Blinded by the light, he saw nothing. Screaming and bombs going off all around him. He prayed; he prayed that he may see light again. He thought of his wife of only 2 years. Even through the darkness he could see her tears flowing down her cheeks as the minister announced he could kiss his bride. The tiny grip that held fast around his finger. The smell of new life still lingered in his nostrils. Peach fuzz softer than anything he had ever touched. His baby girl; a product of the love he had for his wife. He could see the smiling faces of the two who had raised him. The gentle squeeze of his mother’s slender fingers and the grip that rested on his shoulders from his father as they waved goodbye. He could still see her pulling a white hankie from her purse and dabbing at her tears and the arms that wrapped around her trying to soothe away the pain from watching their son get on the dull-green bus. Someone tugged at his shirt. “Are you ok buddy? Are you ok”? This was the last words he remembered as he sunk into a darkness he had never visited before. He never felt his helmet being pulled off. He never saw the tears that were shed when the soldier took in all of the injuries. He never knew that he had been pulled back out of gunshot. He never knew the risk that had been taken to save a life. Coolness came over him. Strange voices muttered amongst the room as his mind became aware he was not dead. . He was alive. He had been rescued. It was over and he was on his way home. Two voices he recognized; mom and dad’s. A familiar hand rested upon his hand and he instantly knew it was his wife. They were close. He could smell their familiar scent. Old Spice, his dad; Timeless, his mother; Musk, his wife. Where was his daughter? He wanted to hear a scream, a cry, a giggle, anything? Was she alright? Someone’s cold hand moved his eye lid open. Soft-spoken words coming from the background. There has been no change. The swelling on the brain has not come down. Blindness will be permanent, but he has everything else. This is one lucky son-of-a-bitch to have gotten out of that spot alive. Blindness, permanent, those two words stung in his heart and burned in his mind. He would never see again. He could hear crying. He could hear noses being blown. He could hear soothing words coming from his father as he tried to comfort the family. A baby cried and as the sound neared he heard his wife say, ” I want Grace to be with her daddy, just one more time”. He screamed but no one heard him. He shouted at the top of his mind, ” I am not dead! See me! I am not dead! I am alive”. No one seemed to hear him. He lay there still, listening to the sounds around him, taking in the visions in his mind of yesterdays gone by.
When you’re unwell, do you allow others to take care of you,
or do you prefer to soldier on alone? What does it take for you to ask
Photographers, artists, poets: show us HELP.
It seems this has been a day for answers. I have waited and fought my way through the systems for a few months now. I started the process of bringing my brother back home clear back in February.
When I work so hard to help another soul, I tend to put my problems in a basket and shove it in the corner. I always think to myself, Oh Terry, you don’t have it near as bad as Tom, Dick or Mary Sue. Just wait ….you can deal with it later.
But this year seems to bring more issues that deal with Al and involve me involuntarily. I have begun to feel like these problems, this illness is all mine. I live it, feel it and have come to you over and over for a soft pillow to fall on to.
Today I got the word from the Ombudsman that I have been working with for a couple of months. I got the special call from the Waiver department, stating Al may possibly be coming home next week.
The one other issue that I have been dealing with gets on my nerves so bad. I have to deal with it; but constantly waiting for the call-back really makes my skin crawl. Hopefully tomorrow that issue will be handled also. Of course it has to do with Al too.
The worst thing that I deal with is humility. I just hate begging. I was taught that I made my bed, now I can just lie in it.
Well this isn’t always the truth when you are a caregiver for a family member. Sometimes their problems become your priorities. This is the one time this has happened. Al’s bill or debt as we are all familiar with this term has become my priority.
It killed me emotionally. It brought tears to my eyes that you would think I can not get things done or work things out. That I had to come to you begging and letting you know I can’t make all things right was the hardest thing I have had to post about yet.
If I am ill, like I was last January, I was sick for one month. I didn’t venture out of the house except for doctor visits. I felt like I was going to die. I was weak and some days I could barely get off the floor.
I blogged about it, but I never asked for help of anyone. I prayed and let God hear all my concerns.
I just don’t want to bother anyone. I know there are so many others so much worse off than me. Sure life is stressful. Al isn’t easy to take care of. But, we each have two arms, and two legs, and there are others in this world who have less.
I am not rich, I am poor, but there are people even more poor than me because I do have a roof over my head.
