All this was made possible by the life and death of my father, SSgt. Floyd Dean Caldwell, and his service to our country. Catalina says prayers of gratitude each night for how her husband’s life was not given in vain. During his life, he served in a war fought for freedom and democracy. His death enabled his wife and family to be taken care of in ways that Catalina would never have dreamed of. When my mother, Catalina Caldwell, speaks with reverence and gratitude about the life that her husband gave in service to this country, she never fails to mention the ways this country gave back to her and her family.
Lora Vivas
A Little Thing
We can know the dark and dream it into a new image.
Starhawk
[EDITORS’ NOTE: The following reaction to the news of Canadian casualties in Afghanistan was written for CBC News Online by Jodi Chappel, the wife of a member of the Canadian Forces based in Winnipeg. ]
My name is Jodi. I’m a thirty-two-year-old mother of two—Roman, twelve and Phoenix, seven—and my husband is a navigator on the C–130 Hercules at 435 squadron in Winnipeg. He is currently on standby to be one of the next crews to rotate into Afghanistan. In light of what has happened in the last few days, this scares me to death.
As I walked home from work today past the gates of the base I could see the somber reminders of the events of the last few days. The flag is at half-mast and there is already a sea of white ribbons in support of the families that have lost loved ones.
Last night, I turned on the television to check the weather before I went to bed. According to breaking news reports, four Canadians had been killed and eight others wounded by friendly fire in Afghanistan. I watched with utter disbelief. A lump swelled in my throat. The tears welled up in my eyes and I felt a wave of panic.
As I’m sure every other military family in Canada did as they heard the news, I started going through the list in my mind of all our friends and neighbors who were over there. Thinking oh my God what if it was . . . then the phone started to ring. It was my girlfriend and neighbor asking me if I had heard the news. She asked if I had heard who it was or which company they were from. She sounded frantic. I told her that I didn’t know and suggested that she call the base in case they knew. I tried my hardest to reassure her that it wasn’t her husband, pointing out that if it were she would have heard by now, telling her that he was fine and would soon be calling her to let her know he was all right.
On the couch, I choked back tears and thought about the poor wives and families who would be awoken by a knock on the door. That knock on the door, men in dress uniforms and the military padre on the porch, is the thing that we fear most, and my heart goes out to the families that had to experience that last night.
Military families are taught this might someday happen but I don’t think we are ever quite prepared. We learn to function alone for very long periods of time, adjusting to our loved one’s absences but comforted by the expectation of their return.
Losing four members of a very close-knit community has shaken us all to the core. As a military wife, my heart goes out to families that have lost loved ones, and the families of the ones who are hurt. As a Canadian, a human being and a mother, I pray for an end to war, in every form.
It takes a strong person to love a member of the military because of the things we have to give up. But we gain something much greater: that overwhelming sense of pride that comes with choosing to live in ways that serve our country. The military is a family. We depend and rely on each other, and in an hour of need we share the strength, comfort and understanding that only a family member can understand. We know the hardships of being lonely. We have also waited by the phone once a week to hear a particular voice tell us that they are alright, and that they miss us.
I have a little thing I make my husband do before he goes away for any length of time. I make him sing to me on tape and tell me and the children he loves us. If anything should ever happen to him, we will always have that. Because that’s what I would miss the most. A soft “I love you, Jodi; I love you, Roman, I love you, Phoenix” and him singing “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers. In our own way we all make preparations. We just pray that day will never arrive.
Jodi Chappel
Somebody Knew Gene
Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.
Mother Mary Jones
A bright swath of cloudless blue sky arched over the road that morning. The radio news broadcast reported that an American soldier died in an ambush during a search for Al Qaeda and Taliban fighters in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan. I felt a sadness, a sort of distant and muted grief. I felt it every time I heard of a death of one of our soldiers.
“What did he say, Mom?” my five-year-old daughter, Lauren, asked from the backseat.
