The Revolving Door

When I try to express what military life feels like (after 16 years), I think of a gigantic revolving door.

The door leads in and out in a circle, but the building inside holds halls and rooms filled with memories and people of all kinds.

I was reminded of this recently when my mother visited us. All the different rooms that encompass my time as a military wife, all the things I learned, all the seasons of life lived so far, has led me to a life of  familiarity mixed with the unexpected.

Let me give you a few examples.

One of the rooms is filled with being a special needs parent. This room takes a whole other meaning (and many different levels) when that special needs mom has to be me, but I also visit other rooms of responsibility while wearing my military wife hat.

These are those moments when all the responsibility somehow feels like it’s pouring directly on you, especially when the kids are little and they can’t quite grasp that those moments are just that ……. just moments.

Even grown ups struggle when we have reached the end of our rope and can’t see past that moment. We sometimes can’t see past the fact that, eventually, it will stop pouring rain over our heads. 

Like the day my son was three, but not yet diagnosed with autism. The CDC was the place that allowed me to get my grocery run done. I would drop my son and bring my infant daugther shopping with me.

But in that moment, picking up my precious son with his bouncy curls, I felt so overwhelmed from sleep deprivation , the deployment, and all the doctors visits trying to figure out what was happening in my little boy’s mind.

Enter the Revolving Door…

That was the day everything came to a head. They were fixing the floor of the CDC hall and my son lost it when he realized there was no grey square for him to step over. He started kicking, screaming, and flailing his little arms. I felt stunned and guilty. I should have noticed that patch of floor all taped up.

“I should have known” was hitting my brain like I was a boxer taking punches. I felt like I failed.

How can I do this ? I simply felt my legs give in.  I still get emotional remembering that day and have to wipe away tears . The sweet, CDC teachers all rushed out. One of them held my daugther as another hugged me and said, “You cry mama, let it out. It is okay”.

Two other teachers grabbed my son like an infant, cradled him in their arms taking turns and after what felt like hours, his little body calmed enough to stop kicking.

I had not realized at some point that he had pulled my hair and had a few of them in his hand. It hurt physically. I hurt for so many reasons. I was so grateful for all the kind humans in that hall that day.

The following weeks were truly a test of my resilience. I had to (at times) leave my groceries cart full, including diapers because Autism was doing it’s “awareness hello tour” as we eventually called it.

I could not predict triggers back then. I simply learned to become a hermit at home, holding them both in my arms until they fell asleep. I often slept in the floor of my daughter’s room with my son on the couch. I was too exhausted to feel cold or warm.

I knew I was too mentally tired at that point. I did not trust myself a room away missing them waking up. I often ate tuna straight out of a can for lunch and dinner, eating in that golden hour (30 minutes they had just fallen asleep).

It was during one of the scariest days of my life that I realized this life was like a revolving door. This time it involved my daughter. I had this nagging feeling that my daughter’s fever was going too high (too fast) when all of a sudden she started shaking.

It felt surreal and I realized she was having a seizure. I was familiar with seizures and I knew what was happening and while I did not panic, fear started to paralyze me. All I could think was to call my neighbor Cammie.

That night, Cammie was a true angel sent from heaven.

She showed up right away, helped me take her to the hospital where they gave her medication and I learned that was a Febrile seizure .

I think that was the day the adrenaline on and off switch in my mind broke and it’s been broken ever since. I’ve learned to manage it, but on that day it prepared me for the title I named this blog post….The revolving door .

As time went on, It dawned on me that I would go insane if I continued to be a hermit. I started bonding with friends I still have today 10 years later .

While I was visiting with one of them, her precious baby girl started having a seizure. My friend had the same reaction I would have had if I did not know what was happening, but I knew . I directed her to call 911 and held her precious baby girl in my arms as we frantically waited for the paramedics .

The odds of me (a few weeks later) being there, in that moment were unbelievable. Not to mention our husbands being deployed together gave us a an unshakable bond.

Just like a few weeks before, a true sense of empathy overtook me. I decided to focus on what I could do and what I could give. I definitely found my voice as a military spouse who is a special needs mom .

I find my cup gets filled when I am able to be there, advocate, give a hug, bring a pizza….whatever is needed for my fellow military spouse.

The Revolving Door.

Oh… that revolving door of life. It happened to me. It happened a few blocks away from my home. That is life as a military spouse. We share different yet similar journeys and we bond over that sentiment of devoted spouses we find ourselves to be.

So if you ever feel like it’s just you, and life won’t stop pouring over you,  I just know right around inside that revolving door, you will find you are led to a fellow spouse on a similar journey for whom you may just be an answered prayer.

Remember that this too shall pass and the revolving door will continue with every new journey we take and the new chapters we write in this crazy military life .

*For more articles from Ally, visit the AWN homepage.