Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters

by Lt Col Mark Weber

  The Georgians were all new to the job, so the captain didn’t even know the source of the problem. He finally came to me and said in a thick Russian accent, “All amunicion trooks mus goo to Chackpont 2, ser.” My mind flashed. Checkpoint 2 was the same place that truck exploded a few months ago. Kurdo explained that the drivers had come instead to this checkpoint because they were terrified of being hijacked with the same result as the other truck.

  In my most polite voice, I told the Georgian captain I worked for the Iraqi chief of defense and begged his help just this once. He nodded with his eyes closed, as if he were willing to help, but was not all that happy about doing it.

  The little, rumpled captain then turned to Dolph and gave a casual instruction. The lieutenant nodded with an intense gaze, then swung his radio off his back like a broadsword. He spoke into the radio with a tone and volume that made it sound as if he were ordering an airstrike on our position: “Alpa ex-rey, alpa ex-rey, slokem yak solum snowdney, glock snukem sleepney gope, jeneraley Iraqi mit,” he paused to look at my name tag, “Mayore Waberi … jeneraley Iraqi mit, Mayore Wa-beri.”

  (I paraphrase, with apologies to Russian-speaking people everywhere.)

  After some discussion and disagreements, approval was granted for the trucks to be searched at that checkpoint and allowed to pass. It was a small victory, and I really wondered what I had achieved. Had I just taught Kurdo and the Georgians that rules were meant to be broken?

  While the trucks were being scanned, I hung out with the drivers behind a blast wall. Through gestures and smiles, they tried to explain how thirsty and hungry they were and showed me their Iraqi money, as if I were a snack vendor; they had been too scared to stop anywhere for any reason.

  When their trucks cleared, I told them to follow me through the city to the defense ministry. Out of ignorance or complete disregard, they bolted out ahead of me as if someone had dropped a green flag on race day. They drove like sixteen-year-olds on a go-cart track, passing each other on corners and driving their trucks, teetering with weapons, as hard as they could.

  As we sped through the city, my head still throbbed from the fall, and the dried blood on my forehead stuck to the inner band of my Kevlar helmet like glue. But I was fine. Everything was fine. And this perspective helped me separate the danger of the situation from the humor of the outcome.

  If Nietzsche had had a better sense of humor, he would have said, “Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you funnier.”

  * * *

  Joseph Heller never wrote another great comic novel after Catch-22. Maybe that’s because he didn’t have cancer.

  Six years after my day as a gunrunner, I found myself in Rosemount, Minnesota, in December. Matthew, you had a swim meet, Kristin was already there, and I was running late. I texted Kristin for a reminder on the location. “Lakeville South High School.” I Googled the directions, grabbed something to eat, then darted out the door.

  Thirty minutes into the thirty-five-minute drive, the massive wad of bandages covering the deep incision in my abdomen sprang a leak, and I could feel warm bile and pancreatic fluid dripping down my belly and into my pants. (These fluids are caustic and were responsible for “eating” the hole in my abdomen since the surgery a year prior.)

  Cursing myself for not having changed the bandages before I left, I reached over in the dark to the passenger seat for my “travel bag” of bandages, but nothing was there. I pictured them right where I left them at the back door.

  Adjust fire!

  I remembered there was a Target store in nearby Lakeville, so I altered course. I cursed myself while grabbing every fast-food napkin I could find in my glove box in an attempt to control the growing mess in my waistband. (Just to give you some perspective, I would go through about 24 four-by-four bandages per day. But on “heavy days”—yes, ladies, this guy can relate—it would be double that number. That day … was a heavy day.)

  The idea of buying some diapers crossed my mind when I saw they sold only individually packaged bandages, ten to a box. And there were only two boxes left on the shelf. That would never carry me for the next four hours. (Yes, the “lady products” aisle is now part of my emergency response plan for future incidents, but I was still learning then.)

  Disgusted with my circumstances, and feeling pressure to make it to Matthew’s meet on time, I snatched the boxes from the shelf, made my way through checkout, and then ducked into the store bathroom. I lifted my shirt and just let the two dozen bright yellow, bile-soaked napkins drop into the sink. Then I peeled off the mass of tape and soaked bandages and let that fall into the sink as well.

  I needed something to wipe the acidic bile off my skin, so I went into a stall for some toilet paper, still holding my shirt up to my chin to keep it from getting any more soiled.

  As I turned to go back to the sink, an employee walked in. His eyes got as big as saucers as he took in the scene: Man standing in the middle of the bathroom with one hand holding a massive wad of toilet paper, his other hand holding his shirt up to his chin; standing next to a stinky, yellow, bandage-and-napkin-filled sink; sporting an exposed gut with a highly visible seventeen-inch-wide scar, a bullet-hole-looking open wound with yellow ooze coming out of it, and tubing with a big drainage bag hanging in full view.

