in which we say goodbye

December 1st was an exhausting day.  Physically.  Emotionally.

It is a day I won't forget.

We walked out the door together at 6:00 am for a doctor appointment at Walter Reed.  I walked back through the door at 2:00 am on December 2nd alone.

Watching my husband disappear.  Being in his arms.  Held.  Hearing him whisper in my ear.  Uncertain when (or, on some searingly painful level, if) I will be in that space again is something that I can't fully describe or help people understand.

I remember sitting in the waiting room at WR on that cold, rainy Tuesday morning waiting to be called back thinking, "I can't believe this is my life."

But it is.  And amidst heartache, walking through circumstances that truly stretch me beyond what I may identify as my own limits, it is a gift.  It is a journey for which I am deeply grateful.  I was chosen for this life.  For this path.  And it is truly a privilege to walk.  It is an honor to serve.

If not us, then who?

I've never been one to stay in the shallow water because it is safer.

I don't believe in waving at people comfortably from the shore.

I'm well acquainted with being in the deep.

I wouldn't say that having become well practised in being apart has made it easier.  But each separation has felt different for each of us.  We talked quite a bit about how we felt stronger walking onto the battlefield this time.  As individuals and as a couple.  It helps.  Perhaps the familiarity of flying solo makes it easier to settle into the groove of more quickly hitting my stride as I settle into a new routine.  Or maybe I just have learned that I need to ask for help earlier and more often and that process has been one in which I have become unapologetic and recognize as necessary for survival.

There's no flowery language to soften the sharpness of goodbye.  For a full year of living in parallel universes in which the bridges take significant effort to build.

But there has been something pretty amazing, after literally living the last eight years of our lives preparing for the next goodbye and significant portions of life that won't be able to be shared, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this can be the last I'm-not-sure-when-slash-if-I'll-see-you-again goodbye for awhile.  It's surreal.  And comforting.

But this?  Well.  There were no words.