"Mom, Pretend Like I'm in Arizona"- Coping When a Child Goes to War

My oldest son was a college freshman, a history scholar, when I first heard the words, the week before Thanksgiving 2007.

"Mom, I am a Marine," he said to me. That was a Wednesday. By Saturday, he was sworn in. I never had the chance to speak with him in person about his thoughts or decision.

I never planned to be a "Marine Momma". But it's not about me. It is about him. I'm a 911 dispatcher, alternating between working through emergency calls and then dispatching police officers and fire/ems responders. It is my job to be in control.

It was during my son's boot camp experience that I felt both pride and total helplessness.

In addition to my work as a dispatcher, I write/publish books and teach so I travel a lot. My children have always been very independent but this was different.

There was no way to get to my son. All I could do is sit and wait; hope for the best. My police comrades played "Taps" for me one night on night shift in the background to try to help me settle.

In walks the Family Readiness team for Squadron 169 in San Diego, CA. Our "Viper" connection.

My now Corporal son finished avionics school and a month later he had orders for Iraq. The readiness team became my lifeline as I became a quick study on military language, culture and way of life.

In essence, those of us left behind, we fly blind. I was used to flying blind as a 911 dispatcher, not being able to see my callers or the scene. Having my oldest son join the Marines has meant learning to fly blind once
again.

Understanding that I am a visual person, the team took pictures of my son inside the helicopters he works on nightly. They were sent to me right before my son was deployed. Those pictures are my connection as my oldest attempts to traverse the dangers of the Middle East. Readiness became my scout in front leading me through the bends, curves and black holes that accompany the journey of a Viper family left behind. A Viper family can be a traditional family or a party of one. No matter, you are family.

My son left for Iraq on Mother's Day and he arrived while I was in the midst of teaching a Homeland Security class. I was teaching class in Colorado when he called to let me know he had arrived. I missed his call. My class sat in silence as I stood there devastated, trying to regain my composure to teach. Our next topic on the agenda -- terrorist attacks. You could hear people sucking in oxygen as we turned the page.

I spoke with my son the next day and I asked him if he was scared.

"Mom, just pretend like I'm in Arizona," he said to me.

He went on to explain that surviving is all in the mind. He said the conditions in Iraq were similar to Arizona from a weather standpoint and for me to just imagine him in Arizona.

Tears running down my face but a smile on my lips, I reminded him that he had never been to Arizona. Trying to put that smile in my voice, I asked him if he would like me to take him to the real Arizona when he gets out of there.

Nope.

We then navigated through a longer period of time with no contact. Family Readiness continued to run along side me, available if I needed to vent or had a question. I find no one outside of the Viper world can relate to how I feel. My birthday was on May 25th. If you knew my son, you would know that he would find a way to make contact with me on my birthday if at all possible.

When my birthday came and went and no contact, I felt a sickness deep inside. However, the Readiness team continued to remind me that no news is good news. Hold steady they continued to impart.

I have learned to navigate my son's deployment because of that contact. On June 1st he was promoted to Corporal. That's when they get the symbolic red stripes down the sides of their pants.

On that special day, I finally got a call. Remarkably, I was standing in front of the Statue of Liberty. I was in New York on a business trip and it seemed so fated that he would call in that moment.

We continued to work through limited contact and the anxiety that I have come to realize is part of being here and knowing our sons, daughters, spouses, significant others, mothers, fathers, are there.

And then it happened again. A critical moment at an ironic time. July 4th. Independence Day 2009.
"Going in."

He speaks in broken English, a Marine code that both he and the Readiness team have taught me to understand. I'm excited because he has called and then there is a silence.

"They are letting everyone call mom. Do you understand. It may be awhile
before I can call again. A colonel talked to us. I'm going to that Province you have been hearing about mom."

I start to ask him questions and then I catch myself, realizing that everything I would want to ask him, I can't. I cannot ask about troop movement, timing, numbers. They sit with a sign in front of them that reminds them of all the things they cannot say while on the phone.

And it is not helpful for me to tell him how much I miss him because that will make him sad. It is not helpful for me to beg him to be safe and come home to me because it is not about me and my needs.

It is about him and Squadron 169.

He tells me to grab a piece of paper and to write fast because there is a line behind him waiting for the phone. He starts quipping off an address in the military phonetic alphabet. I smile as I realize I have learned another language. For the first time I am able to keep up with his pace. I am not confusing it with the police phonetic alphabet I work daily.

"I'm not sure I should tell you this," he says to me. I would rather be upset than blind so I go in. "I want to know. Tell me."
"I'm going to a place that starts with an H. They told us to be prepared for see fire mom."
I work the code.
"Can you confirm that you are still in Iraq?" I ask.
"I am still in Iraq mom but you know that even if I were not, I could not tell you," he explains.
"Got it. Do you know I love you?"
"Yup," he says. Then he smacks his lips twice. That was our code when he was a little boy and I dropped him off at school. He could say "I love you" by smacking his lips and no one else around him would be the wiser.

Only this time, it's not Monday morning in front of school.

He's heading into War.
Right in the middle of it all.
A co-worker gave me the newspaper. I opened it and Afghanistan is everywhere as though it is the enemy itself popping out at me.
I closed the newspaper.

He has been trained by the best. He is surrounded by the best. They have him ready to 'go in'.

"Little things mean a lot," he wrote to me recently. He has access to email now and asked for pictures of his family. "You cooking. The family watching TV. Sam (the cat)."

He asked this week for foot powder to help his feet. A small sewing kit to mend his clothing and Werther's candies because they won't melt on the way there. This is a son who never asked for anything.

However, in this lifetime and specifically while in Afghanistan, he has learned that it is not only alright to ask for what you need, but healthy.

He shared with me not martyr-like but openly that they were having problems with their feet bleeding. They're in boots 14-16 hours a day and the last time I asked him the temperature, he said it was 126 degrees.

I've learned I can help him stay safe in the present and concentrating on what he must do by allowing him to venture into the future - namely all the wonderful things we'll do on his return.

We do not dwell on what he sees, hears or feels while in a War zone. He's there in mind and body 24/7. When he reaches for me and other family, he needs to go somewhere different. And so do I. In between phone calls, I think of funny things to make him laugh and routine happenings from home.

Earlier this month I walked in the PFC Ryan Jerabek USMC Memorial Challenge. The 18-yr-old from Hobart, Wisconsin was killed on April 6, 2004 in Iraq. The memorial challenge was established by his parents, Ken and Rita Jerabek, to thank veterans and service members and to honor those who have fallen.

Go to www.jerabekchallenge.us for more information.

A choked-up Ken Jerabek stood with outstretched arms to greet runners passing to his right and walkers to the left at the finish line. He reached to slap each and every hand as though he had a chance to touch his son in the process. Ken, I think you did.

Moments later, my phone began to buzz in my pocket as I was walking for our van. I pulled it out.

The phone number "0800403" was flashing on my screen. I had not told my son I was walking in the Marine/veteran walk and run that morning. My youngest son walked as well to stay with me but had wanted to sprint the last mile.

My daughter ran the whole thing.

"Mom, you there?" asked my Corporal in Afghanistan. "Yes I'm here buddy. Are you still in Arizona?" I asked, half crying and smiling at the same time.

"What?" he strained to hear me as I heard the time-keepers yelling in the background - "Number 17 and Number 18, 5 more minutes... Number (unintelligible), your time is up."

God speed Squadron 169. God speed to you all.

____________________

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