I’m a UT graduate, a liberal Democrat, a feminist, a writer, and a native Austinite, but according to a family friend, I’m also a dedicated contrarian, which is why it makes sense that I’m also a proud Navy wife. For the last two years, I’ve accompanied my husband on a whirlwind hopscotch tour of the Southeast United States as he trains to fly fighter jets. Besides providing plenty of grist for the writing mill, the experience has also widened my perspective, which, I’ll admit, badly needed widening.
My ideas about the military, for instance, were wholly based on snatches of stories from my grandfathers, newsreel reminiscences of the Good War full of characters with names like Lefty and Tex, and much was left to mystery because well-mannered children didn’t ask too many questions. My dad narrowly missed being sent to Vietnam, and none of my friends ever showed much interest in military service beyond an obsession with G.I. Joe action figures and movies like “Platoon,” “Navy Seals,” and “Top Gun.” With this – let’s be polite and call it “slim” – base of knowledge, I embarked on my life as a newlywed Navy wife, and quickly realized that there is an entire subculture, a parallel America, busily humming along generating acronyms and facing realities most of us never dream of. I am now very used to asking all sorts of people in all sorts of situations, “Um… So, what does that mean?”
One of the interesting things about being married to the military is how often and how explicitly you are required to fill out various forms. For instance, (Dad, skip this sentence), during my “Well Woman” exam I was asked in the most professional way possible if I had engaged in any designated risk behaviors, up to and including paying for sex from a stranger, engaging in group sex, and/or allowing someone to insert their entire fist into my lady parts. From the robotic and bland-faced delivery of the enlisted nurse, I can only assume that everyone – from the 21-year-old stationed in Bangkok, to the pregnant dependent, to the frail retiree – is asked the same set of questions. Apparently not everyone laughs hysterically, though.
A recent form was a bit more disturbing. Apparently the Navy needs to know, in detail, exactly how I would like to be informed of my spouse’s untimely death in a horrific accident. Cultural sensitivity abounds: are there any elderly relatives living with you, and could they be of help? “Granddad – quick, fetch ice!” Would you like a chaplain present, and if so, what denomination? Considering that I don’t go to church, it’d just be another stranger I’d have to introduce myself to, so no. Is there anyone you would NOT want there? Dick Cheney. Do you have any medical conditions that would require the presence of a physician in the event that you must be notified of an accident? Just that one where I love my husband and would collapse in spasms of colossal grief.
And man, are they thorough. I filled out an account of my daily schedule and phone numbers to reach me at any place I might possibly go (helpful prompt suggestions were “bowling, bridge, dancing, Service Clubs”). In one way, I suppose this is comforting – there’s a chain of command established now between the Navy and me and our extended family, and a set of considerations we’ve agreed upon that will minimize the possibility of confusion. But in another way, it’s exceedingly bizarre to choreograph, in advance, the most tragic moment of one’s life. I almost wanted to make it as weird as possible, just so that when a Hasidic Rabbi, a pizza deliveryman, and a Navy representative hunt me down at my bridge club, I’ll know exactly what the score is.
What if every profession did this? What if accounting firms had action plans in place for reporting the tragic malfunction of a paper shredder to a distraught spouse?
I’m trying to imagine funny scenarios because the reality of filling out this paperwork has me deeply freaked out. Obviously these questions are born from experience, just like the emergency procedures I help my husband memorize for his training. Somebody actually had the World’s Most Inappropriate Acquaintance show up with the group breaking the bad news. Someone else’s trick lung started acting up in reaction to the shock and wouldn’t you know it? No ventilator.
I’m still working on grasping the reality of my husband’s job, and most days it seems like my hands are too small. I can either pick up and hold the part where he’s passionately excited about what he’s about to do and isn’t it cool that he’s been able to follow his dream – OR – I get to lug around the big, tangly, slimy part where I’m worried about his safety, resentful about another move, and often completely in the dark about what’s coming next. Even more fun is trying to balance the tiny breakable part where I try to figure out how the hell I fit into all of this, how I continue to be me. So far I have not been able to master holding all three at once and getting a global picture of what’s going on. I imagine that when I finally accomplish it, the feeling will be so awesome, so exhilarating and victorious, that I would know, without any shadow of a doubt, that Iceman would be my wingman – anytime.
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