So, you know things have to be tough or I have reached the end of the road and have no way out except listen to God and do what he tells me. I would rather hide everything bad that has to do with my days under a bushel and ask God to let it shine.
I guess when it is all said and done, I am a soldier alone. Trying to make things work from my ideas and monies I have. If I feel like I or Al are going to drown, I will make my concerns public.
- Daily Prompt: Take Care (balancedawesomeness.wordpress.com)
- Daily Prompt: Take Care (dailypost.wordpress.com)
- Daily Prompt : Take Care (dewangthinks.wordpress.com)
- Daily Prompt : Take Care – Small Battles (thatchickpiggy.wordpress.com)
- Daily Prompt: Take Care (onmyfrontporch.com)
He was a warrior in my eyes. A man who never knew the word fear. I had heard from him each month by hand written words, and had his photo sitting by my bed on the night stand. Each night I prayed that God would watch over him and guide him through the day.
My son was always a tough little boy. He was the one when you would check his jean pockets you would find baby toads still alive, screeching to get back out in to freedom. Stones, dead flowers, and anything interesting could be found in the inside of these pockets.
He was the child of the three I called my own, that would be right there at the precise moment, offering to help carry the groceries in, when you were standing at the front door, with two loaded sacks and yet trying to open the door. He helped his dad in the garage, handing him tools that were needed to fix the car. Mowing the elderly neighbor’s lawn.
He could be found selling lemonade in the front yard of our house, because he wanted so badly a new pair of skates. He was a good kid, never giving us problems or heart aches.
He didn’t care for school much, although he never missed days unless he was really sick. He didn’t want to participate in sports, choir or plays. He would rather learn life by living it.
When he became a teenager, he worked at one of the local grocery stores, bagging groceries, and even though he didn’t have to take them out to the cars or load them into the trunks, many times he did offer his help to frail ones.
Today, he is lying in pain. He can vision help. Aid to come his way by means of God or his buddies. He laid in the sand, the rays of the sun beating down upon him, trying to take the breath from his body. There was no more sweat to be released, and his mouth was dry. In his sleeping moments he could see the water and taste its coolness, splashing it over his head, but when awake, he saw nothing, but brightness and blue skies.
Bugs began their journey over his body, trying to take claim of his soul. He had walked over a booby trap, placed by the enemy, and the purpose of being left dead and unfound, was being sought. He had lagged behind, a major mistake, from his troop, stopping to try to save a friend’s life, and when he realized he was too late, and had walked six feet from him, the trap, engulfed him.
The troop did not hear the small explosion and kept moving forward. The sergeant was leading the troop to make it to the next city on the map by dusk, so they could set up camp.
After they arrived at their new location, one soldier noticed that someone was missing from chow. He went to the sergeant and told him his concerns, and was ordered to immediately return to the path of their travel and find him. He also sent two others in the group, to be of assistance if it was needed.
A sand storm had picked up and it was difficult to see. Beads of sand were hitting the faces and stinging eyes, but they were not giving up. This was a team, and although they were taught to be tough, their hearts remained soft, and they wanted their member back with them safe and well. No thoughts entered of any tragedy. They were not allowed. Weakness was not a word in the dictionary of this platoon.
It was dark and the only light offered them was the moon and their flash lights. Their ears were keen to any sounds, and their eyes were keen to past imprints. They stopped once in a while to check their map to make sure they were following the right direction, and kept moving with no breaks in their steps.
The day break of morning fell upon them, and in the skies they could see buzzards flying in circles as they were making plans to land on their prey. This was a sign to the men that they were close.
Up ahead of them lie the wounded soldier. Dried blood attached itself to skin that was showing and to his clothes. The sight was a blur, from lack of fluids and strikes from the sand. He was on his back, unable to flip himself over to protect his face, and he could make out the visions of the buzzards. He prayed in silence for his God to rescue him. Take me home Lord, don’t let me feel the bite of winged birds. Let nature have its way with me, but take my soul home Lord.
The Lord answered his prayer and with in minutes, the three troop members stumbled upon him. They checked his wounds, and told him he was going to be alright. Help had arrived. They didn’t take time to asses his injuries, for their goal was to get him back to the troop.
A letter arrived at our door, informing us our son had been injured, and was being cared for at a military city. It stated that he had been injured by a booby trap, but help had arrived in time.
The mother dropped her letter to the floor and got down on her knees, and with tears of joy streaming from her eyes, she thanked God for watching over her soldier.
Thank you Ermilia for another chance to write for your writing exercise.