by Sharon Hinck
“I’m getting worse,” I whispered. “Every time I step outside it’s an ordeal. I don’t like people anymore. I’m snapping at Bryan. And now I’m talking to myself.” Sweat prickled along my forehead, and I pushed hair back from my face. “I need a plan.”
If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.
I’d said it to Tom often when I organized the youth group famine event and the local fund-raiser for our town library. I’d said it to my boss at the dry cleaners when he struggled with scheduling his part-time help. Now as panic crouched outside my door, I cast around for something—anything. I saw the plastic milk crate full of office supplies discreetly stored under the card table. My tablecloth didn’t quite reach the floor. I scrambled across the room and pulled out the crate.
Inside, a chubby file held my notebooks for various past projects—cheap, spiral-bound, and three-by-five size so they would fit in my purse. I unearthed the notebook labeled Sullivan Relocation Project and leafed through the pages. I’d broken down each step of getting our house ready to show and on the market, finding a new house in Virginia, planning the move, packing each room.
This file folder of dog-eared notebooks gave evidence that over the years I’d faced plenty of challenges. My notebooks had helped me organize, set goals, and stay on track.
Why couldn’t the same process work on solving my current problem? Okay, reclaiming sanity wasn’t the same as selling a house. But I had to try something. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but my brain hadn’t gotten that memo. I was finding it harder to function with each passing day. I’d seen what could happen when a mind spiraled out of control. I had to stop this slide before it was too late.
I pulled out a fresh notebook with a sunny yellow cover and grabbed a Sharpie marker. With careful block letters and a firm hand, I printed across the front of the notebook.
Penny’s Project.
I returned the marker to the holder on the table and chose a sharp pencil. I settled onto the couch with the notebook full of empty pages and was instantly stumped. Where did I begin to find myself again when the dark shadows of trauma refused to let go? When I didn’t even understand how they had infiltrated every part of my daily life?
Focus, Penny. What’s your goal?
I tapped my eraser a few times against the lined paper, then wrote Penny’s Project across the top of the first page. Beneath it I scrawled, Don’t go insane.
Okay, that might not be the most positive wording. My eraser rubbed out the words and I flipped the pencil in my fingers. Move toward healing.
That was better, but not very specific. What had they told me in that Saturday business class Pilgrim Cleaners sent me to? Make your goals measurable.
I chewed the soft yellow wood of the pencil, then wrote, Be Penny again, in time for Tom’s return.
The concrete goal helped me turn to the second page.
I’d had plenty of plans for after we settled here in Chesapeake. I’d been sidetracked, but it was time to start moving forward again.
Join PTA—help out at school.
Mow lawn.
Take Bryan to the beach.
Explore neighborhood. My writing slowed. These plans should have stirred eagerness in me, but even shaping the letters took unimaginable effort. Maybe I needed more information about the emotions that had sunk their claws into me.
Research trauma recovery.
Information would be sure to help. With that added to the list, I had the courage to keep brainstorming. Simple tasks that I used to be able to do without a second thought piled up as daunting as mountains. But these steps would make me normal again before Tom got back.
Organize kitchen. I wrote faster.
Attend mixer for Navy spouses.
Back- to-school shopping for Bryan (long past due).
That one wouldn’t be a hit with my restless boy. To make it up to him, I added the next item.
Get a pet for Bryan.
I could imagine his whoop of glee when I reached that task.
Get to know neighbors.
Choose a way to volunteer at church.
My hand hovered over the page. Since I wanted to recover as quickly as possible, I should be able to tackle each of these in the weeks between now and Thanksgiving.
Boldly, I wrote in the crowning goal. Attend Thanksgiving play at Bryan’s school. Bryan in a Pilgrim costume, with beaming smile, shone in my imagination like a Kodak moment. Warmth curled around my heart, and the eagerness I’d been hoping to stir finally flickered to life.
