GUEST POST: ‘My husband is away for 6 months of the year’

Life When Your Husband is Deployed for Six Months by Maree….

When I talk to people about just how long my navy husband can be deployed for, sometimes their response is, ‘Well I guess you knew what you were getting yourself in for when you married him.’ I tell them that the world is a very different place from when I married him 12 years ago at only 22 years-of-age and that you cannot possibly know how you will cope as a mother in those circumstances until you actually experience them.

My husband Mark is originally Canadian and I lived there for six years before he was able to transfer to the Australian Navy seven years ago. How could I or anyone really ever imagine the events of 9/11 and that my husband would be on the first Canadian ship to deploy to the Persian Gulf just a few months later when I was 25-weeks- pregnant with our first child? He was flown back before the birth when a replacement was found for him but for me that event stands out as the beginning of a new stage in my life where I had to build courage and resilience to face more of life on my own.

And this time I think we all did really well, especially when you consider we moved across the country only a month before Mark left and into our house only five days before. It was all this newness that in fact helped us. Seven-year-old Joshua came home at the end of the first week of school and happily announced, “I’ve found a best friend at last!” He did indeed find a lovely friend, who has a lovely Mum, who has made a lovely friend for me. Only once did Joshua rage at his circumstances and the injustice of not having Daddy around to play with his new Lego. “There are too many girls in this house!” he yelled at me with tears streaming down his face. “And I’m not impressed that Daddy missed my birthday!” Fair enough.

Five-year-old Robyn started school for the first time and wants to go even when she’s sick. She also started swimming lessons and in the six months that Mark was away went from being afraid of putting her head in the water to using her arms in freestyle. These significant achievements gave her the confidence, and provided enough of a distraction, to face the long time without Daddy. Quite often when he phoned every few weeks and I asked Joshua and Robyn if they wanted to speak to him they’d reply, “No thanks. Too busy.”

It was the youngest of our family, Marguerite, who was the most eager to talk to Daddy and hear his voice. (In the frantic days before his departure we didn’t think to install Skype on the computer so that we could have talked face-to-face when he was in a port. Next time.) Marguerite, who turned three during the deployment, had never known her Daddy to be away so long and although she couldn’t comprehend time, was old enough to wonder what it all meant. After about four months she said to me one day in the car, “Daddy’s not coming back.” I assured her that he was. “Naaaahh,” she said and then laughed and talked about something else.

She did often want to talk about Daddy, seeking reassurance about his place in the family. A few weeks after Mark left my parents came to visit and as Marguerite helped my Mum pull weeds out of the garden she said, “Grandma? Do you love my Daddy? I love my Daddy.” When my Mum said that she did, Marguerite continued, “Does Grandad love my Daddy?” My Mum assured her that Grandad loved her Daddy and the pattern repeated itself for several more family members before she changed the topic. My most memorable conversation with her was in the emergency department of our local hospital where I took her one public holiday. As she lay in the bed, she looked at me through sleepy eyes and said, “I miss Daddy. Your hugs aren’t big enough.” She had summed up his absence perfectly and all I could do was agree.

There were of course many times when I could have done with a hug myself because of Marguerite actually. During the last six months we found out that she has several medical problems and, visits to the GP aside, I took her to five appointments with specialists during the deployment. I cried during one of them and the poor old Doctor didn’t know where to look!

Thank goodness for my parents whom I called every day and at almost any time (except when they’re playing golf!) to get the emotional support I needed. Not only does the distance work against Mark and I communicating but, in addition, he has a very responsible job onboard and there is only so much a person can give of themselves.

Soon after Mark left, feeling anxious about my

circumstances, I was pressuring Mark to talk about an issue until finally he cracked and said, “Stop Maree. I can’t talk about this. I CAN NOT do it.” It was the reminder that I needed of how careful I have to be in prioritising what I tell him. That’s not to say I didn’t let Mark know when Marguerite was sick for example, but I was mindful of the tone of my e-mails, keeping them positive to show that I was in control.

The last time Mark sailed to the Persian Gulf his ship rescued several American naval personnel who were injured, some fatally, when terrorists detonated bombs near the oil platforms the coalition forces were tasked to protect. I tried not to think about such events during this deployment and I’m thankful I’ve never travelled to the Middle East so that I have no visual images to reflect upon. When I get e-mails from Mark telling me inconsequential things like what he had for dinner, I know to not even ask what else he’s doing.

Mark is able to compartmentalise his life brilliantly so that when he comes home our house is not run like a ship and I am never spoken to like I’m a member of the crew that works for him. Mark immediately jumps in to help with the running of the house; changing nappies and emptying the dishwasher. (I know; he is a keeper!) Multitasking is still a challenge though. One evening when Marguerite was a baby, Mark was cooking dinner and I asked him to heat up her bottle while I changed her nappy. It was too much for him and I remember laughing and asking him how it is that he can control a naval ship during a war but can’t do more than one thing at a time at home. “Because no-one’s going to die!” was his immediate response.

Mark brings laughter to our house and that’s what I miss the most when he’s gone. Several days after he returned he played his favourite eighties music on the computer and as all five of us where cutting loose and walking like an Egyptian with carefree abandon I realised that I actually felt relaxed and wasn’t really thinking about anything, which for me is, well, unusual.

When I’m on my own my mind is constantly thinking about everything I have to do and the most efficient way to do it, which does take its toll. Most deployments I am very industrious, eager that Mark’s time away not be some black hole in my life, and then I’m so relieved to have him back I run the house from the couch for a few days. At the three-month point of this deployment however, I kind of hit a mental wall. From that point on I could only read simple books, watch romantic movies with happy endings and planned my evenings around certain TV programs. At first I was annoyed and shocked at my inability to do what I wanted to but then decided to just embrace the activities (however brainless they might be) that were rejuvenating me enough to continue.

I wasn’t always this easy-going about the impact Mark’s absences have had on me since having the children. One night, even the smallest complaint came tumbling out. “You get to go for a run whenever you want to whereas I have to make sure three kids are happy before I go on a treadmill inside our house!” Mark (who fully supported the purchase of said treadmill when our first two children became too heavy for me to push in the double pram) listens compassionately during these outbursts, reminding me of the three well-mannered, kind-natured and creative children that we have, which he acknowledges is largely of my doing. There have been times when the kids have seen Mark as the fun one and I’m the one who restores law and order, which isn’t fair to me. Mark has had to respect the routines and expectations of behaviour I’ve established and find the energy to enforce them because I sure have to regardless of how I feel.

A few years ago I read a biography about General Peter Cosgrove in which his wife described herself as a dinosaur because she was part of a dying breed of women prepared to devote themselves to their husband’s career. I’ve given this concept a lot of thought, particularly as I feel society has such high expectations for mothers to achieve beyond their families. Where I’m currently living I have met women whose partners are away for weeks at a time on oil rigs or at mine-sites so Mark’s career choice has barely raised an eye-brow. I’m pleased to have met these women who are not questioning their life choices or their value to society because they’re too busy enjoying their lives as they are.

We are assessing our life all the time and for all the challenges that Mark’s work brings to us there are also benefits; having a secure job and roof over our heads in these economic times, for example, are certainly things to be grateful for. Before moving here I did some very fulfilling volunteer work that I was able to pull back from when I needed to. I fall on my feet wherever we live and have experienced more of life than I could ever have imagined. For now it works that I am indeed a dinosaur. Not a small one that gets eaten though. Maybe one of those smart ones in Jurassic Park