Every Military Spouse dreads “that phone call;” we literally live in fear of it daily. We are gripped with fear each time the doorbell rings. When I see “Unknown Caller,” or “Withheld” my stomach tightens. But I never, for one second, thought it would actually happen.
“Mrs S–? This is Sgt. P—. I want you to know your husband’s okay. But, he’s in the clinic here with….” I didn’t hear anything else.
Then the text message: “Hey. I’m in the clinic. Lots of pain, blood in—” It was cut off.
Yes, I panicked. Yes, I sobbed. Yes, I ran back into the FRG event I’d just left because my “family”–the women who understood, who could tell me what to do, were just inside. They hugged me, they comforted me, they walked me through the steps…of waiting.
Horrible, horrible waiting.
What started on Saturday is still far from over. My darling Soldier, in so much pain, was airlifted to three different bases, finishing his travels on Tuesday in Landstuhl, Germany. He did a lot of waiting, and so did I. We waited together, though separated by miles and an ocean. I waited for updates, for his instant messages. I longed to see his face, hear his voice. Yesterday, I saw it on Skype. There was that face, the one I miss so much.
We had tough decisions to make–I had to put my selfish desires to run off to Germany second to his need to rest and recover…it was like tearing my heart out knowing I wouldn’t see him when he needed me most. His health was most important, but their was a desperate yearning to be at his bedside, hold his hand, to pray with him. But, as a wife and military spouse, I must always put my Soldier first.
Now, I wait some more. Wait to hear how the surgery went, wait to see how long recovery will take. Wait. “Hurry up and Wait.” And I hate waiting.
While, praise God, this could have been much worse, the whole ordeal was a little too close for comfort. It could have been a different scenario, a different reason for the phone call. Thank God. But, I have not felt the need for him to be home safe since he left, as I have felt the last four days. When he’s home, in this house, at his work on post, I know he’s fine. I see he’s fine. I can touch him, hold his hand, and take care of him. But, this will come in time.
Now, I just wait. Wait for news. Wait for R&R. Wait for his homecoming.
Hurry up. Wait.