There. That would do it. Now I had a plan. And failure was not an option.
chapter
4
SUNDAY MORNING I WOKE up feeling achy in all my joints. I was relieved to have a good excuse to stay home from church. A new church could be rich with potential friendships and encouraging fellowship, but it could also be a painful reminder of homesickness and the exhausting process of starting over. Tom and I had chosen a church and gone a few times before he shipped out, but there was no way I could drag myself there today. Instead, Bryan and I watched a service on television. Technology was a marvelous thing. We huddled on the couch and watched a strange congregation relayed to our living room via camera. No shaking hands to share the peace, no shoulders squished beside mine in the pew, no resonance in my throat as I sang a hymn to the heavens made stronger by united voices. Just a distant box. Yet that was a better fit for me than something more real.
What was happening to me?
Several times during the day, I glanced at the waiting notebook. No sense starting a new project when I was feeling sick. Besides, Bryan needed my attention. From my nest on the couch, I played endless rounds of Battleship, lost at crazy eights, and read Animalia with him—taking time to find every possible hidden picture.
Later in the day, Bryan raced toward his room to get a new computer game to show me. His shirt stretched tight across his chest and pulled up from his jeans. Another growth spurt.
“Hey, buddy. Come here.”
He skidded to a stop and backtracked, then sprang onto the cushioned arm of the couch and tumbled down to the spot beside me. “Yeah?”
“You need some new school clothes.” One of the tasks in my notebook.
He grinned. “So can we go to the mall tomorrow? And can we see a movie and eat at Taco Bell?”
That would entail navigating unfamiliar streets, leading Bryan in and out of busy stores, the beep of cash registers, the crush of strangers. “I have a better idea. Let’s look on the computer.”
“But Mo-om—”
I gave him The Look, and Bryan cut his whine short and followed me to the monitor. I set my little notebook on the table near the computer and gave it a soft pat of promise. School clothes for Bryan was on my list, and there was nothing wrong with shopping the easiest way possible, was there?
We surfed several Web sites together. He vetoed dozens of my suggestions—shirts too itchy-looking, pants the wrong color or not cool. But we finally settled on a few T-shirts and some new jeans a size bigger. I placed an online order from Sears and released my son to the backyard. That night I drew another red X on the calendar, proud of creating a fairly normal day for my son.
Before I headed to bed, I checked the computer. Another e-mail waited from Tom. My fingers hovered above the keyboard before I typed my answer.
Hi honey!
Bryan and I went to the Norfolk Botanical Garden yesterday. It’s gorgeous. They have an azalea festival every spring. Let’s go next year, okay?
Yes, I’m keeping busy. Some late back-to-school shopping with Bryan. All the usual.
Okay, I know I promised to go talk to someone, but I’ve been doing great, so it would really be a waste of time. Besides, I have you and mom, and friends. That’s all I need. Big kisses (is it okay to send e-kisses to the chaplain? Will it undermine your spiritual image with the troops?)
Your favorite wife
The next morning, Bryan fidgeted during our blessing in the doorway. Laura-
Beth’s son, Jim-Bob, waited on the sidewalk as I rested my hand on my son’s head. “ . . . and I ask for health and strength for his body and mind, and thank you that he gets to be in the Thanksgiving play. Thank you for loving us so much. Amen.”
I stooped down, and Bryan’s kiss grazed my cheek. He raced to the sidewalk as if all the energy I’d lost had been siphoned into his small muscles. Jim-Bob gave him a playful shove and their voices rose in laughter. They charged to the corner as the bus pulled up.
When I walked back into the house, the first thing my gaze hit was the yellow notebook.
I couldn’t have chosen one with a more subtle cover?
I strolled past on the way to the kitchen for a mug of coffee, pretending I didn’t see it. But as I sipped coffee in the kitchen, the thought of a long day alone with my thoughts was pure torture. Time to take charge. One of my self-appointed tasks was to gather information on whatever was wrong with me.
I carried the coffee out to my pseudo-office in the corner of the living room and booted up the computer. When I’d worked at the dry cleaners, I’d been more than a cheery receptionist. I was a wiz at online research. Lipstick smudges, smears of mustard, rare brocade with a chocolate-raspberry stain? Google, link, scroll. I could find the solution.
