Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (33 page)

“Hi, Brooke, how are the boys doing?” I asked, worried about what I might hear about her sons.

“Things are well, but could certainly be better. Then again I guess I could say that with just about everything,” Brooke said with a slight laugh in her voice as she tried to keep a positive attitude about it all. She was a special woman who had endured decades of a lifestyle that could have easily bred bitter feelings, but instead she dedicated herself to Chief ’s kids and thought about the day when she’d be able to retire.

“That’s good to hear. Things are going fairly well over here, too.”

Brooke and I always started our conversations by telling one another about all the good things going on in our lives, then after a few minutes, we’d begin to open up to one another.

“Mark, I can’t help it, I’m still angry over the whole thing. It’s not fair! I did everything I was supposed to do, believing one day Chief and I would have our time together, but that never happened. I know eventually it will get better, but when is that day coming?”

“I’m not sure, Brooke, but it will get better.”

“For some reason, I’m stuck in the past and just can’t break free,” she said, her voice full of tears.

I felt ashamed for being alive as I listened to her talk. Her anger wasn’t directed at me; it was a venting of cumulative frustration felt by a grieving military widow, and her words nearly echoed words that had been said in my home. So many times I told Korrina and the kids I was only going to be gone for a little while, but the little whiles kept running into one another. Brooke had heard that from Chief for years, and it still haunted her.

“I know what you mean. I’ve been trying to get past this, too,” I said, thinking about how every wounding or death seemed to stir up anger and disappointment about the wars. “When I close my eyes, I imagine Chief is just off somewhere on a mission and one day he’ll come walking through the door.” I didn’t know what to say beyond that, so I just listened. I didn’t want to risk making it worse. She told me about her dreams, and they were anything but crazy. They merely reflected the military lifestyle she had known for most of her adult life.

Chief was 100 percent warrior, spending nearly every moment of his career
operating,
a term we use to describe life on a spec ops team. Although operating is what every SEAL, Green Beret, Ranger, etc., lives for, the time away from the family can be extensive. Whether it’s deploying into combat, training stateside, or training foreign troops thousands of miles away, it’s always the same for the family back at home. Everyone from the parents to the wife and, of course, the children copes with the operator’s absence. For Brooke, the absence was permanent, and the struggle was exacerbated by raising a teenage boy transitioning to manhood with no father at home.

“Mark, you know how proud we are of Chief, but he chose to be a full-time warrior and part-time father. Now that he’s gone his sons don’t even have that anymore.”

“Brooke, if I had the opportunity to trade places with him, trust me, I—” I tried to finish the sentence, but she cut me off before I could.

“Don’t say that, Mark.”

I tried to continue but could only stumble over words as I attempted to justify how it would have been better if I had been the one who died that day.

“Enough!” she yelled.

The phone went quiet, and I once again wondered what things would be like had he turned the vehicle in the other direction.

“Brooke, I am so sorry for what everyone is having to go through,” I said, trying to make us both feel better.

“Mark, it’s not your fault. I know what you’re thinking; I can hear it in your voice. We love you, and you know there’s nothing more that you or anyone else could’ve done.” Brooke never once faulted me for Chief ’s death, but the conversations about the boys were always a bit awkward.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “You know I never wanted it this way.”

“None of us wanted it this way, Mark. All we can do now is try to make the most of our lives. It’s what all of them would have wanted us to do.”

“I’m trying, Brooke, but it’s hard. I’m learning to become a dad again and not just be a biological father.”

We spoke for several more minutes, then said our farewells, both of us missing Chief in a bad way.

I then took a deep breath and began dialing Chris’s father.

