Confessions of a Military Wife

by Mollie Gross

  I remember one night Jacob was happily playing Nintendo when David began to look a little pale. “My tummy hurts,” he told me.

  David had been born with a stomach problem, so it was not unusual for him to get an upset tummy.

  I didn’t think anything of it until he looked at me and barfed strawberry yogurt all over my bare legs. I could not move. My legs and feet were covered with warm strawberry yogurt vomit. I almost puked myself.

  As I stood there in shock, he barfed again.

  Jacob started yelling, “Eeeeeeeww, it stinks! I’m going to puke! Eeeeeww, Miss Mollie, your dog is eating it!”

  By this time I am gagging while grabbing David for a run to the bathroom.

  I put him down in front of the toilet. “Puke in the bowl,” I commanded.

  I was reaching for a wet washcloth to put on the back of his neck when I realized he was thoroughly covered with puke, so I picked him up and we both climbed into the tub.

  I got the nozzle down and started spraying us as I peeled off our clothes.

  That’s when I began to panic: I was half-naked in the bathtub with a half-naked three-year-old!

  Freaking out that I would be arrested for child abuse, I put David on the floor with a washcloth and a blanket.

  Even though we had tracked puke through the house, the dogs had taken care of most of it. Still, the house stunk to high heaven. Let me put it this way: no one will be making this lovely scent into a candle fragrance anytime soon.

  Anyway, I got myself some clean shorts and a T-shirt, then made David a nest of blankets on the floor and gave him an all-fruit popsicle. I called Michelle, regretfully asking her to end their date early. As it turns out, David had the flu. In fact, the whole family ended up getting sick. I didn’t, thank God.

  But to this day I can’t eat strawberry yogurt.

  GROCERY SHOPPING

  I developed this love/hate relationship with the commissary. You really can find the best deals there—if you can handle the experience.

  I will never forget one night my husband and I went off base to buy a frozen pizza. That’s when we discovered that pizza costs $4.00 more off base. The point is that when you’re young and in the military, every dollar matters.

  There are some definite rules to follow if you shop at the commissary.

  One of the most important is to avoid the commissary on paydays. In fact, I had the day before payday marked on my calendar. It wasn’t to prepare for payday, but to remind myself to go to the commissary before the payday insanity hit.

  Payday at the commissary is like a slow death. Think the lines at the post office are bad? Well, it’s like a day at Disneyland compared to the commissary on payday.

  Paydays mean every mom is there with all of her children and two carts overflowing with her purchases. She is usually screaming in an effort to keep control of the children that dangle off her cart like spiders. Try to escape her, but she’ll be down the next aisle. She’s red-faced, miserable, and trying to pick out cereal as her children sneak candy bars into the basket.

  I want to help her. I do, but I am repulsed by the high-pitched screams coming from her offspring, so I slink away.

  I honestly have pulled into the commissary on payday and just as quickly driven away. I would rather eat soup for two days than deal with the one-hour line at checkout.

  I also urge you to stay away from the commissary in the early morning hours. This is the time when the retirees shop.

  I love America’s vets and I appreciate their sacrifices to our country. But I don’t like shopping with them.

  There is usually this 80-year-old man with a HUGE hat on his head proudly proclaiming “Pearl Harbor.”

  He appears clueless as he pushes two carts around. His wife is this tiny Asian lady about 20 years younger than him, and dressed to the nines. But she is constantly screaming at him: buy this, don’t buy that because it is too expensive, etc. She argues with his choices of snacks complaining, “Jerry, you fat!” One time she pointed out that the doctor said he could not eat this or that because of his “high blood.” On and on she goes—telling him not to buy something because he can not digest it or reminding him he has acid reflux and gas problems.

  Normally I would say they are fighting, but I think this man gave up years ago. She screams at him; he pushes the cart. She won’t let him buy anything and yet, they have trouble navigating two carts through the small aisles.

  All the while she’s yelling, “Jerry, you wake up last night! It take you four hours to pee!”

