What do we say?
Well, in an odd flux of things, January has started out as a bad month. I do mean bad. Oddly, it is usually February that gets puts on notice. This year January is setting a very bad precedent for what is to come. In the past three weeks bad news has been spilling out of the water tap. An abbreviated view is: one friend had a blood clot in her brain and all that that entails, one lost her mother, one's grandfather has brain cancer, one lost her father, and one husband of a college roommate lost his legs to an IED. I'm certain I forgot something in there . . . but you get the drift.
News of death and dying is easier to respond to because we maneuver it our entire lives. In contrast, when an old friend says her husband has lost his legs you are left dumb founded and speechless. You don't know what to say. You are left feeling helpless. You don't know what to do. Do you send flowers? Do you send food? Do you say, "I'm so sorry that you lost your legs, but here's a plate of cookies to ease the pain of loss?" I just don't know.
Jess, the friend here, and I were college roommates at Kentucky Wesleyan. We converse on Facebook--like most of the world--but in recent years our paths have grown apart. Like so many old friends do, we just don't cross literal and figurative paths as much as we used to. That doesn't mean me and the old croonies aren't sitting around with our mouths hanging open. We may not see eye-to-eye on politics, but that doesn't mean anything in this circumstance.
She'll be in and out of DC for the next few weeks, as Chaz will be at Walter Reed once he leaves Germany. I can't make it this weekend--yes, I do feel like an ass but finances won't allow it--but at some point I'll go down and stay with another college buddy. We will see them, I'll finally meet the man I've talked to many times on the phone but have never met, and we will do what friends do. In the meantime I tell her about the Fisher House, and give her information I might know from other venues in my life. All the while, still not knowing what to say.
Her daughters are about eight and five, or nine and five as I'm not sure on De. The point is they still believe in fairies, princesses, and that their Daddy is the strongest man alive. She has only told them that Chaz is hurt. She hasn't told them the hard truth yet. Why? I have a hunch because her and Chaz haven't really comprehended things yet. At some point tears of sadness will erupt, anger so fierce it will frighten the devil will emerge, and hopefully at some point a sense of acceptance will come. In the meantime, her little girls can be young, sweet, and carefree for a few more days before they have to learn that their world has now changed. Maybe she'll take them to hand out fruit at the local VA hospital, on the prosthetic ward, so they can see people without all their limbs to ease what is about to come. Maybe she'll find a children's book that deals with the subject. Maybe Chaz will tell them in a phone call. All that matters is is that they are trying the best they can.
The youngest, Ry, has a "Daddy Doll" with Chaz's photo on the face. He's dressed in camos. I hear she takes him to school on occasion, when she misses him the most. Adorable. Things like that are what people hang onto in these moments.
Prosthetic legs, or "Lt. Dan" legs as Chaz told Jess on a phone call from Germany today, may allow him to walk again. Long pants can hide the man-made legs from the world, but the reality will always be there. They can't close the door, close their eyes, or pretend for a day it didn't happen. Instead, they have to find a way to go on. In the meantime . . . brave faces emerge and support abounds. Those of us on the sidelines are still left wondering . . . what do we say.
*On a similar note, the Wounded Warrior Project gives 83 cents of every dollar to wounded veterans programs (by its 2008 audit). WWP has races and events nation wide . . . donate if you have a chance.
News of death and dying is easier to respond to because we maneuver it our entire lives. In contrast, when an old friend says her husband has lost his legs you are left dumb founded and speechless. You don't know what to say. You are left feeling helpless. You don't know what to do. Do you send flowers? Do you send food? Do you say, "I'm so sorry that you lost your legs, but here's a plate of cookies to ease the pain of loss?" I just don't know.
Jess, the friend here, and I were college roommates at Kentucky Wesleyan. We converse on Facebook--like most of the world--but in recent years our paths have grown apart. Like so many old friends do, we just don't cross literal and figurative paths as much as we used to. That doesn't mean me and the old croonies aren't sitting around with our mouths hanging open. We may not see eye-to-eye on politics, but that doesn't mean anything in this circumstance.
She'll be in and out of DC for the next few weeks, as Chaz will be at Walter Reed once he leaves Germany. I can't make it this weekend--yes, I do feel like an ass but finances won't allow it--but at some point I'll go down and stay with another college buddy. We will see them, I'll finally meet the man I've talked to many times on the phone but have never met, and we will do what friends do. In the meantime I tell her about the Fisher House, and give her information I might know from other venues in my life. All the while, still not knowing what to say.
Her daughters are about eight and five, or nine and five as I'm not sure on De. The point is they still believe in fairies, princesses, and that their Daddy is the strongest man alive. She has only told them that Chaz is hurt. She hasn't told them the hard truth yet. Why? I have a hunch because her and Chaz haven't really comprehended things yet. At some point tears of sadness will erupt, anger so fierce it will frighten the devil will emerge, and hopefully at some point a sense of acceptance will come. In the meantime, her little girls can be young, sweet, and carefree for a few more days before they have to learn that their world has now changed. Maybe she'll take them to hand out fruit at the local VA hospital, on the prosthetic ward, so they can see people without all their limbs to ease what is about to come. Maybe she'll find a children's book that deals with the subject. Maybe Chaz will tell them in a phone call. All that matters is is that they are trying the best they can.
The youngest, Ry, has a "Daddy Doll" with Chaz's photo on the face. He's dressed in camos. I hear she takes him to school on occasion, when she misses him the most. Adorable. Things like that are what people hang onto in these moments.
Prosthetic legs, or "Lt. Dan" legs as Chaz told Jess on a phone call from Germany today, may allow him to walk again. Long pants can hide the man-made legs from the world, but the reality will always be there. They can't close the door, close their eyes, or pretend for a day it didn't happen. Instead, they have to find a way to go on. In the meantime . . . brave faces emerge and support abounds. Those of us on the sidelines are still left wondering . . . what do we say.
*On a similar note, the Wounded Warrior Project gives 83 cents of every dollar to wounded veterans programs (by its 2008 audit). WWP has races and events nation wide . . . donate if you have a chance.
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