Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Epilogue
My first writing assignment on the day I started work on my Master’s degree in Creative Writing was to “write why I write.” That day was May 3, 2010. I only lasted at the endeavor of earning a Master’s for ten stressful days.
I’m not what I used to be. And I don’t want to be.
Tonight, or rather in this very early morning of July 5, 2011, I’m sharing my manuscript and memoir with those left here, with those I love with everything in me.
A few have left me since the work first started: Mom, Isaac, Sarah, and now even Bonray and Sadie.
And there’s the recent addition of Rhett, who makes me crazy and makes me laugh.
Kind of reminds me of Aaron in a way. I don’t expect people to understand that. But we take what we can get in the form of love and laughter.
But back to that writing assignment. I submitted what is below.
I write because I love Him, him and them. I write because I can and my cans are not many. If I could sing, I would. I can still dance, but my dancing partners have gone Home or practice the same sober life I now practice, and often I wonder if music will ever be as sweet. Then there are those short moments I find that music is sweeter because of the loss.
No, I’m not trying to be poetic here. If only I were a poet, but I’m not. I am fifty-five years old and six years ago on this very day, I buried my second and last child. I don’t finish that last sentence to ask for sympathy. I write it as a statement of fact as to why I am here. December 2003, I graduated from Texas Tech University with a BA in English, combined with a specialization in creative writing (fiction). On April 26, 2004, my son, Marine Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin was KIA in Fallujah, Iraq. It was his second trip. His actions that day earned him a posthumous Silver Star Medal. I’ll always be proud of him, and I’ll never quit missing him.
My writing has never stopped since that time, but the ability to read and concentrate diminished greatly. Deadlines are dreadful to me now. But I am here. I know there is so much to learn. I have a manuscript that I’ve worked on for several years. It may be the lone thing I leave this world and I want it to be right. I know there is a way to combine faith, loss, family and dysfunction. Nicholas Wolterstorff, Patricia Hampl, and C.S. Lewis have attracted me in these last years, but it is Mary Karr’s Lit that has pulled me be back into the status of student. A status I somewhat dread, but a status that I hope mentors my memoir into everything it can and should be.
A place of mourning.
Hope.
Humor.
*
And to the reader, I tell you this: No doubt, if I could go back and change things and/or circumstances in my life, I would. I hear many people say they wouldn’t change a thing, but I would: I’d change the times I’ve hurt others.
But when I read what’s written below, with this, I wouldn’t change a thing. What could I change and know that everything was as it should be?
One day, I’ll dance with Aaron again.
I promise you that.
Semper Fi!
*AUSTIN, AARON C. (KIA)
Citation:
The President of the United States takes pride in presenting the Silver Star Medal (Posthumously) to Aaron C. Austin, Lance Corporal, U.S. Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the enemy as Machine Gun Team Leader, Company E, Second Battalion, First Marines, Regimental Combat Team 1, FIRST Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, U.S. Marine Forces Central Command in support of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM II on 26 April 2004. At 1100 on 26 April, a numerically superior enemy force attacked Lance Corporal Austin's platoon from three different directions. In the first 15 minutes of the attack, the enemy fired dozens of rocket-propelled grenades, thousands of machine gun rounds, and then assaulted to within 20 meters of Lance Corporal Austin's position. While throwing grenades and spraying their positions with AK-47 fire, 16 of his fellow Marines on the rooftop position were wounded, some severely. After ensuring his wounded platoon members received medical treatment, he rallied the few remaining members of his platoon and rushed to the critical rooftop defensive position. Braving withering enemy machine gun and rocket-propelled grenade fire, he reached the rooftop and prepared to throw a hand grenade. As he moved into a position from which to throw his grenade, enemy machine gun fire struck Lance Corporal Austin multiple times in the chest. Undaunted by his injuries and with heroic effort, Lance Corporal Austin threw his grenade, which exploded amidst the enemy, halting their furious attack. By his bold leadership, wise judgment, and complete dedication to duty, Lance Corporal Austin reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.
Chapter 17: Stealing Puppies (pages 212-224) FINAL CHAPTER
Only once, my sister’s dog stole puppies. In multiples.
A little over thirty years ago, Lisa took in a dog she named Mandy, a sprightly mix of cocker, her coat the color of a newborn penny. The female pet labored into this world with distemper. Lisa nursed her through the debilitating disease, set an alarm clock for every two hours, nighttime same as day, changed and washed Mandy’s bed, fed her chicken broth through a syringe, medicated and soothed the young pup, thwarted death, snatched life. Love and time: my sister handed Mandy’s life back to her. To us. News of Mandy, it was traded back and forth on phone lines as frequent as info on the kids we raised at home.
During her years, the petite Mandy carried rocks in her mouth, or if Lisa’s husband had any old work gloves around, she toted those in her mouth instead. She performed these strange feats when those she loved drove-up and parked on the graveled driveway of their mobile home. Prancing to the company’s car, picking up the rock or the glove, then sitting down beside her visitor, wagging her tail, cocking her head back and forth, her eyes shining, initiating communication with her guest. What do you think of this rock I brought you?
Mandy trusted but few in her life. She possessed a strong sense that our dad wasn’t a dog person, so she always growled and snarled at him, tried her best at a nip to his ankle. This, after Dad had managed the six hour drive to our homes. The trapped man wouldn’t get out of his car. Preferable it was if Lisa knew in advance the time Dad was expected; this way, she could run interference between the two. Small dogs have powerful bites.
Mandy must’ve been in-between puppies and lovers the day she ran a litter’s real mother off from a neighbor’s yard. She brought the five or six puppies to her own yard and tried to nurse them.
Count it odd. The stolen puppies thrived.
Too, she produced great litters of her own. Her babies varied as much as her lovers. When she was in season, the strumpet vaulted on top of Lisa’s chain-link fence, strutted and pirouetted for the new man (or men) in her life. She reminded us of an acrobat or perhaps a gold medal gymnast. She defied the laws of physics while she pranced upon a fence about the same width as the tail she fanned in the air, arrayed for the entire male-dog world to see and sniff.
Lisa whispered to her during these episodes, “You little B.”
A hundred in her life, the little ‘B’ nurtured puppies of her own. She wagged that sassy tail and eagerly solicited warm compliments concerning her stash. Her brown eyes twinkled; she danced a four-footed jig. Come see what I’ve made!
She was a mother.
Lisa mastered the art of puppy gifts. Same now as then, Chaparral Park
Too, back then, Fridays at the Lovington Auction Barn fared positive results. Friday auctions drew people of all ages; old men flocked to buy boots for two dollars, and others, in sweat-stained cowboy hats and dust-worn boots rode horses and herded-up beef for the show ring. The herdsmen’s silver spurs flashed and found their mark, their steed never failed, but dug into motion.
Old women, lined deep and well rouged, drank thick coffee, black and steamed. The aged females dragged on Camel cigarettes, talked between stained teeth, spoke in low tones to others, penciled eyebrows crimped in question or disbelief. The middle-aged women decked-out for the mix in tresses of bottled brunette. Others wore their hair pinked, or bleached in locks sprayed high and stiff.
Great bosoms napped and breathed, choked within bright polyester. The women’s printed blouses pushed-up grand squash blossoms of silver and turquoise, jewelry just as heavy and proud as the feminine cleavage that bore it. These women guarded silver-haired and slicked men; men that smelled loud and spiced, sported watches of gold.
It’s truly amazing how many parents, lovers and courtiers will give a puppy to someone they adore. Free love.
Lisa was able to give away all 105 or 106 puppies. And when all else failed, she talked me into taking one, “If I take one too?” she pleaded. The negotiation was always the same. I could never say no.
We split Mandy’s first litter because she only produced two that time. A neighbor’s black poodle was the obvious father, for the sons looked just like him—only with their mother’s fanned tail.
The first night of separation, both brothers cried all night. My sister and I tucked a ticking clock into each of their beds (a heartbeat of sorts), but that mission failed. After two nights of puppy cries, I drove to Lisa’s and picked up the other baby. I named the twins Ruckus and Rebel. They chewed up my rocking chair, strung out a roll of toilet paper, one that proved to be my last. They shredded a letter, a very long letter.
I purchased chains for the black brothers and put the boys outside. They tried to hang themselves around the tires of my station wagon. The next day I exchanged doggy chains for doggy shirts. Statements of charming, a nice fit.
My poodle-mixes inspected Lovington at their leisure. Chased squirrels at the courthouse and sunned on the bank secretary’s car. If you love something, let it run free all over the place, all day long or whenever it wants to. It worked for a long while, but finally, someone spoiled our act. The dogcatcher strived in vain for a while that day, but at last, captured my dogs, thanks to me. He’d made me a promise to try and give them away, keep them together if I’d help him secure the two.
Gullible, I believed him. “Ruckus! Here, Rebel!” I called.
Trusting souls. They emerged from underneath my sister’s mobile home.
Then later, their chocolate eyes conveyed confusion, the shock of betrayal, after I slipped the brothers into separate cages on the large white truck. I can picture those eyes today, four large and dark question marks.
Though it wasn’t their first capture, this time the fine was too steep. Breaking the law.
