| PLEASE TIE YOUR SHOES By Katie Wigington
everywhere, and when my son was growing up, it was my job to keep him safe. Sometimes that meant supervising him closely. Sometimes it meant restricting his activities. I tried not to be a “smother mother” but sometimes—okay, a lot of times—I’d warn him to “tie your shoes so you won’t fall and break your neck” . . . or to “not run with that stick or you’ll poke out an eye” . . . or to “look both ways before you cross the street or you’ll get run over by a car.” Truth be told, I never stopped feeling like it was my job to keep him safe. Even today, I can’t seem to help but express my concern when he’s facing some grown-up situation that could cause him discomfort or difficulty, if not harm. “I know, Mom, tie my shoes or I’ll fall and poke out an eye,” Nick kids me. And I smile at this little joke between us. But my fear has always been genuine. In September of 2006, my fear multiplied, gripping me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. My son, my only child—the artist, the reader, the charmer, the comic, the well-trained rifleman—had been sent to Iraq in his third year of active duty to the United States Marine Corps. My world turned upside down. Many nights I would lie in bed with a band of pain pressing across my chest and think I might not make it through this night or this week or this month or this year. I wasn’t afraid of my dying. Indeed, in my mind, that was my only choice if, God forbid, anything happened to my son and he died before me. I figured I’d be right behind him; that my heart would just stop. The weeks leading up to the day he deployed were horrible. Every rational fear was magnified a million times by what I didn’t know and, more important, by what I did know. Having been a peripheral part of the Marine Corps community for nearly three years, I knew one thing: any mother’s son can die. I think most of us military parents go through the numbers game and the endless questions in our heads. When was the last time someone in my family died? Are we due? When was the last time I prayed? Did God hear me? Will my daughter-in-law be able to call me if the worst happens, or will she be so devastated that she curls up in a ball and I won’t know for hours? My thoughts were always wandering to the dark places. I felt melodramatic one minute and practical the next. My son was my first and last thought every day. I struggled through conversations with God. Not wanting to appear that I was asking anything for myself, even though I was, I prayed for all our troops and their families. Sometimes I would think, Maybe God plays no part in this at all. I hoped, though, and prayed that he would protect my son and keep him safe so I could see his face, hear his voice, and feel his wonderful bear hugs again. I foolishly signed up for online news alerts, including the Department of Defense’s causality releases. One after another would pop into my email. “The Department of Defense announced today the death of a Marine who was supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom . . .” Day after day they came, until I could no longer bear to read the names of someone’s son or husband or father and my head hurt just looking at the first few words. Nick was able to call me from Iraq on a few occasions. He always assured me he would be fine, and I wanted to believe him. I wanted to tell him he’d better be, but I chose my words carefully every time we spoke, just in case it would be the last. I asked him once about a unit that had suffered many losses and if he thought it was a leadership problem. “No” he said. “Sometimes, Mom, it’s just crap luck.” That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. When my son left for recruit training, I was grief-stricken the whole thirteen weeks, and when my friends compared his time at boot camp to their kids going away to college, I truly wanted to rip their heads off their shoulders. I kept thinking that perhaps the grief I felt was a premonition. Halfway through his deployment, we received word that the unit would be extended from seven months to an additional 60 to 120 days to accommodate the surge of American troops. In my mind, if not in reality, the longer he was there, the greater the risk of injury or death. My sense of powerlessness was overwhelming. The sleepless nights became incessant, the one-ton elephant on my chest became a two-ton Humvee, and I became even more obsessive about sending him care packages filled with home- baked cookies and baby wipes. My daughter-in-law and I talked on the phone three or four times a day. Our love for Nick was the common denominator that allowed us to support one another so completely. We held each other up on days I know neither one of us could lift a feather, so weak were we with fear. During the deployment, my son periodically had access to the Internet. His communications with me during those times were what sustained me the rest of the time. We chatted about anything but his job. The house, cooking, crazy animal antics, and furniture moving mishaps were safe topics. I would go back to those instant messages, which I learned to save, and read them days later, looking for hints of despair or signs of stress. I saw only my own. Thankfully, time did not stand still. On May 5, 2007, my son and a couple hundred brothers from Kilo Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Marines stepped off the white buses that transported them from the airfield to the base in California. His bride found him in that crowd of hundreds and ran into his arms. I waited my turn, gladly. My anticipation of seeing him was not unlike the day he was born. I hugged him as hard and long as I could without looking like a mom over the edge. My eyes watered, but I didn’t sob, pass out, or wail like I thought I might. I think I was too relieved, too grateful. My faith in God restored, I was humbled in the presence of those boys turned men, and all I could do was hand out homemade cookies and hug every Marine I had worried about and prayed for throughout their deployment. I’m a lucky mom, and I thank God every day. The interesting thing is that the fear has not passed. Nick has been home for more than seven months, and I still can’t shake the fear. He has no visible scars, and only he knows if his soul was wounded. I keep looking into his face, searching for answers, but all I see is my baby boy all grown up and somehow still the same. I told my son to expect me to keep worrying for a while. I’ll continue to tell him to be careful driving, skateboarding, swimming, walking, and breathing. He understands, I think, when I just have to say, “Tie your shoes son, so you don’t trip and break your neck. Okay?” ~end~
Comfort for Military Families. (2008) A Cup of Comfort is available for sale here: |
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Katie Wigington
Writes
Writes
A Place for My Thoughts to Live
