October–November 2014; Embarked USS George H.W. Bush, Mediterranean
Coming back from deployment we had the advantage of the long ride back, around the Arabian Peninsula, through the Suez Canal, the Med, and across the Atlantic. The trip seemed to provide most of us with the time to decompress, but for me, the return was actually busier and more stressful than the rest of deployment—finishing my master’s, finding housing arrangements, and coordinating the logistics of life back at the beach. I was steadily managing things, but the strains of deployment began taking their toll before we even left the Gulf and had intensified by the time we got to Europe.
We stopped in the south of France for a port call on our way home and our squadron decided to spend our time in Provence. On this trip, for the first time since joining my squadron, Taylor did not want to share a room. She opted instead to stay at a château with some boys in the hills outside of Aix en Provence, a little town we’d planned to visit. Another group of guys and I chose to stay in the city, because it was quaint and convenient to the markets and local attractions, and while I found Taylor’s decision a little strange, it was no big deal. We’d been together nonstop for nine months, so I figured a little space was probably good.
During our short visit, we hung out like usual, wine tasting in the beautiful vineyards, basking in the late fall sun, and enjoying the indulgent croissants and pungent cheeses of Provence. We enjoyed the cafes, shopped in the quaint, French provincial town, and on the last day, Carolyn, Taylor, and I met up for a girls’ day. Getting back onboard, we hauled our cases of wine, French linens, and tired bodies back to the Sharktank for our last two weeks at sea. Overall, it was a perfect send-off for the Triple As, lots of delicacies, good times, and laughing, much like nine months ago when deployment began.
In addition to the souvenirs I’d brought back, I also carried with me an unwelcome memento from Europe—a nasty virus that mutated into a full-blown upper respiratory infection. When the flight doc said the virus would run its course, I took it as my invitation to keep grinding away. A few days later, when I landed from one of my flights, I got out of the jet and felt a shooting pain emanating up my leg and into my lower back, like I’d thrown my pelvis out of alignment. The force of all the catapult shots and arrested landings were catching up to me. Throughout deployment, I’d experienced back and neck pain that I’d managed with a foam roller and a strict workout regimen, but this was different, excruciating.
I was back at the flight doc’s office, explaining how my whole back had seized up, and this time I left with some muscle relaxants and Motrin, but days later, with no improvement, the doc finally got me into the physical therapist for an adjustment.
Laying me out on his table, the therapist studied my crippled body for a minute. “Well, that’s why. Your left leg is an inch shorter than your right,” he said matter-of-factly, the way a scientist might point out the error in a long equation.
A couple of cracks and jerks later, my pelvis was realigned with my spine again.
“Better?”
“How did you do that?” I asked in wonder, experiencing almost instant relief.
“We see this in aviators all the time, particularly jets. I don’t need to tell you, the flying—those heavy helmets and the shots and traps—are torture for the spine. You should be a little better now, but it’s going to be a long journey getting your neck, back, and pelvis back where you want them.”
Even though I was hobbling around like an old lady with a nasty cold, like everyone else, my thoughts were on our return to Norfolk. We’d departed on Valentine’s Day, and now it was almost Thanksgiving. The ship hosted mandatory briefings to help everyone transition back into family life. I might not have been returning to a doting husband or darling children, but I was as excited as everyone else to get back. I knew my family would be there to welcome me, and there was a cute new apartment near the beach just waiting for me to move into it, and manicures any day of the week.
“If you experience bouts of anger or resentment for your loved ones,” the reintegration counselor said, “get yourself to a safe place and wait it out. This, too, will pass.”
Yeah, yeah, we’ve gotten through the hardest part, lady, I thought, totally unaware of the demons awaiting me just beyond the dimly lit pier.