Love can cost a lot. I’d expected leniency due to compliance.
Mercy rather than judgment.
Except for a few rumors, hints of separation, I never saw or heard anything concerning them again.
I began to take in strays.
Orphans.
Mandy snubbed all dogs, save her own, or as in the one case, stolen puppies. Only six years old at the time, Lisa’s son asked her once, “When is Mandy going to die so that I can have a puppy?”
But my nephew had a while to wait. The old girl lived twelve years.
Mandy survived distemper, labor, and nursing over a hundred puppies. She survived a run-in with a pit bull that tore off a tit. Then a veterinarian told Lisa that Mandy had to be spayed. Without the procedure, Mandy would surely die. Death from birth. But her demise formed in a different fashion.
Spayed and set for survival, one awful day, somebody popped-off a target shot at Mandy. She suffered all night. When Lisa’s husband found the wounded pet, he put her down. Mandy watched while he shot her.
He hasn’t been able to put a dog down since, though he’s buried several.
Lisa’s son eventually got a puppy. They’ve raised many puppies since, and each time they swear, never again. But they always do.
When I told my sister over the phone I’d invited Eddy to live with us, she kind of laughed. I’d already taken in Kaika, my spontaneous and not always compliant stepson. Then I’d induced Eddy for a stay in Aaron’s room.
My sister had asked, “Why, honey? You don’t really even know him.”
“Well, I know. But I really enjoyed him on the Six Flags trip.” Eddy had assisted on a youth trip I’d attended with Kaika. “And he needs a place to stay.”
“And he’s Becky’s son.”
“Yes!” I seized her comprehension of the connection. Becky, Eddy’s mother, died in 2002 from ovarian cancer. She was my age—forty-seven at the time.
“And I think Aaron would like that Eddy’s in his room, and….”
“And what, De’on?”
“And I kind of feel like Mandy.”
“What?”
“I feel like I’m trying to steal puppies.”
That was back in 2005. A lot has changed since then, but certainly not as much as it did in 2004. Even our house has changed. Not the size, some things remain the same. Our house is only about thirteen hundred square feet. Since 2005, two of the three small bedrooms have turned into one bedroom and a walk-in closet. If thine wall offends thee, cut it out, so to speak.
Rose Kennedy once said, “Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?” Another famous quote of Rose Kennedy’s was, “It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
I’m not certain which statement was coined first, but I’d be willing to place a bet.
One morning in 2005, the October sun had not yet peeked over our desert home. My husband slept a tranquil sleep. My cat, Sarah, already at her morning bath. She had an easy life back then. I’d not yet brought home the ornery Desert Lynx kitten we named Cady. (We adopted the motherless kitten three years ago; her name means simple happiness. She’s diabetic, requires insulin injections twice daily. Her ancestors include the bobcat. Young, she’s Sarah’s problem. Well, my husband’s too, twice daily.)
I turned off the ceiling fan that morning, as there was a slight chill in our room. I’d just recently had Sarah shaved. Her new “do” was something called a lion cut. If the little darling were canine instead of feline, she would’ve resembled a snooty black and white poodle. We had the procedure done because as a longhaired and senior citizen kitty, she’d begun to let herself go. Eleven years old then (not quite sixty-four in our human count), her mass boasted seventeen pounds. I adopted her when she was two weeks old, so she’s quite indulged—a little orphan, once nursed and bathed by a human. I’m not sure if her feline mother was scared off or destroyed. Perhaps Sarah was dumped. She’s never attracted many friends.
But same then as now, she’d forsaken careful forethought in her toiletry, except for hair within easy reach—she doesn’t like to strain herself too much. Hair mats of old pulled at her skin, but she wouldn’t let us near her with scissors. Everything with Sarah works only once, so I was happy to observe her sandpaper tongue deft at work while she lounged on my bed that morning. I’d be getting my Marine quilt out soon, and I couldn’t have her dingle-berrying up the mosaic of love and color that had arrived to me by way of charitable people all over the United States just a year earlier. Condolence. My second and last son’s name and rank, front and center: Guarding the streets of Heaven. Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin. Songs, prayers, appliqués, all stitched and pronounced, block-by-block. A parameter of expressed gratitude guarded the name of the sentinel. Young children had imprinted their hands and painted their ages that memorable year. Maria H. 7/2, Brianna H. 8. The crafters didn’t know me personally; they somehow knew my Marine son—or rather, someone like him. Someone like Aaron.
I buried my first son on April 4, 1973, just two days after he died. He was sick when he was born. I think it’s called “challenged” now, though back then the diagnosis was profound mental retardation. Microcephalic they called it. Shane’s small head, small brain and tiny body lived only seventeen months. It took his mother ten years to chance gestation again.
Aaron lived over twenty-one years, just nearly twenty-two. Shot multiple times in the chest by machine gunfire, it took death three times to capture him. He died the third time while the surgeons prepped him; they weren’t as successful as the Corpsman had been twice before. That was April 26, 2004. Aaron wasn’t buried until May 3. It took a few days to get his body back from Iraq.
I have no girls. No grandchildren.
Gone now too is my stepson, Kaika. He didn’t die, but moved back to Washington to the mother he’d left for less than a year. The short period he called me Mom, he slept to the right of his dad’s bedroom and mine. His room is my closet now. A closet and a bathroom of black and white tile. Very cold tile.
On that 2005 fall morning, the sight in the bedroom to the right was that of customary, that of teen, a floor covered in clothes and video games. In the midst, three sprawled male bodies, all aged sixteen, slept the dreams of youth squeezed into a double bed.
There was Don with his Mohawk haircut. His bit of plume, jet-black that week. His head wrenched upon one of the two pillows; one black Converse rested sideways as best it could on a crowded bed and turned foot. Oddity pushed out from rumpled covers.
Stoney, Kaika’s best friend and a regular at our house then, slept in the middle of the double bed and shared a pillow with Kaika. I couldn’t tell if Stoney had shoes on, as he was well covered, but Kaika’s feet and legs stuck out.
Barefoot, Kaika has short stumpy toes. They remind me of Fred Flintstone’s feet. Kaika’s half-bare legs, long like his dad’s, sprawled across both his friends’ shorter versions. His brown, nearly shoulder-length hair fanned out on the pillow, somewhat covered Stoney’s face.
I smiled as I surveyed them. They looked horribly uncomfortable.
Within this same room abided Hennessy, who suffered from both arthritis and hip dysplasia. He hobbled on three legs back then, but still coveted his twice-daily walks. The walks had helped his obesity somewhat. We’d just learned he was down to seventy-eight pounds then, more fat than muscle by this time, something Aaron probably wouldn’t have easily forgiven me of.
In a large sense, Hennessy is an orphan too, though he wasn’t separated from a lactating mother. As a sophomore in high school, Aaron brought the puppy of eight weeks home. A puppy born in autumn, he was the color of pumpkin, and the American Pit Bull Terrier’s legs were as skinny as the sophomore’s. They slept together, ran together, rode together. When my son left for the Marine Corps, naturally, he left Hen with us.
I know Hen has never forgotten Aaron. I know that. My son’s dog pawed and whined at the one box, itemized and brought home to us by two Marines in dress blues. After Hen sniffed, scratched and whined at the box, he did the same at Aaron’s bedroom door. Closed door. Two years later, Aaron’s orphaned dog sniffed and slept on his master’s duffle bag, one that’d been packed away since Aaron’s last Christmas with us, 2003. My son never missed Christmas at home. It was our thing. Always. Christmas.
Today, Hen sleeps on my husband’s lap in the evenings, in touch with his inner Chihuahua. Ninety pounds, and frosting on the pumpkin.
He’ll never forget.
But maybe he no longer mourns. Maybe.
Next to Hennessy was Isaac, a Queensland Blue Heeler who was once an orphan also. Isaac, no longer with us, was about ten when we had him put down. He was always skittish and insanely jealous. His redeeming quality: he adored Hennessy. Hen was a year older than Isaac in doggy years. I used to wonder how we’d manage if we lost Hennessy before Isaac. The Heeler wouldn’t even eat until Hennessy did first. Isaac used to get excited when he saw his comrade had been leashed-up for a walk. He licked Hen’s eyes and nose; he vicariously loved life through the alpha male. Happy, happy, joy, joy he seemed to say. Aaron coined that phrase during an argument of hubby’s and mine one day. Funny. We laughed. Later.
Heelers are known for herding. At one time, Isaac wouldn’t lead, so he had to stay home after a few tries of trailing us loose. Off the leash, he tried to herd other people who entered onto the scene by accident. He nipped at their ankles, then we paid for a dog bite.
Yes, we’re a bit of a faulty family, but Isaac finally learned how to lead. Life lends promise at times.
It got hard watching Isaac hold on.
It was this past Christmas we had to have Isaac put down, or rather three days after. Christmas 2009. But I’ll always remember it as the first year we didn’t put up a tree, didn’t shop, didn’t wrap. Somehow, the energy just wasn’t there this past year. Six Christmases without Aaron.
