Our first Thanksgiving as a married couple had to wait, war and a long road of recovery delayed our lives.
Our First Thanksgiving
When my husband and I got married, we were madly in love, filled with dreams, hopes and plans for the future and the knowledge that we had a wonderful, long life together, growing old side by side, enjoying our future grandchildren.
He was a soldier in the US Army and proud of it, rightfully so.
Not quite three month after our wedding the world as we knew and loved it crumbled. He was being deployed to Iraq.
Only weeks later he was up to his neck in a war, Operation Desert Storm.
For the first time in my life I was so sick with fear and worry that I could not eat, sleep or function.
My family urged me to come home and get through all of it with their loving support. My father had fought in WWII and been a Prisoner of War, so my parents very well understood what I was going through.
I packed up our apartment, put everything into storage and turned in the keys, taking the next plane to Germany.
After a few weeks I found a job that would keep me busy and away from the news channels, working as a dog groomer.
Our first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years as a married couple we were apart.
Every letter and phone call from my love was a small miracle and brought tears of joy. And yet, not knowing what was to come, I thought that this was the worst time of my life.
The holidays went by, as did my husband’s birthday.
Snow and ice still covered the roads as March was approaching. It had been a long, cold winter, fitting my general mood.
On the 3rd of March 1991 I was at work, feeling uneasy now for days, a feeling of looming doom and images of my husband badly hurt filled my dreams and haunted my thoughts.
Right before noon the phone rang and I went to answer. As I listened to the voice on the other end of the line, my legs gave out and I crumbled to the floor. I started shaking so violently that I could not even hold the receiver or form words.
My boss, a wonderful women and by now a great friend dropped everything and took the phone from me, finishing up the conversation. After the call she closed the shop and brought me a cup of spiced coffee. She sat with me on the floor until I had calmed down and slightly recovered from my shock.
When she was certain that I was steady enough to drive she walked me to my car, which to my dismay did not start.
She arranged for her husband to drive me home and promised that they would fix my car and get it to me as fast as possible.
On the way home I was wrapped up in my thoughts and worries. The call had been from the Military Police and all they could tell me was that my husband had been injured, but was alive. There was no further information, but I was promised that someone would come by in the afternoon and would fill me in on anything they would be able to find out in the meantime.
Over the next few hours it seemed as if reality had turned into a horrible nightmare.
I found out that my husband was in Landstuhl, Germany in the military hospital, the full extend of his injuries still unknown.
I caught a ride with an old friend to the hospital, about two hours away from my parents’ home. He and his wife, living only ten minutes from Landstuhl, arranged for me to spend the night with them, handed me a key and dropped me off at the hospital.
For the first time in almost seven months I got to see my husband!
While his pain broke my heart, the fact that he was alive and would recover, even if not all the way to his old self, filled my heart with so much joy that I thought it might burst.
At this time I was not aware of my heart condition, which went unnoticed until about a year ago, and I might have had my first heart attack, but that is a different story all together.
He had been the victim of a cluster bomb explosion in the middle of the desert on the day of cease fire.
As luck, or guardian angels would have it, a camp with medics and helicopters was close by and with him within minutes. As miracles have a habit to continue, his luck did not end here. While several doctors wanted to amputate his legs, one Colonel insisted to try all they can to safe his legs.
Both his legs were in horrible condition, the inside turned out, muscles, flesh, tendons and everything else on top of the legs, covered in gauze. How damage like this could ever be repaired, in any way, was beyond me.
The hospital was filled to the brim with wounded, injured soldiers, many at the brink of death, many more hurt beyond imagination.
The medical staff was working around the clock, nearing exhaustion. And yet, all of them so caring, kind and never giving up on their patients and supporting heir families.
Being blessed with a medical background I became my husband’s private nurse. Moving him from the bed to the wheelchair and back, changing his dressings and being by his side on the way to every surgery became routine. I practically lived my husband’s room.
The small chapel became my favorite place to wait for him to come out of his many surgeries.
The pain he went through never seemed to stop and yet my strength for him seemed to only grow.
We were told that one day he might be able to walk without crutches, but never without a cane. Physical therapy was sheer punishment for the man I loved so much. In the few hours I spent alone I let the tears flow freely. Every now and then I took the two hour drive home to my parents and my father was my rock. He held me while I cried, gave me the strength to make it through another day.
By the time the next Thanksgiving arrived we were back States side with a new apartment in Savannah, Georgia. Our first Thanksgiving together as a married couple and so much to be thankful for.
My husband still used a cane, but the pain had gotten much better.
I cooked up a feast for him, being more grateful than I had ever been in my life.
We were back together, adjusting our dreams to new possibilities and were ready to start a family.
Another year later my dream prince started to walk without a cane, had several more reconstructive surgeries and before we knew it, we were growing old together, just like we had planned.
The story of the hurdles and despairs caused by the war did not end here, but that’s left for yet another tale of love, endurance and thanks.
Every year when the Thanksgiving Holiday comes near, I feel so blessed and overjoyed that my husband stayed alive, that I can see him walking into the room every day, I can’t even put it in words.
In my prayers of thanks I let my heart speak, because this is the only way I can express what I feel.
So many people were involved to make our lives possible the way they are now, all the medical staff, civilians who worked without break, friends and family, our children and even strangers who gave their support without hesitation, I am most grateful to all of them.
I wish a wonderful Thanksgiving to all of you, may you always be blessed to have what you need and some of that of which you dream.
Your story shows how much you are thankful for very well. It also shows why war is so destructive of our lives and often unnecessary. On several levels, I can see why you had to write this story and tell the world. I'm so glad you are, "growing old together."
You have misspelled a few words like desert [dessert] and cease [seize] fire.
Birgit, this is the second time today--once this morning, and now this evening, that your words have moved me beyond measure because you're not writing a story to impress anyone, but to share your experience and give thanks--as we all should for overcoming challenges.
Our First Thanksgiving
