The Midway Paradox

“You’re coming home?”

I could barely hear him when I needed to understand his words the most. Was he really coming home? Was this nightmare coming to an end? How was this happening? I walked into the house for better reception that I’d never find. In this technology-ridden age, I wouldn't have believed bad connections still exist on landlines. As I circled between two rooms, Chris answered my questions.


Before leaving, he explained that I would see him before his year was up. Deployed soldiers are usually given two weeks of leave time around the halfway point of their tour. I was expecting Chris home around February or March of next year for his “mid-tour leave.” In Iraq, Chris had learned otherwise. Because of his ranking, he would be sent home earlier than the soldiers above him¹. I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad that he’s coming home in November instead. Rather than waiting for two sixth-month periods, I would wait for three months and agonize over nine more once he returned to Iraq.


The rest of our conversation was spent describing our days. I recounted my ever-growing sleep debt and the inability to find enough things to keep myself distracted, while he reported on 16-hour patrols, raw sewage for bathing water, and his own sleep deprivation. He’d said so much more than I could hear, but of the broken pieces sent over a telephone line from across the world, there was one detail I certainly didn’t miss. Chris had an opportunity to read my blog. Without having to ask, he answered a curiosity I’d written about earlier. Before going to bed, Chris hears gunshots.

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¹ Chris’ leave time has been scheduled within the early portion of a window of opportunity to send troops home. The timing has more to do with experience rather than ranking. Soldiers that are on their first deployment are generally sent home earlier because it is believed that seasoned troops have the endurance to stay out longer. However, scheduling can change in the event of a significant life event (i.e. the birth of a child). (Source: military contacts)

Out of Service, In Good Fortune

Photo by Balakov

I knew he was going to call today. I knew it as I left my house, clutching my phone in my hand. I knew it as I got on the highway and headed north, radio turned down low. I knew it because I was on my way to a place where cell phone service gets lost and can’t find its way. As luck would have it, Chris didn’t call me on my phone; he called somewhere else.

The phone rang and I’d just arrived. Distracted by the hugs and hellos, so many relatives in for the holiday weekend, I only heard a “guess who’s here” spoken into the receiver in the background. I couldn’t imagine that she was speaking about me. I ignored the comment and continued my round of greetings. When the phone transferred hands, I heard another snippet: “you’re coming home?” Definitely not Chris on the other end, he just left. As it turned out, I was wrong, and it felt good.

Chris didn’t know I’d be at his parent’s house just as I didn’t know he’d call the very moment I got there. I was happy. After what happened last time, I knew that it was possible to miss important calls no matter how close you keep your phone. However, when fate waves her magic wand, extraordinary things happen. I was out of service, but in good fortune.

It was my turn up. Chris’ dad handed me the phone and said, “He’s coming home.”

To be continued . . .

Chances Are Good

Photo by jam343

Somewhere between panic-stricken and sleep-deprived, compromise was found. A shallow sleep arrived when I clung to the idea that there would be other chances; that sooner or later, he would call again. Turns out, sooner or later happened in less than two hours.

When I picked up his call, my mind was still fuzzy from almost dreaming. On his end, his voice was unsure, as if he'd anticipated another conversation with my voicemail. It took us a moment, but together, we found our beat.

In 26 minutes and 17 seconds, he told me that he’d been separated from his company because he was selected with two others to take MRAP classes. Leaving his platoon ultimately gave him more opportune moments to call. Although I’d hoped my intuition was wrong, he also confirmed that weekends do not exist for soldiers—their efforts are ongoing. He continued, describing the lack of privacy, how he wouldn’t have a room of his own as he’d thought, that he’d most likely occupy a tent with nine others. On my side of the world I was lost in his words, listening to his sounds, remembering, memorizing, smiling, missing, relishing . . .

Chris was rushed off the phone. His 30-minute allowance was cut short because of the volume of soldiers waiting to place calls. Our goodbyes were hurried, but I am thankful. There would be no goodbye without a hello. I was given a fifth chance this morning and those don’t happen everyday.

Mute Mistake

There are some moments in life that you feel you just can’t describe. This is one of them:

“You have four new messages. First new message, sent today at 4:32 a.m.”

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up . . .”

“Next message sent today at 4:34 a.m.”

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up . . .”

“Next message sent today at 4:36 a.m.”

“Seriously wake up . . . I don’t know when I’ll be able to call you again . . . I miss you, I miss you . . .”

“Next message sent today at 4:39 a.m."

“I guess you’re not going to pick up. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to call you again . . .”

My phone was on silent from a visit to the bookstore with my sister last night. I’d forgotten to turn the ringer back on. We were in my room talking and laughing until 5:45 a.m. I was exhausted when I checked my messages a few moments ago. I'm wide awake now because I can’t forgive myself.