  When you try going around without bumping into them, they scream “Watch where you’re going! You young kids today are always in a rush!”

  I want to yell back, “No sir, I don’t mean to rush to get around you, but I am choking on your farts. Please excuse me.”

  Don’t even think about picking up your vitamins on “Veterans’ Day” at the commissary. You will see a serious “Hover Round” scooter backup right around the Metamucil.

  OK, WHERE’S THE HIDDEN CAMERA?

  A very pregnant Beenie and I had an experience at the commissary that we will never forget. Our husbands were deployed, so one night Beenie and I headed down to the commissary for some food.

  The minute we walked in, we knew we had entered upon a freak show. It started in the produce section when an 80-year-old veteran approached me as I picked out some tomatoes.

  He started to reach toward my selection saying, “Let me tell you if they’re ripe!”

  It seemed a bit bizarre, but I figured he was just being nice. Just as his hands closed around two big tomatoes, his wife came up behind him and started screaming.

  She was glaring at me yelling, “Hussy! Keep your tomatoes to yourself!” She knocked them from his hands with her purse. He lowered his head and walked away.

  Beenie and I quickly exited the produce section.

  As we turned down the snack aisle, I saw the tiniest Marine I have ever seen in my life. I seriously thought he was a child wearing his father’s uniform. Now, let me remind you that I am five feet even. My dad is 5’ 3” my mom is 5’ 4”. So, short people don’t usually surprise me.

  However, I know the Corps has standards and I was taller than this gentleman and he was wearing boots.

  I knew better than to turn to Beenie and yell, “Yo, check it out! Did you just see the midget Marine?”

  Instead, I made eye contact and we moved down the aisle.

  As we did so, we heard this tiny Marine shout out, “Hey! Hon! Is this what you were looking for?”

  Apparently he was not someone’s child after all. Around the corner comes this six-foot, 300-pound woman pushing a baby in a stroller.

  I’m embarrassed to admit what images flashed through my mind. I could no longer contain myself. I left our shopping cart right there in the aisle and ran.

  I refused to even look at Beenie, who had grabbed the cart and was following me. I knew she was thinking the same things I was.

  I had to avoid making eye contact or I knew I would lose it and yell, “The carnival is in town! Freak show on aisle seven!”

  We waited till we were in the checkout line before we looked at each other. We started to bust up with laughter, so we looked away.

  Finally, we paid and the bagger offered to take our groceries out to the car. We could not get out of the commissary fast enough.

  As the bagger put the groceries in the car, I noticed the license on a car driving by. It read, “3 TTs.”

  I yell to Beenie, “Oh, my gosh! Look at this character’s license plate! What’s that about?”

  We exploded with laughter—releasing everything we had kept pent up while inside the commissary.

  Then we get a good close look at the bagger. We hadn’t really looked at him until then. He had just four teeth, but they were all rotten. His crossed-eyes were hidden behind one-inch thick glasses and his face was riddled with acne. Worst of all, he must have been nearly 40.

  “I should give him a big tip,” I th
ought to myself. I felt so sorry for him.

  Just then he started laughing and pointing at the car’s license plate and screaming. “Three Titties, yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Three titties, This is what I would do with three titties!”

  Then he began this juggling/miming action demonstrating what he would do if he ever got so lucky.

  That’s when I threw money at him and climbed into the car with Beenie. As we drove off, he was still playing with three invisible titties and yelling, “That’s what I’m talking about!”

  The entire trip was so bizarre we tried to convince ourselves that it had all been a put-on, and that we had been on Candid Camera. Unfortunately, it was all too real.

  PARTNER IN CRIME

  I met Erin (who would turn out to be a lifelong friend and source of advice) on a trip with Jon to Charleston, South Carolina.

  Erin was a kindred spirit from the second we met. You would have thought we were twins if you knew our personalities, but physically we were a little different. We both had blonde hair and light-colored eyes, but I am all boobs, while Erin is all leg. She must have a foot on me, at least.

