Perspective

“A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.” 
― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried 
  

Liam and I moved to Kuwait during one of the hottest months of the year. Like 130 degrees hot. Heat so oppressive it almost takes your breath away. 

Each time I'd leave our apartment during those first few months, I'd think Ugh! I just spent 30 minutes straightening my hair and it's frizzing already. AND my make-up is melting off my face. Now, mind you, this was all in the course of the few feet it took to get from our front door to the air-conditioned car. And then, inevitably, a little voice would pop into my head and say, "shut up, you idiot." (Ummm, yeah, we'll talk about my negative internal dialogue some other time). And I'd immediately get an image of my brother, a marine who served multiple deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, in this heat. In this heat wearing heavy boots and fatigues and a flak jacket, with no air conditioning, just trying to stay alive. Talk about getting a little perspective.

It's hard to live in this part of the world and not think about the men and women serving our country. I find myself thinking about them often, actually. I thought about them while I was at the embassy recently getting my passport renewed. Just the thought of going to a U.S. Embassy makes me nervous. I was shaking so badly I could barely manage to hold onto my paperwork. I thought about them the time I was absolutely sure someone had put a bomb on the back of our SUV, after a truck pulled behind us for a minute and then went speeding off. Or the time we were driving and there was a McDonald's bag placed perfectly in the middle of the road and my husband and I looked at each other and he said, "better drive around it...just in case." Or the time I thought a firecracker was a bomb. Or the time I thought the thunder shaking our apartment was a bomb. Hmmm...I'm beginning to notice a pattern here. Truth be told, this anxiety of mine worsens when I read novels set in Afghanistan or watch movies like ZERO DARK THIRTY, so I've realized I can no longer do that while I'm in this part of the world -- unless I want to continue thinking the buzzer on our dryer is a bomb getting ready to explode. Of course, the reality of this happening in Kuwait is not likely, but that doesn't stop me from thinking these irrational thoughts. Our armed forces go through extensive training, of course, and I'm sure learn how to best channel the adrenaline and anxiety that combat brings, in order to use it to their advantage, but that doesn't mean their minds and hearts aren't forever changed by it. It does not mean that it doesn't take its toll. Saying thank you doesn't even seem close to sufficient, but because I don't have any other words, thank you.

If you're interested in one marine's perspective on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, check out my brother's new blog: WarTorn 0331. A machine gunner who has served multiple deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, Sean writes about his experiences with a rawness and authenticity that haunts you long after you've left the page. As a writer, he is to the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars what Tim O'Brien was to Vietnam. He first sent me his writing, scribbled on ten small pieces of paper, during the Summer of 2011, while he was deployed in Afghanistan. I was on my way out when the mailman arrived; I opened his letter with the intention of taking a quick peek at it, but found myself standing in the doorway reading every single word. And then reading every single word again. I was completely taken in with the first sentence. You will be too.

Step by Step...with video of Liam walking!

9.27.12

You did it. You finally did it! We have been waiting for this day for over three years. Three years! Three and a half years since those gut-wrenching words were uttered, words that changed everything: we’ve found some deformities. Today, what seemed like just an ordinary Thursday, you did something we once thought was impossible: you took your first steps.

Step by step we’ve made our way on this journey together – this journey that began almost four years ago, with a very anxious soon-to-be Mama staring in disbelief at a screaming YES glaring back at her. Almost four years ago since making that very long-distance phone call to Daddy saying, I have to tell you something, but I’m not going to be able to say the words out loud. Just one month shy of your third birthday, and you did it.

My heart was so full tonight that my body simply couldn’t take it. As I lay in bed, I heaved and heaved thinking about the gravity of what you had accomplished. I sobbed reflecting back on those first few months after receiving the diagnosis, when I couldn’t even look at a little boy on a bicycle, or a baby standing on his wobbly, little legs without feeling a tightening in my chest. Without feeling like I was suffocating. Guilt at that time was a tangible thing. Anger was palpable. My body had betrayed me.

It wasn’t until first stepping foot in the spina bifida clinic, when you were three weeks old, that I truly realized the severity of what spina bifida and hydrocephalus meant: wheelchairs and braces and catheters and shunts and surgeries. All of the books and articles I had read during the second part of my pregnancy couldn’t have prepared me for what met me that day: spina bifida at every age. It was like your entire life flashed right before my very eyes. I felt the wind knocked out of me walking into the clinic that day. Your Auntie Maura somehow sensed what I was feeling, and simply sat quietly next to me, while I tried to catch my breath before making my way to the front desk. But I didn’t know then what I know now.

And now, here you are, standing on your own two wobbly legs. And here I am, knowing what I didn’t know then: that you are absolutely, positively who you were meant to be. You are perfect and bright and magical. You are an old soul in a young body. You have taught me and Daddy and our family more than we could have ever learned without you in our lives. Do you know that when your cousins play house one of them pretends to be a kid with spina bifida? Yep. It’s true. You have made clubbed feet and braces and shunts normal, which in turn has taught them to accept other kids who are different from themselves. You have changed the definition of disabled for us. Spina bifida doesn’t define you, it’s a part of you. Just another facet of the remarkable human being that you are. It has been a long three years, filled with therapy and doctor appointments and surgeries, but you did it, my angel baby. You did it.



***Update: I was finally able to get a video of Liam walking. He typically moves a bit faster and takes larger strides, but tends to get a little camera shy the second I hit Record. He has made even more progress, since taking his first steps back in September. When he first started walking, I had to hang on to the back of his RGO*, in order to help support him, and now he is able to rely completely on his walker to balance himself. He has also been standing between couches and taking small steps, without wearing his RGO. We are so proud of our Liam!
*Reciprocating Gait Orthosis -- the leg brace he wears that helps support him as he walks.

Click here for video of Liam walking!

And a few pictures for our friends not on Facebook:

Working on standing & taking steps without his RGO

Standin' around...because I can!

Someone likes to wear underwear on his head...