The crime had rubbed a smear across my psyche. Okay, more than a smear. A stain absorbed deep into the fabric. But a little research should turn up stain-removal steps. I attacked the keyboard and began my search of the Internet, following each promising trail, ferreting facts about crime victims, panic attacks, and emotional health.
Hours later, the back pages of my notebook held a wide array of suggestions and resources. Pencil in hand, I studied my gathered information.
Group therapy was recommended. Hmm. Talking to a counselor would be bad enough, but a bunch of strangers? Still, I didn’t want to rule out ideas too quickly. I drew a star next to that one.
Talking about the event and even visualizing it to work through emotions was mentioned from many sources. Ugh. I drew a line through that idea. Much better to forget.
Medication? I drew a few question marks. Maybe the base doctor could help, if I could get over my embarrassment. Good grief, he dealt with military folk who’d seen much worse. He’d probably laugh me out of his office if I told him my problems with one little traumatic event.
Then there was the spiritual component: prayer, Scripture, fellowship. I drew an arrow to them, but my hand faltered and the line wobbled.
I swallowed hard.
Those used to be rich and cherished aspects of my life. In the past weeks I’d mouthed the right words and tried not to think about how lost and alone I felt in my battle. But to really involve God in this process, I first had to confront my big question. Where had He been that afternoon? I was afraid to ask Him, because if there was no answer, I wasn’t sure I could forgive Him, and losing Him right now was more than I could bear. I’d rather maintain a nodding acquaintanceship than dig too deep and lose it all.
I rubbed my forehead and continued studying my notes. Too much advice. Too many ideas.
A clinking sound near the front door signaled the mail had arrived. Moving with the underwater resistance that had weighted me lately, I closed my notebook and rolled my shoulders. I waited until the mail carrier walked a few houses down the street before cracking open my front door and lifting the lid on the metal box bolted to the brick next to the front door. Reaching in, I grabbed whatever my hand found. After I bolted the door again, I shuffled through the junk mail and saw two red envelopes. My first Netflix movies. Perfect timing. I’d given a few hours to my research and was exhausted. I needed a distraction before I started organizing specific steps to my Penny’s Project.
Befriended by a tray of crackers and cheese, and a pot of hot tea—Irish Breakfast, not that weedy stuff Laura-Beth had suggested—I drew the living room curtains closed and opened the DVD tray. An unlabeled disc rested in the compartment, so I set it aside, dropped in the movie, and curled up on the couch with the remote. Images flowed across the television, but even the rollicking adventure movie couldn’t hold my attention. After I’d polished off most of my snack, my eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted to sleep.
My naps had become heavy things, smothering weights that held me under until something intervened to pull me up from the depths. Today a sound woke me: a chubby fist banged the front door about three feet up from the threshold—Bryan height.
“Mom? It’s me. I’m home. Mom? Mom!” A worried edge tinted his bellowing call.
I hurried to the door, kicking myself for another lost day and for another day of not meeting Bryan’s bus after school. I tried to dredge energy up from my toenails as I yanked open the door and managed a bright smile. “How’s my favorite second-grader?”
His relieved laugh burst into our quiet living room. I knelt for a hug and smelled sunshine and dust in the sweet-salty sweat of his neck.
“Know what? Mrs. Pimple said one of the moms could be the head Pilgrim in our play, and I told her you’d be good at it, since you used to be a Pilgrim.”
Huh? “Honey, I’m not old enough to be a Pilgrim. And her name is Mrs. Pimblott.”
He scratched his head. “But you were a Pilgrim. Back at our old house. Remember, Mom?”
“Our old—?” Light dawned. “You mean Pilgrim Cleaners? That wasn’t . . . I mean, I only worked for their office.” I’d loved my three-day a week job as office manager. One of the many things I hated to give up when we moved.
He wrinkled his forehead and waited.
I coughed to hide a chuckle. “Those were different Pilgrims.”
