Fate's Redemption (6 page)

That crisis over, I reflect on the six years
I've been here as I hand our passports through the window.
Sebastian was in the Army, and we had just come from Germany to a
foreign land that was a little more familiar. Alaska. We left home
right out of high school. I don't think he had a good home life,
based on the fact he never wanted to talk about his parents. He was
a bad boy and I soaked that in like the rebel I was. We moved away
and never went back to our hometown. In the beginning, it was
because he refused to. Later, it was because I didn't want to run
back to my parents when things got hard. And things did get hard.
After three deployments in six years, I got the dreaded knock at
the door.

Any military wife knows that fear. You ask
friends to call before they stop by, so you know to expect it. You
keep your blinds open at all times to see your driveway. If you’re
doing the dishes or giving your kids a bath and hear a car door
slam, you know a fear unlike anything in this world. And it happens
every day, multiple times a day. To say the life of a deployed
spouse is stressful is an understatement of the highest degree. But
then you have to be happy, play with your kids, and keep things
normal for them. One thing you never think about is how you would
explain to your babies that Daddy got hurt at work and wasn’t
coming home ever again.

You have a plan if something were to happen,
of course. I just hoped it never happened to me. Our plan was for
me to go home and have the support of my family around me. But with
a chaplain sitting in my husband's favorite chair, two kids
watching TV in the next room, and a baby stirring in my stomach, I
felt I couldn't go back. That was his house. He built the shed out
back. He mowed the lawn. He hated that tree that blew all of the
branches against our windows in a storm. He last parked his car in
the driveway. I wasn't going to move away from where my kids had
memories of him; where I had memories of him.

I had support from the military
community that rallies in death. People cooked me food, and took
the kids for a few hours when I felt like I couldn’t keep my pieces
together anymore and needed to break down. They posted things,
tagging me on social media, constantly letting me know they were
thinking about my family. I was thankful, grateful, and a little
bit suffocated.
Years ago, I heard stories
of a woman who went to the homecoming of her husband’s unit and
lost it when he wasn’t there.

That wasn't me. I buried my husband in
Arlington, VA, per the plan. I questioned that later, because it
was so difficult to visit him. So, I made rag dolls out of his old
shirts and the kids slept with those, giving them the comfort of
their dad when they were too young to really understand what never
coming home meant.

Poor Jet never knew his dad. Before his
birth, I grew obsessed with details like the first person to hold
our first two babies was their dad. So when my mom flew up for the
birth, I wouldn't let her have that memory. A nurse was the first
one to hold him, and cut the cord. Silly things that now don't mean
so much, but in the moment meant I was doing what I could to not
have him be different.

Being alone wasn't so different for me,
except I lost my countdown. Spending six months with him gone in
basic, then almost three years deployed plus training time,
Sebastian was gone for over half of our marriage. It didn't make a
difference, though. When he died, I lost my partner, my best
friend, and the father of my children. I grieved, and the only
thing that kept me getting out of bed every day was my kids. The
only reason I ate was to feed Jet.

I kept going for a long time on autopilot,
not changing anything from how he would want our kids to be
raised.

In January, my Grandma Pierce died suddenly
at the age of eighty-seven, leaving me her orchard. Her land butts
up against my parents’ ranch, so us kids were always coming and
going from her house. I'm still in shock she gave the whole estate
to me. Even though I hadn't been back for eleven years now, I
talked to her once a week like clockwork. I know she wanted me
back. Not a phone call went by that she didn't bring it up.

It wasn't until February, when Harper was
diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, that I decided to make the
move.

She started screaming one day at the indoor
jumpy house. Finding nothing wrong with her, I took her to the
hospital. They did x-rays and MRIs, blood work, and everything
else. It was torture for both of us, as well as her brothers. It
took a week for the doctors to come back to me with an answer. By
this time, Harper couldn't bend her knee all the way back and
didn't want to put her weight on it. I had been giving her Motrin
every few hours with food, so it didn't eat a hole in her
stomach.

Calling my mom with the diagnosis, she asks
incredulously, "Have you been giving her bone broth?"

That made me sit back in shock. Growing up on
the farm, we didn't go to the doctor very often. We didn't go to
the doctor unless we had a broken bone most of the time. We had
natural remedies that didn't rely on prescriptions. And so started
my research on what exactly I was giving my kids.

Sebastian was all about modern medicine,
chicken nuggets and mac and cheese, the latest high tech gadget,
and dressing to impress. He wanted to be as far away from his
upbringing as possible, and that pushed me further away from how I
was raised as well. Since his passing, I had tried to raise the
kids the way he would have wanted, but found myself starting to
revert back to what I thought was healthier; at least fixing real
food at meals and not caring if their clothes were muddy after
playing.

In doing my research, I was horrified to
learn of the pesticides that we eat with our produce and hormones
in our meat. I knew that they were there, but not the effects it
could have on the body. I mean, everyone eats the same thing,
right? Paying attention to parents at the park and school, I heard
story after story of asthma, ADHD, allergies, and skin rashes.
Then, going back home, I researched how to prevent or treat those
problems with herbs, gluten-free diets and teas.

When I took the kids to the dentist and was
told Jet had a cavity, I knew things needed to change. I never had
a cavity until I was twenty-four. I remembered drinking cod liver
oil and butter oil every single morning my whole childhood, but had
never once given it to my children. And here I had a farm in my
name sitting right next to my parents.

So I called my dad and asked him what exactly
was on the farm these days. He tells me there are two cows, bees,
chickens, ducks, and rabbits. Not too bad. Seemed manageable. Then
he said there are twelve acres of fruit, same as before, and an
acre of garden space. How the hell am I supposed to deal with acres
of all that? Dad tells me the money left in the accounts were for a
hired hand to help. Good old Grandma Pierce had thought of
everything.

