How does a wife cope with a husband terribly injured by war? Sue couldn't... and walked away



On a bright winter's morning in January 2007, I found myself in a busy car park in Cheltenham with my family. I noticed how happy and relaxed everyone else seemed.



Occasionally, a small child would stare in our direction before their parent whispered to them to look away or shot us a sympathetic glance.



I looked down at my husband, Pete, sitting in his wheelchair in front of me, one arm and a leg missing. On Pete's lap was our eldest son Tom, then four, pushing his two-year-old brother Toby forward in his pram as I took the weight of all three of them. We must have been a bizarre sight. But by then I was almost beyond caring.

Overwhelmed: Sue Norton found being a mother and carer a huge strain

My back ached continually, as it seemed to have done for months. Worn down by nearly two years of struggling with the demands of bringing up two small boys and caring for a severely disabled husband, I knew I was near breaking point.



That evening, after I had put the boys to bed, I told Pete that I wanted to move to Essex to be nearer to my parents, so they could help me when he finally finished his year of rehabilitation and came back home to live with us full-time.



Communication had been difficult between us for months. My husband, Captain Peter Norton, a bomb disposal expert, had always been a man of few words, and his military training had not encouraged him to talk about his feelings, even since his terrible injuries. Focused as he was on his recovery, I felt I had been left to look after the family alone.



I tried to explain how difficult I was finding everything, and that I could no longer cope. I didn't want to sound as if I was complaining, or offend him by seeming resentful about the care he needed from me, for how could I compare my struggles to the terrible trauma that he had suffered?



I felt full of guilt, believing Pete would understand without my having to say too much.



But as far as Pete was concerned, the next step after finishing his rehab was for him to go straight to Shrivenham, on the Wiltshire/Oxfordshire border, where he had been about to begin an MSc course in Explosive Ordnance Engineering before his last tour of duty in Iraq.



WHO KNEW?

Thirty-two British soldiers injured in Afghanistan had their limbs amputated in 2009



He had always planned to become an Army instructor after his time as a soldier, so it was all part of his career plan.



His gruff reply to my suggestion - 'Well, you do what you have to' - was non-committal.



I could see the pain in his eyes and the look of incomprehension on his face. I knew he didn't want to go to Essex, but for me to come and live with him in married quarters at Shrivenham instead. But if I did that, I would not have the support of my family. I knew I would not be able to manage.



In 2006, I had written in this paper about my hopes for the future, determined to start family life afresh after Pete had gone through a year of medical rehab.



But looking back now, I realise that conversation, a year later, was the pivotal point in our marriage - the make-or-break moment when I recognised we would have to go our separate ways.



I still loved my husband, as he probably still loved me, and wanted us to stay together as a family. But I also knew I couldn't take any more of the physical and psychological strain of looking after two small children and an amputee.



My priority had to be our two small sons. If I allowed myself to be ground down to the point where I could no longer care for them properly, I would be letting the whole family down.

War hero: Captain Peter Norton collects his George Cross with Sue and children Toby and Tom

By the time Pete went off on his last tour of duty in March 2005, we'd been married ten years. We'd met while I was working as a civil servant for the MoD. Pete had just been promoted to warrant officer and was clearly destined to go far.



Once our relationship was in full swing, I'd been keen to settle in Cambridgeshire, but Pete was back with his regiment, the 11th Explosive Ordnance Disposal Regiment of the Royal Logistic Corps. The country was at war with Iraq and I knew it was only a matter of time before he might be called on to go, too. It would be his one and only tour of duty during our time together.



When he was called on to leave, the timing couldn't have been worse, as I'd just given birth to Toby. I spent the entire four months Pete was away fearing something would happen to him. But I knew, like any Army wife, that I had to learn to cope with my fears and get on with life.



I cherished every letter or phone call I received from Pete, desperately hanging on to the knowledge that he was still OK. Every night I watched the evening news with dread in my heart.



When I found a uniformed man and woman on my doorstep at three in the morning on July 25, 2005, my first thought was: 'Just let him be alive.'



I sat in numbed silence as they told me Pete had been part of a team of coalition troops, including Americans and Australians, when he'd stepped on a secondary device, two shells wired to a sensor. But as I heard one of the officers say, 'Pete has been very seriously injured', my heart flooded with relief. 'Injured' to me could be coped with, got over.



When I found a uniformed man and woman on my doorstep at three in the morning on July 25, 2005, my first thought was: 'Just let him be alive'

Even after they read out the apparently endless list of Pete's injuries - 'loss of left leg, left arm, severe injury to the buttock and lower right leg' - I tried to remain calm. I felt we could recover from anything as a family, even this. But I was wrong.

An Army family liaison officer escorted seven-month-old Toby and me first to Newport to collect a passport for Toby, and then to London where we caught a flight from Heathrow to Germany, where Pete was being cared for in hospital.



On our arrival at the hospital, staff warned me not to cry as this might distress Pete and possibly delay his recovery. I remember thinking; 'Oh, please - just let me see my husband!'

When I finally did see Pete, his neck was in a brace, covered in bandages, an intravenous drip connected to his nose and mouth. I should have been shocked, but the overwhelming feeling of unconditional love took over.



Although Pete was clearly in a lot of pain, and over the ensuing months was sustained with heavy doses of painkillers, I reminded myself that he could have no better incentive to recover than wanting to be an active father again to the two boys he loved so much.



After being flown to Selly Oak Hospital near Birmingham, he began an agonisingly slow recovery, interrupted by frequent infections.