  I saw an imaginary cartoon bubble appear above his head with the words “What kind of freak show we got goin’ on in here?”

  He awkwardly offered to help or get help, but I told him I had things under control. “It looks worse than it is … honest … I’m fine.”

  When I finally exited the bathroom, it was like hearing one of those record player needles screech off the vinyl. Every employee at those registers glanced my way—I felt like I was a car crash on the freeway. Except my accident was tying up traffic at Target.

  The bandage debacle now had me running further behind schedule. As I pulled up to the school, I sighed with frustration; the place looked like an industrial complex, and there was no external signage. “Just come in the main entrance. You can’t miss it,” Kristin had said. “And hurry, his race is coming up.”

  I glanced up at a directional sign in the foyer with arrows on it—no mention of any swimming pool.

  There were kids everywhere. “Excuse me,” I asked as one of them scurried past me. “Can you tell me where the swimming pool is?” He looked at me with a blank stare and said nothing. I pressed, “Are you from this school?” He finally mumbled in reply, “Uh, yeah … um, I don’t think we have a swimming pool?”

  I called Kristin back. “The people here tell me they don’t have a swimming pool. They said their pool is at a place called Kenwood Middle School.”

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know what to tell you. I saw the sign, and it said Lakeville South. Better hurry—you’re going to miss Matthew.”

  It turned out to be at Kenwood. I was incensed.

  Matthew’s race came and went, and as if on cue, my inadequate Target bandages began to leak again. I was partly mad at Kristin for what I thought were wrong directions, but I was madder at myself for being mad at her. I had no one to blame but myself, and I knew it.

  I roared home, pissed at the world. Not only did I miss a race Matthew had prepared hard for, but stinky, warm bile continued to leak down into my pants, which were now soaked through to the crotch. It felt as if I were slowly peeing on myself, and there was nothing I could do about it. No more bandages. No more fast-food napkins.

  Suddenly … lights. Red and blue, in my rearview mirror.

  Think it can’t get worse, Weber? Way to go, idiot.

  “License and registration, please,” the state trooper said politely from out of view on the driver’s side. I handed him my license.

  Within a second, noting my Iraq War license plates and the dress uniform in the backseat, he asked, “Are you active duty military?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He handed back my ID and stepped into full view. “Forget the registration. Do you know why I pulled y
ou over?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I was speeding … I know I was speeding.” I used a tone that was humble but not pitiful. I had no excuse, and I wasn’t going to offer one.

  “Why you in such a hurry?” he asked.

  “I’ve just got an awful mess here, and I suppose I just got in a hurry to get home,” I answered.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I laughed and said, “Well, this is going to sound shameless since I was speeding, but because you’re asking …” I lifted my shirt to reveal my Frankenstein mess. “It’s this.”

  His face looked like that employee’s from Target. “Do you need some help? Can you still drive? Can I get you somewhere?”

  “I know it looks bad, but I’m honestly fine … it’s just a mess, and I’m trying to get home.”

  He dispensed with the small talk. “Well, you take it easy, and just slow down for me, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And thank you for your service,” he added.

  * * *

  Not all tears are tears of sadness or despair. Sometimes they come from unbounded pride and joy, and I do believe if there is such a thing as a tonic for the soul, it is that feeling.

  Matthew, you were a shy and quiet freshman, a personality you’ve carried in the extreme since birth, at least around your parents. Several months after my massive surgery in August 2010, you said you were trying out for a solo in the school choir. Kristin and I dismissed the idea, thinking you probably just meant a try-out for the choir itself.

  After weeks of updates, you came home and yelled to me in the backyard, “Hey, Dad, I got the solo!”

  I went to Kristin and said, “He’s serious. What the heck do you think is going on here? Can you see him singing a freakin’ solo?”

  “No,” she said with a smile. “This should be interesting.”

  Of course we believed you were capable, but this spotlight seeking was completely uncharacteristic.

  We went to the choir concert with the expectation of seeing an overambitious freshman get an A for effort, but we were in for a surprise. Your voice boomed, you were in complete harmony with the piano, and we were enlightened.

  A few months later, you sang again. We were better prepared this time but still in a state of disbelief. Looking at the program pamphlet, we learned you had earned a varsity letter and were one of three students voted by your peers as Most Valued Choir Member—two distinctions you hadn’t mentioned to us. While we were attempting to process that information, the performance began.

  The song was listed as “Tell My Father,” which neither of us had heard before. You not only sang in tune, but with a conviction and emotion that was foreign to me until that moment.

  “Tell my father that his son didn’t run … or surrender.”

