I Cried at Quarters

I cried at quarters this morning. That’s never good. In my defense, I didn’t go into it realizing I was emotional. This morning was like every morning: after my alarm went off, I stayed in bed for a few moments and mentally rehearsed what I needed to accomplish during the day. Usually the list is pretty benign. Today I thought about finding someone from medical at quarters to ask them about changing my husband’s bandages while I was away at FEX. Yesterday was the first time we dealt with the cream/gauze/bandage/tape/wrap issue because before that we’d been with a nurse who had taken care of it. Well, he can’t reach the bandages on his foot and they have to be changed every day. And he really doesn’t like to look at his mangled knee so even though he could take care of that himself, it’s probably better that he doesn’t.

At quarters I was looking for my platoon commander, or a corpsman with rank similar to my own, when the two medical chiefs, both women, called me over to tell me I was due for a well-woman exam and would I please make an appointment for one of the first two weeks in March. I said I would and went on that I knew they weren’t the appropriate people to ask but did they have any ideas because…. And when I got to the part about him not liking to look at the wounds I started to cry. Tears were streaming down my face and all I could do was wipe them away and apologize. The Chief asked me where my family was and could they come to take care of him. I told her Minneapolis, and started to cry more. I’m truly embarrassed to admit that I explained they couldn’t come to take care of him because they were taking care of my dad with cancer. She smiled at me and said, “You need to stop crying. People are going to think I’m really mean.”

By the time my platoon chief (EAC) was on the scene quite a few people had wandered over to be a part of the commotion. As soon as he approached the circle someone turned to him and barked, “YOU need to go talk to the Command Master Chief and figure out a solution to her problem.” I felt miserable. I have a good working relationship with EAC. I didn’t want to put him in a tight spot.

The good news is I’m not going to FEX.

But I feel guilty, like I’ve let the team down. This morning I felt guilty because I was letting my husband down. And I’m not even Catholic.

All of this happened before the battalion filed into the base theatre so that the CO could talk to us about the results of our survey on command climate with respect to equal opportunity. But that’s a topic for a different post.

Amazon

I navigated my way to Amazon this afternoon and was greeted with:


Recommended for you:

How to Read and Why by Harold Bloom

A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby

The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts by Shinta Cho


I know it has nothing to do with the military but that last one made me smile.

Yes Dear

There's this guy at work who's totally snarky behind my back. I know because the other EAs in the shop dish about what he says when he comes looking for me. I guess he doesn't understand that the people in my shop are more loyal to me than to him. Go Figure.

Yesterday he came into engineering asking for me and a friend told him I was out for the day (my husband was walking home from Starbucks last week and he was run over by a truck - he's fine and healing quickly, but I've spent most of the last few days at the emergency room/hospital/doctor/orthopedist/pharmacy and haven't been around work). As told to me the conversation went something like this:

BU1: Is EA2 around?
EA3: No, she's not here today.
BU1: That does me a lot of good.
EA3: Well, she's taking care of her husband. He was run over by a truck. Her home and cell numbers are on the bulletin board over there.
BU1: I can't even read this. It's in pencil.

That's when EA3 decided to ignore him.

He called and when I picked up he started in by calling me "Dear" and speaking in a soft, lilting, almost sing-song voice. I got two more "Dear"s and one "Honey" before we hung up. It was bizarro.

He's a tall lumbering man who works as the command Drug and Alcohol Prevention Administrator (DAPA). He's the guy who fills out the paper work after someone pops on a drug test or gets a DUI. He's also supposed to act as a counselor if you feel you or someone you know needs help with a drinking or drug problem.

This morning I went down to his office, passing posters warning against the dangers of drinking, to talk about our duty section (he's the leader, I'm the assistant) and he was on the phone. He motioned for me to come in and sit and he handed me a book for entertainment. It was a book of cocktail recipes.

He's an odd guy.

RRR

There was a moment today when it looked like I might not have to go to the FEX this weekend. It seemed like it might be more important for me to go to a Rapid Runway Repair class that starts on Monday (I'm in charge of the RRR crew for the big FEX at the end of April and I haven't had the benefit of any training which puts me in the same boat as everyone else on the crew). The Senior Chief in charge of training doesn't see a problem. So I'm still going to Squad Leaders' FEX.

