Struggle

The year is 1995. It's March.

The man wakes up one day, and he can't speak. It's like bells palsy: sudden, definite, debilitating, unexplainable.

But, unlike bells palsy, it doesn't go away. He has no recourse, but to hope and pray, and wish it gone. No insurance, no job, a child and a wife to support.

Fast-forward two years.

The man has two children now. He lives in another country. He is in the military, struggling daily with his inability to be understood. Torn always between wanting to learn to live with it, to stop dwelling on it and learn to accept it and himself, and between seeking a reason for this. An answer, a name he can type into the internet and order pills to cure.

The oldest baby has problems. The man doesn't know what is wrong with her. His job is always in jeopardy because of his speech. He focuses on being a good soldier, doing his job well, doing everything right. His commanders wonder what is wrong with him. He tries to be a good husband and father and soldier. It drains him.

The wife is distressed. She has a toddler with problems, a newborn also. Her family is far away, thousands of miles across the ocean. She is an outsider in so many ways. She doesn't fit in with her new neighbors off base, because she is American. She doesn't fit in with her military neighbors on base because she is too liberal. She finds one or two people she can trust, but spends the majority of her time inside. She treasures the moments she spends with her husband, her best friend. She is worried that she is becoming agoraphobic. The couple has no money; the man is enlisted and makes just over $1000 per month after taxes. It's difficult for a family of four to subsist on that amount. They are lucky to have an extra $20 to last 2 weeks until the next payday.

The wife takes her toddler for appointment after appointment. The couple is told that they could be better parents, and a parenting class is prescribed. The mom is told that the toddler is bright, but testing may reveal more. So testing dates are set.

The man's commander decides that it's time to figure out what is wrong with him. The doctors determine that they can't perform extensive testing in their country, so they must send him back to the US for tests. Inpatient testing, for at least one month.

The man is distraught. He must leave his family in crisis. Will they be okay for a month without him? He will be so far away. What will his tests prove? Will the doctors find some dread disease? Will the military use the findings to discharge him? How would his family make ends meet if he were discharged?

The day I watched my husband leave RAF Lakenheath on a MedEvac flight was probably the worst day of my life. I also was given the news that day that my daughter would never be "normal."

"But I thought you told me that she was a bright child! How can you say that she has an IQ of 75, when you told me before that she was bright?!"

"Mrs. X, everyone thinks their child is bright."

I will never forget that day. When I hear about people that are suicidal, people that are desperate, and I can't imagine their pain, I always think back on that day. I had nothing left, no hope whatsoever. I was so incredibly sad, with nowhere to turn, nobody to even hug me. I cried so hard coming back from the runway observation area, that I had to pull over because I couldn't see. I was like a wrung-out rag. Limp, no energy, not a thing left in my soul for me to use to go on.

But somehow I got up the next morning. And I put one foot in front of the other.

It is amazing how strong people are. How one can make their destiny. How God can use those rock bottom experiences to mold you into someone new.

Worry is no longer my enemy. When he used to come around, I would be unable to cope, only able to focus on him. Now I can just ignore him. He still comes around, but he's like a stray cat, I just push him out of the way with my foot and get on with my day.

B's condition caused him to be discharged from the military in January of 1999. Because we had the sense to fight the military, he was discharged with disability pay. He has a small pension each month now. He was discharged with a lump sum, and we used it for a downpayment on a new house.

Our daughter was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. Finally, a name to put on her. Symptoms we could identify with. A network of other parents, siblings, and those themselves coping with AS. Prescribed treatment, a path worn by other families. Footprints laid that we could easily step into until we were strong enough to forge our own path.

Strength came quickly. It came exponentially with an increase in confidence, cash, assistance from the school, access to good healthcare, and battles won.

It's amazing, because I rarely remember those times. In fact, I don't often recall how rock-bottom I felt that horrible day.

But I am who I am today because of that very day.

Our family is strong. Bring it on-- we can take it. Not only can we take it, but we'll be better for it.

And that is why I am so grateful for our farm. For the peace that it brings, for the hard work that it requires (and thrives from). For the dream come true that it represents. For the unique blessing that it is. How could I have ever known in 1995 that this is where I would be in 10 years?