So as it turned out, Isaac wasn’t left without Hennessy. But the alpha male mourned the Heeler much more than we’d ever have thought, so just recently we got Hen a baby we named Doc. Born December 15 (we didn’t know about him until the following February), the meaning of our longhaired Chihuahua mix’s name is twofold: medicine for Hen and tribute to the Navy’s Corpsmen.
Doc’s a feisty mix, the color of cinnamon toast, barely burnt around the edges. With his floppy ears and thick wave, he resembles Mandy somewhat. His tail is different though. Not fanned but curled, nearly as tight as a piglet’s. Two dark almond shapes staring at you when he’s coming, one little dim circle staring when he’s leaving. That waggley tail exposes all. Rather than an overbite, his is under, almost as if he’s got a perpetual tobacco dip hidden in his lowers. The groomer tells me a dog’s genetics can go back five generations, and who knows what all’s in the mix, but he shouldn’t get too big, should stay the size of my lap.
He’s the kind of doggie you’d see in the window. The kind of gift you’d give to a kid or your sweetheart at Christmas.
And maybe he’ll last as long as I do. Maybe.
Hen wasn’t as impressed with Doc as we’d hoped. All Hen’s life he’s loved the little ones, but this one was staying, not visiting. Too, the big guy has surely grown bored with our pride in the little one’s tee-tees and pooh-poohs outside. The elder must think, I’ve been doing that outside for years.
Doc’s a puppy in touch with his pit-bull-self. Thinks nothing of grabbing Hen’s food, and even after the alpha male lines the little guy out, Doc’s not afraid to crawl right up over Hen’s back, lick his toes, sniff his backside. When Hen grows weary of the intimate inventory, he lets Doc know, but soon enough, six pounds tucks itself right up to ninety.
That fall morning, nearly five years ago, a pet taxi imprisoned a tiny kitten next to Kaika’s bed. The prisoner had found his way into our home just a couple of days before. Because of my sister’s prodding, I’d allowed Kaika to bring the orphan inside, out of the cold. Another orphan, fed, warmed and cuddled. Happy, happy, joy, joy. I’d suggested that Kaika name the tomcat. He chose Bones, the pet name of his maternal grandmother, but my husband didn’t like that name, so Kaika named the kitten Bob. Two minutes of time and thought put into the kitten’s name made me wonder what Kaika will someday name his own children.
When the boys finally awakened (as fast as sixteen-year-olds are able), Kaika sauntered into the living area with a small box and said matter-of-factly, “The kitten is dead. I think fleas sucked the blood out of him because when Don opened the cage door, about ten fleas jumped on him.”
A million foreseeable chores and annoyances jumped into my head. As fast as the ten fleas, suddenly everyone was scurrying around, spraying, washing, asking, “Where’s the shovel?”
Then I remembered Sarah. Scratching. Bathing a rare bath. At that moment, I was itching all over. The kitten. Bob. Gone. Life and death take strange turns. Fed, warmed, cared for, the orphan left us after all. Left us with fleas. Thank you, Bob.
Death had dropped into our lives once again, but still, Eddy, who’d already moved in by that time, continued with his sleep in the room that once was Aaron’s. Twenty-six then, he worked at the radio station, played guitar and wrote music. He still plays guitar and writes music. Today he works as an EMT and rescues others, but on that day, he slept through all the flea spraying and kitty burying.
Aaron could’ve slept through all that too, once he grew still.
Since Aaron, since Kaika, since Eddy, my husband and I have rescued others. There was a few days with the man who’d rob us, go to prison, then sue us. Later inhabitants included a newborn baby girl and her mother the crack addict who’d rob us in eight days herself. So we said, never again. Shaved off one of the bedrooms, returned Aaron’s room to Aaron’s room.
We’re not bitter. Hope holds us, sometimes finds us in the form of a Christmas puppy, one the color of cinnamon toast.
Felines and canines, we just keep adding on. Like our offspring, they steal our hearts. Arrival, departure, it’s all part of the mix.
He-dogs and she-cats, they’ve spent trial run days in Sevin Dust and flea spray, perhaps they’ve even dreamt of what life might bring them, today they give no thought to death, but stay close and still. They trust we’ll always care for them. That we’ll never depart. They don’t number their days, but instead, nestle in each budded season.
Content. Safe.
They rest.
Chapter 16: Making Scents of the Non Senses (pages 200-211)
Hearing
If MaMa were here instead of there, I’d have her flip to the date of March 31, 2003. She could tell me if I heard wind on that day. Daily records of weather, arrival of news, good or bad, as well as news on the divorce of Dean Martin found themselves recorded in a calendar on her coffee table. Small, the calendar sat next to an ashtray (picture mammoth in red) that seemed to hold the tiny table down. MaMa didn’t smoke, but PaPa did. MaMa outlived PaPa by fifteen years plus, but survivors keep things.
If MaMa were here instead of there, I’d have her flip to the date of March 31, 2003. She could tell me if I heard wind on that day. Daily records of weather, arrival of news, good or bad, as well as news on the divorce of Dean Martin found themselves recorded in a calendar on her coffee table. Small, the calendar sat next to an ashtray (picture mammoth in red) that seemed to hold the tiny table down. MaMa didn’t smoke, but PaPa did. MaMa outlived PaPa by fifteen years plus, but survivors keep things.
A typical Monday and more. I’d just learned I’d completed a class that wouldn’t count toward my requirements for graduation. The mess-up: an extra semester. Upset, I all but sprinted across campus to see the assistant advisor for the College of Arts and Sciences. Once there, I explained the story, cried, said something like, “My son is in Iraq, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through today, let alone an extra semester!”
Busy behind a desk covered in organized clutter, Lisa Ham pulled a pen and square of paper from her desk drawer. “What’s your son’s name? I’ll pray for him.”
Well, I know enough about writing down someone’s name for prayer. This lady was serious. I gave her Aaron’s name. She told me I’d have to talk to the Dean, but he wouldn’t be available until later that afternoon. Before I left, she said, “Your son will come home! Believe that!”
I went for a sandwich to kill time, fidgeted with my food at a lonely table in a half empty Student Union Building, certain that students and staff around me had no problems, the crises in life, I owned them all.
Later, walking back through Tech’s Memorial Circle, reading the names of the remembered, hearing the song of some single bird, looking up at a great formation, my heaviness just leaving, healing, due to a song of life in the heavens, something simple in flight.
A West Texas windstorm and a slow steady rain at 1:30 p.m. in Panama. That kind of disparity.
I kept a journal during the early days of the war, red, hardback, somewhat different from that of MaMa’s, my notes consisted of news and casualties. Under March 31, 2003, I wrote, Day 13: 40 U.S. casualties with 14 missing.
I listed a message in red ink next to the count: Got my awesome letter from Aaron and Jose.
Articles and pictures of 15th MEU taken off Internet.
4 missing Marines are now confirmed dead.
A van filled with 7 women and children were shot at. All inside van dead by either a soldier or Marine. This took place after repeated gunfire up in the air to stop. Our troops have been tricked enough it seems.
The war rages on.
The war inside my gut—it’s gone.
He will come home.
Today, this afternoon, God lifted my heavy, heavy burden. He used a faithful minister (advisor assistant @ Texas
Lisa Ham
M-R
And I, in my mind filled in (the letters) O-T-H-E, MOTHER.
On top of that red ink, I taped the page from a Dayspring calendar for March 31. Those who see God will partake of life, for the splendor of God is life-giving.—Iranaeus
The days and weeks that followed Day 13 of 2003, I still managed to edge myself back into anxiety, but then, a bird always tuned-up somewhere. I developed a listening ear for these creatures. I began to pay close attention. I needed to.
One year later, March 31, 2004, four Blackwater employees were killed and mutilated in Fallujah. Burned, mutilated corpses of two of those Blackwater contractors were strung from a bridge. Fallujah’s violence escalated.
After that, not hearing, hearing. Not hearing.
Hearing.
One year from song to strung.
Then, another year. On May 5, 2005, in pencil, I drew an arrow pointing to the diary entry and wrote, This began with the song of a bird.
During the day, it’s not music or television I listen to—it’s the birds. And to the rest of life.
Sight
My husband and I drove out to the cemetery the day after Aaron was buried. As we stood there, we noticed movement within the mound of flowers. Greg lifted a bouquet and saw that a bird had buried himself within. My husband rustled at the nested color some, but the bird wouldn’t fly out. “Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe I should try to help him.”
“No, leave him alone. Let’s see what he does.”
After a while, the sparrow came out. He strutted, preened; he posed on that bouquet bed. I thought of Aaron in front of a full-length mirror as he turned to the left, the front again, the right, then around, twisted his neck and viewed his back, then faced me and said, “I’m so fine.”
While we watched, the little bird baptized himself over and over in that mass of red, white and blue. Your son lives because My Son lives. I sensed God’s message as that.
Mesmerized by the bird, Greg snapped photo after photo. “I can’t believe he’s staying here and letting me take his picture over and over.”
“I told you. God uses the birds to comfort me. To remind me of life.”
“I know what you said, but I always just thought birds do what birds do.”
Ten minutes into the photo shoot, the sparrow flew away.
