By Geri Maples
| “I think I’ve already lost you, I think you’re already gone, I think I’m finally scared now, you think I’m weak, I think you’re wrong” Lyrics from “If you’re Gone,” recorded by Matchbox Twenty in 2000 |
It was a warm August night on the lawn of an amphitheater in August. The year was 2001. My husband, Robert, and I locked arms and joined in singing the lyrics to our favorite song, performed live by our favorite band, Matchbox 20.
That night still holds precious memories for me, but those lyrics have an entirely different meaning today. On Tuesday morning September 11, 2001, like many other families I learned our family’s future would be forever altered. Eventually, Robert, a member of the Ohio National Guard, was activated and sent to Iraq.
I was working in a restaurant several years later when I missed a call from Robert. After waiting on a table, I ran to the break room to listen his voicemail. I fell to my knees with tears flowing down my face when I heard: “Honey, I know you are at work, but I have to tell you the unit has been extended and placed on a new mission. Therefore, we will not be coming home as scheduled.”
Later that evening he called me back to explain that his unit had been assigned to convoy mission duties and he had no idea when they would be home. I knew I had to hide my heartbreak and be strong, but it wasn’t easy. His anguish must have been so much worse.
During our conversation out of the blue, he asked if we could renew our wedding vows when he got home. “Will you marry me?” he asked. “Will you marry me again, when I come home?” “Yes.” I exclaimed.
That night still holds precious memories for me, but those lyrics have an entirely different meaning today. On Tuesday morning September 11, 2001, like many other families I learned our family’s future would be forever altered. Eventually, Robert, a member of the Ohio National Guard, was activated and sent to Iraq.
I was working in a restaurant several years later when I missed a call from Robert. After waiting on a table, I ran to the break room to listen his voicemail. I fell to my knees with tears flowing down my face when I heard: “Honey, I know you are at work, but I have to tell you the unit has been extended and placed on a new mission. Therefore, we will not be coming home as scheduled.”
Later that evening he called me back to explain that his unit had been assigned to convoy mission duties and he had no idea when they would be home. I knew I had to hide my heartbreak and be strong, but it wasn’t easy. His anguish must have been so much worse.
During our conversation out of the blue, he asked if we could renew our wedding vows when he got home. “Will you marry me?” he asked. “Will you marry me again, when I come home?” “Yes.” I exclaimed.
ThanksUSA scholar Geri Maples and her husband Robert
That day was approaching in 2004. It had been nineteen months of continuous deployment, a hardship for me and for our children, but nothing compared to what Robert had been through. “Kids! Wake up Daddy’s coming home today!” While they got ready I made sure the signs we made the night before were ready for the van. Throughout the morning, we went through the motions: got dressed, decorated the van with our poster boards and headed to the armory. As we waited for the busses, the atmosphere of joy and excitement of military families and friends around us was palpable. While we waited, my thoughts turned back to when I got the news in April that the unit’s deployment had been extended one final time. I was frightened and angry. Once again Robert would face fear and danger. One more time, we experienced the ever-present nightmare that his homecoming might never happen.
“Here they come!” Someone shouted. A large bus passed beneath a huge American flag hung between fire trucks. Time stood still as it rolled to a stop. When the doors opened there was a mad rush of anxious humanity. I found myself lost amongst a sea of tears and hugs. Then I spotted him and ran to his arms where for a moment the world stopped turning.
As the days passed we began to prepare for the special day of renewing our vows. Life seemed normal, yet different. As a spouse, I dismissed the concerns. I told myself I was seeing a normal period of adjustment to civilian life, the “Honeymoon Period,” after a soldier returns home and earlier reality is swarmed over by family, friendship and the celebrations of reunion and renewal.
But our new reality forced its way into our home. There were piercing shouts, panic and frightening behavior. I searched desperately for someone to call. “Hello, my husband is a military police officer and just returned home from Iraq. He is having an emotional outburst and I do not know what to do. I need some help.” I cried in panic. “What unit does he belong too?” asked the woman at the other end of the phone. “He is no longer in the military; his enlistment ended when he arrived home,” I explained. “Honey, I cannot help you. He is out of the military.” Sheer shock. At that moment, I realized that I was on the frontline and I had to find the weapons I needed to fight a strange enemy on an all too familiar battlefield, our home.
