My oldest son Gabe returned from his second tour in Iraq this month.  To say that I was happy and relieved would be an understatement.  There is no amount of words, no definition to describe the diversity of emotions I experienced while he was away and then when he returned safely.  No mother should have to send her child off to war, but it is because of these sons and daughters that our country stands proud and free today.   I just learned that my son may be participating in yet another war zone deployment before his enlistment ends.  The mother in me wants him to run and hide.  The patriot in me knows he will not.   To be honest I’m not sure I’m up to another round. I would like to share with you a letter I wrote to my son during the long and seemingly endless months of his deployments.  Perhaps it will give you an insight into a mother’s vigil.  I hope that this is as close as any of you will ever come to sharing such a vigil.
Jody~

 
Dear Gabe,

This is what I go through on a daily basis: I log on the computer almost as soon as I get up.  Most mornings I try to get the coffee going first so as not to appear too anxious.  Some mornings I go straight to the computer… usually after several days of not hearing from you.  Your dad teases me sometimes, but he knows why it is so important and he patiently awaits to hear whether there is news from you or not.

I am always elated to see your name in my mailbox, but I open the email with caution now.  Too often of late your letters have arrived bearing tragic news.  Even when you don’t put the words down, I can tell by the tone of your letter if something is wrong.  A mother can sense these things.

After checking my mailbox I will check the status on my mail sent to you.  I look forward to a date and time on the status window.  Lately there have been days where the emails sit marked (unread) for days.  I already know the routine, that usually precedes bad news.

I leave the computer on until the very last minute on the chance that you might log on while I am home.  It is always with great reluctance that I finally log off and leave for work, many times speeding to beat the time clock.  My lunch hour begins with me speeding home to log back on to check if you have written or read your mail.  Once again I wait until the last minute to log off.  I am tortured by the thought that you might be signing on just as I sign off.  I hate that I might miss a chance to talk with you.

I would love to devote my entire day watching for your name to appear on my buddy list.  In the early days of your deployment I did, but I have learned to step away and tend to the others who still need my attention.  Rocky and Becca have their moments and I must be solid for them.  I have all kinds of optimism for them, and they are easily consoled.

At work I listen to the young wives who struggle to cope while their husbands are deployed.  I coach them, I console them.  I hug the mothers who share my vigil.  I shake the hands of the vets who have done their time.  I am a proud and strong patriot.  Others come to me for support.  They don’t know how vulnerable I feel.

I should listen to my own advice, but many nights I sit in front of the computer, trying not to focus on the words that I don’t want to read.  Sleep is either elusive or unrestful.  I no longer dream, I don’t dare.  Instead I close my eyes and let the darkness muffle my thoughts.  I wake up as tired as I laid down.  Coffee has become an instinct, not a habit or pleasure.

I have begun surfing the internet for all the information I can get so I can better understand what you are going through but cannot say or write.  The reality once shook me with uncontrollable grief.  Now I read with intense but controlled sadness.  I want to say so much more to you in our private letters and here online so others might also understand, but I don’t dare for fear of jeopardizing you or others in some way.

And so when someone asks me how I am, I smile and say ‘Fine’.  And when they ask about you, I smile even harder and say ‘Oh, you know Gabe, he’s fine too’, and they smile contentedly because that is what they want to hear.

But there is no exaggeration on the number of well wishes and prayers sent out on your behalf.  If prayers were feathers you could fly home son.  But you have your mission so may the feathers instead envelope and protect you until you can come home.

Miss you so much, love you always,

Mom~

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