I quickly ran through various explanations in my mind. Although I tried to shelter my kids from as much violence and evil as I could, it seemed the simple truth was the best choice in this situation.
“He said a soldier died fighting the bad people.” I’d tried to make the complex issues of terrorism understandable with simple, clear-cut terms.
“What’s a soldier?”
“A person in the military,” I said.
“Like Dad?”
“Yes, like Dad, but it didn’t have anything to do with Dad.” I tried to reassure her. “We didn’t know the person.”
Since my husband is in the Air Force Reserve we’d talked about Dad doing his job as a pilot to help fight the bad people. I didn’t want Lauren to worry about her dad being hurt or killed.
“What was his name?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The man who died,” she persisted. “What was his name?”
“It was Gene, honey, but we didn’t know him. You don’t need to worry.”
“But somebody knew Gene.” I knew from the tone of her voice, the echo of my own sorrow I heard there, that she understood what had happened. I glanced back and saw her eyes glazed with tears.
The brilliant sky and the tender new leaves misting the trees blurred together with the blackness of the road. I signaled to turn into the school parking lot and fought the tightness in my throat. “I know. Gene had a family and friends,” I managed to say. “Should we say a prayer for them?”
Lauren nodded, and I managed to choke out a simple prayer for comfort.
I deposited Lauren and her brother in their classrooms, and they dove into the day’s activities, the bleak news forgotten. But I didn’t forget. Lauren’s simple statement, “Somebody knew Gene,” has stayed with me. What an eloquent yet straightforward reminder of the sacrifice of military members and their families. Time passes, and the families and friends might think the sacrifice has been forgotten. But it hasn’t been. I still think of Gene.
So, to Gene’s family, to Antonio’s family, to Christopher’s family, to Anissa’s family, to John’s family, to Nathan’s family, to Evander’s family, to Stanley’s family and to so many countless other families who grieve for a loved one, know that we pray for your comfort, we are awed by the sacrifice of your son, daughter, husband, wife or friend— but, above all, know we are grateful.
Sara Rosett
The Christmas Tree
How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.
Anne Frank
Christmas 1970 was going to be a very special holiday, even though my husband, Joe, was away. My entire immediate family was going to be at Mom’s house. I was so happy to be a part of the celebrations that year; with my husband in Vietnam and me expecting a baby any day, the best place for me and my two-year-old, Melanie, was at home. My two brothers, Mom, Dad, Melanie and I would all be together.
Even though Joe couldn’t be there, I knew that his job as an army intelligence officer was very important to him. He was happy to be able to serve his country, even though he was doing it on the other side of the world.
When I was a child, the Ch
ristmas tree was always the most fun to decorate. Dad would chop down a tree from our property, and no matter how oddly it might be shaped, we would decorate it with love. This year, Dad went out and bought a beautiful tree, fresh and perfectly shaped. It was standing proudly in the corner, bare and green, while Mom and I cleaned up in preparation for our big Italian family.
Neither one of us heard the knock at the door. Suddenly, my sister-in-law and two handsome men dressed in full army uniforms appeared before me. They introduced themselves as casualty-assistance officers. The news was the worst a young wife could receive: Joe had been killed on December 16 in a helicopter that crashed and burned. My world was shattered at that moment.
After the officers left, Mom and I knew that we had to cancel Christmas. The first thing that went was our beautiful Christmas tree. There are many foggy memories of that first horrible day, but the image of our Christmas tree being dragged out of the house is still vivid in my mind. Little Melanie couldn’t understand why so many of us were crying.
Early on Christmas Eve morning, I gave birth to my second child, Josette. Later that morning, my husband was buried. My family was emotionally exhausted, and I didn’t know what was going on, as I was still sedated from the birth. Since I was in the hospital for Christmas Eve, Mom, Dad and my brothers took care of Melanie.