Since that time we’ve maintained two bird feeders filled with seeds. Birds of every sort have their own little memorial circle mowed down around the branches of our tree, the state tree of Texas
They must know it’s just to look at.
As much as possible, I keep Aaron’s room as if he were just away on leave. His room. The bedroom Greg labored on as a surprise for Aaron after the second trip. Painting walls and trim, sanding and sealing the floor, shining oak. A map of the world, framed in wood, crafted by my husband, hangs in the midst of camouflage covers and framed prints of World War I, World War II. Red, white and blue accents. Marine and Texan, through and through.
A hero’s room.
I’m glad we kept Aaron updated on the revision of his room.
Smell
There was that moment of finding his house shoes a few months after Aaron was killed. First of all, there was a history to them. For several years in a row, at Christmas, one of Aaron’s Santa gifts was a pair of Dollar Store house shoes. It was kind of a joke, in a way, because Aaron loved the name brand things. I’d always get these house shoes because we slouched around in our comfies on Christmases and weekends. Comfortable, their cost was about four bucks, kind of cheap suede things, beige. Each year, Aaron re-worked the house shoes. One year he took a Nike tab off an old pair of tennis shoes and affixed it to the back of his Dollar Store slouchies. But on this pair, the pair I’d found, he’d taken a Sharpie pen and drawn zebra stripes all up and down them. These shoes were later stuffed into a closet that he’d once used, before the room had been converted into a bedroom for my dad. After Dad moved out, we used the closet for things we didn’t really need. At least, thought we didn’t really need.
I’d already been through several rounds of “looking for him.” Articles, pictures, his voice, things like that. He’d always chewed on the caps of pens, his dog tags, everything, so I’d already saved a few of these things. Keep in mind, preparation for this day has never been, so everything had pretty much been washed, given away, or thrown out after Aaron moved on once he’d graduated high school, just five months before he joined the Marine Corps.
I did find his voice on a couple of tapes. Once when he was in third grade studying for a spelling test, spelling dinosaur words over and over. And my sister has his voice captured with a few complaints, back in ’98 I think. He was whining about some girl. I have his voice on a video after his first trip to Iraq Iraq
Each and every new little discovery was uplifting for a while, lending hope. Then you remember why you’re even doing this in the first place, and so it goes.
Then one day, I was in that closet for some reason other than Aaron. I looked down and saw that pair of house shoes, the zebra striped ones. I grabbed them up and noticed kind of a grimy stain in the bottom. I sniffed, over and over. I cried, of course, but I was still so happy. It was the smell of his feet. No one ever expects that kind of smell to be a gift, but to me, that day, it was. Every once in a while, I go and get them out of his room. Now they set by his bed, close to our two pairs of boots; the jungle boots I wore in Panama, and his pair from Iraq. I could smell him better in the house shoes than his boots.
Touch
March 29, 2005. Last night was the first time I used Aaron’s towel. Before that, it resided in his nylon fishnet laundry bag that hung on his closet doorknob for a while. It was a part of his personal effects that were handed over to me on June 30, 2004. Only a minute list of items found their way back to me from Iraq
Each piece of clothing and linen had been laundered by the military in large commercial washers. They had washed away any personal smell of my son, or at least any to be registered through human olfaction. Some Standard Operating Procedure that robs a mother of such a necessity as that of the scent of her son.
Each item was precious to us. We stood there, lifting each article from that one and only final box. We knelt there sniffing, then sniffing again, then shaking our heads, nearly whispering, “No, it’s not here either.” But Aaron’s dog smelled something. Hennessy sniffed and pawed at the box, walked to Aaron’s closed bedroom door, pawed and whined, questioned us with his eyes, then he moved to the front door, pawed and whined. He finally lowered his entire body to the floor. His head on his front paws, down, his eyes, sad. Heartbreaking for us, though he is clearly prone to depression.
I shared some of Aaron’s belongings after they were returned to me: green T-shirts, socks, linen, a towel, those kinds of things. And the Dollar Store house shoes I’d given him for Christmas just seven months before: back seams slit, easy-in, easy-out, ghetto, I gave those to Tonya.
I kept one pair of cammies, one pair of boots, various papers and books that had his writing on them, and the snuggle pillow Aaron and I had rifted back and forth from each other when he was home on leave, one I’d finally mailed to that APO address overseas.
Me. Every night, holding that comfy pillow next to my breasts, the pillow that I will now own forever. I’ve worn out the cotton pillowcase I’d sent him. It split in half. I knew when I sent it that the natural fiber would keep his head cooler than unnatural polyester.
Two slivers of cotton, now tucked within the first piece of furniture Greg designed for me the first year of our marriage. The expanse of this chest nearly equals that of my bookcase. Nearly equals the heart of my husband. Sturdy. Reliable.
Too, all his socks, turned inside out, just like socks he’d washed here at home. I kind of smiled. Some things never change.
I gave my sister Aaron’s laundry bag and towel. He’d already given her a pair of dog tags he’d chewed on before he left that last Christmas. She has his teeth marks in metal like I have them on old pens and the like. On stuff like the phone he nearly wore out. His teeth marks are in its little antenna. That tired phone rests in the Americana chest, touches his watch and other mementos.
But yesterday, after a few months, my sister brought the towel back to me. She’d noticed feathers attached within the threads of the towel. She was well aware of my interest in anything to do with birds.
When she called yesterday and told me she’d noticed the feathers, I asked her, “Live bird or pillow feathers?” My reason for asking was simple. Tiffany had talked on the phone with Aaron a few days before April 26. She’d remarked how strange it was to hear gunfire in the background and a bird’s call. The bird had landed on or near my son, maybe on his shoulder.
Besides that, I’d mailed him a feather pillow along with the foamy snuggle pillow a few weeks before he was killed. I’d prayed over them before I stuck them in the box, prayed God’s rest for my son.
He received them the same day that two of his fellow Marines were killed. Yes, those pillows meant something to him that day.
Two weeks later, Aaron was killed.
The feather pillow wasn't returned with the small number of articles. I felt sure the rest of those feathers were blown to smithereens somewhere in the Sunni Triangle.
While all this raced through my mind, my sister answered, “I’m not sure. From a live bird, I think.”
“You’re kidding! Yes, I want it back.” By that time, it no longer mattered if they were feathers from a live bird or if they were a part of the feather pillow that had plumped his sweet dark head. Still, feather intrigue was secondary. Without question, interest number one in his towel was exfoliation of my son’s skin.
He’d picked a beautiful towel at some point—then packed it to go to Fallujah. Olive drab complemented navy blue. Beige bordered red, a red as dark as blood. Each shade was within a straight-line, then its river of color alternated, traded, and shared the geometric rule. Blood red then bordered beige and olive drab allowed navy blue the straight swim across its length. Back and forth. Back and forth. Thick. With a background of white.
This towel is in a photograph snapped of him and Jamie Vance while in Fallujah, only one month before machinegun fire struck Aaron’s chest. The towel, it’s the only bright color in the photograph. The rest of the snapshot, rendered in olive drab and desert gray. This bright blend of color in the towel still appears dead when compared with the energy of life pictured within the Marines’ quarters. Draped over a rack, the towel is juxtaposed against two healthy young men, their heads shaved, arms flexed, muscles rounded. Lance Corporal Jamie Vance and Lance Corporal Aaron Austin: a picture of confidence. The background reveals the start of a few pin-up posters—with plenty of plywood left over to continue the collection. Girly pictures and Marines. It’s understood.
To get the commercial smell out, I’d laundered the things I’d kept. If it’d been the smell of my son in those clothes and linen, I’d never have washed them. Lisa hadn’t laundered the bag or the towel. She’d put them up in her closet. I wanted to use the towel at least once, just the way I found it, commercial smell or not.
After my bath, I knew this was the closest I could get to the final flesh of my son. Patting the tufts of terry against my warmed skin, toweling my wet head, then rubbing its threads against my bony shoulder blades and sagging breasts, small—their elasticity resembling the flab of some discarded chicken skin after ripping it from its bone. This chest, still mine—my heart without an exit wound—my aching breasts. Shared body parts with Aaron from the first eight weeks of his life.
My hands trembled as I clutched the towel next to my face, then wiped my tears. I wondered how long it’d take before I exhausted another piece of shared fabric to shreds. Would I live that long?
I draped the towel over the bathroom rack. It was then I noticed a few blades of foreign grass. Dead and dry, they shared the fabric that enveloped some bit of undetected flakes, flecks of my son’s dead skin.
Much like me, their coarse texture holds.
Taste
Today, nearly seven years into this, I no longer crater when I shop for macaroni and cheese down the carb aisle in Bob’s Thriftway.
I always think of Aaron when I roll sausage balls. But I can roll them without crying now. I’m not sure what year of what holiday my tears quit falling. Maybe that’s a testament to healing all in itself. The lack of transcription.
I never cook Hamburger Helper anymore. His favorite. I don’t know if that’s a testament to him as a picky eater or his mom a poor cook.
Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good; Blessed is the man who trusts in Him! Psalm 34 is marked up pretty good in my Bible. Over a dozen scribbled dates covering Aaron’s high school graduation, Boot Camp, war, and April 6, 2004, the day of my sister’s prayer….
