So What Do You Do?

by Monica Bobbitt

Someone asked me what I do today.

I've always hated that question. Because for many years, my answer was "stay at home mom." 

As if that was somehow less than.

But I often felt it was. For far too long, I felt I wasn't enough. As if somehow my value was tied to the amount of money I made or didn't make.

The raised eyebrows, the snickers, the "oh you're one of those" reinforced my insecurities.

Yes, I am one of those.

And that was inevitably followed up with what does your husband do? And then I would explain he was in the military and then it was another "oh you're one of those."

Yes, I am one of those too.

And then I was widowed, and I have come to dread that question even more. Because I no longer have a husband to "support" me.

Now I really am "one of those"

A military widow.

"I hear you're rich"

Really? I wish somebody had told me that.

So when I got that question today, I admit I hesitated.

Like deer-in-a-headlight-here-we-freaking-go-I'm-not-enough again hesitated.

What do I say? Do I say stay at home military widow part-time student mom?

Because I don't have a glamorous job with a nice office and pay cheque. My office is my kitchen island. And I don't get paid for what I do.

When can I actually call myself a writer? Can I call myself a writer if I've never been published or paid for one single word? Am I poser if I say I am? And will I get another "oh your one of those?"

And then I took a deep breath. And I thought about all that I've written over the last three and a half years. And all the writing courses I've taken.

When do I get to call myself a writer?

Now. The answer is now.

What I do is actually part of who I am.

I am a writer.

I am a speaker.

And so much more.

I am enough.

I'm a writer and a speaker.

"Wow, that's so cool. I've never met an author before! What do you write? Fiction? Nonfiction?"

Nonfiction. I write about the hard stuff, the funny stuff, the sad stuff, the grateful stuff.

My life, basically.

"You are so brave for writing the story of you. Do you have a website I can check out?"

Be brave enough to walk through the wilderness of uncertainty, criticism, and judgment as who you really are, not who you think the world wants you to be.

Decide who you are and then be you.

I'm Monica.

I'm a writer.

I'm a speaker.

And I'm more than enough.

And I always have been.

And so have you.

Chat soon,

Monica

Read more of Monica's story here:  Finding Monica 

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

C-Sections and Deployments

by Monica Bobbitt

Twenty years ago today this baby girl was born. A week later her dad deployed for the first time.

That first week post-partum pre-deployment is a blur to me now. I remember I was exhausted and apprehensive. And scared.

Not that anything would happen to Dan, I was too naive for that but scared to be alone with two children entirely dependent on me.

Scared I would mess it all up. Scared I would mess them up.

A few days after we brought the baby home from the hospital, I came down with a severe case of mastitis. Two days after that, Dan deployed.

I was alone with the responsibility of parenting a 23-month-old and a newborn, while sick and recovering from a c-section.

I felt so much mom shame. I'd had a c-section, again. I struggled to breastfeed, again, before finally switching to the bottle, again.

I felt like a failure.

My house was a disaster, I couldn't vacuum for several weeks post-op. And my toddler refused to eat anything but Mini Gos and canned mandarin oranges.

I was supposed to be this strong, resilient army wife. But instead, I felt anything but.

I could have (should have) asked my friends for more help, but I didn't want to be a burden. They helped me enough as it was. And besides, it wasn't their job, it was mine.

And I wasn't so good at asking for help back then.

I had never felt so alone as I did in those winter days of January and February.

I was so tired and so overwhelmed.

I would sit up at night, feeding the baby, feeling sorry for myself and lamenting on all the things I had to do alone. Dan was missing so much: time with the baby, Connor's second birthday, my birthday, Easter.

All I could see was how miserable I was and how lonely I was.

And how hard deployment was.

I thought it was the hardest thing ever.

I couldn't see outside of my postpartum deployment haze. All I could see was how hard my life was, I couldn't see how good it was or how fortunate I really was.

I focused on the negatives, not the positives. I didn't realize I was making a difficult time even worse.

Fortunately, as the months went by, I adjusted to single parenting. We got into a routine. I got more sleep. The snow melted and spring finally came. And eventually, the deployment came to an end.

Age, experience, widowhood have given me a perspective I couldn't have then. It's easy to look back now and see that that deployment wasn't the worst thing ever. In fact, there are many things far worse than deployment.

But to the Monica then there wasn't, it really was the hardest thing she'd ever been through. That was the only frame of reference she knew.

