In the Winter of 2003 we had our last Shabbat together the day before he left. I said goodbye with three little ones, Amariah being brand new. I found out why he had gone on March 19, as I watched the media display video footage of "Operation Shock and Awe" take place bombing Baghdad, a day after ground forces had already began a "running start" offensive towards the city. My husband being a part of those forces as an airborne infantryman in the 101st. One of the worst things about the war for me back home, besides the obvious fear of loss and injury, was the incredible amount of media availability in conjunction with the lack of personal communication as he fought. I let myself play the guessing game every time something happened on the news, until finally I learned to shut it off and just go play with the kids until he returned. Baghdad was seized, the United States declared victory, and on the 1st of May major combat operations ended. He would be deployed for an undetermined amount of time, estimating 18 months.
Come June, as I was caring for the kids at home, I noticed our third daughter not meeting her growth development milestones. Within the next week I would learn she had extensive brain damage and was diagnosed with left hemiplegia spastic Cerebral Palsy, severe developmental delay, epilepsy, and cortical visual ipairment. I suddenly had no idea if she would ever walk, talk or be able to properly think. I felt alone and devastated in this discovery. And I was faced with yet another moral question: Do I inform my husband whom is fighting in Iraq? Shouldn't I, as the "strong military wife," suck it up and let him fight, telling him later when he returns? This became an insurmountable idea to bear alone, so I called command for advice. They directed me to alert the red cross immediately, so it was the next phone call I made. I found out they were going to send him home because of the diagnosis, to assist with the testing 
Shelemyah would soon undergo. Within four days of that initial phone call I was picking him up at the Nashville airport and bringing him to our house on post. FOUR DAYS. At the time this was relieving news to me, surprising, but welcomed, which would later turn into not the best transition time for him. From that point on he hit hit the ground running, just as he was trained to do. except this time, his mission was to help his baby girl. Shortly after he returned, his Army contract ended, and we made the new decision to leave the military given the experience of war, and headed to Austin. He was most certainly one of the first soldiers back from Iraq, there was no reintegration process in place at Ft. Campbell where we were stationed, and no family awareness training given to us.
We thought the worst was behind us once he was home, but the next 8 years proved me wrong. I mean, I saw him arrive in one piece, he was thankful and happy to be back from the war, and he looked like he was unharmed. I was not aware of what I could not see, and embarked on a psychological journey of questioning, turmoil, and searching to find out what was so different about him. I know now I was not prepared to help him transition to civilian life on my own, but I had no choice. As we helped our daughter through all of her therapy and medical care, we were slowly finding out his diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder, traumatic brain injury, and depleted uranium exposure, with much confusion and denial. As employment became harder and harder for him to maintain, and symptoms became more difficult to manage, our family was collapsing financially and relationally. Author Cynthia Orange says it this way, "Living in a household affected by trauma and PTSD is a bit like trying to swim thorough mud." Indeed it felt just this way, and worse. The foundation of what I thought our family would be had fallen out from beneath us. He looked at death differently, saw life convoluted, and I thought I was going insane. The war experience sent shock waves throughout our entire family system. It changed us all.
I tell you this story to express how community, for us, helped us to somehow sustain and later begin the recovery process. And I tell you so others out there might learn, isolating yourself because of the shame you feel going through these circumstances, is not the answer.
I walked into our new synagogue community sometime in the year of 2005… Though VA turned us away, we found community here. When our lights were shut off repeatedly, the synagogue still had power. when we could not afford food, we had a meal to look forward to on Shabbat. Through 3 foreclosure proceedings in the last four years, and a current one because of late HOA dues, their building gives us a sense of stability in shelter. When family did not understand our struggles and had finally gone silent, our clergy still showed concern for our well being. When neighbors stopped being so neighborly because we were different, this community still accepted us. We struggle to keep our vehicle month after month through 10 very recent job losses, and juggle how to meet living expenses and figure this all out. Though through all of this, the consistency of community strengthens us, even gladdens our hearts with joy. We also recently reconnected with the veteran community last December at an event to provide familes respite. Since 2003, this was the first time my husband met another combat infantry veteran. He needed that greatly. Organizations are showing up, not affiliated with the VA, to help fill the gaps of helping servicemen and women and their families, and it is making a world of difference. We felt so much more normal seeing and communicating face to face with other families like ours.
Finally, since our initial application in 2004 to help my husband, the VA documented and compensated for some of his disabilities in August 2010, 6 years later. I am astonished that our family has made it this far still intact, and our marriage is flourishing with a new found love, yet I'm equally appalled at the things we have had to fight for to keep us afloat.
And as Cynthia Orange also says about that mud, "With the appropriate help, love and support however, families can find clearer water." I believe we are finally beginning to see the clearer water just off in the distance.
I leave you with one last thought from James Baldwin about rebuilding our lives, he says:
"For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witness they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out. "
Let us always be here for one another, and let us be here for our countries veterens.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013 at 1:00AM 
Our G+ community wants to bring you positivity, so we created the “Be Encouraged” section. A place to find thoughts and meditations. Perhaps a place to find a new focus. We believe in Post Traumatic Growth...