*   *   *

A few weeks later, I took leave and flew out to San Diego, hoping the warm California sun and quality time with the family would calm the turmoil I was feeling. Korrina had settled into her job at Coronado, and by the time I arrived Tabetha had already joined Korrina and her stepbrother, Cody. Our first forty-eight hours together were fantastic and full of laughter and happiness in the home. On the third day, however, the train flew off the track when an inattentive driver nearly ran me over as I took the dogs for their morning walk. I would’ve been fine had he not cursed me as the car screeched to a halt. I stood there confused for a second or two, but when I saw his face full of anger I was suddenly consumed by an aggressive rage, and he saw every bit of it. He sped off quickly, and I watched as he pulled in in front of the corner coffee shop. I quickened my pace to confront him. My heart was racing and my throat was dry as anger and angst flowed through every inch of my body. Thankfully, by the time I got there he was on his way out of the shop.

“You almost ran me over and you’re cursing at
me
? You stupid f***ing imbecile, if you can’t say ‘I’m sorry’ then you keep your damn mouth shut!” I yelled at him as my mind focused on one thing: battle. His surprise turned to fear, very quickly and with good reason. In my mind I went from walking the sunny streets of San Diego to patrolling the back roads of Iraq or Afghanistan. I dropped the dual leash and stared him in the eyes for less than a second before scanning his hands for a weapon and his torso for a possible explosive vest. Even as my eyes kept close watch over him and I moved myself into a position that would prevent anyone approaching me from behind, I started to examine every object on the outdoor tables that I could use to defend myself or as a weapon.

“Look, I didn’t see you and—” he yelled back with an attitude.

“Shut the f*** up! And get over there!” I yelled, interrupting him midsentence. Pointing toward the street, I continued to maneuver him into a position that would allow me time to react. He walked backward into the street, and as my eyes swept the area I felt like a part of me had stepped outside of myself and was watching everything that was occurring. I tried speaking to myself, “Let it go, you’re wrong, you need to just let it go,” but I wasn’t listening.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said trying to defuse the situation.

I snapped out of the combat trance, and my rational inner voice told me to let it go.

“Go! Get out of here! Now!”

He jumped into his car and drove away. My hands started to shake, and a thousand pounds of weight fell upon my shoulders, forcing me into a patio chair.
I’m so f***ed up,
I said to myself. Or maybe I said it out loud; at that point it was impossible to separate reality from delusion.
I can’t go home this way; maybe I shouldn’t go home at all?
As I contemplated the irrationality of my behavior, my dogs came to my side, each leaning on the chair as if to say,
We’re here, too.

I found out at an early age that nothing is more dangerous than a cornered beast. Size and strength are indifferent when humans or animals are trapped. They’ll fight with extreme violence to the very end because they have nothing to lose but their lives. I used to think of this only in the literal sense, but now I realize it’s far more dangerous when a man is so mentally or emotionally wounded that he feels his life has become meaningless. I first witnessed this in my father’s eyes and later reconfirmed it on the battlefield as I stared into the faces of enemy fighters who absorbed round after round, yet still kept coming. Men in this state of mind neither understand nor accept the threat of physical violence or pain being used against them; it only strengthens their resolve.

I sat for two hours before returning home to ensure I left any residual anger in the street and out of the home. I couldn’t let the rest of them know that I was still locking myself in the upstairs office, yet trying to figure a way out.

21

DARKNESS AND LIGHT

It is a brave act of valor to condemn death, but where life is more terrible than death, it is then the truest valor to dare to live.

—S
IR
T
HOMAS
B
ROWNE

I returned to Virginia and managed to keep it together at work, but each week I’d receive disheartening news about another friend being wounded or killed. As I struggled to put it all together I reached out to an old mentor, only to receive word that the son of another close friend, who was killed the year before Chief and Chris lost their lives, was continuing to have difficulties adjusting to the loss of his father. His family was still having trouble, too; it was demoralizing. I began to realize how truly ignorant I was about the total effects of war. The more I thought about it, the more depressed I became, until irrational thoughts of responsibility started to fill my mind. I remembered the day he was buried, and how I felt the war was finally over for them when in reality their battles were just beginning. Hearing the sons and daughters of close friends and teammates were suffering made me feel as if I had somehow abandoned them—but what could I do? I was still trying to deal with keeping my Jekyll and Hyde temperament hidden from my own family. One moment I’m loving and joking, and the next I might be broodingly angrily or locking myself away. I allowed the deployments and isolation to separate me from my family, and I didn’t know how to get back.

