My Valentine

This weekend my husband was cleaning out our closet and found my DD2-14. Military discharge papers. Strange, it was 13 years, to the day. I clearly remember stuffing the few civilian clothes I had into the army green duffel bag. I remember the surreal feeling of my Squad Leader, star man and PT elite (it was all stitched onto his PT shorts to prove it), approaching to wish me well, the first civil words he'd ever spoken to me. I didn't have to stand at attention anymore, but it was hard to break the ingrained habit. I remember walking out of the barracks. They seemed deserted. Everyone else was at class. I remember the long walk down to the gate...and passing through it. I remember feeling so lost and yet so free.

I checked into a little motel in town. Alone with my thoughts and all the time in the world. Time to think over every thing that had led to this moment. It already seemed like a lifetime ago that I had hurried across the apron in the dark, clutching the gray teddy bear he had given me for Valentine's just a few days before. I remember trying to shield it with my body, keeping my head down just enough so as not to attract attention, but walking with enough stature and confidence so that any upperclassman passing by would leave me alone. The bear in my arms was just another thing they'd love to harass me for, but I held onto it with a vengeance as I sped to my barracks before TAPS rang out across the grounds.

Sitting there alone, I waited for him. We were headed to his home state, Indiana, for a few weeks. It didn't help my case at all. I wasn't leaving FOR him, I assured everyone. And I wasn't. He hadn't talked me into anything. I wasn't running away with him, though I suppose that's what it looked like. I just wasn't ready to go home. I wasn't prepared. I knew my parents didn't really understand yet, although eventually they would. And I knew I couldn't expect them to be happy with my decision. I'd had phone calls, emails and messages from former teachers, mentors and other concerned adults trying to reason with me about the consequences of such a momentous choice, as if I hadn't long agonized over it myself. I couldn't to go back...to the disappointment.

I can't recount how many cadets, upperclassmen even, came up to me after it was all finalized and confided that they, too, wanted to leave, but they had Grandpa's expectations to live up to or so-and-so back home living for their achievements. For many, it would be too hard to go, no matter how much they wanted to. They felt it was easier to stay. Their empathy provided little solace. Staying wouldn't be easier for me. The other difference between me and them? I didn't really WANT to leave. I just felt like I didn't have another choice.

Basic, or BEAST, as we called it then, had gone well. I knew my knowledge front and back. I kept up with the guys in my company, even besting a few of them, which didn't do me any favors. One of them sabotaged me during a leadership training exercise by purposely ignoring my commands. But I tried to take in stride, it came with the territory. Academics were straightforward. No real difficulty there. I joined the Glee Club and loved it, even traveling around New England for performances.

Then everything changed, so fast. In November I failed a PT test. By two sit-ups. I still remember that morning, because it was the beginning. True, I should have been better prepared. But it was also 0 dark 30 during a New York winter wearing nothing but PT shorts and a t-shirt, and my muscles seized up. It didn't matter what I had done or could do. It only mattered what I did that day. Of course, when you're a soldier, that's everything. If you can't muster up when called upon, nothing else matters. I understood that, and I wanted to redeem myself.

Then, I got a concussion. I had to stop training, because any physical exertion brought on dizzy spells and a massive headache. Retaking the PT test at that time wasn't an option. I went home for Christmas leave discouraged...but not yet broken.

When I returned, I still couldn't get my feet under me. I struggled for the first time. It didn't make sense, so one morning I hung back from breakfast formation to go to sick call. It wasn't long before the results came back. Every college student's nightmare. Mono. Except, this wasn't just any college. There was no contingency plan for that type of illness then, no protocol. I went to class just like everyone else. I got up when everyone else did, stood in every formation, attended every drill, went to every intramural swim meet. It was exhausting.

The doctor put me on "profile." That meant I was technically allowed to "rest" during certain activities. That didn't go over well. Upperclassmen dropped by my room to make sure I wasn't napping and, if I was, they woke me up. I was hazed for missing one night of "duties." The upperclassman yelled in my face, "If you're not vomiting blood, you show up next time." I remember praying I would pass out right there in the hall and make him eat his words. But I didn't.

The other female plebes started to distance themselves, because I was making them look bad. Most of the male plebes were condescending at best and outright mean at worst. I tried to keep up...but I started falling asleep in my classes. My last remaining stronghold was slipping away. It felt like I was losing everything. I couldn't exercise, couldn't do all my work, couldn't sleep and couldn't talk to anyone about it. If I tried to discuss it with an officer, my upperclassmen would inevitably get in trouble...or hear about it. I was already on everyone's bad side, there was no way I wanted that reputation to be permanent.

I was backed into a corner, and the only person who listened was my husband, who served as a Ring and Crest representative with me. He was the one who finally pointed out that maintaining my health and sanity meant something. He didn't talk me into leaving. He didn't sway me one way or the other. But he did make me feel like there was at least one person in the world who wouldn't be disappointed if I did. He made it okay for me to consider it as an option.

So I did. And he did too. His term of service was complete, and his status following a shoulder surgery was questionable, at the very least making him ineligible for the branch of service he had hoped to pursue. We understood each other and stuck together. I knew people whispered about it, TAC officers asked probing questions about our future plans with knowing glances. But I wasn't leaving for him, and he never asked me to...although, he would probably say he left for me, and doesn't mind saying it. Serving in the military is an honorable profession, but he envisioned a different kind of life for himself and hoped I would some day be a part of it.

God brought him into my life right when I really needed him, and I know he would do anything for me. Drive all night after a 12-hour shift to see me on our anniversary. Move across multiple states to be near me. Work three jobs when necessary so that I could stay home with our children. He would do anything I ask and many things I don't, and I know it. I love and appreciate all that he does for me, and that gray bear still sits on our bed after ten years of marriage. Just having him in my life is truly the best Valentine's Day gift.

Many things have changed in the last 13 years. We've all moved on. I'm content with the life God has for me. It's full of blessings I could never have imagined, and I'm thankful this week for the reminder that no matter what has changed over the years, my husband's love and unconditional support for me haven't changed at all.