You're Army Now

It was a rainy afternoon and I had started work at a new corporation, reporting to a decorated, retired Army Colonel a week or so prior.  I received a call in the middle of the workday.  I burst into uncontrollable tears outside his office where my work area was located.  I had been informed that my father had a large tumor and was being scheduled for surgery.  What was I supposed to do?  I had a brand-new job, a brand-new boss and my father, my best friend, was 700 miles away.

I walked into the Colonel’s office and earnestly explained my situation.  I didn’t want to jeopardize my new job, but I also wanted to be with my father (though my dad had instructed me implicitly on the phone NOT to drive to him, as it may cause me to lose my new job.)  The Colonel looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Woman, get your priorities straight.”  With that, he turned and asked a manager to walk me to my car because I was not in the best emotional state.  This manager, being the young gentleman and marine that he was, held an umbrella over my head as we walked to my car, though I probably cried as many teardrops as there were raindrops on the way.  I hadn’t even registered my new vehicle yet, but began to drive with dealer plates straight to my father’s house in Florida to be with him.

After the surgery, which was far more extensive than the doctors had initially believed my father would require, I stood outside the hospital.  My father was recovering inside in the ICU.  One doctor had met with me privately and suggested that I “be prepared” for what I was about to witness.  My father had always been my rock and now I knew I needed to be strong for him.  But this doctor warned me that he was not in good shape…that he was pale and he had feeding tubes and wires in and out of various places. 

I remember standing alone.  It was a gusty Florida day and I recall turning to face the wind so that its force would blow the tears away from my eyes and dry my tear-stained cheeks before I entered my father's room.  I was trying to muster the courage to walk into the hospital, through the doors of the ICU and face him and his cancer with the strength he had instilled in me.  Yet, I couldn’t find that strength anywhere.  It wasn’t in my shaking knees.  It wasn’t in my tear-filled eyes.  It wasn’t in my upset stomach and it wasn’t in my trembling voice. 

But I did find it.  It was on the other end of the telephone.  I called the Colonel.  I had actually called him initially to report my current situation to my boss (a "sitrep") and let him know when he could expect me back at work.  I think, in hindsight, I was stalling for time as I had no idea how I would put one foot in front of the other in order to walk toward my father’s room.

When the Colonel answered, I explained my situation and my anticipated date of return to work.  However, somehow during that conversation, I began to pour out each and every fear and tear.  I would normally not display anxiety, apprehension or tears to a boss as I’d always learned that it makes a woman appear weak in the workplace to express such emotion.

But this wasn’t the workplace and I was scared and alone.  The Colonel’s reply was not the gentle reassurance I'd subconsciously been anticipating and it took me completely by surprise.  I heard a stern voice on the other end of the phone say:  “You need to stop thinking of YOURSELF.  Your father needs you to be strong right now, so stop being afraid.  You’re not the one lying there.  Go ahead in that room.  You’re tough.  YOU’RE ARMY NOW.”

I was literally speechless.  I even remember pulling back my cell phone and staring at it in shock.  Though they weren’t exactly the words I’d expected to hear, they were exactly the words I needed to hear.

I hung up the phone.  I stopped crying.  I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started to concentrate on being strong for my father.  I walked into his room with my eyes dry, my shoulders straight and my head held high prepared to see what I had to see and do what I had to do.  My father was awake and through the expression on his face, I knew he was glad I was there.

My father passed away within the next two years, yet I will never forget that day and the precious time I spent with him during that trip.  And since then, when I must face adversity in life, I think of the Colonel’s words to me that day and I say to myself… “I’m ARMY NOW!”

Thank you, Colonel…

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Lana Kleimon]

Linda Ellis - you are a true artist, painting a vivid visualization with your words! Hooah!

[Debbie]

WOW! Made me cry. My husband has CLL (Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia) and sometimes I don't feel like I'm being as strong as I should for him. I will have to remind myself of this story when I feel like I am being a "baby" about it. Thank you Linda for posting this.