On Christmas Eve, my brothers brought out all the gifts from Santa Claus, but there was no tree. My brother Charles, a forester from the state of Washington, told the other family members that Melanie couldn’t go through Christmas without a tree, so he went out late at night and chopped down a short, skinny “Charlie Brown” tree that could hardly hold any ornaments. They decorated it as best they could. On Christmas morning, Melanie woke up to see all her gifts under the little tree. As in most Italian families—and especially because of the circumstances— relatives came to visit, and Melanie was the center of attention.
Melanie was excited about the toys and gifts, but the most fascinating thing for her on that Christmas morning was being surprised by the “beautifully” decorated little tree. When everyone asked Melanie what she had gotten for Christmas, she proudly announced that Santa Claus had given her a Christmas tree.
That tree helped make Christmas wonderful for a little girl who had just lost her daddy.
Joanne Danna
A Bittersweet Photograph
I sat in the dark family room of the neonatal ICU in Camp Lester, holding hands with my husband, Erik, and shaking. I couldn’t do this, not now, not ever. I was about to hold my baby for the first time, and for the last. The room seemed to grow darker, and I felt like I was living in a horrible dream.
My twin sons Keegan and Tristan were born three months prematurely at a naval hospital on Okinawa. They both had been fighting an incredible battle, while the team of military doctors and nurses did all they could. But Tristan’s lungs were too premature, and he was dying.
On the tenth day, Erik and I watched and waited, knowing in our hearts that the whisper of God’s calling was more powerful than any drug or procedure on the planet. Although my heart understood, my mind couldn’t wrap around the fact that I would no longer be able to hold, smell, kiss, sing to or see my son. Then a woman I had only seen in passing, Capt. Karen Larry, stepped into the room.
Capt. Larry looked us each in the eye and placed her healing hands over both of ours. “I don’t know if the two of you have thought about this,” she said gently, “but with your permission, I would like to take some photographs of Tristan for you.”
I had heard of parents taking photos with stillborn children, but I wasn’t sure. Capt. Larry could see the doubt in my face. “I also lost a baby,” she told us. “Some parents have found it a comfort to have a photograph. It can be for just the two of you.” A tiny candle took flame in a pitch-black room. Through my tears, I agreed, and then Erik did, too.
When the nurse brought Tristan in, my husband and I began to sob. It was the first time we had seen him without wires or tubes connected to him. There were no whirring machines drowning out his tiny breathing. He was all wrapped up in a soft blanket and a little soft beanie hat, and he finally looked like a baby. Like our baby. While my husband and I held Tristan for the first and last time, Capt. Larry quietly began taking photographs. I was so overwhelmed by emotions that, had she not asked our permission, I probably would not have noticed her. As soon as we took comfort in the moment, Tristan took a final labored breath, and then he was gone.
The next few days were an emotionally exhausting haze. My other son Keegan was doing much better, but my heart was still shattered by Tristan’s death. Once again, Capt. Larry brought light into my day. She gave me a package, and, when Erik came home, we opened it together.
Capt. Larry had created a treasure for us. Not only were there photos of us holding our precious son, but she also had taken the extra time to photograph him after he had passed. He looked so peaceful, bundled up and lying next to the teddy bear that my mother had gotten for him the day the twins were born. There was so much in this black-and-white photograph that was familiar. Tristan’s nose, his face and his little hands were just like mine. His little body had been so consumed by all the wires that I had not truly seen the resemblance until just that moment. With her camera, Capt. Larry had captured a true feeling of peace, something any mother would wish for her firstborn son. I hugged the photos and Erik, while we both cried.
More than a month later, I was allowed to spend my first night alone in the postpartum ward with Keegan. Capt. Larry, who had become a dear friend during our stay in the NICU, came to visit and take Keegan’s vitals, and I told her how much she meant to our family and how precious was the gift she had given to us. Tears had become a regular part of our conversations, for they flowed sometimes without reason when we were together. We found a common ground in our quest for motherhood, and in the losses and triumphs of the lives we had created.
