So you're at field training this entire month with the army in the middle of nowhere Kentucky (though "nowhere" might be too general a description for that state) working on building your medical skills. It's noble of you and I'm proud of you, and even though I know you're bitching about it we both know part of you loves the military camaraderie and the fact that you get to build your knowledge base. It sorta makes it worth all the physical training and three in the morning.
I get to sleep at three in the morning. So, you know, ha ha.
I'm proud of you for what you do for your career, your education, and the fact that you do this for me, too. Alas, we both know I hate when you leave. I never handle it well.
Remember the first time you were going to be gone for three months? The night before you left I had a panic attack so bad I earned myself a hospital visit where the doctor drugged me higher than a cat on a car trip and put me on oxygen because I was hyperventilating so bad my heart almost popped like a kernel of corn over an open flame.
We both know I'm much better now. I only have a small bout of depression and get a tiny void that I try to fill with sex (insert dirty pun here) in the days before you leave, and with bottles of wine and too much exercise when you're actually gone.