I attended my first ever military retirement ceremony recently. In nineteen years as a military spouse, I attended numerous military functions, ceremonies, balls, and mandatory fun events, but this was my first retirement. As someone who was never that military wife that learned all the acronyms, memorized my husband’s alphanumeric code that represented his job title, or ever stepped a toe into the spouses’ groups, I can say with surety, I was not a model military spouse. However, military ceremonies are something special, and this retirement ceremony did not disappoint.
As I sat there watching and listening to the speakers talk about the retiree, I reflected on the circumstances that led to me sitting in that seat on that day. I wished I had enough forethought to bring some tissues, or at least a magical purse like Hermione Granger, which would allow me to carry everything with me all the time in a tiny little bag. Instead, I used my jacket sleeve…sigh.
Many years ago, as a young military spouse, I was…naive. That seems like the most adequate word. Probably a little nicer than the truth, which is that I was immature, ignorant on all things military, and way too sassy for my own good. That last one hasn’t changed. I have never been one to sit back and let nature take its course on things. I am a doer. If I want something, I make it happen. So, when I found myself with 28 tiny little days to arrange, organize, and execute an overseas move, waiting for more than 7 of my 28 days for an Air Force Captain, wasn’t really on my agenda. Being an independent and incredibly capable organizer, I decided to call the Captain’s office each day after day five and ask if our orders had been signed. On day eight, after being told yet again that our orders were on the Captain’s desk, I asked if they had any idea when the orders might get signed. The young Airman on the other end of the line asked to speak with my husband. He was on the phone for only a few seconds during which time he instructed him to get me under control and to tell me not to be rude when I call their office (not exaggerating). I decided that speaking to military personnel was a bad idea, for me and my spouse…and all the Airman in the world. I may also have told him to give me the phone so I could call that little creep back and actually be rude to him so he wasn’t confused as to what rude sounded like the next time I called. Luckily, he had the good sense not to give me the phone, or I would probably still be sitting in Germany waiting for orders.
In 2003 we were stationed at a new base (post the aforementioned overseas move), and dealing with an autistic child that was in need of more services than were being offered by our very inadequate pediatric clinic and school.
I found a doctor that specialized in treating children with autism, but his office was several states away in Florida. Being a Staff Sergeant and living on a single income, we didn’t have the kind of money that was required to pay for long distance travel and medical care that was not covered by our insurance. However, I knew this was the most important thing we could do for our child and I wasn’t about to let money stand in the way of getting him the care he needed. We applied for a grant that would help pay for our travel and care.
I waited…and waited…for a response on the grant, which had to be signed off by the First Sergeant. The First Sergeant is like the care taker of the squadron and the families…at least they are supposed to be. After a few weeks of no response I went back and asked what I could do. They asked me if we were having trouble getting a response from the First Sergeant, so I told the truth, we were.
Still being naive and believing that I was dealing with a group of people whose only job was to help families, I left the office thinking they were going to help me get care for my child.
Less than an hour later I got an angry phone call from my husband requesting that if I was going to throw him under the bus, I could at least give him some heads up first. Oh boy!!! Not understanding what happened, he explained to me that the First Sergeant had pulled him into his office and ripped him a new one for complaining that he had not responded to our request. I was shocked! I immediately rescinded our request for the grant. That is not the kind of “help” that I needed.
That was the LAST time I went through the military system for help. I avoided the base, I avoided any functions I wasn’t required to attend. Clearly, I did not understand how to navigate the system and get help without causing more problems for my poor husband, so I bowed out. I figured out how to get what I needed without the military. Any further contact that was required was handled solely by my husband.
That’s not to say that the military never helped us, because they did. There are some amazing people in the military and some of our very best friends were the people who were there during our hard times and came through for us in amazing ways. It just wasn’t through the military “system”.
Fast forward to last year. Typically, I pride myself on never reaching out to the chain of command during a deployment. I handle my own business and make sure my family is taken care of on my own. But one day, I found myself with the flu and a child who HAD to go to the base clinic to get some paperwork signed that had been weeks in the making. He had his physical, but the doctor wouldn’t sign off on it until we had vaccines and lab work completed. Finally, we had completed everything on the checklist and we just needed a signature.
I dragged my feverish and aching self out of bed, showered, and managed somehow to make it out of the house, on time, with the child in tow. Then…we hit construction. Not just a little construction that adds ten minutes to your drive, this was massive. We were at a complete stop, just sitting there, moving two very slow car lengths, and then sitting there again. After twenty minutes, it became very apparent that we WERE NOT going to make it on time. I called the clinic to let them know what was happening. The nurse thanked me and said she would pass on the message. We finally made it to the clinic and parked in the designated area, which required us to take a shuttle to the office because the parking lot near the clinic was still under construction…of course. The shuttle was there when we arrived, so we quickly boarded…and then sat there…for 10 minutes while the driver took a break. We finally made it to the office 20 minutes late. I was stressed out, barely standing, and overwhelmed. Then, I was told that we had been rescheduled. I asked to speak to the patient advocate. When he came out, I explained the situation, how we had been in several times, I had taken time off of work for each appointment, and I just needed a signature, if he could please just have the doctor sign the paperwork so we could go. He came back a few minutes later and said that the doctor would not sign anything without an appointment.
