I Need a New U-Joint and a Good Cry

My u-joint is going out. I felt the vibrations as I accelerated up a hill the other day. It caused a sinking feeling in my chest. My already packed to-do list just got longer.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve installed a suspension lift on this Jeep, dropped the transfer case, and lifted the motor to put in new mounts. I’ve never paid anyone to change the fluids or rotate the tires. Dirt, grease, and any number of other oily substances are at home under my fingernails. I know my way around the underside of this vehicle. In reality, I purchased it so that I could work on it myself.

Myself.

It has a simple inline 6 with a minimal amount of computer controls, solid axles, and simple bolt together body and frame. I’ve had this jeep apart in the driveway many times over the past years. Heck, I’ve even had it apart on the trail with rocks digging into my back.

But the u-joint is going out and dang it, I don’t have the energy today. I still have to resubmit our marriage to the VA because it was denied. Yes, denied. The paperwork we faxed to the woman who was supposedly our caseworker’s contact was never received by the powers that be. I have to find out about the exam Chris is due for to make sure he still warrants his 100% rating. They told me I’d be contacted, eventually, but I know the VA all too well. I also have to find out why the field examiner hasn’t come out after being notified five months ago they would contact me. I have to deal with the bank, which changed hands and decided we have to wait for deposits, deal with getting my name changed but I need the VA to recognize me as Chris’s wife because the check come in my name. I have to, have to, have to…

So, here I am lying under my Jeep wiggling the drive shaft knowing it’s got to be taken care of soon. Anyone who knows cars, knows vibes will cause more problems down the road if left unchecked. But I need to go to the grocery store and mail some packages, and get Chris an appointment with his primary care doctor, and, and, and…

And I need to cry. Sob actually, lying there on the driveway. It’s too much. I can’t do all this by myself. So, the tears come and I can’t do a thing about them with my filthy hands. I’m by myself.

Myself. I can’t do it all, myself.

It only took me two years to figure it out. There is a reason there are several organizations that will help with claims and paperwork for veterans and their families. It’s because we can’t take it all on by ourselves. Face it, those of us who care for a wounded loved one have enough on our plate. We’re busy.

I’m busy. On any given day, I might be kneeling on the floor next to Chris calling him home from a flashback. I might be finding him supplies for the next project to keep his mind off the intrusive memories and thoughts. I’m probably also researching and compiling information in an attempt to help him heal, calming his fears over the sudden noise he’s sure is small arms fire, assuring him things are okay and I’m not going to leave him because it’s hard.

I know I’m not the only one who’s busy and now, I’m asking for help. We’re going to the local vet center that just opened up down by the courthouse. Then I’m making an appointment to join a spouse support group while he’s in counseling. I’m going to ask for help because I need it. There’s no reason to be ashamed, I can’t do this by myself.

He Needs His Boots

This past week has found me doing a little spring-cleaning. It’s amazing how cluttered a house can get after only a year living there. The closet has been mocking me for months, especially after I vowed not to allow it to become the clothing strewn mess it had been at the apartment.  I know it secretly made a bet with the hall closet about which would get cleaned out first.

I came to a pile of DCU’s in the corner laying under the perfectly pressed class A’s on the hanger above. Boots, corframs, covers, scrubs, and even his Kevlar. All in the closet taking up space for no apparent reason as far as I knew.

I pulled them out and laid them all on the bed. The dress uniform, properly buttoned, went back in the closet, but the deserts didn’t seem needed. I walked out to the garage, where Chris was and still is building a replica of a Navy destroyer, with an arm full of his uniforms.

“What are you doing with those?”

I didn’t think he needed them.  The look on his face said otherwise.

When I asked a few days later, his answer was he doesn’t know why he needs his uniforms. But I think I know why. I once heard a story about an old gentleman who didn’t drive any longer but needed the car in his garage. It was ‘just in case’. He’d been through the Holocaust and needed the car just in case they came for him again.

Escape. 

Chris’s uniforms are just in case he needs to go back into the sand.  Just in case he finds out the flashbacks he suffers from are reality.  He needs them to make sure he’s ready for patrol.

I stood there for a minute, “I’m washing them, baby. They were on the floor.”

He smiled, “Thanks.”

They’re folded neatly on the top shelf of the closet, freshly washed and smelling of fabric softener. Boots and covers next to them.