Over the course of the following year, I visited Pete two or three times a week, driving from Gloucester to Birmingham and always taking the boys with me.



Although our visits never failed to lift Pete's spirits, as they did mine to see my husband with both our sons looking so happy, it also meant that Pete and I had no time to ourselves to talk alone.



Even after Pete began to make home visits at weekends, it was still very difficult for us to talk intimately to one another. Most of my time was spent either moving my husband's bed into the living room so that he could watch TV with the boys, or washing, dressing and bathing him.

By the time I had cooked three meals and got the boys into bed, I was too tired to have any meaningful conversation.

Before the accident: Sue had just given birth to their son Toby when Peter was sent to Iraq

An archeologist and former MoD civil servant, I'd given up my career after becoming pregnant with my first child. On top of looking after the children, I began to feel as if I'd been turned from being Pete's wife into his carer and nurse.

By April 2006, I was already physically exhausted and went to my GP for help.

Getting a carer from the NHS for weekends helped with the physical work but did little to lessen the psychological strain of a part-time marriage.

In June, Pete was transferred to Headley Court, the defence medical rehabilitation in Surrey, where we again visited him as often as we could.



But when we tried to have family days out, it was a nightmare. Manoeuvring the wheelchair and a pushchair into the car, getting everyone in and out, remembering a nappy change for Toby and a colostomy bag for his father all became increasingly impossible for me to cope with.



Pete's weekends home, which I'd always so looked forward to, gradually turned into something I dreaded. If I had known where, or how to get help, I would have done. I felt as if I was drowning in physical and psychological exhaustion.



In a last attempt to save my marriage, I made an appointment to see a Relate counsellor, who was immensely sympathetic. But when she asked if Pete would come along, I knew there was no way, because he hated talking about his emotions. Besides, the wheelchair wouldn't have fitted in the building.



I also realised I couldn't afford to continue with the marriage therapy, and after two free sessions did not go back. Although Pete still received his salary from the Army, I no longer worked so we had to keep to a budget.



Foolishly, I hoped communication between Pete and I would just get better as his health improved. Instead, our relationship deteriorated rapidly as the less we talked, the more distant we felt from each other. We spent more time talking about 'arrangements' than how we really felt.



Looking back, I realise we were both as stubborn as one another. But the result was that our love slowly faded to the point that divorce seemed inevitable.



Some of my closest friends refused to speak to me after I told them that Pete and I were splitting up, questioning how I could walk away from a war hero when he needed me

Six months later, in June 2007, Pete and I separated. We'd had that initial conversation about splitting earlier in the year and by then we had grown to accept it. Pete told me he had been advised we should divorce rather than just separate, so I filed and the decree absolute came through two years later.



Meanwhile, I found a house for the boys and me next door to my elderly parents in Essex, and Pete moved to Wiltshire to begin his MSc at Shrivenham.



In typical fashion, we never had a final conversation or even a proper goodbye. As we had not lived together as a family for the previous two years, being apart permanently did not even seem that odd any more.



We didn't tell the boys that we were getting a divorce. As they only ever remembered having their father around at weekends, we felt it wouldn't really make any difference to them.



I felt as if I'd finally reached the end of a long and hard road, deeply sad but determined to do the best for our sons. During all the time that I had been struggling to cope with my family, I kept thinking there must be other women like me with wounded husbands or sons. Determined that something good would come from the breakdown of our marriage, I set about finding out more.



After getting in touch with SSAFA (the Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Families Association), I asked whether there was any thing similar to the U.S. Forces-owned Fisher Houses. These provide accommodation for the relatives of wounded service personnel so the family can stay close by while they are getting medical treatment. Toby and I had stayed in one in Germany while visiting Pete in hospital.



When I was told there wasn't an equivalent over here, SSAFA and the MoD agreed to meet me to discuss the possibility of raising funds to provide similar houses in Britain.



Within six months, SSAFA had managed to raise enough money to build not one, but two houses for relatives of those wounded in the Armed Forces, the first at Headley Court in February 2008 and the second at Selly Oak a year later.



These were named the Norton Homes in tribute to Pete. I felt very proud to have been the inspiration to help other families affected, and Pete, too, was thrilled about our achievement.



I know there will be many who will criticise me for speaking out about the strain of being married to an amputee, wondering: 'How could she?' Even some of my closest friends refused to speak to me after I told them that Pete and I were splitting up, questioning how I could walk away from a war hero when he needed me.



Perhaps if we had both been given access to more psychological and practical support, we might have been able to save our marriage.



Pete, now 48, teaches at the UK Defence Academy at Shrivenham, Wiltshire. Tom and Toby's happiness is paramount to us both, so I take the boys to see their father for one day each fortnight.



Although Pete's brother helps him with this, it is difficult for me to leave the boys for much longer with their father as he is still confined to a wheelchair and could not run after them in an emergency.



Pete and I are now more like polite strangers than ex-spouses, but our sons are happy, and I now look forward to the future with hope.



All I can say is that no woman who has not been through living with and caring for a victim of the fallout from war can truly understand what it is like. It does not mean that you stop loving the person who has been injured, be it husband, son or boyfriend; simply that the pressures involved in day-to-day life can sometimes become intolerable.

INTERVIEW: CLARE CAMPBELL



You can donate to SSAFA, a national charity committed to helping those who serve in our Armed Forces, those who used to serve and the families of both, via the internet at donate.ssafa.org.uk, or by sending a cheque, with your name and address, to: SSAFA Forces Help - Femail, Freepost NAT 19507, London SE1 2BR.