Years later, I often find myself sitting alone in a surgical visitors’ room anxiously waiting for a doctor to come and update me on Robert’s status. Situations like this became the new normal: Doctor visits, surgical procedures, emergency room visits, and never-ending medical tests have become a familiar battle field for our family. For Robert, it is a series of sleepless nights, random emotional outbursts, nightmares, panic attacks, cognitive challenges, management of chronic pain, and various other symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI).
At the age of twenty, when I pledged my vows I became a military spouse. Years later, with the renewed vows I took on a new identity as a military spouse-caregiver, in constant battle with the invisible yet recurring wounds of war. There have been several occasions when the kids and I almost lost Robert, but we have persevered and so has he.
Since Robert’s return, the three of us received a crash course education in PTSD and TBI. We faced new responsibilities and new challenges. I had to balance caring for my wounded soldier with creating a normal as possible environment for our children whose lives had been turned upside down with trips to the emergency room and unexplained outbursts and trauma. And I had to find a better way to support our family. Waiting tables was not in our future. Needing an education, I went back to college.
I soon discovered I had allies in our struggle against PTSD. One was ThanksUSA, a non-profit organization dedicated to providing educational and career help to military spouses and children. ThanksUSA awarded two separate scholarships totaling $6,000. The scholarships enabled me to complete my Bachelor’s degree in three years versus four. I am pursuing a PhD and I could not have progressed this far without the support of others. I am also grateful to other organizations who, like ThanksUSA, provide various levels of educational support to military caregivers and their families impacted by PTSD.
Across this nation, military men and women and their families answer the call to serve. Their service to their country and its citizens comes with sacrifice -- risk of significant injuries and loss of life, time away from family, missing birthdays, holidays, losing out on employment opportunities, and putting careers and educational ambitions on hold. For some, these sacrifices have long-term permanent effect, from personal trauma to financial difficulty.
From 2003 to 2010, an estimated that 1.9 million veterans served in both Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom (Haung, 2017). Of those, reports have shown that 61 percent have sought care or are most likely to seek care through the Veterans Health Administration for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or other similar health concerns (Haung, 2017).
Currently, there are 1.1 million Post-9/11 military caregivers. Of those, 30 percent are spouse-caregivers. Some 46.2 percent of the nation’s Post-9/11 spouse-caregivers range in age from 18 to 30 (Ramchand, et al., 2014). Further studies show that the average income lost by caregivers is approximately $38,100 annually, roughly $3,200 per month (Christensen & Clinton, 2013). These are some of the hidden effects Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is having on military families.
Those statistics are among the host of reasons organizations that support our military and their families are so vital. I am one of those statistics. We are more than numbers. Each of us has blood boiling in our veins, pain in our heart and turmoil and conflict coursing across our synapses.
There are many days that my thoughts return back to that warm August night in that amphitheater where I can see Robert’s smile and feel his arm entwined with mine. Some would say that I will never get that man back. They’re wrong. PTSD took from me and the children only part of him. The memories are still there. I did not know it then, but that night stands as a symbol of our love and strength.
And I am not alone. Other spouses are fighting a similar battle, empowering their wounded warriors to fight alongside them. I am forever grateful for the commitment and dedication of so many people and organizations serving military families who help us fight an enemy as relentless as any other on the battlefield. Thanks to them. And thanks to my fellow caregivers who, like me have hope that another line from If You’re Gone will emerge from our war: If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home.
“Here they come!” Someone shouted. A large bus passed beneath a huge American flag hung between fire trucks. Time stood still as it rolled to a stop. When the doors opened there was a mad rush of anxious humanity. I found myself lost amongst a sea of tears and hugs. Then I spotted him and ran to his arms where for a moment the world stopped turning.
As the days passed we began to prepare for the special day of renewing our vows. Life seemed normal, yet different. As a spouse, I dismissed the concerns. I told myself I was seeing a normal period of adjustment to civilian life, the “Honeymoon Period,” after a soldier returns home and earlier reality is swarmed over by family, friendship and the celebrations of reunion and renewal.
