There were so many moments when we didn't know if our husbands were alive or dead, when we knew that 1/3 Marines were dying, but we didn't know who. No one could know who was KIA until next-of-kin was notified. This could take up to 24 hours.
You pace your home, peer out the windows -- watching for that government-plated vehicle and Alpha-clad Marines walking up your steps -- obsessively watch CNN, because a CNN reporter is embedded with your husband's unit. Refresh the DoD Releases website to see who it was...if it wasn't your husband, could it have been one of your dear friends? You can't breathe a sigh of relief, even after you see the names and don't recognize them, this time.
There isn't any relief that "it wasn't you," because it was one of yours, it was someone fighting the same cause the love of your life is. They're all brothers, and even with the bickering, or slap-talk, you see the love when it comes down to it. And the loss of one breaks the hearts of every person tied to the unit. However, none more so than the immediate family of said Marine.
Everyday is scary, and every night is scarier. You have dreams that you can see what is happening over there, your imagination running rampant and taking over, that you are seeing the horrific things your husband is seeing. Stop sleeping.
Watch the sun rise and set for five days. Talk to your friend from Germany, because it's daytime for her, when it's 3:00AM for you.
Call your doctor, tell him that you are breaking down and haven't slept in "x" amount of days.
Doctor sends you to a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist puts you on Trazodone to calm you down enough to sleep at nights.
You have nightmares about what he's going through, like it's a movie you're watching in horror.
You wake up. Turn on CNN, check the DoD releases, and start the process all over again.
No matter how busy I was, this was my life. All encompassing, almost like I was existing in an alternate universe and I was numb.
