A Frank Discussion about Deployment

Deployment is not for the weak…

Even for the families

A plain and frank discussion

 

So, once again, we see examples of the real heroes in our life. Our first responders… here in the fire ravaged state of California… dealing with the worst fires in the state’s history.

They are not politicians. They are not glory hounds. They are not movie stars. They are not “larger than life” personalities.

They are ordinary people called upon to do extraordinary things in the worst of circumstances. They are called to be examples of the best that we can be. They make the ultimate sacrifice sometimes, but even if they survive to fight another day, the images of heartbreak are seared into their individual and collective memories, and just like those in a military based war, suffer from the return of those memories… memories that will haunt for the rest of their lives.

The trauma of PTSD is well documented among first responders. It is said that you are only “one call away from the end of your career… and you don’t know what that call might come or what it might involve.” It could be simple, or it could be a train wreck. And it might be the call that breaks your will.

But often overlooked in all of this are the families… the ones who stay behind and keep the home fires burning and praying night after night and morning after morning for that phone call or text that says “Good night! I love you!” or “Good morning, honey!” It is only when that message comes that a sigh is released knowing that another night or day has been survived. And then, it is on to the next night or day.

Days that are filled with the mundane… the shopping, the laundry, the household chores now the responsibility of one instead of two, maybe a job of their own to distract from the worry… only to be followed by a night filled with an empty bed, no good night kiss, or a fond embrace. Physical needs as well as emotional needs get put off for another time… a time when, hopefully, that loved one returns and takes their place again at the dinner table, in the passenger seat, on their side of the bed.

There are tales of military families that undergo this separation routinely… tales of success as well as tales of failures. The “Dear John” letters of any conflict meaning that the pain has become too much… the painful crying out for “Momma” from the lips of a dying soldier as he remembers that one love that never ceases. All these are depicted in film and novel and non-fiction. And rightfully so because it is a sad fact of life when it comes to separation.

But how it is different when I hear my wife has gotten the call to deploy on a strike team to a fire ravaged area of California? I could say “No” but how selfish would that be? I know that her skills as a Paramedic are needed in an emergency that rivals any military conflict but this time, it is with an enemy that shows no mercy, no quarter, and no retreat. A natural disaster cares not for politics, color, religion, or economic status. It will burn down, wash away, blow apart a mansion with the same fury as  it does a tar paper shack. And the consequent heartbreak of the inhabitants viewing what is left of a lifetime of work is no different than seeing the bombed-out shells of homes in war zone. It is war but Mother Nature has a way of winning.

What I am trying to say it that it is no different being the spouse/child/loved one of a military person or the spouse/child/loved one of a first responder… the pain of separation is the same. The pain and anguish and worry are the same. The anxious days and nights are the same.

Yet, we seldom hear of support groups for nurses, doctors, firefighters, EMS or for their families. We are left to cope for ourselves. Outside of the immediate home, there is little thought given to “I wonder if she is okay or needs help with the kids?” or “I wonder if I should make a call just to see if I can lighten his load with a friendly voice?” or “Gee, I hope everything is okay over there and they are alright”.

Because quite often, we are thought to be as tough as that loved one who went running into the fire or firefight or the flood zone or the battle zone. And sometimes, we are. We have been steeled by all those solo trips to the store or birthday party or church service. We have gotten used to having no one answer when we call the house by mistake. We have become immune to the long nights and early mornings waiting for those words “Hey honey! How was your night?” letting us know that everything is okay.

But sometimes it is not… not for those left behind. If, God forbid, we get that awful call telling us that the worst has happened, we are not reassured by the fact that they “didn’t suffer” or “their pain is ended” and “they rest easy now”. Because that will never be our fate. And we do think about it… often.

So where am I going with this?

Here.

Pick up the phone. Walk across the street. Get in your car. Go check on those people that you know are in the position of watching… and waiting… and worrying.

It is not easy being the shoulder to cry on… it sucks, quite frankly.

But we are only strong for so long.

And then we need help as well.

Seriously… we need you. Just as you need the one that left us to help you… we need to you to run into our damaged hearts and souls and minds and be a hero. Maybe it will only be for a minute.

But you never know what a difference that minute can make.

You just never know.