No Regrets

Dec. 29, 2007 1:03:00 AM

Well, I have broken one of my rules.

I should be in bed, but I cannot sleep, so I am writing instead of laying in bed.

I am about to change that. I do feel sleep coming and I do plan to rest tomorrow. One moment at a time.
This is hard. It is hard being away from the one you love this long. To know that my beloved is in harm's ways. There are times I jump when the phone or doorbell rings or there is a knob at the door. I don't watch the news much anymore, because of the thoughts that often fill my mind.
Yes, I knew Mark could and would be deployed when I married him. I knew there would be lonely nights, days of no e-mail or phone calls.

Months before I would see him again.
But I have no regets. I am a pround army wife; standing beside my big guy as he does the job he does best. As he defends the nation we both love, as he works to help the people of Iraq rebuild their lives, I stand with him, pray for him bake and send cookies and keep that candle in the window burning intil he returns to my arms.

Regrouping

Friday, December 28, 20079:02:00 AM EST
Feeling: Happy
Hearing: Fox and Friends

I slept in late.
I was in bed by 8:30 late night and up around 8 a.m. So that was a good sleep. And while I am still sleepy, I will make the Challah and then take a long nap.
I am behind my time, I know, but I really needed the sleep. I have to take care of myself: for me, for my beloved who is courting on me. For my Heavenly Father.
I am going to look into a new blood pressure cuff. I will take my workouts more seriously. The past few days I have taken a hard look at somethings that truly have to go.
Including several so-called friends who have been draining my energy.
So why am I making these changes make this public?
It makes me accountable, keeping a running record of what I am doing. And knowing others are aware and praying for me, this will be keep me honest.
So, now it its time to make the Challah. And while it is baking, I will work on the baby blanket for Beth's new grandson.
One of the stress levels in my life have now been removed.
There is a saying I like and agree with; People are brought into your life for a reason, a season or for a life time.
A friendship has been cut loose. Someone who drained me of time and energy and resources. I wish this person and her family the best. But it is time to let this person go and allow G-d do what needs to be done.
It was needful. And franky I feel better for having done so.

Not A Good Report

Thursday, December 27, 20079:35:00 PM EST
Feeling: Anxious
Burn out.
That is what the doctor at Boone Clinic calls it.
My body is under major stress, blood pressure is higher than it should be. I have to return in two weeks for it to be rechecked. I have been told to make an appointment with mental health as well, since the stress of this deployment is affecting my health. She became more alarmed when I said I don't sleep much and has given me sleeping pills to help me rest.
I am also asking to be released from Boone Clinic back to my private doctor. Since I don't drive, it is an two and a half bus ride (three buses) and then a 20 minute walk from the gate to the clinic. I did get a ride today, but I can't always count on that.
And it adds to my stress.
I know that I must start going to bed much earlier than Ido right now. I just can't sleep. The doctor wishes me to see mental health, so that I can find ways to reduce my stress levels.
At least I'd lost weigh.
I have decided to turn off the TV about 7pm and after taking a warm bath, read the Scriptures to help my body, soul and spirit to start the rest progress.

Captain Perfect?

From: Thursday,

December 27, 2007 12:48:00 AM EST

I know that the way I write about Mark, one would think he is perfect.

Well, he is; for me.

Yes, Mark has his faults. All of us do. But you wouldn't hear about them coming from me. I believe that spouses are to encourage their mates; build them up and not tear them down.
I often tell Mark that he does more things right than wrong. Which is true.

Our job as spouses, parents, friends, siblings, is to see and encourage the good we see in our loved ones. It doesn't mean turning a blind eye to what is wrong, making excusing or explaining away wrong behaviour.

But by speaking words of encouragement, our loved ones will see words of correction, not as we are picking on them, but helping.
How often as Mark, my Hebrew teacher worked me with my lessions, I would become frustrated with my mistakes.

But Mark never did. He would lovingly correct me when wrong and cheer me on when right. Sometimes I would become so frustrated and feel like Mark was picking on me. I had to realize that he would never do that. He was looking out for my good. And now, I am not so quick to get upset with my mistakes; knowing I have my Mark behind me.

Mark too has said to me that he knows when I speak on a matter of concern, I am looking out for his good, not meaning to hurt him.

And that is one of the secrets of a good marriage. The protecting of each other's feelings, emotions, each other's soul, as well as each bodies.

And for my Beloved the next time he can get on the journal; I Love You

It's The Little Things I Miss the Most

From Dec. 27th, 2007
I was in bed by 9 p.m last night. I really do need to make going to bed at a decent time a habit.

Since Sunday, I'd been on a dead run and really needed the sleep. I fell into bed exhauted.
I slept this morning past sunrise. my mornning prayers, said the Shema, did my morning stetches and will make coffee. And might go back to bed since I am still very tired.
The house needs picking up.

I will do that later.
As always, my mind goes back to Iraq. After two good nights of sleep and good meds, Mark is getting over his cold. I need to send the cook my recipe for chicken soup.

It kills any virus.
As I think about Mark, I realize that it is the little things I miss most....

The way he plays with my curls. The way he would insist on making and bringing me my coffee.

Sometimes I would be in the shower and slowly I would see my coffee mug come slipping in to greet me.

I miss the way he would lovingly wash my back, his voice as he would read the Torah or any of the books we were reading before bed.