I sometimes wish I could go back and reassure her as she sat there in the dark feeding the baby, tears streaming down her face. I wish I could hug her and let her know that everything would be okay... eventually. To tell her that despite the c-sections and bottle feedings and Mini Gos, her kids turned out okay, much better than okay. That they grew up to become amazing young adults.

But then, I'd have to tell her about the really hard stuff too. Because you can't have the good without the bad. And so I'd have to tell her that there are actually things far worse than deployment. I'd have to tell her about folded flags and granite headstones. I'd have to break her heart sixteen years too soon.

There are just some things you can't take a shortcut through, you have to experience them and live through them in order to grow.

And really, there are no shortcuts through hell.

Twenty years ago today a vibrant little girl was born via cesarean section. She was bottle fed.

A week after she was born, her dad deployed.

He deployed twice more before she was ten.

Twice he moved for several months before her family did.

Sometimes her mom fed her boxed mac and cheese and hotdogs. Sometimes her house was a mess.

When she was sixteen, her Dad was killed in a training accident.

Her mom has made all kinds of mistakes since then. She once even epically threatened to quit being the only parent.

Her mom no longer feeds her Mac and cheese, though. And the house is a lot cleaner now.

Today that baby turned twenty. She's a Dean's List Scholar at the University of Toronto. She speaks three languages and will spend the summer studying in Germany.

As it turns out, her Mom didn't mess her (or her brother and sister) up after all.

Last year that baby girl sent her mom a text,

"You're a good writer oh mother of mine. I feel like I don't tell you enough, but I'm really proud of you."

Not half as proud as I am of you Elizabella. I wouldn't trade one single day, not even that terrible one, of the last twenty years of being your mom for anything.

But I am awfully glad you don't wake me up at night anymore. If only I could say the same about your dog.

To learn more about grief, resiliency, and life after loss, follow Monica Bobbitt on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/agoatrodeo/

Odes to Our Fallen

Sometimes Facebook can be hard on my head (and my heart).

This morning as I was scrolling through my newsfeed, I came across a blog post, Canada Doesn't Need Yet Another Military Memorial

The blog post was about Canada's War Memorials and referenced planning of the construction of the National Memorial to Canada's Mission in Afghanistan.

The author pontificated that war memorials and museums were part of the military's propaganda system.

"Why do we build monuments to war rather than to its absence?" he mused. (Engler, 2016)

And I, in turn, found my myself musing as to why some people are so obtuse.

War Memorials are not monuments to war, in fact, their purpose is quite the contrary.

They are built as a testament to the true cost of war.

And to remind us that we must never, ever forget that cost.

If you have ever had the privilege of visiting one of our War Memorials, you know how moving an experience it is.

Profoundly so

In Vimy, France, you can almost hear the haunting echo of artillery fire in the distance.

In St Julien, Belgium, if the wind blows just so, you can almost detect a faint pungent smell of chlorine gas in the air.

And at the National War Memorial in Ottawa, you might feel the dampness of a widow's tears caress your cheek.

At every war memorial, you will find it hard to breathe.

Your chest tight.

Heavy with loss.

And sacrifice.

And the sorrow of thousands and thousands of families.

And a grieving nation.

War Memorials do not glorify war.

They honour the sacrifice of all of those men and women in uniform who have given their lives in service to their nation.

Our nation.

Whether they served under the Canadian Red Ensign.

Or the Maple Leaf.

I am not a war widow. My husband did not die in battle on foreign soil far from home.

He died in a training accident on Canadian soil.

I am an accidental widow.

There was no glory in my husband's death.

There is no glory in any death, accidental or otherwise.

Instead, a crushing loss.

The weight of which our children and I will bear the rest of our lives.

War Memorials do not glamourize war, they are not odes to militarism.

They are odes to our fallen-- the men and women who lay down their lives so that we might live in a world where we are all free to write and express our opinions.

And where we are free to disagree.

Our National War Memorial honours my husband and all of the other courageous Canadians who came before and after him.

For our tomorrows they gave their today.

Let their names not be lost to the knowledge of our nation.

My husband's name was Dan.

And the widow's tears you felt standing at the National War Memorial? They might just be mine.

Please Accept My Sincerest Condolences

When Dan joined the military, he knew he was joining a profession that entailed risks. When I married him, we discussed those risks.

Did we ever in a million years think anything would happen to him?

No, not back in those days, long before the war in Afghanistan.

We were young and naive.

During the Afghanistan years, that naivety was shattered as the flag-draped coffins returned home to Canada.

