So a rabbi walks into a bridge club meeting...

One of the interesting things about being married to the military is how often and how explicitly you are required to fill out various forms. For instance, (Dad, skip this sentence), during my "Well Woman" exam I was asked in the most professional way possible if I had engaged in any designated risk behaviors, up to and including paying for sex from a stranger, engaging in group sex, and/or allowing someone to insert their entire fist into my lady parts. From the robotic and bland-faced delivery of the enlisted nurse, I can only assume that everyone-- from the 21-year-old stationed in Bangkok, to the pregnant dependent, to the frail retiree-- is asked the same set of questions. Apparently not everyone laughs hysterically, though.

Today's form was a bit more disturbing. Apparently the military needs to know, in detail, *exactly* how you would like to be informed of your spouse's untimely death in a horrific accident. Cultural sensitivity abounds: are there any elderly relatives living with you, and could they be of help? "Granddad-- quick, fetch ice!" Would you like a chaplain present, and if so, what denomination? Considering that I don't go to church, it'd just be another stranger I'd have to introduce myself to, so no. Is there anyone you would NOT want there? Dick Cheney. Do you have any medical conditions that would require the presence of a physician in the event that you must be notified of an accident? Just that one where I love my husband and would collapse in spasms of colossal grief.

And man, are they thorough. I filled out an account of my daily schedule and phone numbers to reach me at any place I might possibly go (helpful prompt suggestions were "bowling, bridge, dancing, Service Clubs"). In one way, I suppose this is comforting-- there's a chain of command established now between the military and me and our extended family, and a set of considerations we've agreed upon that will minimize the possibility of confusion. But in another way, it's exceedingly bizarre to choreograph, in advance, the most tragic moment of one's life. I almost wanted to make it as weird as possible, just so that when a Hasidic Rabbi, a pizza deliveryman, and a military representative hunt me down at my bridge club, I'll know exactly what the score is.

What if every profession did this? What if accounting firms had action plans in place for reporting the tragic malfunction of a paper shredder to a distraught spouse?

I'm trying to imagine funny scenarios because the reality of filling out this paperwork has me deeply freaked out. Obviously these questions are born from experience, just like the emergency procedures I help my husband memorize for his training. Somebody actually had the World's Most Inappropriate Acquaintance show up with the group breaking the bad news. Someone else's trick lung started acting up in reaction to the shock and wouldn't you know it? No ventilator.

I'm still working on grasping the reality of my husband's job, and most days it seems like my hands are too small. I can either pick up and hold the part where he's passionately excited about what he's about to do and isn't it cool that he's been able to follow his dream-- OR -- I get to lug around the big tangly slimy part where I'm worried about his safety, resentful about another move, and often completely in the dark about what's coming next. Even more fun is trying to balance the tiny breakable part where I try to figure out how the hell I fit into all of this, how I continue to be me. So far I have not been able to master holding all three at once and getting a global picture of what's going on. I imagine that when I finally accomplish it, the feeling will be so calming, so completely zen, that it'll be like being a milk cow on heroin.