Let me just say, when I have a fever I am an emotional mess. Under normal circumstances, I am NOT a crier. If I am crying, it is because every reasonable solution has been exhausted and I am past the point of reason. However, when I have a fever, all bets are off. So, there I am in the clinic, feverish and furious…so I start crying. Left with absolutely no other recourse to rectify a shitty situation, I used the only tool I had left.
I called the First Sergeant.
I cried and complained and tried to explain through my tears. I had no idea what this man’s name was or if he would even be able or willing to help me, but I had hit a wall…and I was in no condition to deal with what was happening.
To my amazement, he listened to my crying, whiny self and told me he would be happy to help. Come to find out, he used to be the First Sergeant of the medical group and knew that they could be very difficult to deal with. He called them on my behalf. I immediately got a call from the clinic that was just as rude and unhelpful as the first time, so I called the First Sergeant back and let him know. Much to my surprise, he called them back, and he reported the rude Airman, to their command for their behavior. Not only that! He then came and picked up my child, took them to the clinic, got the paperwork signed, and then dropped my child off at school. I was beside myself…never in all those years had anyone in Jason’s command gone above and beyond for my family. I was filled with gratitude for this man and truly felt like this perfect stranger really cared about our well-being. But, even after all of that, I still didn’t remember his name. In my phone he was just stored as “Shirt”. I know…I’m terrible. As much as I appreciated all that he had done, I figured that would be the last time I would ever speak to him. I mean really, I had made it all those years without speaking to a First Sergeant, so I had no reason to believe that I would ever need to again.
This experience, as small and silly as it sounds now as I tell it, had been an incredibly important event.
A few months after my feverish outburst, my husband came home from deployment incredibly unwell. I tried to handle things on my own…as I had always done. Then a terrible day came when I realized I was in WAY over my head. I found myself in desperate need of help once again.
I called my mom, tearful and terrified. She told me I NEEDED to call his command and ask for help. This was the LAST thing I wanted to do.
At the time all I kept thinking was that I was ruining my husband’s military career. What if everything was fine? What if I was just overreacting? What if everything could be worked out and be like it had always been? What if I was ruining everything by getting someone else involved? What if he never forgave me? What if…what if…what if…
Shaking like a leaf, I scrolled through my phone. I took a deep and trembling breath as I made the hardest phone call I ever had to make, to the only person I knew that would listen to what I had to say and who had the power to help me…the Shirt.
He listened. He told me I had made the right call. He assured me this would not ruin his career. We discussed all of the options and we came up with a plan to help Jason. Throughout the day, he kept in close contact and let me know everything that was happening and we worked together to get Jason the help he so desperately needed.
Over the next nine days, I spoke with him every day. We had numerous meetings with the command, and with Jason and his doctor. I knew they were doing every single thing that could be done to help him and help us get past this terrible situation.
We all thought we were on a good path, as difficult as it had been. Everything had been thought of, every precaution was taken, everyone was doing their part to help my husband. Then the worst, most highly unlikely scenario that I was told simply wouldn’t happen, happened.
The day Jason died, the Shirt was the one who came to tell me that the man I loved was gone and my life, as I knew it, ended in that one tragic and horrific moment. He stayed by my side as I lost my mind with grief sitting on the side of the road…and every day after that through the funeral. He called my mother and told her what happened and asked her to come be with me. He was the only other person, besides me, who knew everything that happened. He witnessed first hand all that had transpired…he was the only person who knew and truly understood. He attended every difficult meeting. Made sure all of our family was taken care of with the respect and care they deserved. He sat with my mother and I in our hotel room late one night and looked at pictures, walked through the details of what happened, shared his own stories with us, and cried with us over our tragic loss. He personally went to the funeral home and inspected Jason’s uniform to ensure every detail was correct and in place before he gave him a final salute. He had a custom shadow box made for all of Jason’s military ribbons and decorations from his Blues. He wasn’t the Shirt any longer, he was my friend at a time when I needed one most.
On the day of Jason’s funeral, he sat with us, teary eyed, through the services. He walked with my son as he gave a final salute to his father, and escorted me into the cemetery where Jason would be laid to rest with full military honors. He made sure no detail was forgotten and that every single thing I asked for became a reality. There are no words to express my gratitude for the love he showed us during the MOST difficult time in our lives.
When he let me know he was retiring, I was thrilled to be there and see this incredible man be honored for his distinguished career and all that he done. I listened as they gave the run down of all his accomplishments, all of the places he served, the different awards he had won, and the story of his life. What they never talked about were the families he had helped and the lives he had changed. I don’t know that there is anyway to share all of the stories, because mine is not the only one…I am just one person of hundreds that he helped through difficult times. There were no stories of all the late nights, tearful phone calls, counseling sessions, jail visits, car rides, or tales of all the personal sacrifices he made and time he had missed with his own family to help others. He is the military hero that no one talks about.
He is a true hero…as unlikely as it seemed that first day while entrenched in a flu fog, making a desperate call for help. He taught me that it truly is the small and simple things in life, the little kindnesses we show to others, that make the biggest difference. And you never know when something so insignificant as listening to a feverishly crazed woman on the other end of the line, will end up having such a huge impact on someone’s life.