A few weeks ago, my oldest son told me that Afghanistan is probably in his immediate future. It was only a little over a year ago that, to my tremendous relief, he returned physically whole from Iraq.
The news reminded me of a conversation we had two years ago by my pool in Hurst, a discussion I never dreamed that I would have with my child. We talked about his death and burial and my role in preserving his legacy and validating his life choices.
My straight-shouldered, handsome child and I came into each other’s lives the day he turned five. Born in an instant from my heart, not my womb, he ran into my life in a pair of footed pajamas. We’ve had our conflicts through the years, but as we weathered the crises, our relationship grew into a deep and mellow love and respect.
That respect includes valuing each other’s life choices. My son is a Marine aviator, proud, responsible, and patriotic. The son of a retired officer and pilot, he decided early to follow in his father’s footsteps. That choice meant leaving his young family for long periods of time, secret missions that he couldn’t share with loved ones, and priorities that of necessity are different from those of husbands and fathers in other vocations.
Between my son and me there has always been an unflinching honesty. We have very different philosophies and life approaches. As a clinician who has treated the battle-wounded and shell-shocked, I know how terrible the psychological effects of war can be on the warriors and their loved ones. As a scholar, I tend to intellectually parse every decision and then make room for emotional nuances in the execution. My son isn’t given that luxury. A good officer follows orders and fulfills his mission.
Knowing how passionate I am about causes, he wanted to be sure that if death came to him, we would remain on the same page. No setting myself on fire in the public square or hiring a loudspeaker truck to cry out the senselessness of the world’s loss.
My role instead is to be a diligent grandmother and personal historian so that, should he not return, his children will have him alive in their memories as a template for some of their life decisions. He is willing to me the responsibility of being a loving support for his young wife and remaining as Naomi to Ruth in whatever path she chooses, if she must make her life journey without him.
That was a hard conversation. The whole time he was speaking, my head was playing a tape of a little red-headed boy rocking on my lap and doing puzzles with me while he was covered with chicken pox. I remember laughing with him, discovering with him, looking the other way at some of his fashion and romantic choices, and breathing a prayer of relief when he came home safe at night. But I can’t wait up while he is at war to lock the door when he is safe inside.
The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are unlike any other: Though the battles are being fought thousands of miles away, they are happening in real time for families.
When my son’s dad was deployed, weeks or months would go by with no word. There was a certain comfort in the involuntary disconnect. Military wives clung together as a cobbled family. We learned to plumb, fix bikes, and repair roofs. If a frustration arose, there was no use in crying that he wasn’t there; it couldn’t be helped. As a result, military men were able to compartmentalize their lives and their jobs. By the time our frustrations were delivered to them, in the big letter sacks, time had passed, and the situation had either been fixed or forgotten. The constant ache of
distance couldn’t be irritated like a never-healing wound.
Now, the internet, 24/7 news coverage, and cheap worldwide telephone access have changed that, keeping the ties entangled and fear immediate. The ability to be on the phone with a loved one while bullets are whizzing by keeps the family in the war emotionally, like the camp followers of old.
I asked him to tell the Marines that, if he is killed, I am to be notified directly. If that happens, I won’t add the burden of my grief to that of my daughter-in-law. My son asked me to be her rock and his testimony.
When he left the first time, he gave me a pennant with a blue star to hang in my window. As I took it, I said, “Son, I don’t want a gold one,” which would show I had lost a loved one to war. “I am real proud of this one,” I told him.
“I know, Mom,” he said.
As soon as he told me about Afghanistan, I shook out my blue-star pennant and hung it on the door. He has his mission to carry out, and I have mine.
Dr. Shari Julian of Euless, a forensic behavioral consultant and clinician, is a member of a committee charged with designing policies for the psychological treatment of wounded veterans and their loved ones. She can be reached at sjcbc@charter.net.