“Oh. Well, now you can be this kind.”
Perform in the Thanksgiving play? Not a chance. But few people can give a direct no to earnest seven-year-old eyes. “We’ll see.” Every mom’s magic phrase when cornered. Sometimes when my son’s attention span was particularly short, it was all I needed. Hopefully he’d forget all about volunteering me.
“So can we go to the ocean so I can find a new pet? You said it was a good idea.”
“No, you said it was a good idea. I said we’d talk about it.”
“Know what? Daddy would like us to find a pet. He doesn’t want us to be lonely while he’s gone.”
I tousled his hair and ignored his coy eye-batting. “Sorry, buddy. Not today. I’m still not feeling too good.”
“What’s for supper? Know what? I think we should have pizza.”
“We’ll see.”
He crossed chunky arms and met my eyes. “I know what that means, Mom.” Then with a very adult sigh, he marched off to his room with his backpack.
The long nap must have deadened my brain cells. I couldn’t even match wits with a seven-year-old. But I did take a moment to grab my notebook. I penciled in a star by the goal of finding a pet for Bryan. Then by the entry of Attend Thanksgiving play, I added, Be a Pilgrim mom?
My stomach twisted and the notebook suddenly felt heavy.
These are just ideas. Gather ideas. Sort them later and make your action steps. Not all of these will work. That’s okay.
After two cups of coffee, I assembled a quick rice and beef casserole and popped it into the oven. No green peppers. Tom hated green peppers—so I left them out on principle. He was thousands of miles away, but I believed he’d somehow feel more loved if I served supper without green peppers. Then I sat on the back steps while Bryan set up a golf course in the backyard.
“Come and try it, Mom.” He brandished the broken umbrella he was using as a nine-iron.
“That’s okay. I’m having fun watching you.” If I came out of the shadow near the door, Laura-Beth would notice me when she watered her tomatoes. She’d flood me with opinions and suggestions. A good neighbor should enjoy chatting over the fence. I used to be the first to strike up a conversation with anyone nearby, but today I wasn’t up for it.
The phone rang, and I stepped inside to grab it.
“Penny? Hi! This is Mary Jo Collins, your omb
udsman. We met when you first moved here?” Her bright voice held way too much energy.
“Um, sure.” We needed to get caller ID. I didn’t want to miss a call from Tom, but until I shook off this virus, I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone else.
“Whee! Look, Mom!” Bryan’s shout brought me back to the steps, phone cord stretched to the limit. “I hit it onto the shed. Don’t worry. I can climb up and get it.”
“Bryan, no! Don’t climb up there. I’ll come help you in a minute.”
Laughter carried through the phone. “I won’t keep you. I know how it is when the kids are little. I just thought we should go out for coffee and get acquainted. After all, with your husband being the chaplain, you and I need to coordinate our support of the wives. And since this is his first deployment, I figured you’d enjoy chatting with someone who’s been through it. Nothing else is quite as helpful. So how about tomorrow?” Mary Jo’s voice rang strong and competent.
Exactly the qualities I’d lost lately. I coughed a few times. “Let me get back to you. I’m fighting a cold or something.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Gotta keep yourself in fighting form, so your spouse can focus on his work and not be distracted by worry. That’s what I tell all the families. Anyway, the base doctors are good, but if you need any names, let me know.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that. Bye.”
I replaced the phone and wiped my sweating hand on my shorts.
Tom wasn’t going to be distracted by my struggles. He was facing enough challenges—even dangers—and it was vital for him to be able to fully focus on his work. As long as he couldn’t see me, he’d believe my upbeat e-mails. But what if I still wasn’t myself when he got home at Thanksgiving? Would it affect his ability to do his job? This was his dream. Would my problems force him to request shore duty? Or try to resign? I shuddered. I didn’t know if he could even do that, but an image suddenly spun into my mind of Tom with hunched shoulders, sitting behind a desk and talking to our old senior pastor. “Yes, it was the work God called me to. But Penny couldn’t cope. We had to come back.”