Who can make sense out of tragedy?
Who keeps a red ashtray the size of the Titanic?
What sense, later? According to the nose of a pit bull that loved my son, slept with my son, rode with my son, plenty.
During the fall of 2006, during a time of transcription, I’d wanted to check the date on one of Aaron’s duffel bags, the date he’d flown home for Christmas 2003. As I folded that treasure out, Hennessy planted the bulk of his body flat upon it. He sniffed and searched the rough fabric, then he just stayed and snuggled.
Scent and sense rested together in Semper Fi fashion. Two hours later, I pulled the American red pit off the United States Marine’s bag.
Chapter 15: Purpled Hearts (pages 170-199)
The morning of October 8, 2005, the song He Was Born with a Purple Heart played in my head and interrupted my slumber. I would’ve preferred a dream, but the song worked on this hint of autumn morning. Sometimes we take what we can get.
Though I’d yearned to dream of Aaron, it’d only occurred once since his passing. That day: 2005’s resurrection Sunday. In the dream, my son wore long and baggy blue shorts; he ran and laughed through tall grasses, his eyes compelled me into an ecstatic moment. For mother and son, time suspended. He ran barefoot. Those long toes I’d always called fingers were especially vivid in the vision. I rose from my nap refreshed. Thrilled.
I’d ached to dream about him ever since the day I’d lost him; it puzzled me why I hadn’t dreamt about the son that was always in my heart, my head. The dream boycott—perhaps a means in which my mind and heart rested, stilled.
I strived for belief that he laughed still. Danced.
Though curative for those who surrounded him, sleep (much like food) had been considered by my son, such thoughts entertained, only after exhaustion completed its work. He’d much rather be conscious. Busy. He lived animated, decided. Emptied. He died decided, emptied.
The dream resolved a question for me. One never far away. My son, laughing in heaven, running, with no need for shoes. Doing there what he’d done here. While I doubted somewhat this was entirely true, it appeased me then, on such a symbolic Sunday.
In his book, Heaven, Randy Alcorn discusses the Intermediate Heaven, the location the apostle Paul referred to as the third heaven in 2 Corinthians 12:3: “whether in the body or out of the body, I do not know, but God knows.” Alcorn says the Bible illustrates that sometimes humans are allowed to see into heaven. Such was the case with Stephen, as he was being stoned for his faith in Jesus Christ.
I wondered if perhaps God had allowed me a glimpse of my son, permitted me a vision of Aaron’s joy. That He remembered me—encouraged me.
Mom often recounted a time spent with Mama Curry, my great grandmother. Comatose and filled with cancer, the woman awaited her death, and with her, her namesake, Virgie Belle, walked the respite of a silent pace, of observation. Determined to be there with her grandmother, she sang hymns, whispered prayers and called the nurses at infrequent intervals. Just in case.
Then “Interruption” visited.
Mama Curry opened her eyes and said, “Jesus, take my hand. Oh, look at heaven, isn’t it beautiful? Mark.” Then she shut her eyes and retired from this earth. According to the organization of her sentences, Mama Curry saw Jesus first (her escort into heaven), then Mark, her husband who’d preceded her in death.
I often asked Mom to relay this story to me even though I knew it by heart. Time has a way of numbing even the joy of vision, of hope. It’s only natural; humans need refreshed, need something new. So the song in my head , one the mother of Marine Sergeant John Harrell had sent me, quieted a perpetual question on that barely autumn day, “Why did you take him from me so soon, Lord?”
Because Aaron was born with a purple heart? How pronounced in him all the while.
Seven years old, marching through the backyard
Giving the order, to follow his charge
Saluting the neighbors, through a white picket fence
What seemed like a child’s game, made perfect sense.
I splendor in answers. When I awaken with hope instead of a hunger that can’t be appeased, I am momentarily pacified.
A sort of confidence is loaned to me when a piece of puzzle fits, when a glimpse of life’s mosaic pulls together for me. When I think I comprehend (to some degree!) why someone is gone, or when I’m reunited with something or someone from the past. The occurrence, meant to be.
I’ll ask the questions again and again—not just the “why” question, but all the questions I’ve asked in the past one year, five months, eighteen days, and about one and a half hours.
But. He was born with a Purple Heart.
After a while, a long while, I asked questions again. Though I’d already heard some of the answers, before, I’d listened in a numb state, a nervous state. Before. Yes, I’d heard the answers before.
As the night of July 21, 2005 wore on, my nervousness disappeared and my numbness grew. I rode with Greg and Kaika to Amarillo for Aaron’s posthumous Silver Star ceremony. Wine on the way helped. Helped something … helped me meet some of those who’d been with Aaron on that final day of his life. We’d already shared nearly a lifetime together, these Marines, Navy Corpsman, and me, yet we’d never met before. Not personally anyway.
Four hours and wine.
Once there, I indulged in a feast of barbecue only those from Texas could dish out, in a public place, but behind closed doors. Covered in red and white, checkered banquet tables held heaped platters of potato salad and pintos, ribs, sausages and other slicked juicy meats.
Waiters and waitresses poured endless glasses of iced tea and iced water into tumblers of red and plastic. Another beer, another Merlot, another anything.
Good times and bad, all mixed together, sat there in that room. Together. A speech here, a whisper, maybe nervous laughter. Rows of Marines ate well, lived up to their name, some had known Aaron, most (from the Reserve Unit in Amarillo) hadn’t, but they all stood when Aaron’s family first walked in.
I met them: Doc Duty, Sergeant Major Skiles and Sergeant Rettenberger. I met those who’d traveled this far to place a star in the hands of Aaron’s dad. Had Aaron been born female, the Silver Star would’ve been placed in my hands the day after barbecue. But the deceased hero was male. Marines do it this way. Male to male. Female to female.
It all sounded right to me.
Sergeant Major Skiles wore his Harley shirt.
Doc Duty had driven from Illinois then stopped in Oklahoma City
Just as he’d been before.
Sergeant Rettenberger appeared humble. Some mother somewhere must’ve been charmed by such a man. Large as life he was, his face, that of a baby. I had wanted a deeper look into those sad eyes, but they were hard to meet. I didn’t understand why at the time.
Then the next day, the ceremony. A lonely bagpipe, lonely friends and lots of family. Brothers stood tall that day at Texas Panhandle War Memorial in Amarillo
The Sergeant Major passed the honor of passing the honor to those who’d served under him. To “Doc” Jason Duty and to Sergeant Justin Rettenberger, the Marine who’d carried Austin
Duty, Rettenberger, the color guard, they all stood. Stood before Aaron’s dad. Passed the medal and the words that accompanied it.
To the father.
To the choked-up father.
And later that night, I asked Sergeant Rett, asked the Marine they called Rett a question. Naïve, I pointed to the medal on his chest and asked, “What’s that? How’d you earn it?”
He looked down, away, back at me, then down again. “For carrying Aaron.”
And finally, ceremony and conversation spent, our last face to face found itself at the cemetery, by Aaron’s grave. I watched them there. The noncommissioned officer of great rank stood behind Doc, behind Rett, behind those men of his. He stood while the two knelt at my son’s grave. One looked down. The larger one, yes, he looked down. The other, an angel of mercy in white, in wings and stripes of blue, he looked away. The moment was snapped by Rick Loomis’ camera.
That. Time in suspension, that silent hour hangs in my son’s room today. Framed word: Commitment.
Even with all this, I still didn’t know them. But worried for their safety’s sake, their bruised heart’s sake. And sometimes I worried just to worry.
And loved them for loving him.
For one reason or another, maybe two or three, I lost the answers to questions I’d asked. So nearly two years later, I asked again. About Aaron’s final hour.
From Doc Duty: Tue 1/09/07 10:46 p.m.
On that day I was woken up early in the morning by one of the other Marines in HQ platoon to inform me that 2nd PLT (the one Aaron was attached to) had been sent on a mission to a cluster of houses about 500 meters away in order to take out a suspected sniper/mortar position that had been harassing us the past couple of days. He said I needed to get up and get my gear on in case of emergency.
At about 1030 am (I think) the radio operator got a call that we had an urgent casualty (which I later found out was Zach Fincannon) at 2nd platoon’s position, and we needed to get there ASAP. We loaded up and trucked over there and found that not only had he been wounded pretty badly (he later lost his lower left arm) but that Curnutt, Valencia , and Covington
As we were preparing to roll away from the house, it came over the radio that we had another urgent casualty in the 2nd house and he needed immediate MEDEVAC. 1StSGT Skiles called for the XO to launch the 2nd wave of MEDEVAC vehicles. We continued to the casualty collection point over at the battalion CP about three miles away. During that time, the CO had ordered a withdrawal and told the XO to stay where he was and that they’d bring the casualties to him.
After we offloaded the four that we had, the rest of the MEDEVAC crew took off to the hospital with the 1st set of four. I elected to remain at the CCP to wait for this second guy (we didn’t know who it was or what had happened). After about twenty minutes of waiting, I saw the Company Gunny, who had gone back to the FOB for ammo re-supply, pull up into the Battalion area because he had heard over the radio what was going on. He told me that if they hadn’t shown up in five minutes, we’d go get them.
