantly blue. The sun was shining, but there was a prairie blizzard somewhere between the airport and my destination. I was on my way to spend a week with my “bosom friend,” this friend after my own heart. I was at baggage claim, getting my bags, telling her on my cell phone where to find me, and her next words were, “I know, I’m right behind you.” Then I was getting a hug from this girl who had become the sister I never had...the friend I never thought I would get to meet, here on earth.
But...here we were. Our God is so gracious; how tenderly He cares for us.
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