Ingredients for an Army Wife

I have a recipe on my fridge, how to make an Army wife; it talks about having patience, and adaptability, tolerance, courage, and a dash of adventure. While I appreciate the thought behind it, it boils what being married to the Army down to less than what is really means. And it's missing quite a few things.

You have to understand the difference between duty and love. You have to understand that the call of duty trumps love; that every time that call goes out, duty will mean lacing up his boots, leaving, and your life has this soldier sized hole in it.

It means being the only one here, the one to deal with everything that life throws at you. We endure it all; a flat tire, a busted radiator hose, bills, laundry, letting the dog out, anything and everything that could and will happen, falls on one pair of shoulders, not two.

You face an empty bed. There's so many ways to put a positive spin on this, you don't hear the snoring, you get the whole bed, and the blankets. But it's an empty bed. There is no elbow to run into rolling over, no snoring husband to poke in the ribs until he moves, no cold feet that get planted on the backs of your calves to warm up.

You're single, in a weird way. If I had wanted to remain single, if I liked being on my own, if I was not quite ready to lean against someone, if I didn't want to share hot water, clean towels and blankets, I wouldn't have gotten married. Now I live as I did when I was single, and it is not the trappings of married life, the wedding ring, that remind me, despite how I live, I am not single. Rather, it is the loss of who I married, it is the emptiness of the house, the vast space on his side of the bed, the hole that is him, that arrows straight through me.

So that recipe, however sweet and well-intentioned it is, is wrong. I will never forget the day he left, as we were saying good bye, while I stood there shaking, my knees threatening to give out, crying so hard I couldn't breathe, and someone with all the concern in her eyes, asked if I was ok. The answer is obviously no, and while I appreciate the sentiment, I wanted to throttle her.

That moment feels like this recipe.. neither felt quite right to me, both missed something. One missed how truly awful the last goodbye was, and the other, does not quite encapsulate the life I have now.
Or the person I am now.