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“Ash? My helicopter crashed, but I’m okay,” my husband blurted through the phone.
At that time, in 2011, Aaron was an Army officer and a medevac helicopter pilot deployed to Afghanistan during the troop surge of 2010. His words were hurried, and it sounded as if he was trying to catch his breath. When Aaron came home four months after the crash, I didn’t understand that although my husband made it back physically unscathed, he was emotionally scarred and so was I.
His brain was wracked by images of the bullet- and bomb-ravaged bodies he couldn’t save — men, women and children — combatants, comrades and civilians. Besides sleep, he also lost his religion, faith in humanity and ability to feel much of anything. We were supposed to be in the prime of our lives together, experiencing parenthood for the first time with our 6-month-old son. Yet I felt like a single mom. Aaron was trying his best to be a good husband and father, but when it came to being emotionally engaged, he couldn’t give us what he didn’t have. Two years after coming home, he was finally diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I felt relieved, truly exhaling for what seemed like the first time in our four-year marriage. Once we understood the problem, we could use tools provided by his therapist to help him cope. The more Aaron recovered, the more he wanted to share stories about the war. That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t as well-adjusted about his helicopter crash and deployment to Afghanistan as I thought I was.