Army Wife

  Meanwhile, Clint signed in to flight school at Fort Rucker and began his career in Army aviation. When I helped Clint settle into the condo he was sharing with some buddies, I thought how different it felt to be back at Fort Rucker in that capacity, as the mother of a student pilot. I couldn’t help thinking, Twenty-four years ago, Dick and I arrived here and I got pregnant with Clint. Now he’s here, following his dream, just like his dad did.

  When I got back from Fort Rucker, a phone call from my dad in early September pulled the rug right out from under me.

  “Vicki, I’ve been to the doctor. They did some tests.” He paused, then continued, “I have lung cancer.”

  I felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. I struggled to get the words out: “How can you have lung cancer? I don’t get it.”

  Dad’s voice was shaking as we continued to talk. While he was telling me about the tests, his symptoms, and all that, I wanted to run somewhere. I was not prepared at all; none of us was.

  My dad had just turned seventy, and while he had had a stent put in an artery earlier in the year, he was active, ate healthfully, and looked great. He hadn’t smoked or drunk alcohol in almost forty years, so lung cancer was not on anyone’s radar. I had lived a very sheltered life up to that point; neither Dick nor I had lost anyone in our immediate family to serious illness besides our grandparents. No one in my family had ever had cancer.

  Dad’s cancer was inoperable, and he would begin chemotherapy immediately. After the initial shock and the tears, we were optimistic—my dad was going to be the one who beat lung cancer.

  When I asked if I should come home, both my parents said, “Not just yet. Let’s wait and see.”

  Everything else was so good, I had been just cruising along life’s highway. Clint was doing well in flight school. Tyler was happy and thriving at Texas A&M. Dick and I were delighted to be back in the 101st and Fort Campbell. But the word cancer changed everything and made it hard to enjoy my life’s blessings. There was always that nagging feeling, that pit in my stomach, that all was not well. My dad was sick, and none of us knew what it meant. I talked to my parents, my sister, and my brother regularly, and gradually we started to come to grips with the diagnosis. The plan was that Dad would finish the first round of chemo just before Thanksgiving, and then he and Mom would come down and spend the holiday with us. Dad needed something to look forward to. We all did.

  That fall, Dick and I hosted a division off-site conference at Lake Barkley, Kentucky, for the brigade and battalion commanders, command sergeant majors, the division staff, all the chaplains, and their spouses. We brought in some great facilitators and guest speakers, all designed to help us set goals as we talked about expectations for the next two years. The conference was a big success, a time of bonding, team building, and sharing, and we became a very close-knit command group. We were laying a good foundation, one that would later hold us up when fate stepped in and challenged every single one of us.

  At Fort Rucker, Clint felt not only the pressures of being a student pilot, but also the pressure of being Dick Cody’s son. By the time our boys were starting their careers in the Army, Dick was pretty well known. Clint tried his best to be anonymous, but it was especially hard to do at Fort Rucker, where everyone knew the Cody name. Try as he might, Clint couldn’t do anything without being noticed. He told me he felt as if he had to do everything just a little bit better than everyone else. One time early in his flight training, he got a pink slip on a check ride, nothing hugely important but a test nonetheless. He said by the time he landed, everyone on the flight line was saying, “Did you hear? General Cody’s kid busted a check ride!” That was the first and last time he didn’t get a stellar grade on anything.

  We were looking forward to Thanksgiving. Dick’s parents were coming for the week, and Clint would drive up from Fort Rucker the day before. Tyler was going to spend the holiday with Brooke’s family in Mount Pleasant, Texas. My parents were driving down after Dad’s last chemo treatment, and I couldn’t wait to see them. But at the last minute, my dad was not able to make the trip. I knew then that it was time for me to go home.

  I spent that last week of November with my parents, just hanging around, not doing much of anything besides being there. I shifted gears from the hectic pace of our busy life in the 101st, tried not to think about all the things that needed to be done back at Fort Campbell, and just focused on being with my family.

  After seeing my dad in November, I knew that we were on borrowed time and that suddenly, all the things that were waiting for me back at Fort Campbell were not important. When I got back to Fort Campbell, with the help of our aide and my friends, I got everything done—decorating, baking, cooking, and shopping—just in time for the busy social season and our holiday open house for hundreds of people. The boys came home from their respective schools, and then we drove up to Vermont. I had a feeling that it would be our last Christmas with my dad.

  That winter my parents went to Florida, as they did every winter, even though the doctor advised against it. But Dad was determined, so we all agreed to help make it happen for them. Chris drove them down, and then I would drive them back in the spring. They had made some really good friends there, and Dad would continue his treatments in Venice, Florida.

  Things didn’t go as planned. Two days into their stay, my mom fell and broke her wrist and cracked her pelvis. It was something none of us had ever considered; we had been more worried about my dad’s health. I flew down there the next day.