That's when I turned to my trusted friend
YouTube. Since I was Trigg's age and my mom had bought her first
video camera, I had been using it as my personal journal. Later,
when the Internet got big, I started a blog along with it.

As a military wife and young mother, I found
that people were having a lot of the same problems I was. I would
find suggestions and give advice on what worked for us. The more
people that responded, the more sponsors I got. I actually started
making money. It was a crazy concept, but with YouTube, people can
relate to you, take your opinion and learn from it, or you learn
from the people watching your videos.

Companies would send me their products to
review, cameras, kids' products, kitchen utensils, makeup, and I
would give my honest opinion. If I found something I couldn't live
without, I would ask the company if they wanted space on my website
for their ads, they would pay me, and because of the high traffic
it got, would send me more samples.

This was crucial in staying sane with all of
the time I spent alone, first in Germany and then during nine
months of snow when we moved to Alaska. My husband loved it because
it kept me entertained, and he could watch the kids and me on
deployments. After he died, it opened up a whole new demographic.
Because it’s what I’ve always done, I video blogged about my
husband dying. I talked out my problems, and came up with a plan. I
didn't post those until I was in the right headspace, but they went
viral. Gold Star wives all over were sharing their stories and
advice on how to get through such a tough time. I covered a
marathon in Anchorage for the spouses of the fallen that year and
every one since then, putting faces to the ones left behind.

This new venture into whole foods and my move
was just another evolution in my life. I found that people would
stick with me, and if they didn’t agree, they at least keep coming
back to share their opinion. I would post my videos even if I
didn't make any money off of it, but at least it's given me a way
to stay home with the kids and still pay the bills.

Yes, you do get a lot of money from the
government when a spouse dies, but that money was divided up and
put into a high interest account so that the kids can use it for
weddings, college, or to buy a house when they get older. I have
continued to live off of the monthly stipend, and my own
income.

Once upon a time, all I ever wanted to do was
live on a farm, with a husband of course, and our kids, living off
of the land and swapping fruits and veggies with my parents for
meat. I even had my husband all picked out, but that was a lifetime
ago.

Glancing behind me, I look past the mini
U-Haul I'm pulling to the black GTO behind me. My dad flew up to
drive the car back and accompany me on this trip. Love that man.
The car belonged to Sebastian and will be Trigg's someday. Trigg
loves that car with a passion and would be in it for this whole
trip if I hadn't requested all of the kids ride with me the first
day.

I grab my camera, with the tripod still
attached, and press the buttons overhead to open up the back doors
of the van. The kids pile out along with our dog, Angus. He's a
huge mutt. He looks to be a cross between a Great Dane and a cattle
dog of some kind. He's tall with a long tail and snout, one ear up,
one floppy; gray, black, and blue short hair that creates a dark
salt and pepper coat, with black spots placed sporadically on his
body. He's gentle and expressive, the kids love him, and he
couldn't be a better guard dog.

I set up my camera on the hood of my car with
the bendable feet of the tripod and wait for my dad to park behind
us. The kids are used to the drill of waiting to be directed. For
us, it's not unusual to stop for a photo op. My dad pops out of the
muscle car with a spring in his step that makes me smile. He may be
the most excited about us moving back home.

"Canada!" he yells, spreading his arms out
wide with a smile.

I laugh. "Dad, come take a picture with us in
front of the Welcome to the Yukon sign." He walks over and stands
below the sign as asked. His hair is more white these days, and
he's got a belly growing on him. But he's still tall, posture
straight in his plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. Still
the same mustache I've always known him to have, just with more
wrinkles accenting his light brown eyes.

I did not get my looks from my father. I am
the spitting image of my mom, down to our pinky toes. We both have
dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, and thin builds. I lucked out
with the genes. All of my kids got my darker genes, instead of
their father's lighter sandy colored hair and brown eyes. I thank
God for that every day. I loved my husband, but there's nothing
more striking than a dark complexion with blue eyes. My kids are
beautiful, if I do say so myself.

I set the timer and jog over to the
others.

"Three pictures, ten seconds apart, smile
first, silly second, smile last." I learned this from experience;
the first will be stiff, the second cute, and the third genuine
smiles with occasional drifting eyes. But as they get older,
there's less of the drifting and more perfect shots.

I get behind the kids, and my dad puts his
arm around my shoulder for the first picture. On the second, we
squeeze the kids together between us while they act like they're
suffocating, and the third is all of us laughing.

I grab the camera, and the kids ask for a
snack before we get on the road. I pop the trunk and pass out the
fruit salads I packed that morning. I feel my dad's hand on my
shoulder and turn to look at him.

"Proud of you, kiddo." My eyes mist and I
give a small smile back before grabbing two apples and shutting the
lid.

"Thanks, Daddy," I tell him quietly. I'm
still my daddy's little girl, and that he's proud of me will always
be something important to me.

"Let's hit the road, Jack!" I call out.

"Ha-ha," he says drolly. His name is Jack,
and I used to say that all the time as a kid. It still cracks me
up.

When I get in the van, I make sure the dog is
in the back and push the button for the doors before grabbing my
iPhone to put on the special mix I came up with. I fix the camera
back on the rearview mirror and press record before playing the
music.

Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" starts
playing and I hear three groans from the back as I belt out the
song, complete with hand motions. I finally pause it after much
groaning.

"Oh come on, guys! I made a whole playlist of
Canadian artists for Canada!"

"Mom, this stuff blows!" I hear Trigg yell
from the back.

I yell back, "Liar!" then switch to a Shania
Twain song.

This time it's Jet. "Gross, Mom!"

Pausing it again, I sigh dramatically and
turn around. "Fine, guys, there's another one in a backpack under
one of your seats. I don't remember where I put it."