It has been really hard being in Iowa and so far from all of the festivities involved with honoring you in our small town. I have had my feelings hurt, felt left out, and I have been jealous of those who get to visit your grave. I have wanted to visit you, talk with you and feel your presence there too. Your sister says that visiting you is peaceful and healing for so many people.

I arrived in Colorado yesterday morning and drove straight down to your grave. It took me awhile to find you, and I felt almost panicked as I walked up and down the rows looking for your stone, as if you were a small child lost in the shopping mall. But you could no longer be lost. I was desperate to feel close to you again, and have the experiences that others were describing, and there you were. I sat down and prayed, spoke to you, prayed, spoke to you… I struggled to connect. There were some old flowers in a vase by your tombstone and I felt awful! What kind of mother doesn’t bring flowers? I got back in the car and drove around, finally finding a place where I bought the brightest most colorful flowers for my artist. I returned to the cemetery, replaced the flowers, gave them more water and sat down. And there I sat. I prayed, tried to feel you, prayed… but there I sat. Where is my boy? Eventually, I realized that there is nothing natural about this for me. I am sitting on top of a box containing your body. I looked at your tombstone with the name I gave you 22 years ago right above the date when I gave birth to you. I felt nothing but grief. You’re supposed to be sitting here. I’m supposed to be in the box. I was supposed to go first! This is all wrong! This is all that’s left in this world of my sweet son who brought me years of joy?

I tried so hard to connect and thought, “Why can’t I feel you here, Jake? Why isn’t this healing for me? I miss you so much. I want to be the one in the box, not you!” I begged to trade places and realize how impossible that request was, so I prayed. I prayed that you are happy and cared for. I prayed that you are being taught incredible things, and I prayed that I might find a special place where I can feel you too. It isn’t here. Not today.

I feel so guilty because I’m not sure I can keep coming to Colorado. My life here was to keep you and Hannah close to your dad, but Hannah is grown and independent and without you, Thornton is unbearable. This town is filled with memories, both good and bad and I need to move on. I feel so much remorse for leaving and trying to build a new life in Iowa, because I feel as though I am leaving you.  Your memorials and your grave are here. You loved this town and this state and never wanted to leave. If you could only give me permission I could do what is best for me, but I feel so much guilt. Maybe I don’t yet care about what is best for me. I do know this; I can’t bear to be in Colorado and I can’t bear to be in Iowa. Is there any place that I could bear to be right now? Probably not.

I prepare to walk away from your grave feeling so defeated and in my mind I hear you say, “It’s alright, mom. It’s okay, mom”. When you were alive, you would so often tell me these words that I can hear your actual voice in my mind. Thank you for coming to my mind, Jake. As I drove home from the cemetery something miraculous (or crazy) happened. I’m not sure, but I am grateful. I kept feeling a sense that you were sitting next to me in the car. I kept looking over because the feeling was so strong. I even felt like you were wearing your tan pants, blue shirt and a tie just like you would have worn to church on Sunday, and it was Sunday. Why were you with me in the car, yet I couldn’t feel you at the cemetery? Was this your way of telling me that you are not in one place? That I don’t need to go to the cemetery to feel you?

I think you will always stay with me no matter where I go. What a great blessing to finally know this. You are not in one place, but with all of us no matter where we are!

You died 2 months ago today and it’s your niece’s first birthday. I told you she’d be walking when you got home and she is walking. I’m sure you can see her if you want to. I’ve decided that you must be close to us. I feel you. If heaven is truly paradise then you can’t be there missing us or it wouldn’t be paradise. I believe that you are not feeling the pains of this world, but you must be a part of our lives here. We just don’t get to be a part of yours. Not right now.

I’ve been wanting to write, because it seems to help at times, but your sister and your sweet nieces came to visit me and it was really nice to have them to myself for a bit, away from the madness in Colorado. I foolishly thought they would distract me from my grief. Do you remember accusing me of paying attention to nobody else when the granddaughters were around? Although I did love every minute with them last week, I still can’t stop thinking about you no matter who I am with. Right now nothing else seems to matter.

