‘Not Everyone Came Back’

When my dad told me that he was having a surprise birthday party for my mom, I sat and thought for days about what to write. I thought about telling all of the funny things she has done, like the time she almost killed me by opening my bedroom door, or the time she got really scared when I flung a snake at her. I thought about writing about all the happy times, like our family get togethers or vacations. And I thought about writing about the sad times, like when I left for Iraq.  But, my mother is brought to tears easily, and I never like to be the one to do it (I bet I am too late). With that said I resigned to simply write thank you for some of the things that she never gets enough appreciation for. My mother is fantastic, and many times goes out of her way to do stuff for my brothers and me.

In 2002, shortly after I became a Marine Officer, I thought it would be a good idea to go skiing before I went on active duty. Man was I mistaken. I ended up breaking, no destroying my leg, leaving me with an extremely broken leg, and a nine day extension in Vail. My mother, even though she had work and three other kids to take care of, and a husband whose only kitchen talents involve a phone call to a local pizza place, flew to Vail to sit by my bedside until I was mobile enough to go home. She sat there and read and attempted to talk to me. I was heavily medicated at the time, so there was very little talking. One time she brought me a milk-shake and I guess I took it and then asked her what the hell she was doing there. Obviously I was a little ungrateful, which I blame on the Morphine. When I had recovered enough to get on an airplane, my mother made the entire trip with me, helping me stand, waiting for me while I crutched my way around, and retrieving just about anything (I wasn't too talented on crutches and couldn't crutch and carry stuff at the same time). Upon my return home, she helped me in more ways than I could write here. Mom, thank you. Your support those 6 months was one of the reasons I recovered so quickly. And thanks for sitting in the hospital with me and bringing me a milkshake; you being there made me feel better.

Spaghetti!  My mom, for those of you who haven't experienced it, makes the meanest spaghetti around. I mean it.  It's not just Ragu and noodles. I have lived away from home for the last 10 years. Every time I come home, every time, the night I get home, my mom has spaghetti waiting for me. She has the table set, everything waiting. She lets me sit down and then proceeds to serve me my favorite dish. Most people would say, oh that's not a big deal; but it is to me. It is totally unnecessary, but every time, it makes me feel like I am home (which I am). Thank you mom. You go out of your way to make me feel comfortable and welcome, and I always look forward to those nights that I pull into the driveway, and I know that a heaping plate, a plate the size of my head, of spaghetti is waiting for me.

I am not style-inclined, or fashion aware; definitely not metrosexual. I can't decorate myself, let alone my bedroom. When I moved out to California I needed all sorts of home appliances, and linens and stuff like that. My mother, in an attempt to house train me, brought me to one of these big stores where everything smells good and everything is way overpriced. She threw out words like duvet, comforter, throw pillow, and dust ruffle. I thought she had gotten mad cow disease from a recent family dinner. Her advice and ability to decorate my bedroom has made my home in California look like a home and not some porn studio. It has also contributed to my ongoing attempt to impress women with my decorating ability. "Andy, that's a really nice duvet!" "Thanks I picked it out myself." So thanks mom for your help, not just in picking out linens, but anytime you helped me do things, learn to read, walk, not pick my nose and eat it. Your and dad's teachings and guidance are why I am who I am.

The last thing I will tell my mother thanks for will probably go against the trying to keep her from crying thing, but I guess that comes with the psuedo-speech writing territory. When I got the word that I was rapidly deploying to Iraq, my mom and dad flew out to see me. We only had about 4 hours together. We went to an Italian restaurant near my house in Joshua Tree. We ate and talked. When we left we went back to my house to say goodbye. I was doing fine and, although sad, I was excited to begin my deployment and get to where the action is. Upon arriving back at my house after dinner, we began to say our goodbyes, I haven't cried in 6 years (I know I have some problems expressing emotions), but when my mother started crying, I just couldn't help it. I was leaving my family to go to the worst place a human can imagine. And it didn't really hit me until that point that I really was leaving and that my life forever would be different. My mother's tears made me realize how much I loved my family and how much their support means to me.

Throughout my deployment here, I have received many packages and letters. This isn't meant to discount any of them, as I know people who will hear this have sent me stuff, and I appreciate the support at a level I will never be able to explain. When I get a package from home though, it just does something; it just makes me happy (which is kind of hard here in Fallujah). I look forward to opening the packages and letters. My mom baked for me in the last one. She has sent me books, and food, and Gatorade mix which in the heat has melted to itself creating a Gatorade blob. She has gone way out of her way to send me things I need. She has written letters every week. And although my dad unsuccessfully attempts to be funny and make me laugh, my mother's notes are often informative and fill me in on events at home. The letters remind me of home, and how much she wants me to be there (with all of my body parts). My family's support and especially her support has lifted me up when I am down, and made me remember why I am here fighting.