These Were The Days

While I was soldiering at Ft. Riley and going through my pregnancy, my Mom was back and forth between her home in Florida and my sister's home in Michigan.

After surgery, Mom underwent radiation treatments.  She never did have Chemo as the doctors said it would not be affective with her type of cancer.  So Mom would get her treatments in Florida and then my step-dad, Bob, would drive Mom to Michigan and there Mom would stay.  At this point I don't remember knowing Mom's prognosis and I'm not sure if its because none of us knew or because no one would tell me or maybe I knew but just blocked it out.

Talking to Mom on the phone was difficult because her tumor was in the part of the brain that controls speech so Mom often forgot words or misused words.  Sometimes she'd be very frustrated with herself and other times she'd laugh and say, "I know what I want to say but my brain doesn't know how to tell me what word to use." And she'd point to her head and roll her eyes as if to say, "Silly brain."  It was cute.

But as you can imagine, being alone in Ft. Riley and going through a pregnancy and my Mom's illness simultaneously was tough.  I had good days.  I had bad days.

My Dad called me just about every day.  One day he called while I was at work, which wasn't all that uncommon.  We didn't always talk long, he'd just check in and see how things were going.

This particular day, this was one of those bad days.  It was so bad it had no words.

I'm sitting at my desk in Legal Assistance, a waiting room full of clients, and I answer the phone and hear my Dad's voice and I froze.  I could not speak.  I could not move.  I was completely frozen in time and at the time, completely unaware of any of my surroundings.  All I was aware of was the sound of my Dad's voice.

This was a particularly bad day for me because Mom had a bad day.  She had suffered a seizure and had to be rushed to the hospital.  I was helpless. I couldn't be there with Mom and all I could do was wait for news and while I waited, all I could do was continue to soldier . . there at Ft. Riley.

My Dad said, "Melissa?"

And I said.  I said nothing.  And then Dad said nothing.  And it was one of those very rare moments that even for a phone conversation, words were not needed.  I heard his silence and he heard mine.  Tears were rolling down my face and no words, none at all would come to my lips.

And Dad said, "I know how difficult this is for you girls."

And I cried.

And more silence but in that silence was a volume of communication.  I heard Dad's comfort.  I heard Dad's hugs.  He heard my pain.  And unable to speak, every tear and every sob said a word.  I tried to utter words but nothing seemed big enough for this moment, deep enough.  No words conveyed my heart.  They were too limited but as I struggled to utter something Dad said, "You don't have talk."

And there sitting at my desk with tears dripping down onto my green Army maternity uniform, my Dad's silence comforted me.  Until finally, my heart found some words and I said, in my sobs, "I love her so much."

"I know you do."

"I have to go now.  I'm at work."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be okay, Dad."

And event though we were not in the same room or even the same state, it was one of the most intimate moments I ever had with my father --exposed hearts.

I hung up the phone and aware of all the people staring at me, I got up and walked out of the office.  I had no mind as to where I was going or what I was doing.  I was just walking.  And I walked right into my NCOIC and upon seeing me he asked if I was okay and I said to him, "I can't be here right now."  With no further questions he told me to go home.  I told him I'd have to ask my OIC (my Captain) and he said, "No, I'll take care of everything.  You go home and take care of yourself and your baby."

These were the days I was living.

There at Ft. Riley, Kansas.