Veterans' Day

I don't usually post personal things here. But today, I decided to make an exception.

Every year since 2003, I've posted on my blog or Facebook a piece on Veterans' Day. Typically, they are short essays that try and define a kind of patriotism we could all share.

Today, I'm sharing a piece I wrote a while ago; the only thing I've published other than some professional articles; it was in a book of essays, stories, and poetry by veterans...and me. I'm sharing to remind people of what the ultimate cost of service looks like - for those who serve and for those close to them. My son is hale and hearty, a father and CEO of a startup, and to him and his Marine brother, and to all the veterans and their families - Happy Veterans' Day.

I spent five hours with him once. We were scared parents that day watching our sons prepar e to go to war for the first time. We talked, controlling our feelings, reassuring each other and together calming my wife, as the men who we still saw as boys did what they needed to do. He was a vet and had been here himself, so he explained things to us: the logistics of the day, where they would go from here, what the departure would be like. I took some pictures, he snapped one on his cell phone. And they were gone, and we went to our hotels and homes and on with our lives.

I’d taken a picture of him sitting next to his son, thinking I’d make a print and send it to him & his wife. When I looked at the picture, the fear on his face couldn’t have been clearer and I knew I’d never be able to send it.

And then a line of text on my screen. In my alerts. I've got a dozen of them, alerting me to anything on the web that might be about my son, or the unit he is with or the place where he is, and my phone shakes as my email box slowly fills up with news, and to be honest not much of it's been good. And then it was very bad as I saw a name that I recognized, the name on a tape on the chest of the young man in the photos, who wasn't my son but who my son had talked about when we spoke on the satphone. He’d been a nerd, a comic book kid in a deadly valley where seven of forty-two of them would die over that year. He was young, my son had said, and he tried to protect him. But reading the news, I realized how little protection that could have been.

I swore, I'll admit. And I waited a day to tell my wife, who was living in her own swamp of worry.

And I went through the FRG channels and got his father's email and sent him one, saying "I remember..." and didn't expect anything back and nothing came. And we got a card and waited, because if it had been me, I'd have been burning the cards for a while until the rage died down. And we waited and finally sent the card and I just put my number on it and said "call me anytime." And he did.

I was in a meeting when my phone buzzed, and I pulled it out to swipe the call away to voicemail and noted the odd area code. And it rang again, same number and I suddenly remembered that the area code was from where he lived and I said "sorry" and walked out, turned and went into the bathroom and said "It's me" and he said his name and suddenly I couldn't breathe very well, and just listened.

To be honest, I started to cry, and walked downstairs into the parking lot and the Beverly Hills sun where we could talk and swear and cry together. After half an hour, someone from the meeting came out to check on me and I waved them away.

And we talked and made plans to talk again and then we’d said it all and I had to go back to work. And he hung up and I leaned over the trash can and wondered if I was going to throw up.

I wish I had. I wish I’d been able to vomit up the guilt that my son was breathing today and his wasn’t and my terror that tomorrow mine wouldn’t be either.

I put the lid back on the fear, straightened myself up, wiped the guilt off my face with my hands, and walked to the elevator and back into my day.

And I reminded myself that when we’re talking about geopolitics and theories of conflict, this is what the pieces look like: two fathers, one sad and one shattered by grief, and two sons – one in danger, and one past all risk.

We spent five hours together a year ago, and I’ll be tied to him for the rest of my life.