The New Normal: How Combat Changed My Perspective

I remember an incident not too long ago. The husband seemed to be in a good mood when he got home. He jovially shouted down the basement stairs to Frick and Frack, announcing his grand entrance as if they couldn’t tell from the clunk of his combat boots on the kitchen floor above them. He dumped his green helmet bag, the one he’s been carrying around with him for the past eighteen years, on the kitchen table and then kissed me hello. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked. It was an excellent question. I imagine I was wallowing in self-pity after my disheartening trip to the eye surgeon’s office. Long story short: I’m not a candidate for corrective eye surgery. “I’m having quiet time,” I lied.

Though he seemed to be in a good mood, I could sense that he had something to tell me, but he insisted I go first. He listened to me blab on about how horrible it was to have to wear glasses. Woe is me—poor Cassie, with four eyes forever. At the end of our ten-minute conversation about yours truly, we talked about his day, which was considerably worse than mine. One of the young men he trained the year before had been “blown up” in Afghanistan. When the hubs told me, he was sad, but not devastated. He was matter-of-fact, but not crushed. And I was equally numb. At that point, the reality of our lifestyle took over and the questions we *actually* ask came out: “Is he okay?” Not, “Oh, my gosh that’s terrible!” Not, “Are you serious? How could this happen?” Just…what’s the low down? Is he dead or alive? Is he maimed or slightly injured?

“Nope. He lost a leg, part of a hand, and took severe shrapnel to the face, neck, and torso. If he makes it to Landstuhl alive, and comes through here (Bethesda or Walter Reed), I’m going to go see him.”

If he makes it?

I nodded to him, completely understanding what he meant, absorbing that some of the injured aren’t lucky enough to make the trip to Landstuhl alive. I saw my Marine behind that loving husband and father—my warrior who has endured more than I will ever understand. He has been through a lot during this war. While it’s true that we are lucky enough to have had a “break” the past few years, he is now back in the operating forces. We know that it could have just as easily been him, and not one of his students, that was injured or killed.

At what point in our lives did these conversations become “normal?” Normal people don’t talk about people they know being “blown up” as if it’s an every-day occurrence. A few months ago, it was one of his best friends—shot through and though in the leg. Before that, it was my close friend’s husband. Being this wartime’s generation is our new “normal.”

It’s the fallen we know that go through our minds when we see a ten-second spot on the news. We relate the war to our own experiences. I remember how it felt to turn the corner on my street, searching for a CACO’s unfamiliar car, knowing our unit had lost five Marines and that the dreaded “twenty-four hour window” of notification had not passed. Was it my husband? Was it a friend? Did I know them? Regardless, someone in our unit—our family—got bad news that day, and I still live with the guilt that comes with being thankful that it wasn’t my husband. This is the reality of our lives.

It took a ten-minute conversation to remind me of a few very important things that have changed since my husband has seen war:

Sweat the big stuff vs. the small stuff. Have you ever heard the expression “nobody died” when it comes to mistakes or frustrations? Well, we’ve learned to take that quite literally. It puts things in perspective in a hurry. I didn’t have the Internet for two (very long) weeks when I moved. Nobody died. Movers broke a chandelier in my new house when we moved in. Nobody died. We didn’t get orders to Camp Pendleton, and now I’m living someplace I’ve never been. Nobody died. There is big stuff—managing grief and loss, coping with tragedy, healing the heart—and then there is small stuff. Know the difference.  And remember that if someone in line at the commissary or on the phone at the cable company drives you batty, nobody died.

The family unit can be your greatest source of strength. My kids don’t always do the dishes, or their homework, or clean up, or…wait, I’m getting sidetracked. They aren’t perfect. My husband is not perfect. But he is home. They are all safe. I am so lucky. We call it the “circle of trust.” What happens in our family—moving, school, marriage, vacations, arguments, love, and friendship—it all makes us stronger. We have learned to rely heavily on each other and grow together as a unit. Our circle of trust gets us through the day.

People are standing by to help. When my hubby came back, I didn’t understand what he had been through. I took some of his reactions personally. I felt alone. I was scared. I, too, was a little broken. If you aren’t sure if what you are feeling is okay, or if you need someone to talk to, reach out to Military OneSource by calling 1-800-342-9647. They really are here to help.