Back from Iraq: A Father's Joy

My son, Steven, is now resting comfortably in Kuwait, awaiting transport back to Texas. His mother and Randy will be waiting, along with his brothers. Chances are good that Mom will be holding a big bag of wet, sloppy "attack sugars", and favorite game they played since he was a baby. I'll miss the homecoming, but I'm comfortable in knowing that he will be met with much love and happiness. I'll have my own homecoming in a few weeks.

Steven just completed his second tour in Iraq. He's not going back, and that is just sheer relief you hear dripping off of me. I, personally, went through the whole gantlet of emotions during his first tour, and even added a few more during his second. I know there are thousands of other parents nationwide that are going through the cycle of feelings, in their own way. Here is my story.

When Steven first decided to enlist in the United States Air Force Security Forces, wow, was I proud. He followed his Dad's footsteps, albeit on his own terms. The blue beret. The Security Forces badge. I held my grin so long I got a face cramp. Then on to Iraq, and we knew that it was coming,  but not when. So, expectations were still met with apprehension. As a parent, we all want and need to control our children's safety, but he had his training and his well-trained fellow troops. My comfort zone for his deployment was somewhere between "he'll be alright" to "WHAT!" I put my faith in his training.

Steven's first tour was unevenful (if you can imagine that scenario), as far as war zones go. He met and talked with local villagers, and engaged the Iraqi children, doing his tiny part to be an ambassador for our country. It may seem trvial to some,  but the smile he displayued told me everything I wanted to know about his state of mind. I was in a comfort zone with my son's activities.

The second tour, however, was a totally different and stressful year or so. He started to get depressed with his mission. He felt as if there was no reason that he could understand. It is hard to help from thousands of miles away, but his Mother and I tried. But what, really, can we do? Key word: Listen, listen and listen some more. Sounds pretty easy, but in reality, not a chance. Because, even as you try and listen and offer comforting words, you just don't know the effect, if any, they are having. His Mother and I would talk weekly about Steven, I think just to settle our own feelings of not knowing. For me it worked, until we would hang up.

The emotions are hard to put into words so that you may understand, but I'll try.  Let's attempt it anyway, okay? Here is how I felt: I was out in the middle of a frozen lake, not knowing the thickness of the ice. I took a step, and, CRACK! I knew I couldn't take another step, but at the same time I had to. Which way could I turn? There was no choice. I had to stay and wait for the next (maybe final) crack. I was in that position for 7-8 months.

I was vacationg in Texas during this next period. The morning  I was preparing to fly back home, came the phone call from Tami, my former wife. Well, that phone call at 3 a.m. was the final crack I couldn't avoid. She received a very short call, saying Steven had been involved in a roadside bombing while on routine patrol. How the hell can you call a patrol in a war zone routine? That's military talk for ("He's not attacking the enemy, yet"). She did not have much information to share. I know how I felt after her call to me. I cannot, in no way, imagine her thoughts after receiving the all-important initial notification.

Well, the final crack had split wide open. I felt enmeshed in such a heavy weight. I was not in a position to help Steven, and nobody, my wife, my mother, nobody could help me. I couldn't help myself. I was under the ice, with no escape evident. Everywhere I touched  was only ice, and I was running out of air, fast! God, how I struggled emotionally. I was petrified, scared, utter terror coursing through my veins. I didn't know anything for a long time, the longest period of my life, bar none.

Finally, Tami called again. Steven was okay, just shaken up a little. Then, another call and it was Steven! You know how the Grinch's heart grows three sizes as his smile widens on Christmas morning? That was me. Not the Grinch per se, but the smile and the heartfelt relief. My son was going to be fine, after all. The tears flowed even more than after the initial phone call from Tami.

My wife Nickie, upon my arrival back in California, became the pillow I would clutch and cling to, waiting alongside me during the next few gut-wrenching days. Thanks to Nickie, I was able to understand that Steven was okay. She had to stop me from donning my old uniform, drawing an M-16, and flying to Iraq to exact some good old-fashioned pissed off Dad's revenge. Slowly, the relief I felt with Steven's condition gave way to heartbreak. Two members of his patrol were gone. Why was I so happy? Sure, Steven was fine. But two sets of parents and siblings were not. That guilt bore down on me hard. Nickie, again, was there to guide me through my latest crisis.

To the militarys credit, they were proactive in their response to the needs of the remaining patrol members, Steven included. They were allowed to talk their way through the situation, and heal a little bit. But nothing will erase the memories.  Steven is okay, as are his parents and members of his family and friends. But how many parents and family and friends of our lost troops are not? Of course, I stand behind the military so completely it consumes me at times. But the questions my son has does have me wondering what the hell we're doing sometimes. Though I may be against our activies in Iraq and Afghanistan, it is not my job to question the country's leadership. I can only ensure that my son, and the thousands of others like him, get the emotional support they need to survive as best they can. That is my contribution, and, I hope, yours as well.

To the many members of the military families that have suffered so much more than me, my hope is that you can rest easy knowing your sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, did their duty, for their fellow citizens, and for their country. I salute them, and I salute you as well, for your loss.

Steven, welcome home, son. You made it, and I am so grateful. You have raised the family pride another notch. Much luck in your future assignments. I hope that you have learned some things. I know I have, about myself. I'm stronger now, but I'm not unbreakable. Your home, Steven. God bless you.