The way he would bring me some little treat, flower, piece of clothing or jeweley "just because." I miss the way I would be doing my housework and suddely find myself being swung about in a wild dance in the arms of my beloved.
I just miss him.

Last week I accounted someone who said to me: "if you were more spiritual, you would trust G-d with Mark and wouldn't miss him so much."

I suggested since she was stronger than I, why doesn't she send her husband to take Mark's place since she was strong enough to handle the stress of deployment better than I.
She had nothing to say.

I thought so.

It Don't Come Easy

From Dec 26th, 2007:

I often hear; "I don't know how you do it!"
Depending on the time of day, my answer is:

"Through G-d Who strenghtens me."

"Mark's love sees me through."
"I don't know how I do it either."

An Army Wife: not just a job, but an adventure.

The Gift of Cancer

Tuesday, December 25, 20077 6:00 PM EST
Feeling: Quiet

My Mark and Rabbi Wolpe have something in common, recovery of the same type of cancer. And are both surviors. Mark also saw his cancer as a gift, a way to serve and touch others.

'My Cancer Was a Gift'
Cancer validated my compassion and helped me show others that death is a chance to teach our greatest lesson.
By Rabbi David Wolpe


This article first ran in the October/November issue of Moment Magazine. This is Rabbi Wolpe's story....

I stood by the hospital bed of a friend who was dying of cancer. He wanted to know why he was sick, why he must die, why he must leave his children and grandchildren.
As his rabbi, I was armed with few answers. I could tell him that it was part of God's plan or I could confess to him that I did not know. Neither seemed like the right response. So, instead, we exchanged stories about chemotherapy.
My hair was just beginning to grow back after a bout with lymphoma; his, wispy to start, was gone from the drugs that had targeted all the fast-growing cells in his body. They had done a thorough job on his hair but not on his cancer. We talked about the strange gratitude we felt for the medicinal poison as it coursed through our veins. There was a moment of solidarity, then sadness returned. Battle stories are not nostalgic when they end in death.
"But at least you understand," he said. It reminded me anew that my cancer was a gift; as a rabbi, it validated my compassion. People knew that I really did understand, that my family and I were not unscathed. Needles seemed forever to be dangling from my arm and I was always being shoved into metal tubes for scans and pictures and tests. Enduring the elaborate technology of survival creates a kind of tribal solidarity. "So," he asked, "why did it happen to you?"
Did I get cancer for a reason? Four years before my lymphoma I had undergone surgery for a brain tumor, thankfully benign. Five years before that, after the birth of our daughter, my wife had cancer and surgery that left her unable to bear more children. After each experience, people would ask what it meant. Now someone was asking not out of curiosity or even spiritual hunger, but spiritual urgency. We looked at each other for a long time. I know what it does not mean, I told him. It was not a punishment. The calculus of reward and punishment in this world is surely more complex than sin equals cancer. One thing is clear: the cancer is not only about you. Those who care for you suffer as well. The ripples do not end. Facing our own mortality, the traditional roles had melted away.
We were no longer rabbi and layperson, younger man and older man. I recalled how in the first verse of the Book of Kings, King David was no longer referred to by his title when he neared death: "Now the days of David drew near that he should die."
When we approach death we no longer can hide behind titles and status. The man and I were two people who had undergone similar ailments. One of us, for now, was in remission, and one of us would die before the other. And neither knew why. He told me that it was not his own life he feared for, but what would happen to his family. How would his loss hurt them? I remembered how, as I was first wheeled into surgery, I was surprised at how little I feared death; I feared instead the consequences of my death. I feared not for myself but for my wife and daughter. Did he believe in another world? He was not sure, but he hoped. I ventured that everything a human being was — the hopes and dreams, the love and gifts — could not completely disappear. The old analogy had it right: There is a birth into this world that we never could have imagined. Might there be a new birth, another world, equally beyond the reach of human imagination?
Life, as writer Vladimir Nabokov once said, was such a remarkable surprise, why should death be less of a surprise? He smiled and we shared a moment of hope. Maybe all the therapy, the scans and shots, had only postponed the consummation of an unimaginable life to be. But we soon returned to the moment. To die is to lose everything we know, all the wonders of this world and the people in it. To die is to leave so many stories unfinished and to miss the next act of the stories of others, those whom we know and whom we love. I did have one thought that might offer him a glimmer of comfort. When I was sick it became clear to me how carefully others watched my reaction — would my faith help me at all, they wondered? Does a professional practice of Judaism offer some strength? Feeling their eyes on me helped me realize that in sickness we are not powerless — we still have the ability to teach. I told this man, my friend, my fellow human, that his children and grandchildren were watching him. Here was a chance to teach his greatest lesson. They would remember much about him to be sure, but they would never forget how he died. His acceptance, his dignity, even his hope, could change their lives.
Each week, I told him, I studied Torah with a man who just turned 90. He had often recounted what his mother said to him as she was dying: "My child, do not be afraid. It is only death, and it has happened to everyone who ever lived."
The two of us in the hospital room held hands, and agreed that if we could, we would pass from this life with words of love and hope for awakenings to come.
Shortly afterwards, he passed away. His children speak of him with reverence for his life and for the way in which he faced death. As with all meetings of the spirit there was not one who gave and one who took; there were two who stood with each other and before God, and even in their sadness, felt bless.