but he was already gone

Wednesday, April 26 2006- The Big Day

8:45am- The alarm clock tells me if I don't get up now, I'll never get Chris to the recruiting office on time. The incessant chiming is unnecessary, I'm already awake. Actually, even though I'm still in bed, I've been quite busy...thinking/worrying/praying/crying/recounting/regretting/crying/hoping/
praying/crying...
basically, conjuring up every conceivable way to insure this day will be every bit as painful as it promises to be. I'm thinking: after years of waking Chris up for school- sometimes 2 or 3 times-today may be the last time I have to do it. (Even though our morning wake-up ritual was never enjoyed by either of us, today I cherish it.)



And that is my thought process the rest of the morning: this may be the last time.... (I am the queen of self-torture.)


Chris' friend, Matt came over earlier to "hang out" and tell Chris 'bye. Before I drag myself into the shower, I peek in on Chris. He's sacked out on the bed- Matt is sprawled out on the floor. Like a couple of teenagers without a care in the world. I close the door and cry.



10:40am- Me, Chris , Matt & Mia pile into the car. It's painfully quiet (well, except for Mia, who is babbling in her sweet, oblivious one-year old way.) Stop one-Grandma's. Chris gets out, says good-bye, back in two minutes-tops. More silence. I can't stand it, so I tune the radio to one of Chris' favorite stations and we're off to Stop two-Circle K. Chris gets an energy drink and tells Matt 'bye. (He lives a couple of houses from the store and walks home from there.) Their good-bye was as casual as if to say, "See 'ya tomorrow." I want to cry, but don't. We make a quick stop at the bank, and it's on to the recruiting office. Chris is on his cell phone, Mia is strangely quiet, and I'm trying not to think.



11:25am- We walk into the office with 5 minutes to spare. Chris' recruiter, Sgt. Thompson (can't say enough good things about her) met us at the door. She checked his paperwork, offered some words of encouragement, and walked us to the van. The driver is at the wheel, and the rest of the van is empty, and I can't stand the thought of Chris riding all the way to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) in New Orleans by himself, and I want to cry, but I will not cry, and I want to get this over with, but I don't want this moment to end. I tell Mia to kiss her brother "good-bye", and she offers the top of her head to him. He kisses her, and it's my turn. I'm holding Mia, so I can only hug him with one arm...but I can still hug him tight. With a kiss, I tell him I love him, I'm going to miss him, and he will be just fine. I tell him to call me as soon as he can. He says he will and he loves me, too. One more good-bye, and I start back to my car. Silent tears are rolling down my cheeks. Once Mia is settled into her car seat I turn to wave good-bye...but he was already gone.

Three Days in the Making

Before Chris left, I decided I would create a blog to 1. preserve the memories of this important time of his life. 2. Allow his family and friends to feel "connected" to him- if only vicariously through me. and 3. To help me cope with a very real, very hard case of "Empty Nest Syndrome."

I fully intended to dive right into this project the day before he left...but I couldn't. I was too busy taking in all the little things about him that I was afraid I might forget. I was savoring the time he made for me and his little sister...time he usually spent barricaded in his bedroom-on the phone or playing video games. And I simply couldn't gather the strength to confront my own feelings.

Oh well, I could always get right on it after he left....

Did I really believe that???

Three days have passed. The tears are always just below the surface. And this is very hard...but it's a start.

Just the basics

I spent the last seventeen years of my life (attempting) to protect my son from danger and pain, heartbreak and need. Yesterday, with a kiss and a hug (and a choked-up good-bye,) my shift ended. Chris is my firstborn, a young man-and yet, my baby. He is an American Soldier. This is my way of coping in his absence. I miss him so much it hurts.