Five minutes passed and we had just loaded up when two more HUMMVEE’s came barreling into the area and screeched to a halt in front of the door to the BAS (Battalion Aid Station). One of them had Gomez-Perez, Magana, and someone else (my memory eludes me) in it, and the other had Aaron by himself. After checking on those three guys to make sure they wouldn’t die on the trip, I went over to where Aaron lay stretched out on the wooden trunk in the bed of the truck. He was still alive and breathing and someone else was talking to him.
I jumped into the truck with LT Cooper (our Doc) and started to assess him for transport. He started slipping during that. Someone (who we later found out was the 18D Army special forces medic) had performed a cricothyroidotomy (where you cut a hole in the throat and insert a tube so he could breathe), and had put the wrong tube in. We didn’t see why he’d done it in the first place, because #1: Aaron didn’t have an airway injury; he was hit in the chest, and #2: he did it incorrectly. He had also inserted an IO IV line, which is where you insert the catheter in the sternum bone, which was done correctly, and necessary at this time as Aaron’s veins had collapsed from blood loss.
We tried to unf--- the cric and insert the proper size tube, which we finally did, and then I performed a needle chest decompression which is the preferred treatment for chest injuries, because it relieves the pressure on the lungs and heart caused by a sucking chest wound. Aaron had two of them. After re-bandaging those two wounds, which were done hastily and sloppy (due to the amount of fire they were taking I’m sure) we checked the line in his chest bone.
During his thrashing about (some of those procedures are uncomfortable to say the least, but they work) he had ripped the line out. I decided not to waste time trying to start another one. He died shortly after, right after I came back from checking on the other wounded guys one more time before we rolled. I revived him with a cardiac thump and screamed for someone to get me an Ambu-bag, which we use in the field to artificially ventilate the wounded. One was tossed to me and Dr Cooper reminded me that I probably shouldn’t try to resuscitate him due to the lack of successful attempts in medical history.
“F--- That Sir!!!” I screamed at him, and then told the drivers to roll. He stopped breathing again after about five minutes and I hooked the Ambu-bag to the tube in his throat and instructed one the Combat Aidsmen Marines (given special first aid training to assist us when we are wounded or we have too many to handle on our own) on how and when to compress it, thereby forcing air into his lungs. I checked his pulse and found none. So, against my Dr’s orders, I began CPR. I continued it the entire ride to the hospital and every now and then (when you're supposed to), I felt for a pulse and found one.
When we arrived at the hospital, he had a weak pulse and was still being bagged by SSGT Gresham
I found out later that Aaron had passed again during prep for surgery. I guess if I’da stopped, he’da died then too. But I wasn’t letting him go. They tried again and again, but couldn’t bring him back from that one.
He was pronounced dead by the doctor there. We prayed over his body for a moment and the Echo Honor Guard (1STSGT Skiles, me, and two other Marines—I can’t remember which ones they were) carried him to the morgue. We loaded up and went back to the defensive position where I gave my report to the Company CO, CAPT Zembiec, and I know I saw a tear in his eye.
There isn’t much more to tell, but if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask—Doc Duty
From De’on: Wed, 10 Jan 2007 16:08:11
Thank you. This means a lot to me. Maybe Sgt. Rett can tell me “the before.”
Magana rode with Aaron at some point didn't he? Because Magana said that he'd held his hand. He kept calling Aaron’s name and telling him he was going to be okay.
He said Aaron nodded and then in a little bit his hand went limp.
Sgt. Rett left a message on Aaron's board. Sounds like recruiting is tough.
From Doc Duty: Thu 1/11/07 12:48 AM
Maybe Rett can. I know Aaron and Magana were next to each other in the Co casualty collection point before they loaded them up and brought them to me, so maybe that’s where that happened. I'll be thinking about you. Take care. Doc Duty
From De’on: Tue, 16 Jan 2007 20:26:45
Hi Doc,
I do have a couple of questions.
Is there a chance that Aaron might have made it easier if they had not put the trach in? Not that it matters so much now, but it is a question I have to ask.
Is there a chance that Aaron might have made it easier if they had not put the trach in? Not that it matters so much now, but it is a question I have to ask.
Do people survive a sucking chest wound?
Did you personally know Aaron or ever hang out with him?
Once the trach was in, I don't guess there's any possibility of him talking, was there?
Was he coherent as to what was happening to him at all?
Any last words or signs, nods, anything like that?
It's like, without you, it wasn't going to happen, huh? I will always appreciate everything you did to save him and I hope it doesn't bother you when I tell you I love you, because it's true. I really do.
Are you okay? What do you do to deal with everything?
From Doc Duty: Wed 1/17/07 2:34 AM
Hi De'on, no problem, I can answer those for you:
#1: The trach didn't really affect him either way, it didn't do anything for
what his wound was, but it didn't hurt him either. I mean I’m sure it was
kind of painful putting it in, but I'm not a Monday morning quarterback, if
the other medic thought it was necessary, I'll agree with him on it.
#2: People do survive sucking chest wounds, if treated quickly enough. The
time delay in him getting treatment due to the amount of fire on the roof
and the platoon’s withdrawal from the area probably contributed to the fact,
but there is only so much we can do in the field to begin with. I'm sorry about
that.
#3: I knew Aaron very well, in fact, most of those pictures of him and the
guys inSingapore
#1: The trach didn't really affect him either way, it didn't do anything for
what his wound was, but it didn't hurt him either. I mean I’m sure it was
kind of painful putting it in, but I'm not a Monday morning quarterback, if
the other medic thought it was necessary, I'll agree with him on it.
#2: People do survive sucking chest wounds, if treated quickly enough. The
time delay in him getting treatment due to the amount of fire on the roof
and the platoon’s withdrawal from the area probably contributed to the fact,
but there is only so much we can do in the field to begin with. I'm sorry about
that.
#3: I knew Aaron very well, in fact, most of those pictures of him and the
guys in
#4: No, once the trach is in, talking is VERY difficult and can be heard,
but I only heard him say one word: “PLEASE.”
#5: I don’t rightly KNOW if he was coherent, but I think he was, he locked
eyes with me a couple of times and when it came down towards the end, he kept
trying to (I think) get up like he wanted to FIGHT death.
#6: The last word I heard from him was a raspy "please" and then he was
alive but kind of blanked out. He was there, but he wasn't, if you can understand that.
I don't really know what you mean about "without me it wasn't going to
happen" maybe you could explain that to me.
#7: I am ok, I can sleep at night and I know I did everything I could. I
tried and that makes a difference to me. How do I deal with it? Same way I
dealt with my divorce I guess. Beer when I’m at home and my job when I’m not.
but I only heard him say one word: “PLEASE.”
#5: I don’t rightly KNOW if he was coherent, but I think he was, he locked
eyes with me a couple of times and when it came down towards the end, he kept
trying to (I think) get up like he wanted to FIGHT death.
#6: The last word I heard from him was a raspy "please" and then he was
alive but kind of blanked out. He was there, but he wasn't, if you can understand that.
I don't really know what you mean about "without me it wasn't going to
happen" maybe you could explain that to me.
#7: I am ok, I can sleep at night and I know I did everything I could. I
tried and that makes a difference to me. How do I deal with it? Same way I
dealt with my divorce I guess. Beer when I’m at home and my job when I’m not.
You telling me you love me doesn't bother me; it's nice to know that someone in this world does. Take care and I hope to hear from you soon.
From De’on: Wed, 17 Jan 2007 03:20:41
Bless your heart. I know you did everything you could. I know everyone did. I've never doubted that, and I know it was God who took him. I so wish I could've been there for him those last minutes.
Bless your heart. I know you did everything you could. I know everyone did. I've never doubted that, and I know it was God who took him. I so wish I could've been there for him those last minutes.
What I meant was, as long as you were working, you kept his pulse going. But of course, that couldn't have lasted. But I bet he felt your strength. I'm glad you knew him. I figured you must have since you drove to Amarillo
He was my crazy kid and I know I miss that. And I care very much, and thank you so much.
These were answers I expected, but thought I'd try to make sure from you since you're the one with the experience. You take care and I'll be in touch soon.
From Doc Duty: Wed 1/17/07 5:48 AM
Don't bless me ma'am, as I don't think much will keep me from where I'm going
in the next world. I did try, I tried my best, I miss him and I'm sorry (so danged sorry) that I couldn't do more, but knowing that I did my best is what allows me to sleep at night. You take care.
Hope to hear from you soon.
in the next world. I did try, I tried my best, I miss him and I'm sorry (so danged sorry) that I couldn't do more, but knowing that I did my best is what allows me to sleep at night. You take care.
Hope to hear from you soon.
And for the messages of other purpled hearts, I daily check their pulse on Aaron’s message board.
Hearts there, speak for themselves.
"To Aaron’s mom,
I was in a meeting on Friday and they talked about Aaron’s Silver Star. 1st Marines is sending a few Marines down for his awards presentation. I put my name in, so I hope I can attend. If not, please let me know how everything goes.
