Normally I like to keep my writing  fun, but I read something on MSNBC's web site that hit me hard.  Fort Hood, Texas reports a record number of suicides among soldiers.  One incident appeared to be a murder-suicide.  A young soldier shot his wife, and turned the gun on himself.  There but for the grace of God go I.

March 27, 2003 started out like a normal day.  This came as a welcome relief to me.  For the past three months, my world was in a state of constant upheaval because my husband was suffering from mood swings and lack of sleep.  But things were looking up.  We were about to close on a house in D.C., where our next tour of duty would be.  Our son did have health issues (an atrial flutter and pyloric stenosis), but his recent surgery corrected the pyloric stenosis, and our pediatric cardiologist assured me that the atrial flutter would go away with a few months on digoxin.  

It was a nice, sunny, spring day in Charlottesville, and I hit the ground running planning my day.  I had to care for our baby son and our three year old daughter.  We needed groceries, so my morning was taken up by monitoring the baby and figuring out what sounded appetitizing for all of us that day.  I was upbeat,  but my husband's soul was still having a "winter of discontent."  He came back from classes at the Judge Advocate General School and just stared at the closet where he kept his weapon, a weapon I NEVER wanted in my house. I KNEW we were in trouble.  This was confirmed when I saw my husband looking at life insurance policies for suicide clauses.  

I still had to get groceries.  His parents called.  They knew he was struggling.  I hoped they could keep him talking long enough for me to get groceries for the kids, and to formulate a plan.  I had it by the time I got to the store.  I would tell our neighbors he had food poisoning, and I was taking him to the E.R.   They would watch our kids.  Then I would have him admitted against his will.   

I came home, and I called to my husband to come help me unload the groceries.  I put on a Baby Neptune video for our son and daughter, and went upstairs.   I had hoped my husband has fallen asleep.  I saw stacks of paper arranged neatly on our bed.  I figured he had gotten his work organized for his advanced L.L.M. in military justice.  There was silence. "He must have gone for a run," I thought.  I walked toward the bathroom.  I smelled the skunk-like odor of sulfur from the gun and the blood first.  I looked and saw a sight no one should EVER see.   I heard his last few breaths.  I called 911, and rushed my kids over to my neighbor's house.  I told my daughter her beloved daddy had "a really bad accident" and I was going to call for help.  

Friends and family rallied around me, but what do you say to your three year old daughter when she asks you, "Who was Daddy shooting?"  I told her that her daddy had a bad illness that made him think in strange ways.  I used a sock puppet.  I said, "Is this sock really talking, or is Mommy making it talk?"  She knew I was doing it.  I told her that her daddy's illness turned him into a puppet for bad thoughts, and made him do what he did.   A three year old, even a smart three year old, should not have to learn a lesson like that.  

My late husband was positioned for a very solid military career.  He was fifth academically, tenth overall in his graduating class at West Point.  He was the youngest person selected for the Federal Legal Education Program.  His tenacity as a prosecutor in Korea earned him the nickname the "Road Warrior."  He enjoyed playing dress up with our daughter, and looked forward to playing with his little boy, but he never got that chance.

His illness turned him into someone his own mother didn't recognize.  He would tell me I was the greatest wife ever one minute, and then hours later tell me our marriage was troubled, and it was all my fault because I wasn't pulling my weight.   Never mind that for the last two months I was the one up 24/7 trying to keep our baby alive and fed.   Nothing I did for him was good enough.  Living with him was like a constant walk on a tightrope, hoping I didn't say or do anything to set him off.  

I still struggle with the aftermath of all this.  My kids and I are lucky to be alive.  The "what ifs" still haunt me. What if I hadn't gone shopping for food?  What if my daughter followed me up the stairs?   What if I had hidden that stupid gun?  What if I had told his senior officers?  What might have happened if I had known where to go for help? Would we all be here, or would he have killed us all?

I am blessed with a wonderful supportive family, and now I have a truly amazing new husband.  He knew he was getting someone with a pretty significant load of baggage, but he loved me and my kids.  He is the daddy they will know, love, and remember.  He made me believe in "happily ever after" again, and I can never repay hiim for that.  Still, the battle scars remain.  I just want to do something positive with my own painful memories, to make them a force for positive change.

My hope is that our military forces learn that mental illess is not "all in your head."  It is not something you correct by sheer force of will.  It is an actual chemical issue in the brain.  With proper treatment, it can be managed very well.  Those who suffer deserve our care, our compassion, and proper intervention, not scorn, not dismissal.   Our military family members need to learn how to recognize the signs.  They need to know where to go to get help.  I didn't know where to go or what I could do.  

Our soldiers put their lives on the line for us.  We need to show them some support.  If you read this, please share it with people you know.  Encourage them to share it.   Our soldiers and their families deserve better mental health care.  Let's see what we can do to get if for them.