I wasn't planning on writing today. The general theme on the web seems to be "where was I that day." Maybe I'll tell that story next year. Just thinking back on it breaks my heart/ makes me want to vomit. So I will tell you about September 12th, 2002- the day after the first anniversary of the day I lost my uncle and many friends of our family when those towers came crashing down.
I was still in the Army. I skipped the mandatory 9/11 memorial ceremony held by the post. I had no intention of mourning those I lost in front of an audience. A soldier in my company was brought to my office that morning by her Drill Sergeant. She was in tears because her boyfriend was killed in Tower #1 (I think he was a fireman, but can't be totally sure). Either way, she said she couldn't handle the memorial ceremony. I told her DS to put her and a battle buddy on barracks guard, and that I would explain it to anyone who had a problem with it. I spent the hour of the ceremony moping. Then I had to pull myself together and go to a meeting.
September 11, 2002 was a blur. I went home and went to bed early.
On September 12th, I decided to clear my head and go for a nice 8 mile run. Yes, I considered that a nice run at the time. My Battalion XO decided not to join me that particular day. I spent the next hour alone with the pavement and the scenery. I had the opportunity to reflect on all the things that had happened since last fall. The war. My job. The service for my uncle that wasn't quite a funeral, because they never found his remains.
As I thought about my uncle, I realized that he was probably one of those people who lived out his belief that family was more important and that happy moments should be cherished. Yes, he worked in Manhattan and was probably busy. He also coached and volunteered and took his daughters to hockey games. He was a guy who loved his family and friends and spent time with them. But just like that, he was gone.
Well, what about me? I was working 14 hour weekdays, with 6-8 hour days on Saturday and frequent middle of the night phone calls. If I was killed tomorrow, what would my kids remember about me? That I was gone all the time? That I was too tired to read stories at night? That I had to leave my son's birthday party because a soldier passed out in formation because said soldier failed to drink water while on pass? If I stayed in the Army (my plan at the time), would these things get better or worse?
The answer, to me, was obvious. I could quit on the Army, but not on my kids. So I did. I turned down my dream assignment to follow a path that I felt my uncle helped point me towards. So when I am here for school pick up and drop off, when I pack a kid's lunch and then drive the lunch to school after it is forgotten, my kids have the great-uncle that they don't remember to thank for it.
I guess that is as close to a happy ending as this kind of story can get. I am here with my children, not in Iraq and not in Afghanistan. I have six fantastic and rambunctious kids. I still miss my uncle very much, and am grateful for his life and how he lived it. I sure he is happy to have been an example for me, to keep my focus on the things that truly matter and are all too fleeting.