I have learned that grief demands to be felt. I kept it in the best I could for almost a week, crying only in bed, but when I was finally able, I cried from 9 PM until after midnight. Just when I think I feel a little better, something triggers my emotions and I cannot stop the grief. I miss you so much, Buddy. I cannot seem to figure out how to live in this world without you. When you left, a bright light was extinguished in my world and I feel as though I am not living, but simply existing. I don’t feel like I care about things that I once cared about. Sometimes nothing seems to matter. Now that Ray has a permanent job, we could buy a house again, but it doesn’t really matter. I could have a better kitchen and enjoy culinary creativity like I used to, but I no longer care. I could put make-up on my face or wear something other than sweats, but it just doesn’t matter. Sometimes nothing matters but missing you. I am really good at that.

Two more were lost from you unit two days ago. They died on a Thursday just like you. My heart is breaking for these families, as they are experiencing everything we’ve been through over the past two months. One is a 19 year-old from a town very close to Aunt Laura in California. The other is a 30 year-old man from Nebraska with a wife and children. They were killed by a road-side improvised explosive device. I’m trying to figure out how to get a letter to their families. It would have helped me so much to have had someone else in my shoes to communicate with. I want to help them somehow, but because of privacy reasons, I can’t get the information. They were from your unit and we have a bond. I am so sorry we have that bond, but there it is. I won’t stop until I find them!

I Did Not Take the Oath

I did not take the oath; I did not raise my hand.

All I did was have a child who grew to be that man.

He did his job with honor; his men he led with pride.

He was not afraid to fight; he was not afraid to die.

The baby I held in my arms, the boy who became a man,

He put himself in danger in a foreign land.

He said not to worry; he said, “I will come home.”

Those words come back to haunt me… Spoken over a phone.

The knock on the door is always just a moment ago;

The tears in my eyes, the pain that breaks my soul

For I did not take the oath; I did not raise my hand.

All I did was raise a child who grew to be that man.

The baby that I held, the child I watched grow

Filled my heart with so much joy as only mothers can know

The memories of his life will stay with me forever.

The connection of our hearts can never be severed.

He is now a fallen hero and I a Gold Star Mother,

Because he gave his life for the protection of others.

But I did not take the oath; I did not raise my hand.

All I did was raise a boy who grew to be that man.

Linda Lamie, surviving mother of Sgt Gene Lamie

Happy Birthday Buddy!

The most difficult thing about losing you is that after 22 years of putting you first, meeting your needs and often your desires, loving you more than myself and supporting you in your endeavors, it became a part of my identity and a part of my life’s purpose. How does that change over night? How can I no longer operate as your mom?

I don’t know if my prayers for you are needed, but I need to do something for you, so I will continue to pray for your welfare and happiness. I am confident I will see you again and you will always be my son. I know it in my heart and I will never let go of this hope that drives me to keep going daily to do the best I can.

The pain from missing you is just as intense as it was in the beginning. I sometimes wonder if I will ever be normal again. I can only lean on my Father in Heaven for so much, because for some reason I am meant to feel this pain. Please help me to know that one day, it will all make sense. It has to make sense! Happy Birthday my beautiful son! I miss you so much.

All of the soldiers who were on your helicopter came home early. Some were severely wounded and some with minor injuries. I had the opportunity to speak to Sergeant Tech and he promised to answer all my questions. The Army has given me nothing because the investigation isn’t complete. I still have no cause of death and the coroner has been finished for weeks. I remain frustrated.

It appears that Jake’s team was routinely picking up an Afghani casualty and coming in for landing. They were close enough to the ground that they all unbuckled except the pilots. As they approached the ground, there was chaos. The Blackhawk shot back up into the air and spun out of control, throwing some from the helicopter and others jumped as they got close enough to the ground. The helicopter crashed and Sergeant Tech noticed that someone was actually under the “bird”. He said he was the first to respond. He checked for all signs of response and there were none. Jake had died quickly. The wounded were flown 45 minutes to Kandahar and the three that were not wounded stayed behind with Jake as equipment was flown in to free him from the 24,000 pounds of metal that lay upon his lifeless body. The jaws of life were used along with other equipment, and it took between 2 and 3 hours to free him. He was the last one to be flown to the Apache FOB and then to Kandahar. I was told that they usually respectfully lay the casualties on the floor of the chopper but the three of his brothers who returned with him gently laid him across their laps and held him for the entire 45 minute flight back. I was assured he was never left alone, but loved and cared for respectfully and honorably as he returned back to the base.