  I walked into Mom’s hospital room in Venice, Florida, and my knees started to buckle. I had tried to prepare myself on the flight down, but I was shocked when I saw the two of them. My mind flashed back six months earlier to their fiftieth-anniversary celebration, where they were the picture of health, a very attractive couple, totally independent, always on the go, traveling, fun-loving, enjoying retirement and life. All I could think was, How did we go from that to this: Mom lying in the hospital bed with a huge apparatus on her shattered wrist and Dad sitting by her bed, barely able to stand up to hug me because he’s so weak from the chemo? These are not the mom and dad I was with just ten days ago. They had changed seemingly overnight, and I was not used to seeing both of them so down and out. I realized at that moment that I was in charge; I had become the parent.

  From then on, I tried to take each day as it came and just live in the moment. Blessings came in the form of little, everyday things. I got to spend time alone with my dad, and sometimes, if he felt good, we went out to lunch. One afternoon, we just sat on the beach together. I created and cooked healthy meals for him in their tiny apartment kitchen, and he was so appreciative. I had time to reflect and collect my thoughts when he was napping. I got to see a different side of my mom—an inner strength that emerged—and I was amazed at how well she dealt with the situation. She didn’t complain or give in to her fears; she just focused on getting herself well because she knew what was ahead. Dad and I visited Mom daily, and in the evenings we played cards in the hospital lounge and laughed so hard and loudly that the nurses gave us our own room so we wouldn’t disturb the other patients. We never lost our sense of humor. I also got to know the wonderful friends that Mom and Dad had made in Florida—people who would do anything for my family.

  And in the midst of all of that, I reconnected with my childhood friend Becky. Over the years, we had stayed in touch through Christmas cards and an occasional phone call, but I had not seen her in twenty years. I knew her parents had retired in Venice and that she, her husband, and their kids lived in Sarasota. I called her and unloaded all my troubles on her. We spent an afternoon together and we talked daily while I was in Venice. She may never know just what it meant to me, what a comfort it was, just being with someone from my past who knew me and my family so well. It lifted me up when I needed it most. I’m not sure our paths would have crossed again if not for my dad’s cancer and my going to Venice, Florida, that winter. Becky and I have stayed in contact ever since, and
I count her as one of the blessings that came out of that dark time.

  Another, similar blessing was a visit from my aunt Nancy and my cousins Toby and Terry, who just happened to be in Naples, Florida, during that time and came up to see Dad and spend a couple of days with us. We had not seen much of each other in the past ten years, as all of us were raising our kids and living in different parts of the country, but that reunion started a tradition that continues today: the six of us get together once a year for what we call Girls’ Week. We gain strength from one another and share nonstop laughter. Again, I can’t help but think that my dad’s illness brought us back into one another’s lives.

  And so it was a winter of upheaval and uncertainty, juggling, balancing, and prioritizing. It was a time of extreme emotions—a time of grieving one minute and counting blessings the next, a time for reflecting, a time for wishing and hoping, and a time for despair. When I was in Florida, I missed my life back at Fort Campbell, and when I was at Fort Campbell, I wanted to be with my parents. I had never felt so pulled in different directions. I made three trips to Florida that winter. Between my brother, sister, and me, we managed to be there for Mom and Dad as best we could. When one of us couldn’t be there, Mom and Dad’s good friends helped out.

  The last trip, at the end of February, all three of we kids were there together. One afternoon, Dad gathered us together and told each of us how proud he was of us, what great kids we were, and how much he loved us. We were lucky to have that time with him and lucky that he shared his love for us. How many people go through life and never know that kind of love?

  In March, we made the move to get Mom and Dad back up to Vermont. They flew, and Chris and I drove their car. A freak blizzard hit the East Coast, and Chris and I drove right into it. It was pretty exciting, even given all that was going on in our lives. We were forced to hole up at a Comfort Inn in Hazelton, Pennsylvania, for two days. As we hunkered down for the next thirty-six hours, watching old movies and Jim Cantore on the Weather Channel, the snow piled up outside. Now, I think that blizzard was a strange blessing that forced my sister and me to totally shut down. It had been pretty intense and emotional getting our parents out of Florida, and I believe we needed those days alone in our hotel room in the middle of nowhere to recharge our batteries.

  Vermont had gotten twenty-four inches of snow, so we were relieved when we pulled into our parents’ driveway and our journey was over. Dad seemed to be doing okay. He would be getting hospice care at the house. At that point, I had been away from my life for almost two weeks, so I headed home to Fort Campbell. Dad drove me to the airport in the early morning, and I told him I would be back in mid-April, just after Easter.

  “Dad, how will I know if I need to come home sooner than April? You’ve got to let me know if things start to go south.” I didn’t know how else to say it.

  “I promise I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  I cried most of the flight back to Nashville and felt such a conflict of emotions: hating to leave, feeling guilty for wanting to go back to my life. I didn’t know how long it would be, but I couldn’t just stay there and wait for it to happen. It could be weeks or maybe a month. Unlike my sister and brother, who could see Dad anytime they wanted, for any length of time, and still have their lives, I had to leave my whole life to fly up to Vermont. Going back and forth worked, but it was like I had two different lives. That was one of the tough things about Army life, in fact. There is no way we can be in two places at once; we make sacrifices, and one of them is not getting to spend enough time with our parents and siblings. When there is an illness or a death in the family, it becomes even more apparent. At the end of the day, I know without a doubt that my life as an Army wife did not diminish or adversely affect my relationship with my parents and siblings. I didn’t have the quantity of time that they all had, but I had quality time, and I had some moments and made some memories with my parents that my siblings never could.

