Revisiting Day 115: Two Minute Silence

I can hardly believe it's almost a year since my husband came home. The time's gone so fast - a hell of a lot faster than the year he was away…funny enough.

The 18th November: that was the day. Especially significant somehow, being so close to Remembrance Day. 
The countdown seemed to go on and on and ON, and then, there he was, standing outside the door, as if it was the most normal thing ever. Exhausted; thin; with a few more grey hairs. Such an unforgettable moment. 
Such a wave of joy and relief.

I've been looking back over a few of the posts I wrote during his Afghan tour. Some still choke me up; not because of the words, but because I remember how I felt at that time. Emotional. Tired. Holding on.

This poem is from roughly a third of the way through the year. I'd seen a notice in a local shop window about plans to hold a 2 minute silence for 6 young soldiers killed in Afghanistan. The meeting place was by a bus stop in the middle of the village, so I took the kids along. 
Apologies if you've read it before, but with Remembrance Day coming up, thought it was worth revisiting.  
Lest We Forget.

Day 115 - Two Minute Silence

We join a line at a bus stop

No ordinary queue.

A small gathering of strangers,

all here for the same reason;

to remember six young men 

none of us knew,

killed in a place we can't imagine.

Their pictures pinned to the shelter wall;

smiling, confident, brave.

A quick snapshot

that every soldier knows

might be his last.

The one we see when they are gone.

Two minutes of silence,

Two minutes for them.

I steal a glance at my eldest,

head bowed, just nine;

Half the life 

of the youngest soldier.

I think of the family's grief and pain,

the sadness that must weigh them down

and engulf everything.

 I think of the impossible road ahead;

the gaps that will never close.

And I pray in these darkest hours

there's some comfort in knowing 

they died with friends,

doing a job they loved.

However hard to understand.

The church bell breaks the silence;

time moves on again.

The kids walk slowly to the car,
my thoughts caught in a distant place

as they count the days till daddy's home.

Linking up with Victoria's 'Prose for Thought'

Day 355 - Kabul calling

Sometimes when I'm babbling away on the phone to my husband about the kids, bills, or the retired vicar popping by when I was in my pyjamas; it's very easy to forget he's far away, doing what he's doing. I've seen the odd photo, but I can't really picture where he is, or imagine what his days are like. The gulf between his world and mine is so vast. The more I think about it, the bigger the gulf gets. I know my husband works seven days a week, that his job takes up every waking minute, and I'm often amazed by how he seems to able to switch out of all of that on the phone to me.  I couldn't do it.

Over the year he's managed to phone home every two or three days, which is pretty good. Much better than the last 6 month tour 3 years ago, when calls were erratic. I remember not hearing from him for 10 days during the toughest, darkest part of that tour. Afghanistan dominated the news then, fighting was intense and there was so much sadness. It was the longest 10 days of my life.

It's been very different this time - he's not on the frontline and I haven't worried as much between calls. But I never ask when he's going out. I'd rather not know.

Our phone chats haven't always gone smoothly though - he has a  knack of ringing at a really bad moment - when I'm trying to get the kids to do their homework, eat, or I'm just about to head out the door. There's never a perfect time is there.

I always feel guilty after one of these distracted calls, and I can't ring him back - I have to wait for him to ring me, or email him to call home. We rarely talk at night because Afghanistan is a few hours ahead. If he wants to catch up with the kids, it tends to be breakfast time, which is bedlam, or early teatime/bathtime (even worse!) Weekends are usually best.

I know the kids have missed their dad desperately and are so excited about him coming home - but they can be totally useless on the phone, especially if there's something else going on. He's pretty realistic about this, but it must be hard.

That's why once in a while I've asked the kids to write or make things to send to him. The eldest usually writes a letter, the youngest draws a picture and the one in the middle does a bit of both.

I often get a lump in my throat when the kids show me what they've done. So heartfelt, loving and honest. And I know getting messages like this have meant the world to their dad over the last 12 months.

The Photo Gallery: Emotion

I love this photo. In many ways it's fairly ordinary. But it gets me every time.

I took it when my husband was last with us in May. Just before he went back to Afghanistan.

It triggers such a mixture of emotions:

a perfect family day by the sea;

how much I miss him;

how much the kids miss him;

how much easier it is to share.

And it reminds me how much I wish he'd been here last week when the youngest had her scary bike tumble; and how a wave of crushing panic made me realise I'm closer to unravelling than I'd like to think.

I know all these feelings are probably heightened at the moment, because in a few days he'll be back with us for a bit. So, as always happens about now, my defences slip, I'm more emotional and time seems to be slowing down...

Just a few more days and I can stop feeling like I'm holding my breath.

The Gallery theme this week is Emotion.