But our new reality forced its way into our home. There were piercing shouts, panic and frightening behavior. I searched desperately for someone to call. “Hello, my husband is a military police officer and just returned home from Iraq. He is having an emotional outburst and I do not know what to do. I need some help.” I cried in panic. “What unit does he belong too?” asked the woman at the other end of the phone. “He is no longer in the military; his enlistment ended when he arrived home,” I explained. “Honey, I cannot help you. He is out of the military.” Sheer shock. At that moment, I realized that I was on the frontline and I had to find the weapons I needed to fight a strange enemy on an all too familiar battlefield, our home.
Years later, I often find myself sitting alone in a surgical visitors’ room anxiously waiting for a doctor to come and update me on Robert’s status. Situations like this became the new normal: Doctor visits, surgical procedures, emergency room visits, and never-ending medical tests have become a familiar battle field for our family. For Robert, it is a series of sleepless nights, random emotional outbursts, nightmares, panic attacks, cognitive challenges, management of chronic pain, and various other symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI).
At the age of twenty, when I pledged my vows I became a military spouse. Years later, with the renewed vows I took on a new identity as a military spouse-caregiver, in constant battle with the invisible yet recurring wounds of war. There have been several occasions when the kids and I almost lost Robert, but we have persevered and so has he.
Since Robert’s return, the three of us received a crash course education in PTSD and TBI. We faced new responsibilities and new challenges. I had to balance caring for my wounded soldier with creating a normal as possible environment for our children whose lives had been turned upside down with trips to the emergency room and unexplained outbursts and trauma. And I had to find a better way to support our family. Waiting tables was not in our future. Needing an education, I went back to college.
I soon discovered I had allies in our struggle against PTSD. One was ThanksUSA, a non-profit organization dedicated to providing educational and career help to military spouses and children. ThanksUSA awarded two separate scholarships totaling $6,000. The scholarships enabled me to complete my Bachelor’s degree in three years versus four. I am pursuing a PhD and I could not have progressed this far without the support of others. I am also grateful to other organizations who, like ThanksUSA, provide various levels of educational support to military caregivers and their families impacted by PTSD.
Across this nation, military men and women and their families answer the call to serve. Their service to their country and its citizens comes with sacrifice -- risk of significant injuries and loss of life, time away from family, missing birthdays, holidays, losing out on employment opportunities, and putting careers and educational ambitions on hold. For some, these sacrifices have long-term permanent effect, from personal trauma to financial difficulty.
From 2003 to 2010, an estimated that 1.9 million veterans served in both Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom (Haung, 2017). Of those, reports have shown that 61 percent have sought care or are most likely to seek care through the Veterans Health Administration for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or other similar health concerns (Haung, 2017).
Currently, there are 1.1 million Post-9/11 military caregivers. Of those, 30 percent are spouse-caregivers. Some 46.2 percent of the nation’s Post-9/11 spouse-caregivers range in age from 18 to 30 (Ramchand, et al., 2014). Further studies show that the average income lost by caregivers is approximately $38,100 annually, roughly $3,200 per month (Christensen & Clinton, 2013). These are some of the hidden effects Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is having on military families.
Those statistics are among the host of reasons organizations that support our military and their families are so vital. I am one of those statistics. We are more than numbers. Each of us has blood boiling in our veins, pain in our heart and turmoil and conflict coursing across our synapses.
There are many days that my thoughts return back to that warm August night in that amphitheater where I can see Robert’s smile and feel his arm entwined with mine. Some would say that I will never get that man back. They’re wrong. PTSD took from me and the children only part of him. The memories are still there. I did not know it then, but that night stands as a symbol of our love and strength.
And I am not alone. Other spouses are fighting a similar battle, empowering their wounded warriors to fight alongside them. I am forever grateful for the commitment and dedication of so many people and organizations serving military families who help us fight an enemy as relentless as any other on the battlefield. Thanks to them. And thanks to my fellow caregivers who, like me have hope that another line from If You’re Gone will emerge from our war: If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home.