Jake, I’m so sorry this happened to you. Did you suffer? Were you afraid? Did you see the helicopter crashing down on you? I have always had a need to care for you and to protect you, but I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t make this better for you. I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry, my sweet Jake. I would do anything to change this but I can’t. This is a vision I never wanted in my head, but details I needed to know. I’m so sorry, Jake.

Since I’ve been home from Colorado, I’ve tried to figure out what to do about photos. The photos we used for the funeral were all recent and all in uniform except one senior picture taken at the end of high school. These funeral pictures sat in the living room for weeks after we buried Jake. I couldn’t bear putting them away, but I also couldn’t bear the daily reminder of what was still so fresh, and then I realized what it was. There are some that only knew Jake a short time. They only knew him as a soldier, but for me he was my infant and child, artist, baseball player, Christian, comedian, deep thinker, my snuggler, my “mini-me”, and as an adult, my friend. Jake was by far one of my favorite people I’ve ever met and I valued every second with him. I realized that these photos reminded me of his one year in the military; of his death. But putting them away felt like a betrayal.

As I perused older photos of Jake, I didn’t have the same feelings. They brought happy memories, memories that were complete, stages of his life that were lived and accomplished. There were no regrets and nothing was left unfinished. The military pictures are a reminder of a stage cut short. A reminder that he is gone and is never coming back to complete this life. A reminder that he is not coming back to be a part of my life that is not yet finished; a life I fully expected him to be a part of. It’s been just over 6 weeks and I keep thinking he’s coming back to finish what he started. I still imagine him coming through the door shouting, “Hey Mom”. I can hear his voice and see his smile, and I still struggle to believe that he only lives in the depths of my memory or in my imagination or both. I hope and pray that the day will come when I know he’s gone and I can still smile at the recent photos of this life cut short. Right now I cannot, so with sadness and guilt I put away these beautiful pictures of a stage in Jake’s life, the last stage that I am so proud of yet so hurt by. I will replace them with photos of stages completed and treasure that we had so many together.

I’ve heard that love and grief are two sides of the same coin. It must be so. It might be wise for me to remember this each day as I sometimes become impatient with my grief. After all, my grief should be monumental because my love for Jake is. It’s been six weeks since he left this world which seems in one sense like a short period of time but in another sense, extremely long. Maybe it’s because the days move so slowly. There was a time beyond six weeks ago when at the end of the day I had frustration in accomplishing so little, especially on the days my chronic illnesses weren’t cooperating toward accomplishment. Now, just getting dinner made is a complete and full day. I have days that are less teary but even when my pain improves, I’m aware that I’ve lost my membership in “normal” society.  I feel I don’t belong as I once did. I feel as if have a new membership in a secret society of mourners and no matter how badly I don’t want to belong, my dues have been paid. I’m here and I have to be a part of it. Even if I could tell others about our secret grieving society, I would get a sad, “sorry”, but there is no way they could ever really understand that we exist. I am still a bit shocked when the postal worker or grocery clerk asks, “How are you”? It actually surprises me. If I gave a truthful answer, they might feels sad or tell me how sorry they are, but they would never truly understand because they are not likely cardholders. There are so few, and even though I am buying groceries, I am acutely aware of the inexplicable separation between me and the other shoppers. Without my conscious permission, I am on my own.

I think back at the dinner given after we laid Jake to rest. I was sitting next to my father and I thought how odd that he had no words of advice or comfort. He seemed a bit lost and as I scanned the room, I realized that I was the only one there who had ever buried a child. This loss is so rare, yet I had never realized it before. The Lord needed my sweet boy. Not the children of these people, at least not yet, but He needed mine. For some reason, He needed my young son of 21, young and just beginning his life. I could ask, “Why?”, but what’s the point? My ways are not His ways, my needs are not His needs, but my son is His son. So I am left without anger and without any significant questions, but with a broken heart and what seems like the inability to live in a world without Jake. Will I ever feel a part of life around me again? Will I ever belong to the normal society again, and actually feel as if I am a part of this world?