  During those difficult months, I never felt any pressure from Dick or anyone at Fort Campbell; it was I who struggled with how often to go home and for how long. My fellow Army wives understood what I was going through; many had already experienced the same thing. During our monthly meetings, I shared myself and all that was going on in my life with them. I knew it was an important life lesson and also an opportunity for me to set an example to the spouses: my family was my first priority. So many young wives told me during that time that they appreciated the example Dick and I set for them. I, in turn, gained strength from their support and understanding.

  In my heart, I knew my dad didn’t have much time left, so I got organized and tied up loose ends. I went to meetings, functions, and all the usual events that served as temporary distractions.

  And then my dad called me one day and in a quiet voice said, “Vicki, I don’t think I’m going to make it to Easter.”

  “I’ll call the airline, and I’ll be there tomorrow. And, Dad, I’m so glad you called me.” My biggest fear during that time was that he might pass in the middle of the night, with no warning. I was proud of him for being brave and facing the inevitable and still making sure that I had time to get there, but I wiped away tears as I packed my bag and my black suit. I hated what life was doing to my family and me, and I hated that I had to bring my black suit. I wanted more time.

  I got to spend my dad’s last three days with him. Dick arrived in time, too. I will always be thankful that we were all there together. As painful as it was, it was a part of life that we needed to experience together, as a family. Dad died on April 11, 2001. Through our grief and tears, my family and I found strength in one another. We told ourselves we were lucky that we had those seven months to prepare for Dad’s death and that we still had our mom and each other. But it didn’t stop the tears from flowing and the hurt in our hearts. Life would not be the same without my dad.

  That spring and summer, I made frequent trips to Vermont to spend time with my mom, sister, and brother. Mom had spent her entire adult life with Dad, from high school through fifty years of marriage. She had never really been alone. It was heartbreaking to watch her and to know that she had to make the rest of the journey by herself. Once again, she surprised us all, and by midsummer she was doing well, considering. It was time for me to go back to my other life, and my mom agreed; I had missed being with Dick and all of my duties as the wife of the commanding general. And Dick and I finally took the anniversary trip to Hawaii that we had postponed because of my dad’s illness.

  It was a busy summer at Fort Campbell, involving all the usual changes of command and everything that goes with the season’s typical turnover. Dick decided to get rated in the new Longbow Apache, since that was the newest attack helicopter that his pilots were flying. I have no idea where he found the time to get rated in another helicopter, on top of all his duties as the division commander, but he spent weeks studying and flying with an instructor pilot and got his rating. I admired his zeal and stamina.

  Dick was such a caring, hands-on leader, even at the division level. He would ride his bicycle through the housing areas in the evenings just to check on the neighborhoods and to get a feel for what was going on. He checked on his barracks, the motor pools, the aviation hangars where he himself had spent much of his career, the athletic fields, the hospital . . . He had more energy than anyone I have ever known. Together we visited the schools, often taking time to read to the children; we went to high school sports events; we spent time at the summer day camp for handicapped and special-needs children that was one of a kind in the Army; we checked on our teen center and our cooperative nursery. We did those things not because we had to but because those kids were the kids of our soldiers and they were part of our Army family. We tried to be involved and take part in as much family life at Fort Campbell as possible. We had just two years to make a difference in the lives of our soldiers and their families, and we took that very seriously.

  Dick’s creative approach to leadership continued to a
maze me. Long weekends, especially during the summer months, were notorious for witnessing accidents and deaths on such a large Army post. The division had gone a record three hundred days without losing a soldier. So that year, before Memorial Day weekend, Dick called a division formation on the parade field. He stood in the center of the formation of over ten thousand soldiers and began by having them hold hands, and then he gave them the ultimate safety briefing about drinking and driving, drugs, sex—exactly what you would talk to your own kids about.

  “You take care of each other every single day at work when you are in uniform,” he began. “You take care of each other at the firing range, on the flight line, in the aircraft, during deployments, and in combat. You need to take that same care of each other when you are out of uniform and off duty. Are you willing to lose the person on either side of you to some senseless accident?” he asked. He went on to talk about choices and decisions. He closed by giving them all a four-day pass and told them to have a great weekend, but a safe one. It was one of those speeches that the soldiers remembered and talked about for a long time. And the 101st Airborne Division did not lose one soldier that holiday.

  Clint’s graduation from the primary phase of flight school was on August 8, 2001. The night before, at the formal dance, as we watched him get his wings off the board in the Officers’ Club in the same time-honored tradition, I thought: I remember so clearly the night when Dick took his wings off that board. I was nine months pregnant with Clint. Who would have thought, when I pinned those wings on Dick back in 1977, that twenty-four years later I would do the same for First Lieutenant Clint Cody?