And we were forced to acknowledge the harsh realities of war.

While he was in Afghanistan, I would brace myself every single day. Just in case. And I would pray.

"Please don't let my doorbell ring."

I would lay awake at night and visualize what would happen if he was killed.

And then I would force myself to not go there.

Because there was far too painful.

And incomprehensible.

After Afghanistan, I became complacent. I stopped holding my breath when he left home. It never occurred to me that anything would happen to him, especially on an exercise.

And then one May morning, at the bottom of a hill, a LAV rolled over.

His LAV.

My doorbell rang that day.

And my husband returned home in a flag-draped coffin.

A few weeks after he died, my phone rang.

"Hello, Mrs. Bobbitt. I have the Prime Minister on the line."

A conversation that had been rescheduled because the day he was originally going to call wasn't convenient for me.

Then Prime Minister Harper started the conversation by apologizing profusely for having taken so long to call me as he'd been overseas.

And he offered his condolences. Sincerely.

"I'm so very sorry for your loss."

I cried as he said it.

Because I knew he meant it.

I could hear the heaviness of his grief over my loss in his voice.

He was genuinely sad for my loss. For my family's loss. For the Regiment's loss. For Canada's loss.

And I was genuinely touched.

He spoke directly to my children and told them how very sorry he was they lost their Dad. His voice cracked as he said the words.

We talked about how long Dan had served. Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century. We even joked about how old we were. And we talked about Dan's father's service. And about Connor going to RMC. His son was heading off to university as well. We were both parents getting ready for a life transition.

We talked about military life and sacrifice. And, yes we spoke about soldiering being a dangerous profession.

And that Dan's death was a tragic reminder that accidents can and do happen.

Even at home on "routine" training exercises.

"Sometimes we forget how dangerous it is until a tragedy like this reminds us," he said.

He was right, sometimes we do forget.

I also received a letter from him in the mail. It was typed on the official letterhead from the Prime Minister's office.

On it, he had scratched out Dear Mrs. Bobbitt, and written in pen.

Dear Monica and family.

Please accept my sincerest condolences...

It was simply signed,

Stephen

I've thought of that conversation often over the last three years.

Whenever I see a flag waving against the blue sky,

or draped over a wooden coffin.

Dan knew the risks when he joined the military, as did I when I married him.

But I didn't know the true weight of our flag.

Until it was folded and placed in my arms.

How could I possibly?

Three Years

Three years. 

Three years ago today my doorbell rang. It feels like forever ago but just yesterday at the same time. A posting and a half.

Three years ago today they told me my husband would never be coming home again. There's been an accident. His LAV rolled over. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. 

Half of his ashes are buried beside his comrades in the National Military Cemetery. The other half in Nova Scotia, under the shade of a maple tree. His ashes are there but he is not there.

He is here. 

He has always been here.

He is the laughter of our children. He is in their smiles and the way they move and speak. Are you sure Mom? I'm not so sure.

He is a thousand memories. Hello old man, I'm your dad. A walk across a flooded field. An empty chocolate chip bag. Two fingers banging on a keyboard. Have you seen my blackberry? 

He is the words of an old familiar folk song. We'd fired no guns- shed no tears. Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett's Privateers.

He is always here: always encouraging me, always believing in me, always guiding me.

He is the light that led me out of a dark hole in Wainwright. You can't stay here. You promised me you and the kids would have good, happy lives. 

He is there to give me a gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) nudge when I don't think I can go any further. Just a few more steps. Keep going forward.

And he is there to help me get back up every time I fall. You ARE strong enough. You've got this.

He is there, reassuring me when I don't have all of the answers. No one has all the answers Mon, not even me. 

He is there when I don't know if I should take a chance. What if it doesn't work out? You'll never know if you never try. You know it is so worth the risk. Don't live your life with regrets. 

He is there beside me every time I stand at a podium and speak to a regiment or a room full of military spouses. Tell them, they need to know. He is in every soldier's hug I receive.

He is a red Remembrance poppy worn over a grateful heart. For your tomorrow, I gave my today.

He is a bugle's lonely cry and the mournful wail of a piper's lament. Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.

And he is the Canadian flag fluttering in the wind as it flies so proudly from sea to sea to sea. Oh Canada. I will always stand on guard for thee. 

He is always here.

He will always be here. 

This morning as I ran, he was there, his voice whispering in the gentle ocean breeze. Good girl. That's it. Follow your heart, it knows the way.

Always.

I promise. 

Three years. Forever and just a day.