Torino

I can't get enough of the Olympics. I'm a sucker. I tear up during the medal ceremonies like a proud momma. I've even been known to shed a tear for curling medals (I had no idea the women's Swedish curling team was that hot). I'm just so happy for all the athletes. They work so hard and for so little thanks. I found out last night that one of the American bobsledders was the first black person ever to win a medal in a winter Olympics. The medal was four years ago in Salt Lake City and she's back in Torino to try again. This time she brought her young twins, one who has been deaf since birth but just had some crazy surgery involving electrodes fused to his brain and now he's responding to sound for the first time in his life. And there's this ice skater from Latvia or Lithuania or somewhere like that whose parents saw her potential, sold the family business, and moved to Canada and lived in near poverty so she could train. She skated beautifully but her parents weren't there to see it because they couldn't afford the trip. This stuff kills me. How much could a plane ticket cost? Why didn't we hear about this before the Olympics? I have to think people would have sent money. I have to think that I would have sent money. I watched this thing about an ice-skating pair and learned that she works in a convenience store, and up to three other jobs at the same time, to keep her Olympic dream going. A convenience store. That's crazy to me. One of the world's premiere athletes could be selling me Diet Pepsi before heading off to a grueling workout routine. And their parents. Their parents must feel such joy and pride. I can't get enough of this stuff.

It was easy to stay up late in Alaska because the days were so long. After dinner I'd go camp out in the J3 office and chat like a schoolgirl with a friend of mine. As I sit here and think back, it seems like some of the most honest conversation I’ve ever had. It was the first time I admitted out loud that I wanted my parents to be proud of me, the first time I admitted (sheepishly) that I wanted a man to take care of me, and the first time I confessed that I'm afraid to need because if I do, and my needs aren't met, it means that a relationship with me is not worth the inconvenience. And that quite frankly, I'm not ready to know if I'm worth it or not. It doesn't sound like much but at the time it was big.

How does this relate? I feel like the Olympics and what they represent would have been a frequent part of the conversations in the J3. There should be something out there that I want to dedicate myself to with the fearless devotion of an Olympic athlete. Not a sport but something else. I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to do in order to be a success: dedicate myself completely to something or anything. I just have no idea what. I do have this concept for a non-profit that nags at me from time to time but I’m not sure it’s anything real. I know I don’t want to be a social worker or anything altruistic like that. How is it that my 30th birthday is right around the corner and I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up? For me that’s the purgatory part of the military. I feel like it’s a holding pen keeping me right where I am until the day I’m released. That’s when I get to move on with my life. I just need to figure out what that life is going to be (and start moving that way now).

Pretty vs. Bulky

The weekend offers some welcome insulation from my weekday work life, but it’s not airtight. I live in on-base housing so the occasional military reminder is never too far away. As an example, the Star Spangled Banner wakes me every weekend morning at 8 am. I usually manage to fall back asleep for at least another 30 minutes so it’s really no big deal. But, since I’m writing about the separation between work and home, the 8 am national anthem is worth a passing mention. And the pedestrians in uniform are a subtle reminder. And the dorky super short jarhead-style high-and-tight haircuts some of the men choose to sport always put me in a military frame of mind. I see those haircuts everywhere: the gas station, the movies, Starbucks.

None of this should be a problem, and really it isn’t. For me it’s a question of identity. I identify more strongly with me away from work than me at work. It’s the image I like to project. So when I get a poke in my ribs in the form of a motivated haircut at the grocery store it reminds me of what my life really is and I don’t always feel so comfortable. My discomfort has a way of morphing into frustration.

Identity is big. I mean really big. It’s huge. It’s why millions of girls want to be models and not mathematicians. It’s why boys tend to shy away from dolls but happily turn any stick into a gun. And it makes the next two questions obvious:

How would I like people to perceive me?

Pretty
Smart
Competent
Logical
Warm
Approachable
Capable
Adaptable
Feminine


How do I fear people perceive me?

Odd
Bulky
Uninteresting
Masculine
Belligerent
Clumsy
Average
Disappointing


There’s that Woody Allen quote about not wanting to be a part of any club that would have you as a member. I forget how it goes exactly but it might come pretty close to summing up the problem here. I’m not always excited to be associated with the Seabees because my image of Seabees goes hand in hand with my list of everything I’m afraid I am and don’t want to be.