A Light at the End of the Tunnel

By Andrea Schaill

My journey as an Army spouse began 27 years ago with the seemingly simple vows of “For better or worse… ’til death do us part.” Who could have imagined the journey that lay ahead and where those simple words would lead me?

The evolution from Army bride to caregiver has spanned the years, and I received some on-the-job training along the way, which has turned me into a passionate supporter for the caregiver as well as the wounded.

One of our first assignments was Camp Frank D. Merrill in Dahlonega, Georgia. I learned my family had expanded to include not only blood kin, but Army kin. One of my first lessons came when one of the wives was diagnosed with encephalitis and I was expected to pitch in to help provide meals. As a new, and working, spouse it was a bit intimidating to cook for a family with children. I no longer recall the menus, but the expectation to take care of a fellow Army family in need is as clear today as it was all those years ago.

Over time I grew comfortable in my role as a supporter to others, and my thinking evolved into weighing options of what to do, when to do it, how to intervene, and what response was enough or appropriate. Despite those years of experience, nothing could have prepared me for my husband’s rotation to Iraq, which was to change my family and the responsibility that I feel toward the casualties of war.

Our unit rotation to Iraq began as many others do—resource fairs, updating wills, and the dreaded casualty notification briefing. The violence we watched on the news was about to become our everyday reality for the next year.

The unit shipped out in short order and the casualties began soon after. We quickly realized that this rotation was going to be a bloody one. The Mosul dining facility bombing on December 21, 2004, exposed how savagely the enemy could strike. We operated like a well-oiled machine, moving into “go” mode at a moment’s notice, but the attack taxed the strength of our support network. There were only so many volunteers willing to assist and a growing dread about whose soldier would be next. We were exposed to too many injuries and too many deaths.

My first inkling that my soldier had become one of the unit’s casualties came in the dead of night when the phone rang and one of my husband’s friends said, “I want to tell you that Emmett is going to be OK.”

He proceeded to tell me Emmett had been shot and was going to be taken by medevac to a combat support hospital and would call from there. In the darkness, while my 18-month-old daughter, Maizie, slept, I waited for the call. To that point it had been about others, now the reality became my own.

The phone call finally came. Surgery followed, then more phone calls, and finally a picture. Emmett chose to stay in theatre to recuperate and go back to the fight. While I admired his tenacity, each day after that phone call was a lesson in endurance for me. If the enemy had shot him, the possibility of his death was real.

The casualties mounted with alarming swiftness and by the end of the 2004-2005 rotation, the 1st Stryker Brigade, 25th Infantry Regiment, with detachments, suffered more than 50 killed in action and awarded more than 600 Purple Heart medals.

During that rotation, several of us penned a book called Our Hero Handbook for the families of the seriously wounded at Walter Reed Army Medical Center (WRAMC) in Washington, D.C., at the request of D. J. Skelton, a seriously wounded soldier.

When Emmett returned from Iraq his injury was 5 months old and more extensive than he had led me to believe. It had been his fourth tour away—second combat tour—and our reunion was the hardest ever. The regenerating nerves produced some interesting muscle and arm movements that did not give much notice before they hit.

It wasn’t just Emmett who was wounded, it was also our family.

I became adept at massaging his arm, anticipating movements that caused pain and doing things myself, keeping Maizie out of his way when he was in pain or needed space, and rebalancing our lives. During this time I noticed that Emmett’s behavior was off, but because of the ferocity of the rotation, we both considered it combat stress and something that time would cure. Eventually we found out that he had sustained a traumatic brain injury as well.

I became involved once again with Our Hero Handbook, this time as part of a U.S. Army War College spouses’ project working to expand the scope of the book. This thrust me into the world of the families of the seriously wounded.

Working on the handbook was difficult for me. Each visit to WRAMC was an exposure to the ongoing tragedy and heartache. Selfishly, I wanted to quit conducting research for the book and enjoy my daughter and my own soldier. I wanted to put all the pain of the last year away and not be there for anyone. I resented other wives who had nothing more to worry over than their own families.

I was heartbroken that the wounded and their families were falling through the cracks. I was disillusioned that so few professionals or volunteers were willing to help with the handbook. I was upset that my daughter was in day care so I could work on the book.

I was concerned that my husband was acting differently. I was also tired, dispirited, and burned out. At the same time, I felt guilty for feeling that way since the families at WRAMC had more difficult challenges than we did.

It was as if I was being pulled in different directions. My supporter-of-others side pulled against my caregiver-to-my-husband side. I was the only person being hurt in the process.

We moved on to Fort Bliss, Texas, and Emmett was back with troops and busier than ever.

