Dress Blues

This is difficult for me to write.  I've put it down on paper (well, not on paper technically but you get my drift) elsewhere, whether that ever shows up anywhere is still up for debate.  Much debate.

But anyway...

I saw a social media post from the Boy Child this morning marking the 13th anniversary of our militaries push into Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom.  Thirteen years ago so much was different for my family.  So completely different.  Sure, everyone's was but I can't speak to that.  Well, I can, of course, but not with any intelligence.  I can barely speak with any intelligence period, but at least I lived through my family's experience.

And, if you've ever stopped by here at any time over the last several years, (it surprises me sometimes just how long ago I started pumping this bilge out) you know (Holy crap it's been six years, I just checked) I've written A LOT about this period of time as it relates to my family and to me.

But never about my feelings during 2003 pre-crash.

I'm going to give it a shot here.  However, as is my practice when it involves personal stuff about my family I'm giving full editorial control to the Boy Child.  He'll see this privately first and once he approves it, if he approves it, I'll post this.  Or scrap it.  In which case...

The Fall of 2002 is really a better place to start, since that's when the family picture was taken.  That's always been a kind of reference point for me.  Diane wanted one done.  And, since the Boy Child was home on leave this was the time for it.  He had already done one tour in Kuwait earlier in the year.  And, if memory serves, we already knew he was headed back to Kuwait in January.

There was a lot of post 9/11 tension here as you may remember.  Talk of invasion, WMD's, regime change, etc.  That had a lot to do with the decision to have the family picture done, although I don't remember it coming up specifically while we talked about it.  There was an underlying fear that by going overseas again, something might happen.

None of us spoke about that "something" but any military family knows what we felt.  Much more so than a non-military type family.  Due, of course, to the nature of the job, the morbidity/mortality rate is so much higher than the general population that the "something" is just, kind of, always there lurking in the shadows of your mind.  Ironically, the poignancy of the family picture was created, not by an event in the Middle East, but by Caitlin's death six months later.

Communication being a little less advanced then compared to now, we got mail from overseas semi-regularly.  I'm fairly sure I didn't write as much as I should have.  But we were grateful for every message we got.  I don't remember if we got a "last" one before the Army started to move into Iraq or not.  But I remember, vividly, not having any contact with him for about six weeks.  And, every night on the news, starting thirteen years ago tonight, we watched.

And, we waited.

We watched to see where they were going and what units were going there.  I used to go to the DoD website looking at names of casualties.  The rational part of my mind always knew that this was a wasted exercise.  That, God forbid, anything happened I would have had a knock on the door from uniformed personnel.

That didn't stop me however.  I don't know if I found some kind of solace in not seeing his name on any lists or what my malfunction was, I just know I found a brief respite from worry (and fear) by doing it.  What I do know, is the day we got a phone call from Iraq was among the better days of my life.  There was still worry, of course but we knew, at least in that moment, he was alive and well.

Not that this time was without tragedy.

A high school friend of the Boy Child's was killed in action (among the first American casualties) on March 29, 2003 in Afghanistan.  I went to the wake, to pay my respects.  I knew the young man, not well, but well enough to know that I liked him.  And his sister had been a classmate of the Boy Child for, geez, maybe their entire school lives, and she was just such a sweet kid.

So I went.  And, looking back I really hope I didn't say something stupid to the family there.  I fear I did.  I really had no clue what I was doing.  That situation would change forever in a few months and I became much more familiar with condolences.

I think I'm going to start shutting this one down now.  I've never really had many conversations with the Boy Child about his military experiences.  I think he knows I'll always listen, but never having served, there are many things I have no frame of reference for.

But one thing I do have is the deepest respect for what he and his mates (s/o to Thor, Drunk Mike, Nate and so many others I met but don't remember) dealt with.

Thanks fellas for taking care of him while I couldn't.  I thank whatever it is that's responsible for bringing home, essentiallly, the same person he was when he left.  That's something many families can't say, and it's something I'll always be grateful for.  My kids (even though they're no longer kids, and haven't been for a long time) are a constant source of pride for so many reasons and I'm always proud of them.  But today, in this post, I hope my pride in my son shows through.

I'll end it by pushing a song by one of my current musical crushes, Jason Isbell.  It's about a young man he knew growing up.  A young man that was killed overseas, just short of the end of his second tour of duty.  Without getting overtly political, I've always had a soft spot for protest songs and there are few things more powerful than songs about young people dying too soon.  To that end, here's Dress Blues

Peace.