FEBRUARY 21, 2007
“LISTEN,” I WHISPER, “I’m not going to shine you on, or blow smoke. I have problems. I’d love to tell you that everything will work out just fine, that there’ll be a happy ending, but I can’t do that. I can’t make that promise to you.”
The hospital room is dark now. Jess is asleep in her bed. I cradle our newborn son in my arms and hold him close to my chest. Devon Workman. Our boy.
He’s awake and looking at me with big dark baby eyes. I scratch his nose, and I swear the little guy looks perplexed. He’s been floating around inside Jess, and all this stuff out here is new to him.
Every time I look in his eyes, we make a connection. I know he’s curious, unsure of his new and strange surroundings, so I try to give him as much comfort and love as I can.
He starts to chortle a little, like he’s winding up to cry again. I rock him and press him closer against me. That seems to soothe him for the moment and he falls silent again.
He was born a few hours ago after almost a day’s labor. My mom arrived the night Jess went into labor. Actually, I think the stress of her arrival triggered her water to break.
The delivery was a miracle. Jess was amazing. I saw a wellspring of strength in her that I’ve never even glimpsed before. Between contractions, I fed her ice shavings and told her I loved her. She threw up several times, and seemed mortified to have done so in front of my mom. They don’t get along very well. I washed her clean, and gave her more ice whenever she asked.
When Devon arrived, the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. The doctor cut it and took my boy away to examine him. Tears flowed. We cried together as only a new mother and father can do.
Right then, as the doc brought him back to us, I knew joy again. At the same time, I felt despairing sadness; Raleigh and Eric and James watched us as sure as I was there. I want to say they were happy for my new family, but the truth is I kept thinking how they will never experience this life-altering, wonderful event. My tears of happiness mingled with tears of loss. The moment became agonizingly bittersweet.
The nurses brought me part of the umbilical cord and asked me if I wanted to cut it. I demurred.
“Oh no you don’t!” Jess roared at me from the bed. “I didn’t just go through twenty hours of labor to have you not cut the cord!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I told her and took the pair of scissors offered to me. I cut the cord symbolically, and turned to see Jessica’s reaction. She was smiling. Still a rare thing these days, but we’re working on that.
I hold my son and dream of summer softball and family barbeques. If he’s anything like his old man, he’ll be a holy terror. I can’t wait to give him his first mitt and baseball. We’ll go to the park and I’ll teach him how to throw. In winter, we’ll shoot hoops. I’ll show him how to dodge and juke a linebacker right out of his jock. I know he has the genes of an athlete with Jess and me as his parents.
Oh yeah, and we’ll teach him how to golf, too.
I hold my index finger under one tiny hand. His fingers wrap around mine with surprising strength.
Jess’s family has this strange genetic trait. They all have crooked pinkies. When Devon was first handed to me earlier tonight, I counted to make sure he had all ten fingers and toes.
I turned to Jess and started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she said with an exhausted grin.
“He’s got your pinkies,” I said as I held up one hand. We both burst out laughing. My mother was not amused, which only made Jess laugh harder.
Now he holds on to his dad with all his newborn might.
There will be so much to teach him, not just the basics of all the sports I’m sure he’ll play. I’ve got to teach him how to be a man.
That’s a challenge, especially given the fact that at twenty-three, I’m still learning the ropes myself.
But I have many role models now to draw upon. Major D., for one. Phillip Levine, the Marine with the lion’s heart, for another. When I am confronted with a challenge, I will turn to their examples and see what I can learn. I’ll pass those lessons on to my son. And someday, when he’s ready, I’ll tell him of Raleigh and Eric and James.
“They’ll always be with me, you know,” I whisper to my son. “They’re here right now. I blink, and I see them. That’s what PTSD does. The record of my life has a scratch right on December 23rd. I see them over and over and over.”
Jessica stirs, but doesn’t wake. The monitor she’s attached to blips softly in one corner. A nurse pops her head in the room and asks if everything is okay.
I give her a thumbs-up. “We’re great.”
As she leaves, I look down at my son again. His eyes are half-lidded. He’s starting to drift in the comfort of my arms.
“I’ll see them every day, Devon. You’ll have to know this, and understand that there will be rocky days ahead for me. For Jess. For you. Decembers will be the worst.”
His grip on my finger wanes. His crooked pinkie slips and slides off. His arm sinks into the warmth of his bundled blanket.
“It won’t be Disneyland. I don’t even know if Jess and I will make it. We still have so much to work on. But know that we love each other, and we will always love you. I will always love you.”
Tears fall again. I’m not ashamed. These past two years I’ve cried more than the rest of my life combined. It is one of the effects of PTSD and the trauma that gave birth to it. I’m hyperemotional and live on the bleeding edge of my feelings now that I’m not zombied by a prescription drug cocktail. I still take antidepressants, but I am no longer a walking lobotomy patient. I hurt. I feel rage. I feel joy, like tonight. There is pleasure again in my life, as well as bouts of profound sadness. I’ll take the bad with the good and try to be the man Jess knows lurks inside me.
“There will be times you’ll hate me. I know that. You won’t understand what I’m going through, and I’ll take it out on you. I know myself too well. But I will try to have the courage to admit when I’m wrong. I’ll do my best to set everything right when I’ve messed up.”
I look up at Jess and see that her eyes are open. She’s watching her boys with such love on her face that I feel a spike of pure emotion.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s just great, Jess.”
“Having your first father-son talk?”
“I guess. Do you need anything?” I ask.
“You.”
“I need you, too.”
“Does that leave you conflicted?”
“Not anymore.”
“Good.” Jess sighs and starts to drift back off. I watch her in silence.
“Jessica? Do you still regret having the dream?”
“You mean our prophecy?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“How can I when it led us here?”
We both smile. A teenage dream, adult realities—they make for an uncertain future I guess. I can’t make any guarantees about it.
Then don’t. Empty promises just lead to heartache.
“I want you to be proud of me someday,” I tell my son. “I need that more than anything.”
Every day is a new battle in this long campaign. There will be no decisive victory. There’s no finish line with chronic PTSD. It all comes down to managing it and learning to live with its effects.
“It conquers you, or you conquer it. That’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it? And some days, I’ll lose the fight. But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up on the campaign. It just means I’ll have to come back harder and more determined the next day. And the next. To do anything else disgraces the men who died that day.”
My son’s eyes close. His fingers grow still and his breathing becomes soft and rhythmic.
“I swear to you, no matter how many setbacks, no matter how many days I lose the battle, I will never stop fighting … because I’m fighting now for you.”
My own eyes grow weary. It’s been an emotional day. I have one last thing to say before it ends.
My lips touch Devon’s forehead, and I kiss him with all the love a father can know. He smells fresh and clean, a pure soul with his tale yet to be written.
“I will never give up the fight, Devon. That’s my promise to you.”
I follow my son into a deep and comforting sleep.