R/S SGT. Rettenberger U.S.M.C"
"July 10, 2005
Dearest Sgt. Rettenberger,
My prayers are that you will be selected, so we're just going to believe that you will be. I can't wait to meet you.
Today is the first day I could go back to Aaron's scrapbook since April 13, 2004. I feel his and our Father's Spirit urging me forward. I believe the daily prayer of Ephesians 3:14-21 is working such a healing in this stage of acceptance. I watched up until the final day as Berry Lee, 85 years old, spent 6 days in a chair, facing this transition of earth to heaven. It inspired me and I know that Aaron's smile will be one of the first things I see when I make this transition. I hope to do it like them: head on and without fear!
I love you,
De’on"
"Bless you and all of the Regiment. We look forward to meeting you and we appreciate so much the care with which this has been handled. But even more, we appreciate all that each of you do and sacrifice for all of us, each day.
It has been a pleasure talking with SgtMaj. Skiles and I'm so anxious to meet you, Sgt Rettenberger, and Doc Duty.
And thank you for visiting this site. It is a lifeline to so many of us, not only to share scraps of memories concerning Aaron, but to see how everyone else is doing as well.
Two years ago, part of Aaron's family had the pleasure of meeting Jamie Vance, Brandt Clifford and Jose Cruz. Then last year at the Marine Ball, we were able to meet so many more. It truly has blessed us in a way that can't be expressed.
I keep in contact with LCpl. David Bryant's wife, Sgt Magana, and Cpl. John Harrell's mom, so I'm able to stay in the loop some.
There will never be a day that we're not interested in the brothers of Aaron. Though you all may be ours by proxy now, I believe with all my heart that if Aaron is allowed to know even a little bit of the happenings here, that he is blessed by what he sees. And amazed, no doubt.
Again, thank you and God keep you all,
De’on"
"You did it baby, you are a hero. You are our hero, the Marines’ and America
Lisa Jewell of Lovington , N.M.
"Sgt. Rettenberger:
I hope I spelled your name right, I am Jerrod’s mom. Aaron called me his second mom. I really appreciate the many thoughtful things you have done to make this moment more special for De’on. Just knowing you were there with Aaron during his last moments made all of us feel better.
He was special to my son and me. He was best friend and brother to Jerrod. I miss him a lot, but I'm very proud of the man and Marine he became. We are all at De’on's tonight. I couldn't be at the Silver Star presentation, so De’on was sharing all the pictures and articles with me. They all were so special to me. I called my son and read everything to him over the phone. A lot of people just don’t understand that my son lost a piece of his heart that day also. For Jerrod, there will never be another Aaron, but a lot of good came out of this. It’s brought a lot of people closer. To a lot of people, Aaron was truly a Hero.
I lost my son, Chris, five years ago to suicide, so De’on and I cry a lot over our boys. We miss them a lot and can relate to the pain. Thanks again for putting closure to a lot of the things we wanted to know about Aaron's last moments.
We’ll never forget our Marine, Aaron C. Austin, and we'll never forget all the Marines that loved him so much. God Bless each and every one of you.
Always Aaron's proud second Mom, Donna from Lovington , NM
"Aaron, you finally got the Silver Star you so much deserved. I wish you could be here to see how proud everyone is of you. I don't know what De’on and I would have done without each other this past year. I feel I can finally grieve over Chris and not be afraid of what everyone else thinks. She has helped me a lot in dealing with my loss of Chris. I hope I have helped her in some way, too. You were an awesome kid and I will always remember you with love and respect. I know I will see you again. Take care of everyone for us and tell Chris I love and miss him lots.
Always Donna"
"Days have gone by since my trip to Texas and for the first few nights I slept better. I thought my short slept nights were over, but I was wrong. I guess I don’t complain, because it doesn’t bother me that I think about you guys so much.
To tell you the truth, I went to bed last night around midnight and then I was up at 2:30 until 5:30 when my girl came and brought me back to bed. I know everyone deals with things in their own way, but today things hit me a little harder because I guess it bothers me that there are those people who forget about all that we have given and the price that all of you have paid.
R.I.P. brothers and until we meet again, know that I will stand my post until the end.
R/S
SGT Justin Rettenberger"
"Dearest Sgt. Rett,
It is not meant for them to remember, honey. I don't know why, and it hurts me too, but for some reason their purpose is not the same as ours. When God takes you into the Fellowship of His Suffering, it is because He trusts you there. It is not meant for everyone. But He holds all wisdom and knowledge and EVERYTHING will end up serving some purpose for the furtherance of His Kingdom. There will be those who don't care, who live a gay life always and have no need of reaching further. He made their hearts too, and only He knows why. If you suffer much, perhaps it is because He needs you there, to dig deeper and to take it all to the only ONE who can really help, and that is God.
We will never forget and you will never forget. Yes, others will. It's another price paid by all of us for Freedom. If we've always lived in it, we take it for granted.
I can't speak of you without tears filling my eyes. I will never forget you. Perhaps you will never forget all the pain. Maybe you're not supposed to. But I do know you have to continue to move forward. God promises that He will make the crooked places straight and that He will perfect that which concerneth us. He will. But along the way, there are others who suffer from multiple hurts. Because you suffer, you will recognize them. And you will be able to minister to them ... like you ministered to us.
I will always pray for you and all those who suffer and mourn.
I am always here for you. Aaron has been freed from it. One day, we will be too, but not until our purpose is met. It is all for His Kingdom. If it were not, Jesus would have been spared suffering.
Watch these two movies: "The Passion" and "Hotel Rwanda." Pray much. Get away from noise for some part of each day and just listen to nature. It will bring some peace to you. Be still and KNOW that He is God.
And please, always feel free to contact me. Always.
I love you,
De'on"
"Aaron,
It’s late and you were on my mind so I just wanted to post a hello. You will never be forgotten. Please look after the souls of those Marines who have recently passed. Forever the Marines of Echo Company … 2/1
R/S
Sgt. Rettenberger"
"Aaron…. Today I sat at work and that firefight just played over and over and over again. For some reason, it just wouldn't stop. I broke it down from every different way. Slow motion as it played through my head. Why didn’t I go into that house next door? Would it have helped to get you out of there quicker? Aaron, it hurts so bad to think that you won’t be home for another Christmas. Know that if there were a way, I’d have traded places with you. I guess it is true: only the dead see the end of war. I only hope you know how much good has come from all of this. When we got the word to pull out, I was so p----- because at the time I thought that our losses were in vain, but come to find out, I was wrong. So many good things have come from our blood, sweat and tears. I love and miss you man.
My heart and love goes out to all your family this holiday season.
R/S
Sgt. Justin Rettenberger"
"Dearest Sweet Sgt. Rett,
Replay it if you must honey, and I know you must. But believe me when I say that you are not in control of life and death. Only God is. So much good has come from this, and as bad as I'd like to have him here with me this Christmas … to have that Christmas Eve dance with the most handsome man in this world, I believe Sergeant Major Skiles when he said, "If Aaron had it to do all over again, he’d do it the same." Like you would trade places with my son, he would want you to be happy and go in peace. The peace within.
I love you.
De’on”
"Hey Babe—
Well, it won't be Feb 29 for a couple of years, but today is the last day of Feb. As you wrote in 2004: "last day in U.S.
Aaron, we all miss you so much. But I do feel your presence. Just a moment ago, I listened to a daily devotional. Duke Duvall used this passage from Hebrews 12:1. ‘Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.’
Gary Kirksey used that same passage at Uncle Doug's funeral a few weeks ago. Gary said that when he was a less mature pastor that he didn't really believe so much that those who'd gone to heaven were with us here, as far as walking next to us, but now he did believe that and had for a while. He told how his son, Jamie, felt you on one side and his grandfather, a WWII vet, on his other side during a tough mission in Iraq a few months ago.
I feel you with me right now. And as much as I can, I do not want to disappoint that great cloud of witnesses. You all mean so much to me and I'm so thankful that God gives us that.
I love you. And I love so many others there with you now. And I thank God for His promise that I will be there with you when I am through here.
You are blessed. Your name means Exalted. And you are.
Thank you, son, for loving us so much before and for loving and praying for us now.
Thank you, Father God, for rescuing my son and taking him home with you. I know You know best. And I trust You and Your will for our lives down here. Be with each of us. Be with our troops. Be with our leaders. Strengthen our tired and weak bodies and minds so that like Aaron, we too are fit to fulfill Your heavenly purpose for each of us. It's in Jesus' name that I pray for each family member and each friend, each Marine that mourns this loss for us, this gain for eternity. AMEN
Mom”
“I've been to this site many times but haven't written in awhile. In a few minutes, it will be the 26th and two years since the last time I remember talking to you, Aaron. I know I've said this more times than I can count and I know you know we did everything we could. Sometimes I think that I could have done more, but then I think about your last words to me, Aaron. You said, ‘Don’t worry about me just keep shooting!’ And still to this day, I’m still in the fight.