With a heightened awareness of what was going on in the wounded community, I took every opportunity to work with Family Readiness Groups, agencies, anyone who was supporting the survivors of casualties. By getting involved, I was fighting back against the tragedies I had experienced.

While others talked about how to support the wounded, I lived it every day. I still massaged, carried, and accommodated. I answered my daughter’s questions about Daddy’s arm. Always remembering how lucky we were. Emmett’s injury made him a more compassionate leader. He supported and funded programs within our unit that made our soldiers and families stronger and more resilient. Each time I told the story of that 2004-2005 rotation and used that experience to help others, I healed.

Time passed and Emmett got ready to deploy to Iraq again. I consoled myself with the fact that the Iraq of 2010 was a much different environment, yet there was that piece of me that was very aware of the reality and risks that come with every deployment. Maizie was 6-and-a-half when he was getting ready to leave. We talked about deployment, Skype, and email. We prepped thoughtfully and thoroughly. She asked if Dad was going back to where the bad soldiers shot him. I said yes, but there were fewer bad soldiers and Dad wouldn’t have to be around them much. I made no promises. Life had taught me not to.

The day after landing in Kuwait my husband was involved in a vehicle accident that injured his back, though he didn’t slow down to acknowledge it. Over the next several months we Skyped, emailed, talked, and did what every family does when separated … endured.

I was attending a planning meeting for an upcoming caregivers conference when I received a phone call from Emmett. He told me his back was actually broken and worsening, but he was fighting to stay in theater. The next 36 hours were not so calm. No information, no email, no phone call, and no contact with my husband. I wondered about his status and whether he was evacuated.

Several days later he popped up on Skype from Landstuhl looking awful. He was determined he was going to get treated there and head back to Iraq. Within 36 hours, however, he was on his way home for major back surgery in order to repair his spine and prevent permanent nerve damage.

Preparing my daughter for his surgery was a deliberate process. I knew her well-being was directly tied to how I handled this crisis and how we as a family moved forward in adversity.

Emmett and I did research on the type and extent of injury and surgical interventions and kept Maizie in the loop. As we neared the surgery date at Fort Bliss’ William Beaumont Army Medical Center (WBAMC), we asked Emmett’s neurosurgeon, Dr. Pedro Caram, if we could bring Maizie to Emmett’s pre-surgery appointment.

He explained the surgery to her and she asked him questions. He used both a skeleton and Emmett’s MRI to show her what he and Dr. Andrew Schoenfeld, the spinal surgeon, were going to do to fix her daddy.

In the days before the surgery, I used Our Hero Handbook—how ironic is that?—to prepare myself. The day of surgery started at about 4:30 a.m. when we dropped Maizie off with my neighbor and Emmett and I went to the hospital. By that evening he was plated and screwed back together. That was the least eventful part of this recent journey. The entire medical team at WBAMC did an outstanding job taking care of Emmett.

In the beginning he needed me for everything. I got no break and worried constantly about our uncertain future. We could only handle one day at a time as he began the painstaking work of rehabilitation and our family went out for daily walks—Dad with his walker and us by his side.

We created our own recovery plan and stuck to it, and I continued to have my own interests and life in the process, even when guilt assailed me. Taking care of myself was a priority as I was literally the glue holding our family together. When the pressure built, I went outside and worked on the yard. We won yard of the month, if that tells you something about the stress.

But I learned another valuable lesson, there are injury cooties.

People don’t want to get too close because if it happened to your family it could happen to theirs. You learn who is truly and honestly compassionate and who pays lip service to caring for soldiers and families.

I did not always receive the support I desired every step of the way, but I received enough to make it through with my humor and sanity intact. The tragedies of the past had forged a stronger more resilient family capable of weathering this recent storm.

Today, I choose to stay committed to supporting others as well as my own soldier.

These accumulated experiences have taught me that there is still work to be done in raising the level of practical support for the caregiver. Institutional caring is not a substitute for personal attention. We will be forever grateful to those who showed up at our door with meals, planned a play date for Maizie, helped Emmett into the house after surgery, mowed the grass, or any of the things that meant so much to our family.

Those who asked, “How are you?” and listened, those who cheered us on when Emmett was using a walker and didn’t turn away from the sight, those who visited when we were at our most vulnerable, are true friends. To those caring senior leaders who believed that Emmett would overcome this injury and encouraged his return to work, I will always be grateful.

In supporting Emmett, they supported our family because it gave us the gift of hope and faith that there was light was at the end of the tunnel.

The effects of this war will continue for my family, and many others, for the rest of our lives. As a nation, we must give those families the gift of hope and faith that there will always be a light at the end of the tunnel despite the challenges along the way. And we must encourage and support them as they travel toward it.

-Andrea Schaill is an Army spouse of 27 years.