Day 152 - Back to life, back to reality

When I opened my eyes this morning, I was on my own...again.
He left in the middle of the night while everyone was sleeping.  I don't know if this makes it easier - any time is hard - but there was no moping about all day; no long drawn out goodbyes, and I hate the goodbye bit. We woke up and he was gone.


I had that split second of calm before reality crashed in. Just as gloom clouds were gathering, the nine year old popped his head round the bedroom door and asked if I was OK.
'I'm fine sweetheart.' And I will be. Fine. I don't want them to see me down.  I know that how I'm coping affects them. I want everything to feel as normal as possible. 
Then the youngest came in and practically dragged me out of bed to look at a big black and white cat in the garden. Life goes on. Kids are great dwelling deterrents.


We had a fantastic two weeks with him, but things don't click straight back into place; it's always a little bumpy at the start. Just takes a while to get into the swing of being together again - no matter how desperately you've been looking forward to it (or dreaming of handing over the kids and heading for the hills....)  For months he's been concentrating 100% on work and I've been running the show back here, so we both have to find a comfortable in-between place.  As usual we found it - and then he had to leave.


Anyway my plan is to run round the horrible old 'pit of despair' so fast, there's no chance of me falling in. Busy is good. And saturday mornings are always hectic - never thought I'd actually be grateful for that. 
If the kids let me, I'm going to spend some time in the neglected garden later. I always find a bit of digging and chopping helps. 
But looking a little further ahead, I'm going to add to the list of things I planned to do during the last 5 months, but never quite got round to. It's an opportunity to set fresh goals. Well, that's how I'm looking at it. 
So I'm going to do more running and kettlercising; I'm going to see if I've got what it takes to do some radio work; I am going to take more photos and try to write some poetry; I'm going to go camping with the kids...and maybe further afield in the summer holidays.
OK, so it mightn't all happen, but these thoughts are helping at the moment. Because it's rubbish when he goes.

Day 115 - 2 minute silence

We join a line at a bus stop

No ordinary queue.

A small gathering of strangers,

all here for the same reason;

to remember six young men 

none of us knew,

killed in a place we can't imagine.

Their pictures pinned to the shelter wall;

smiling, confident, brave.

A quick snapshot

that every soldier knows

might be his last.

The one we see when they are gone.

Two minutes of silence,

Two minutes for them.

I steal a glance at my eldest,

head bowed, just nine;

Half the life 

of the youngest soldier.

I think of the family's grief and pain,

the sadness that must weigh them down

and engulf everything.

 I think of the hard road ahead;

the gaps that will never close.

And I pray in these darkest hours

there's some comfort in knowing 

they died with friends,

doing a job they loved.

However hard to understand.

The church bell breaks the silence;

time moves on again.

The kids walk slowly to the car,
my thoughts caught in a distant place

as they count the days till daddy's home.

'..We will remember them..' Charity Challenge DAY 4

I hope he got my parcel today, because it's his birthday.  Not that birthdays or christmas are much different from any other day out there, but I know he loves getting the kids homemade cards and letters. I can see him smiling as he opens them. 
That's all I can see though. I can't imagine what life is like for him, I can't picture it. There's too much of a gulf between his reality and mine. 

I find it hard to write about his last tour of Afghanistan in 2009.  76 british soldiers lost their lives that summer and hundreds were injured.  There was so much sadness and it was the longest 6 months of my life.
The media coverage was relentless because of the rising death toll: reports from the frontline as the troops forced the Taliban out of southern Helmand, heartbreaking scenes from Wootton Bassett and debates about whether british soldiers should be there at all.  There was no escape from the news and the anxiety wore me down.  It was almost as if I couldn't breathe properly and I found I was sleep-walking through the daily routine.   I thought constantly about the families who had lost loved ones and worried about my husband.  
I remember thinking about the sense of detachment I'd felt as a journalist, when I'd reported on casualties in other conflicts: now I was on the flip side of the story and it was so incredibly hard. 
I also remember feeling frustrated, listening to radio phone-ins about the rights and wrongs of british troops being in Afghanistan.  It seemed pretty pointless to me, because what ever your view, there was no going back. They were there, doing the job our politicians had sent them to do, and what they needed more than anything was to know we supported them back home.  

I used to come down in the morning and make myself turn on the radio, praying Afghanistan wasn't top of the bulletin.  Now, thankfully, almost three years on, it's not dominating the news so much, but our soldiers are still there, risking their lives.  
That's why I wanted to support the Rifles 'Care for Casualties' Appeal this week, because I feel it's so important we never forget the sacrifices they have made.

I'd be one of the first to admit that being married to a soldier isn't easy; it's much more than a job, it is a way of life.  Over the years I have struggled with many aspects of being an army wife, like the uncertainty, moving, living a part - but above all else, I am immensely proud of him.  More than I could ever say.

Happy birthday sweetheart.