  We are both Southern and loud as hell. We can keep each other laughing with our unique sense of outrageous, shocking humor. Not only that, we have a knack for attracting drama and bizarre occurrences that you’d think were scripted by Candid Camera.

  In addition to giggling over farts for hours, we each have a deep faith in Christ and always pray for each other.

  Her fiancé, Mike, was my husband’s college wrestling partner. Both had planned on joining the Marine Corps upon graduation from the Citadel. However, Jon graduated one year ahead of Mike so Jon started TBS while Mike was finishing school.

  We met up at Tommy Condon’s, an Irish Pub in Charleston that was notorious for hosting many drunken Citadel cadets. That’s where Erin and I hit it off instantly.

  Since Mike’s father was in the Marines, Erin had already become very familiar with the military lifestyle. She explained much of what I’d be encountering as a military wife and became the person I’d call when I had a question or needed someone to soothe my fears.

  Over the years we would be there for each other—helping each cope with military challenges. We would comfort and advise the other about elopements, church weddings, deployments, in-law trouble, pets, PCSing, our fathers’ cancers, and then children.

  I would tell her everything I learned and give her advice. We flip-flopped like this for years, helping each other out with one military experience or another. It seemed at times that we were the only two people in the world who understood each other. We told each other everything without passing judgment.

  Meeting Erin that night in Charleston changed my life. Although we were never stationed together, we have remained incredibly close. She was my first military sister.

  Erin also had her share of mishaps at the commissary. Like most women, she would put her purse in the cart and then roam the aisles grabbing various products. In the produce section, she was picking out some cantaloupes when she got into a friendly conversation with an elderly retiree’s wife.

  When she got to the checkout line, Erin realized she had someone else’s purse in her cart. That’s also when she realized the items in her cart were not hers.

  Just then she heard a voice yelling, “That’s her! She stole my purse!” She turned and saw the lady she had met in the produce aisle standing with an MP who had Erin’s purse in his hand.

  After a few minutes listening to the elderly woman’s claim that Erin had tried to distract her in order to steal her purse, the MP allowed the women to switch carts and proceed to the checkout counter.

  Apparently, the valuable contents of the elderly woman’s purse consisted of an entire box of tissues, 60 throat drops, $13.00 in change, a military ID, and a checkbook.

  I have to take some responsibility for Erin’s next disastrous trip to the commissary. I discovered that when Jon was deployed, I could not listen to the radio. Whenever a love song came on, I became a puddle. I would be driving down the road, crying and swerving all over the place.

  So I started burning my own CDs so I could control what I was listening to, and that’s what I mailed to Erin to help lift her spirits.

  One day her car was in the shop and she was forced to drive her husband’s truck, which we dubbed “the White Whale.” It wasn’t a huge truck, but it had an extended cab and bed. Because of its size, Erin would only drive the White Whale when she was forced to.

  Anyway, it was almost closing time when Erin realized she needed something. She jumped in the White Whale and off she went. At the commissary, Erin parked at the far end of the lot because the truck is so hard to maneuver.

  She was feeling a bit bummed about being alone, so she popped in one of my burned CDs. Gloria Estefan’s voice filled the cab.

  Immediately Erin’s spirits lifted and she began to “conga” as she backed out of the parking space. After a few feet she saw a red flash in the side mirror and a man running toward the truck.

  She screamed and sped up, but he kept after her, pointing to the back of her car.

  She silenced Gloria, rolled to a stop, and cracked the window. The man ran up to her. “Lady, I’m sorry I scared you. I’m not going to hurt you, but you need to get out of your truck and come see this.”

  Although she was still frightened, she stepped out of the truck and walked around to the back. That’s when she saw a grocery cart wedged under the back bumper.

  The man looked at her. “Ma’am, you hit it full force. You dragged it about 50 feet. I have never seen sparks fly like that before in my life! I tried yelling at you to stop, but you were dancing and carrying on, so you couldn’t hear me. I had to stop you before you got out of the parking lot.”

