Ricketts - No Mans War: Irreverent Confessions of an Infantry Wife

NO MANS WAR

Copyright 2014 Angela Ricketts

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Other than the names of the Graham family members, Roselle Hoffmaster, George Casey, Stanley McChrystal, and David Petraeus, all names have been changed to protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and those who remain in The Fight. All opinions and attitudes expressed in this book are my own and do not reflect those of my husband or anyone else.

Library of Congress Data Is Available

ISBN 978-1-61902-383-3

Cover design by Faceout Studio

Interior Design by Megan Jones Design

COUNTERPOINT

1919 Fifth Street

Berkeley, CA 94710

www.counterpointpress.com

Distributed by Publishers Group West

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Contents

For my Mom and Dad.

Know that you are not alone And that this darkness has purpose; Gradually it will scchool your eyes To find the one gift your life requires Hidden within this night-corner

FOR COURAGE,

FROM TO BLESS THE SPACE BETWEEN US

BY JOHN ODONOHUE

I dreamed myself a thousand times around the world, But I cant get out of this place.

DAVE MATTHEWS

NOVEMBER 21, 2010

SOMETIMES WHEN YOU wake in the middle of the night its only for a slippery moment, a moment to re-cozy yourself, to remember with a flash of panic that forgotten appointment from the day before or to get up to potty. Potty is a word mothers begin using from the instant they give birth and never leaves their vocabulary until death. Sometimes what wakes you is a long-forgotten memory, the thing you tried to put behind you.

Once or twice in a lifetime you wake up and just know it: You are dying, even though three hours ago you were watching Weeds and fluffing pillows on the couch and wiping down the kitchen countertops because you never know what the night will bring. And because a perfectly neat home masks the other mess that spins beyond control.

I jerk awake and move the empty wine glass to see the time on the digital clock. Two something. I should remember the precise time on the clock, but I am a date person. Dates I remember; times, not so much.

In the silent house with a staring cat and three sleeping children and again without a husband present, I struggle through sleepy, disoriented eyes to remember where I am. A sweet artificial stank hangs in the air; oh yeah, the Yankee Candle I blew out before I slammed the last gulp of wine. Nothing looks familiar as I go back and forth in my mind; which issue is more pressing, the crushing pain in my chest or where the hell I am? The glare of the streetlight shining into the window reminds me Im home, home for now. This is our third house in less than two years, and it takes me a minute to remember where I am. Fort Campbell. Just across the Tennessee border, but with a Kentucky address, surely the result of a political fight over which state got to claim ownership of the home of the 101st Airborne. Im back in the familiar zone I like to think of as Grey Street, a favorite Dave Matthews song about a woman who feels numbed and paralyzed by her life. Like her world has spiraled beyond her control. Where colors bleed and overlap into only gray. The vibrancy of each color not lost, just absorbed into a blanket of grayness. The gray of autopilot. The gray of another deployment, of a home with a man of the house who wouldnt know which drawer held the spoons. Hes the man of the house in concept alone. He is three months into a yearlong deployment in Afghanistan, with no need to even own a house key.

But in this two-something wee hour, these ideas are just whispers under my blankets and inside my skin. My feet nudge around looking for the children, who sometimes wander half asleep into my bed. As soon as I move I feel it, the thing that startled me awake. It isnt a dream or a memory or a forgotten appointment. Its pain, the physical kind. What frightens me in that moment isnt the gripping pain in my chest, but a wave of incomprehensible terror for its newness and unfamiliar nature. A twisting stab in my back pushes me out of bed and to my feet. I feel sweat roll down the back of my neck, but its almost Thanksgiving and I allow the chill from outside to come into our home at night. I prefer the insulation of blankets and flannel pajamas to warm air.

Oh hell. Its a panic attack. My body is at long last going on strike, revolting from the stress of eight long, intense deployments. Thats what Ive been warned of, anyway, in the resiliency workshops and briefings army wives sit through during deployments. Well, before deployments, during deployments, and after deployments. So all the time. Whatever you face or feel, surely its addressed in a binder somewhere. The armys philosophy is that just by virtue of identifying and labeling an issue, its 95 percent fixed. At each available opportunity, we are reminded to pace ourselves and manage stress. I picture the PowerPoint slide: Panic attacks are a terrifying but normal reaction: It will feel like you are going to die, but here are coping tips... Remember, we are ARMY STRONG! But what were the tips? Dammit. Breathe. Thats surely one. I do feel like Im going to die.

I grab my cell phone off the dresser and wander through the upstairs of our quiet house. Joe is almost a teenager, a stack of Call of Duty: Black Ops video games just inches from his sleeping head and a game controller teetering on the edge of the bed. The violent video games that Jack allowed because they are a reality of his job. Jack argued that the video games are disturbing with their accuracy and not gratuitous in their violence. The line between good guys and bad guys is clear, at least in the game.

Our two daughters, Bridget, who is ten, and Greta, five, are curled together in Bridgets room across the hall. Using the term our is an effort on my part. My children comes more naturally; I have to make an effort to remind myself that these are our children. Im not alone in parenting, at least not in theory. In reality, yes, I am alone.

In this moment of defining chest pain I am alone.

The blinding streetlight streams into the adjacent rooms and onto my sleeping babies. Sometimes, when morning comes, I find all three kids together in one bed, or all of us in my bed. But this is how they landed tonight.

My left shoulder pangs and I grip the wall without a sound. Just my palm on the ugly wall. For years the army painted the inside of our homes chalky white; then they decided to get all snazzy with the neutral tones.

At the bottom of the stairs, our wedding portrait hangs, and the light hits my neck in the photo just perfectly. I bought that double strand of mock pearls intending to wear them choker style with the wedding dress that I thought was so simple compared with the other dresses in the early 1990s. When my wedding day finally arrived, I was thankful beyond measure that the pearls were adjustable and could hang loosely around my neck instead of high on my throat. The latter would have been prettier, more chic. But I couldnt bear it. Couldnt bear to have anything choke me.