Work had become a way to pass the time until I made it home to a bottle of vodka and anything in the medicine cabinet that would help me to sleep through the night. When not at work, I’d sit on the couch shifting my eyes from the scenes outside the window to pictures of Korrina and the kids I hung on the wall for inspiration, but it wasn’t working. I found myself constantly thinking about how the slow decline of my father nearly destroyed our family, and how the pattern was repeating in my own. His battles may not have been as up close and personal as mine, but it looked like the end result might be the same. I wondered how much longer it would be before I couldn’t walk away from a confrontation and my anger would turn to violence. I had already begun to experience explosive episodes of rage, and despite my best efforts I couldn’t stop myself from self-medicating with alcohol. I was lying to the folks I loved the most, and with Korrina thousands of miles away there was no way for her to know any different. Every few days a friend would stop by or invite me to dinner, concerned for my well-being, but I deflected their concerns and locked myself away. I was self-destructing and I knew it; I just wondered if I would end up wrecking my family in the process.

I felt alone and scared of what I might do. I wanted to call Korrina but knew it would only increase her stress and in turn increase my feelings of despair. I turned the television on, but the snowy screen and constant sound of the static failed to provide their normal relief, so I drank until the bottle was nearly empty. I remember getting up and walking into the bedroom, thinking I would finally be able to close my eyes. I spotted my weapon case peeking out from under the bed. I’m still not sure what I was thinking, if anything at all, but for some reason I carried it back to the living room. I placed it on the coffee table in front of me and unlocked it. Next thing I knew, I had the pistol in my hand and had pushed a magazine through its handle, loading the gun. Like so many times before, I felt as if I were watching myself from across the room. I remember thinking I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t sad; in fact, I had no emotion whatsoever. I was indifferent to everything around me; all I knew was I needed help before I hurt someone. I gripped the pistol and went back to staring out the window. The phone rang, and I felt that instead of ignoring it, I had to answer.

“Marky, this is your mother. Something told me to call you,” Mom’s voice said over the receiver.

“Something or someone, Mom?”

“Oh, you know, it was either God or one of the invisible men your sister talks to when she’s here with me, but at my age I can never tell which is which,” she said, laughing. “Besides, I know they’re just messengers from God. Now if I can just get them to tell her to remember to take her medication it would be much easier for both of us.” I couldn’t believe she was able to laugh in spite of all the difficulties she’d encountered as a parent of a schizophrenic daughter, a husband suffering from dementia, and a house full of youth trying to reform their lives.

“Mom, how do you do it?”

“Do what, mijo?”

“How do you keep going? Life’s been hell, but it always seems like it doesn’t matter to you.” My voice was starting to crack as I tried to hold back the tears.

“Mijo, I don’t do anything. When things get too much, like they are for you now, I ask for help. You know, people want to help. You just have to let them know how.”

“I need help, Mom.”

“I know you do, mijo, that’s why I was told to call you.”

We talked for hours, and I listened to stories about my father and how he always let his pride get in the way. She mentioned how he gambled the car away when I was much younger, something I never knew about. We talked about the drunken fits, which nearly put her in the hospital, and the other problems she still encountered as she balanced time between Dad and my sister. It tore me up to hear about it, but Mom talked as if she were telling a story about work or the meaning of the priest’s homily.

“Mom, why do you talk about Dad that way?” I asked. “You speak about him as if he’s a saint, even when you’re talking about how much of a devil he’s become.”

“Marky, that’s the only way your father knows how to let me know he needs help, and I’m just trying to be there when he calls.” She paused for a few seconds to let the frustration she heard in my voice settle. “In his spirit your father is still a good man, and that’s all that matters, at least to me. Now promise me you won’t ask of Korrina what your father asks of me. It’s time to swallow your pride, mijo, and accept some help.”