  Humiliated, but grateful, Erin and the man wrenched the cart out from under the truck. The cart had seen better days, but the White Whale emerged unscathed from the incident.

  The CD was put away for a while. While there are rules banning texting while driving, I wonder if there ought to be a ban against Conga dancing in the car during deployments.

  NAVAL HOSPITAL

  There is a reason military medicine is free: no one would pay for it.

  During our stay on base, most of the doctors had been shipped either to Germany or Iraq. That meant the ones left behind were overwhelmed and overworked.

  It also meant I saw a different doctor every time I went in.

  My main doctor was this young looking man, probably about 28 but he looked all of 18. He was so timid and nervous that he barely would make eye contact. He shook my hand like a Nancy Boy. All my visits were strained and weird.

  I was dreading my annual pap smear because I was sure he had never seen a real vagina before (well other than in a textbook, or on a computer screen, if you catch my drift.)

  I was scheduled for a pap about two days after Jon deployed. When I went in, the doctor was polite, but obviously uncomfortable.

  When he examined my breast for lumps, he acted like he was poking a jellyfish to see if it was alive. I think he may have even used a stick.

  At one point I swear he was flicking me. I wanted to yell, “Look, buddy, it’s not a booger!”

  Thank God, there was a nurse in the room during the pap exam. That was taking way longer than usual, so I figured he didn’t know what to look for.

  Finally I asked, “Is everything OK?”

  He answered, “Ah, well, I can’t seem to locate your cervix.”

  Without thinking, I replied, “Well, my husband deployed two days ago. Maybe he knocked it out of place.”

  The nurse howled with laughter, but the doctor left the room, obviously embarrassed.

  After our second Marine Corps Birthday Ball, I became very ill. I have never been in such pain in my life. I lay in bed, unable to move or straighten my legs. I would scream in pain followed by explosive diarrhea.

  Jon was supposed to leave for 29 Palms in two days and I was frea
ked.

  Eventually I started sleeping on the potty. Jon put a TV tray with a pillow in front of me so I could get comfortable.

  By the time he left, I had been in the bathroom for two days straight. I called the Naval Hospital, but they had no appointments. They suggested I go to the emergency room.

  I could not leave the bathroom for more than five minutes, and yet I had to get to the hospital, which was half an hour away.

  I called Michelle, who told me she had to take the boys up there to get shots so she offered to drive me. She suggested I put a maxi pad on my butt and bring an extra pair of pants. On the way, we stopped at a McDonald’s so I could poop.

  As soon as she dropped me off at the emergency room, I ran in and pooped again.

  I explained what was going on to the receptionist, who informed me there was a 12-hour wait.

  At that point I broke down in tears. She offered me a doctor’s appointment for the next morning if I was willing to come back.

  I took it and a case of Pedialite. I pooped again and got in Michelle’s car and headed home—cheeks tightly clenched.

  The next day I put on a makeshift diaper as well as an extra pair of panties to drive myself to the hospital.

  I found out my appointment was with Dr. Lund, who was gorgeous and about 28.

  I had the great pleasure of explaining to this hot Navy man that I had been blowing my ass off since the Birthday Ball.

  He had the great pleasure of sticking his finger up my butt.

  After checking my medical records, he pointed out that I had had my wisdom teeth out two months earlier.

  At that time, I had been given a certain type of antibiotic that can attack the intestines. As a result, I had caught clostridium difficile (or “C-diff” as its victims have dubbed it).

  It is typically something that can be passed around to residents of convalescent hospitals. One gets it and passes it on to the next person who uses the toilet. It causes your stomach and intestines to fill with bacteria.

  At the youthful age of 24, I had caught the C-diff.

  Dr. Lund sent me home with massive amounts of pills, but informed me that I would have to return the following week with a sample of my poo and undergo another manual exam.