I'm having trouble falling asleep at night, and it's only going to get worse.

Two people that I care about very much -- the last two guys who've meant anything to me -- are in the Persian Gulf right now. They're out there for different reasons, with different mandates, but when I close my eyes at night it all boils down to the same thing: I'm frightened.

Of course, that didn't stop me from turning to Lauren the other day and saying, "Look, just to test this, I'm going to go grab a random guy at Ralph's and sleep with him, and if he suddenly disappears to Iraq, we'll know it's a syndrome."

But I can't breathe without worrying. I can't close my eyes without seeing horrible abstract colors tangled in a disgusting display, some strange imageless painting of everything this situation makes me feel: nausea, anger, pride, trepidation, agony. The simple, harsh bisyllabic bite of the word "Iraq" cruelly crunches my heart before dropping it into my feet. I find myself staring blankly at the news, arms wrapped around myself, trying to steady my body even as it starts to shake.

Please, God, let them be safe.

He left yesterday for a news assignment in northern Iraq. It's a huge opportunity and he'd have been mad not to take it, but the dangers are obvious. When the major networks are considering yanking all reporters from Baghdad because of the imminent war, the idea of anyone I care about being anywhere in that political powder keg of a region is frankly rather terrifying. He knows it's both crazy and utterly smart to accept this job, and he left scared and exhilarated at the same time. And I didn't sleep last night.

I suppose I don't know for sure that Doug's ship is out there, as that's classified, but I know that's the region for which the USS Constellation battle group was headed. I know they might stay out longer than initially planned because of escalating tensions and the probability of war. Even if it's a ground-based conflict, I'm still scared for him. And when you're tagging along with an aircraft carrier, it means you're in the fray -- those missile-carrying planes have to come from somewhere.

I can't quite come to terms with it.

Please, God, bring them some peace.

The sad reality of today is that they're not necessarily in any greater danger there than we are here. Sure, that's a more traditional war zone -- soldiers, missiles, the anticipation of raids and the cold chess-game simplicity of one side grappling against the other on the same turf. But we're susceptible to hidden and heretofore-unimagined attacks of a less cut-and-dried nature. We're not soldiers bracing ourselves for an offensive; we're just people trying to live our lives, fervently praying that today isn't the day someone slips through security with a dirty bomb and explodes it into our lungs. We're at risk, too.

But they're in Iraq. Or near it. They're at the heart of a hotly contested region, one working for the country and the other working for a producer cuddled up in a bed in his Upper East Side penthouse. One is just off the coast of a region that's about to erupt in explosions and litter itself with carnage, and the other has his feet on the ground there near an opposition group that has one of the most likely claims to the seat of power Saddam Hussein may be forced to vacate.

And they're the two guys that represent my adult romantic life. All my highs and lows, my best memories and my greatest pains. One's new and untested and still finding its legs, and one's old and over but at the same time won't ever completely end.

Please, God, don't let them get hurt.

I've always hated Doug being out there, but I've had time to prepare for that. But him... well, he got this opportunity less than two weeks ago. I barely got a chance to tell him I'm proud of him for going, and in awe of him for being brave.

I know there are people who are far closer to the line of fire. I know that, if anyone important to me must be there, these two men are in places that are probably relatively -- comparatively -- safe. But that's just the thing: Nothing over there is truly safe. At all.

"I'm going to miss you," he said through a crackling cell-phone connection, seconds before boarding his flight. "I can't wait to write you, or call you when I get back and tell you all about it."

My stomach turned. We hung up, and I threw the phone across the room onto the couch, where it bounced buoyantly and settled into a crevice between the cushions. I watched it blankly, blindly, before belly-flopping over it and hugging it to my body. I started to cry.

What if something happens to him? What if he gets stuck over there and can't get back? What if he caught in some kind of crossfire? What if I was meant to have that month in New York with him for some horrible, morbid reason? And what if Doug's ship is threatened? What if he's forced to board a rogue vessel that sinks itself? What if germ warfare... God, I can't even think about it, because there are so many insane, incredible, inconceivable, intolerable what-ifs that hurt my soul even to contemplate.

This is where my mind dwells today. Every day. Every night, when I'm trying to fall asleep, I curl myself tighter and tighter into a ball. clutching desperately at my ankles and the sheets and my comforter. Trying to squeeze the terror from my thoughts. Trying to grab onto something, anything, that feels better than this.

Please, God, bring them home.

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