Sorry about the lack of a post yesterday. In approximately 58 hours, my husband will be getting on a plane and going into a combat zone, and I won't see him again until almost February. I can't say exactly where he's going yet, because he's got this high-security job that requires him to handle a lot of classified stuff. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it's true.
So the world is going to end for me on Friday at 7:00 p.m. He's been in combat three times before, once since I've known him. The last time was to Afganistan. He was sent there one week after we returned from our honeymoon, and two weeks after our wedding day. He was at the US embassy in Kabul (the capital) for three months. One morning, I came to work, turned on my computer, and CNN popped up as my homepage, as it always does. The headline that day was, "US Embassy in Kabul Bombed; 9 Americans Dead." I can't even describe how I felt when I read it--it was like I was the one who had been bombed. I staggered into a coworker's office, crying. I don't really know what else I did that morning, but two hours later, my phone rang. It was my husband, and he was okay. He told me he had wanted to call me every minute since it happened, but he had to help carry the wounded and the dead out of the rubble to safety.
58 hours left to go, and then three months of waiting. 90 days. 2,160 hours. 129,600 minutes. If you pray, please pray for my love. He's my life.