"Do we need to call an EMT?"*

*Best if read with your best southern gay male impersonation. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, my brothers and some of my best friends are gay southern males.)

We were flying into Baltimore to meet my husband at Walter Reed. My friend, who is a 19 year old firecracker going through her second deployment, was napping beside me. Her husband was with Soldier Boy and helped pull him from the truck after the blast. She flew from her parents' home in Florida the day after SB was hurt and spent a month with us. Because it's funny, we shall refer to her as Ms. Spears.

At some other time I might let you know about the insanity of the 24 hours before that flight, but suffice it to say that at 3:00 in the morning we still didn't know whether we were boarding a plane for DC or San Antonio. Our flight was leaving at 6:00. It was pretty dern awesome.

My emotions had been mostly in check for the few days between when I found out he was injured and when we boarded the plane. I was in production mode, and my friends carried me through all of the necessary tasks. I didn't have time or energy to break down. When things got overwhelming, I would completely shut down and just lay in the dark somewhere. Ms. Spears and I were exhausted in every possible way. We both racked out between Atlanta and DC.

I woke up as the plane was descending. It was then that my emotions busted through every single one of my carefully constructed barriers and resulted in what can only be described as, "The Ugly Cry." Did I ever tell you that I don't cry in public? And that there are precious few people in real life who have seen me cry? It's just something I don't do. I cry in the shower. Or in bed. Or while I'm driving alone on long road trips. Those are safe places to cry. Not in the middle of a fucking airplane as it's headed toward one of the busiest cities in America.

Oh, but no, that's exactly where The Ugly Cry decided to come through. Ms. Spears woke up and with a "what the fuck happened?" kind of look started to console me. I think I might have squeaked out the words "it's real" as I sobbed, nose running, almost gagging, gasping for breath. There was no containing it or stopping it and very little slowing it down. A very nice flight attendant came by and asked if she could help. Little Ms. Spears requested an ice pack of some sort. The lady was understanding and went to make one for me.

That's when Mr. Helpful decided to come by. "What is wrong with her?"* Ms. Spears quietly explained that my husband had been seriously injured in Afghanistan and we were on our way to see him at Walter Reed. I'm not sure what I expected him to say, but "Do we need to call an EMT?"* was not on my checklist. It was, however, the magic bullet for The Ugly Cry. I laughed out loud and managed to look at his disgusted snarl. I laughed harder. The people in front and back of me were relieved, I think, and then I went back to making checklists. For the remainder of the flight, Mr. Helpful concluded every intercom message with, "And a Delta Representative will be meeting this flight."* Ms. Spears and I giggled every single time.

We had several bags to pull and a few things to carry. Truthfully, I was a little unsteady and needed a hand as we walked through the airport. Two Delta Representatives met us at the door with a wheelchair. For real. A fucking wheelchair. We asked if they could just please help with our bags and they said that they couldn't help with bags if we didn't use the wheelchair. We looked at each other, simultaneously dumped our bags on the chair and walked up the ramp, arm in arm.

Flash forward to yesterday. I was having another tearful day. Honestly, I haven't had that many during this whole thing. Sure, I've shed tears, but I haven't been held captive by them. Unfortunately, I scheduled an appointment for migraines and it coincided with Crying Day. This time I didn't even do the Ugly Cry, I just got choked up while I was talking about needing help with my migraines because laying down in the dark is not an option due to my responsibilities right now. Those tears and the break in my voice damn near landed me in the ER for a 72 hour psych eval. The doctor held me at the clinic for over an hour, refusing to allow me to be alone in the exam room, because she was afraid I might kill myself if she stepped out. Because, (gasp!), I cried.

This is why I usually only cry in the damn shower.

I ran out my front door three months ago, leaving my children, my pets, all of my belongings, and my friends behind. I ran into a hospital to see my husband with more wires, screws and tubes coming out of him than I knew was possible. Oh, and he was missing a foot. And he was really fucking drugged up, disoriented and in a lot of pain. We have walked (or rolled, as the case may be for some of us) through hell these last few months and it's not over yet. I am tired, I am having migraines which impede my ability to care for my family, my pets and belongings are still far away, my schedule is completely random, and I have no friends here. I am attempting to find my feet and do some nice things for myself, but it is hard right now. Sometimes I am going to cry. Not only is that ok, it's fucking healthy.

So, no thank you, I don't need an EMT or a psych eval. Tears do not constitute a medical emergency.