I miss you brother. I thought I’d be sad when this day came around, but I know you wouldn't want that, so we'll just train harder today. With all my love man, Semper Fi,
Sgt. Rett”
"I'm not sure where to start ... so many thoughts. There are many men who will sit around a Christmas tree and be thankful for the greatest gift of all, something never wrapped and no amount of money could ever equal its value. Thank you for giving me the gift of life, not only from me, but also from everyone that was on that rooftop and in that house that day. Semper Fi brother and Merry Christmas and we shall never forget you. And to De'on: I wish there was something I could do or say to tell you how much your son and my brother will always mean to me. I hope you and your family have a safe and happy holiday. God Bless.
R/S
Sgt. Rett
Always a 2/1 Echo Marine at heart
P.S. And thank you to all of you who keep me in your prayers and worry about me. I truly don’t have the words to express how much it means to me."
"IN MY DREAMS TONIGHT IT FELT LIKE YOU WERE THERE WITH ME. IT’S ALWAYS GOOD TO SEE YOU BROTHER.
SEMPER FI
R/S"
….I love you, Aaron, and I miss you so much. My heart longs to be there with you and I become so impatient with the process of living here without you, but I know I must until I'm through here. Sometimes I think, maybe if I hurry....
But it's not in my hands and not up to me. And as much as is heavenly possible, I must seek the joy of life here on this earth. It's hard and it doesn't happen until we step out of ourselves and into the needs and lives of others.
We all miss you desperately, Aaron.
And Sgt. Rett, we never quit loving and thinking and praying for you and the others. You are all so very, very important to us. Thank you for sharing here, with Aaron and us. It means so much.
Semper Fi
Aaron's Mom"
“I love you, De’on, You’re something special to me and I have to admire you for all you have done since Aaron has been gone. Aaron will never be forgotten as long as you have a breath in you. He touched so many lives while he was on this earth. I will remember him with love and all the memories that I have of him and Jerrod.
It’s hard to believe that my baby will be a daddy. He has grown to be a remarkable young man. Aaron is watching over his best friend and I know that he is smiling up in heaven, wishing Jerrod the best.
Sgt Rett, thank you from the bottom of my heart for carrying Aaron and staying with him. You are a remarkable man. God Bless you. Please be safe. From Aaron's second Mom that loved him like her own; he was one of mine too. And De’on, thank you for sharing him with me.
Donna of Lovington, NM"
"4/5/08
I love you too, Donna. I was more than happy to share Aaron with you and I will be Nomi to your granddaughter.
Thirty-five years ago on April 2 is when we lost Shane. We never forget our babies, and too, we are very thankful for the new ones in our lives.
I had the greatest pleasure to meet Major Zembiec's parents last night. They are wonderful people with hearts full of admiration for our Marines. I saw pictures of their granddaughter, Fallyn Justice, who has her daddy's eyes, and from what I hear, his independent spirit. It was a joy to meet them and they are strong people.
Much love to all.
De'on"
"April 26th I remember."
"4 years ago to the hour we set out on patrol. All I can say is I remember and thank you. I will see you in time, brother. April the 26th we shall never forget:
It was an early morning four years ago. The air was as sticky as the back of a yellow post-it-note. I still think about looking down from the rooftop and seeing all of 2nd platoon formed up and taking off that early morning in Fallujah. It was so calm that morning. How quickly things changed and in an instant. As a former CO of mine said, ‘We fought like lions!’ Aaron, you are a true example of that statement. Still to this day, I think about that day and I used to try to figure out what I could have done different, but now, instead, I just think about you and how brave you were. Your sacrifice saved the lives of many of our brothers. There can never be enough thanks said for your actions and I will continue to tell your story to inspire the youth and let them know that in this world of troubled times; there are real heroes like you brother, who will always be there to keep the wolf at bay. SEMPER FI BROTHER, I LOVE AND MISS YOU.
R/S Sgt. Rettenberger
P.S. I will never stop shooting"
After I asked the permission of Aaron’s Marine Brothers to copy some of their messages, I thought better of it. I e-mailed Sergeant Rett and told him I understood that my request wasn’t fair. I understood he needed a safe place to go and write.
He responded.
Always good to hear from you De’on. When I said I was caught off guard about my postings, I was more shaken about the fact that you found any of my postings to be good enough to be published in a book. Whenever I post anything, I just speak what my heart feels. My mood swings come and go. There are days a song or a smell triggers something and the message board is a place for me to release my feelings. I always feel so much better after I post a message or just read all the postings. It refreshes me like a morning shower after a good night’s sleep. The words help me heal and if you think there is anything that I have posted that you think would help the book or help others, I would truly be honored if you used any of my words, and if not, it makes me feel pretty good that something that I wrote was considered to be put into a book. I just want to make sure that you know at no time did I feel uneasy or anything.
Well, goodnight, I have PFT to run in 7 hours.
Semper Fi,
Sgt Rett
And I replied.
Sgt Rett, your words are some of the most beautiful chords that have ever struck my mind and my heart.
And Doc, your words, my son’s “word”—they were a gift from heaven. Your words, Magana’s words, footage and stories carried through Loomis—they’re as close as I’ll ever get. For a time. All the words here, those many left on the board, they’re engraved on my heart.
Thank you all for your part in my healing. I thank God for the healing I know takes place in each of your once beaten, beating heart.
To this day, I remain indebted for another message posted on Aaron’s board. I treasure the time spent with this senior NCO at the Evening Parade on May 19, 2006. I hold that time and that coin in a special scrapbook. And, I wish I had a picture of the Marine mascot who attended the reception, but then, Isaac would be jealous and Hennessy—depressed.
Now, September 25, 2008, I once again read these messages. One more time, I cry. No doubt, I’ll read and cry throughout my life. Sometimes I like to cry, so that’s okay.
Now a Sergeant Major, John Ploskonka currently serves in Iraq
One more Marine speaks.
"To everyone, especially Aaron:
This is the first time I have been on this site. I am very glad to have found it after a long reading session and a lot of tears. Don't dare tell anyone! I will deny it. Just kidding. I have shed many tears for you, Aaron. So now, I get to babble as usual.
This is the first time I have been on this site. I am very glad to have found it after a long reading session and a lot of tears. Don't dare tell anyone! I will deny it. Just kidding. I have shed many tears for you, Aaron. So now, I get to babble as usual.
I was remembering a young PFC Austin back in 2002 checking into Echo Company. As I recall a loud mouth and no bearing …just the observation of an old Gunny. I soon learned that behind that was a Marine with an infectious spirit and an appetite for honor, courage and commitment. Oh, and the infectious smile made me lose my bearing a couple times too! Of course, you still ‘owe me for that’—Aaron will know what that means.
I also recall many of my walks up and down the catwalks of the barracks that Sgt Rettenberger spoke of on the second floor. I made those walks after liberty call to check on the Marines. Of course, Austin and Koci would be drinking their "Power Shakes" before heading to the gym to get their lift on. The motivation and enthusiasm that exuded from that one room (this will blow your mind … I remember it well as room 211) inspired even me to give more. Thanks very much to both of you!!! SNCO's do not hang out with junior Marines and we probably do not let them know enough just how great they truly are, but Echo Company has ranked very high in my ‘best company I was in’ stories. That is because of Marines like Aaron.
So, on those walks I would stop and chat and learn more from them than they would learn from me. Even though it is supposed to be the other way around. I also remember during many gun drills and field evolutions that Aaron never slacked off. It did not matter the temperature, day of week, number of times or the attitude of the Marines around him, he always smiled and gave an oorah and went about doing it the Marine way. At this point, I will mention I miss you very much Aaron. So during OIF I knew that we were in good hands. I remember trooping the line during a rainstorm (mom, close your ears) passing out cigarettes to the young Marines that ran out of them due to lack of inbound mail. Aaron smiled and said something about doing some pushups for more smokes. Let me say, he did many pushups. Many of them. Then as I walked away, he yelled out ‘Got cake?’ This was in reference to cake that I also passed out during my trooping the line. This soon became the communication between Aaron and me. It went on so much that it became a mutual challenge and password between us.
I then remember receiving a wound while we were in our defensive position up north, and when I returned to the Company from medical, Austin
So then, it was time to go to OIF II. My unit left just before 2/1, but I did get the chance to see Echo in Kuwait
I am very, very happy that I had the chance to see them before heading north. The Company had to go to a class in the tent and I had to get back to my unit in the convoy staging area. So why am I going on and on about this? Well, as I walked away while the company went into the tent, I looked at the ground with a very heavy heart listening to the crunch of sand and pebbles under my feet. Then I heard Austin
I turned around and saw his smile from ear to ear and he yelled, ‘Got cake?’ I said I wish I did, and told him to be safe. Of course, the rest is in all the messages below. I have been back to Camp Pendleton a few times and one of the last times, I got to see Harrell at Camp Margerita
Mom …you raised a wonderful human being and should be very proud of the man that he became. I am a better person for having known him!
Best of luck to all and
SEMPER FI
‘Cheese and Rice’
‘DA FIRST SERGEANT’
1stSgt John P. Ploskonka, AKA ‘DA GUNNY’ of Bravo Co. Mar Bks Wash
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