We returned to the States, and my dear friend Capt. Larry remains a part of our lives. We have shared many e-mails and photographs, but that one bittersweet image is still the centerpiece of our bound lives. This dear, simple act of kindness touches me every day. The black-and-white photo that Capt. Larry took is in Keegan’s room, and I take comfort in knowing that Tristan watches over his little brother.
We have many pictures of family and friends hanging on our walls, but one stands out. It is a black-and-white photograph of Capt. Larry, with tears in her eyes and love in her heart. She is holding Keegan.
Amy Naegeli
A Family Like No Other
After growing up an air force brat, I knew about moving into a new home every three years, starting new schools in strange places, and making new friends only to leave them behind. I vowed never to marry into the military.
Six months after marrying A1C Mark Norris, the air force moved us from family, friends and safety to the unknown wilds of Alaska. We were together on the honeymoon of a lifetime.
I missed my family, but we soon grew to depend on another military couple, Kevin and Amy. It was nice having friends to celebrate holidayswith, to do errands for you while you were ill, or even to shovel your driveway when your husband was stationed in another part of the world.
After Amy gave birth to twin boys, Mark and I decided to have a baby. Getting pregnant wasn’t easy, but after a round of fertility drugs, we finally saw that pink plus sign on the pregnancy test!
I couldn’t wait to call our families! The next call was to Amy, followed by more talks through the weeks, as every little twitch required Amy’s pregnancy expertise. She always reassured me that everything I was experiencing was normal, until one night I started spotting. I went to the hospital, where I was given an ultrasound. The doctor smiled at me. “How do you feel about twins?”
We were anxious to tell everyone we were having twins. I was sure my pregnancy would be easy, just as Amy’s had been. However, that wasn’t the case. Almost immediately, all-day sickness set in. I lost a lot of weight and went on bed
rest at twenty weeks gestation.
The military was wonderful to Mark during this time, allowing him to take me to my doctor’s appointments. Our military friends were just as great. They would drop by to visit. Some would bring dinner. Amy brought me information on multiple births and raising twins.
One night, while Mark was involved in a military exercise, I felt a gush of liquid. I knew that thirty weeks was too early, and called Mark’s squadron in tears. He met me at the Elmendorf Air Force Base hospital emergency room, and, the next morning, I was ambulanced to Providence Hospital, a better-equipped facility for premature deliveries.
Even as the neonatologist explained the risks to us, I was sure that things would be fine. As an unfamiliar doctor was talking about an emergency cesarean section, I went into a fog. My mother wasn’t there! Nothing was as I had planned, except having Mark by my side.
Our babies were born at noon in a cold, sanitary operating room filled with a dozen or so strangers there to save their lives. I didn’t get to see my babies, hear them cry or hold them before their tiny bodies were rushed through a window into the neonatal ICU. After waking up from the surgery, I was wheeled into a room where Hailey and Zachary had bright lights beaming down on them, while tubes and wires attached every part of their wrinkled bodies to lifesaving devices.
As I looked up, a skylight revealed the first snow of the season. It was so beautiful, so pure. I was filled with love and fear. Through an open window, we could see a statue of a saint holding a small boy in his arms. For me, the view was symbolic. It meant that my babies were held in the arms of the protector. Our prayers together began that instant, with Mark uttering words meant only for God and myself.
As soon as she heard that I had given birth, Amy appeared with helium-filled balloons that proclaimed, “It’s a girl!” and “It’s a boy!” This lifted my spirits as I drifted to sleep.
The following morning I noticed that Zachary’s balloon had fallen slightly lower than Hailey’s. A nurse from NICU rushed in, taking us to a neonatologist standing beside Zachary. Things weren’t going well. By dinnertime, the balloon had nearly fallen to the floor. We were summoned back to the NICU for a last chance to say good-bye to our son.