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23: Before You Go

Enough months passed that most girls on base had bowling ball bellies. Abby and I weren't that lucky, but we clung to each other during each deployment that removed John and Nathan from our lives and prayed our chance would come.

Once Nate was in my grasp, I couldn't hug him enough, feel him, touch him, kiss him. The rough brush of his uniform rubbed comfort over my arms and neck. His warmth and love were home. My dreams, my hopes, and my prayers were true. It didn't feel real.

"Ladybug," he whispered, burying his nose in my neck. Two arms I missed every night circled me in an embrace that crunched my ribs.

Tears sprung out of my eyes. His shoulders shook where his warmth caged around me. Under his strong embrace, I weakened. "Oh, fuck. You're home. When I got the early call, I thought -"

"Not all of me came back." He set me down and bent over. His hand tugged up the crease of his right pant leg. Inch by inch, he revealed a slender, silver-colored rod below his knee.

"I don't care." My arms choked around him, and I kissed his heart space. He smelled of fatigue, airport layovers, and armpit sweat. I filled every breath with it. "You're back. You're home. Thank fuck you're home."

Pain struck Nathan's beautiful eyes. It grayed out the brightness I missed, darkening them into storm clouds. "John's home too, Ladybug."

I pulled back with a gasp and searched the tarmac. "What? Abby didn't -"

Nate's choked sob stole my words. "Ladybug." Tears dripped down his chiseled cheeks, glistening the hardened skin. It was three shades darker than when he left and leathered from sun exposure. "He's come to rest."

Nathan's return was bittersweet. Of course, we were relieved that our prayers were answered and he came home. The happiness his honorable discharge brought, news that he would never be deployed again, was overshadowed by losing John.

Next to Abby's grief, losing John was hardest on Nathan. He survived after his brother was lost. After the last shovel of soil was cast, the weight of John's casket on his shoulders never left.

The warm, playful light in his eyes was dim and gray. His smiles became rare and replaced with grimaces. My open, smooth-talking husband was withdrawn, moody, and impatient. Like wildfire sparked by lightning, his impatient temper flared easily and angrily.

Civilian life offered Nate little comfort. Ignorant and confused, I offered little comfort.

He experienced migraines and night sweats, thrashing through nightmares so hard that I worried he injured himself, me, or broke the bed. Insomnia became preferable to screaming through the night.

We visited the base's VA doctor, who diagnosed him with PTS. He was prescribed anti-depression medication, Valium, and a mental health management plan. Because Nate was taking Percocet for chronic pain after losing his leg, the VA doctor discussed a massive list of conditions and concerns for us to watch out for.

Nate and I broke down in his office, crying and shaking in each other's arms. His recovery would be slow, four to six weeks.

Our relief was short-lived.

Valium and Percocet.

Nate took his medications on schedule, as directed, no more and no less. His nightmares waned but his headaches and dizzy spells increased. He abstained from alcohol and drugs and worked part-time for his dad's termite company. We ate clean, and we exercised together.

He wasn't an addict... but he slipped further away.

I didn't understand his mood changes. The edge of his anxiety removed was supposed to be a positive, welcomed sign. Calm, quieter moods weren't on the doctor's list of physical trigger warnings and signs. He passed every VA assessment, earning their post-deployment stamp of approval assimilating to civilian life.