  My eyes burst with tears as I tried to catch my breath. You sang on, telling us all that he had carried his family name with honor, knowing that we are all judged by what we do … “while passing through.” The rest of the choir joined you, and the words continued to strip me bare to the bone. The song was a ballad about an American Civil War soldier, telling an unknown messenger to tell his father that he wore his blue uniform—the same dress uniform I wear today—with pride, that he bore the necessary sacrifice, that he had become a man, and that his father should not cry for him.*

  I could see you belting out the words with great emotion as you glanced at us periodically out of the corner of your eye.

  Did you really understand the full meaning behind the song?

  Your solo contained words and ideas you had heard from me on countless occasions, particularly since my diagnosis—to be strong and courageous in the face of the unknown, and that you are judged by your actions in this life. And of course you knew my passion for soldiering, but did you also remember my intense interest in the American Civil War? Or was the theme just coincidental? You were always quiet with us about your emotions and thoughts, particularly with the cancer, and I desperately wanted to believe you were communicating directly to me through this song.

  Then you sang a song about how we would meet again one day, but as men, and with honor, and again I felt the air pulled from my lungs.

  It was the last song of the concert. I didn’t know what to expect from you as you quietly approached me with a stoic look on your face. I tried to keep it together as I reached out to you, without saying a word, and quickly pulled you tight into my chest as the tears uncontrollably filled my eyes again. I felt your body softly jostle a bit in my arms as you gently cried, squeezed me just a little tighter, and said, “I love you, Dad.”

  I chuckled out of embarrassment. I rarely heard those words and had never heard them spoken with such emotion. They made my throat tighten more. I tried to lighten the moment, for both our sakes. “My God, it sounded like you were singing to me, buddy.”

  “I was, Dad,” you said.

  Countless readers of my online journal have apologized for laughing while they’ve had tears in their eyes over the past two years. But I think this is actually the sweet spot MacArthur was talking about.

  I propose to you that there is a time and a place for crying and laughing. And figuring out how to cry and laugh at hardship or death is a skill worth honing into a fine art when you’re young.

  Have you ever noticed how laughing babies never fail to bring us a smile and a warm feeling, no matter how we feel? Endorphins don’t just happen; you have to find a laughter trigger.

  Do you boys remember the times I got you to laugh when you were sad or mad? I’d get you to crack, but you tried like hell to keep that smile or laugh from coming through. You refused it.

  We all seem to find it much easier to let ourselves cry. See what happens when you let yourself laugh.

  Many times in a good life, you’ll laugh until you cry. And many other times, you’ll cry until you laugh. In the end, laughing and crying are more like cousins than strangers. They’re how honest human beings respond to a life they allow themselves to love, and my hope is that you have plenty of tears in your lives—of all kinds.

  * * *

  * Matthew’s performance can be viewed at www.tellmysons.com.

  Chapter Eight

  … TO DISCOVER THE SENSE OF WONDER, THE UNFAILING HOPE OF WHAT IS NEXT, AND THE JOY AND INSPIRATION OF LIFE.

  August 2012 (two years after diagnosis)

  NOVEMBER 2010

  Just three months after my original diagnosis and life-altering surgery, I was honored at a Minnesota Vikings football game in front of sixty-four thousand fans. I stood on that field in my army dress uniform, looking fairly pathetic—and feeling even worse.

  Under my uniform, I was a train wreck. I was barely able to stand in my emaciated 130-pound frame.

  What on earth was I doing at this grand-scale pity party?

  The announcer briefly outlined my service in the army and said I was being honored as their Hometown Hero. Scattered applause followed.

  Then he explained that I had been preparing for another combat tour that summer, handpicked by General Petraeus to serve with him in Afghanistan, but within weeks had been diagnosed with stage IV cancer. The crowd went silent.

  He went on to describe my perseverance and attitude since being diagnosed, introduced my wife and children, and then announced my name as if he were introducing a gladiator in the Roman Colosseum.

  Those sixty-four thousand fans jumped to their feet and exploded with applause. I could clearly see the faces of men and women wiping tears from their eyes in front of me. The announcer then had to yell over the crowd that they were going to promote me to lieutenant colonel.

  In the video of the event, the applause was so deafening that the announcer just stopped speaking.*

  Noah, you were then ten years old, and when the game was over you commented, “Dad, you looked like you were going to cry the whole time. Why were you so sad?”

  “Because having cancer doesn’t make me a hero, and I just wouldn’t be standing ou
t there without it.”

  It was Chaplain John Morris, our state chaplain and a good friend, who helped convince me I needed to change my thinking about the Vikings game and what my story meant to other people. He helped me realize that the tribute wasn’t much different than fourth down in a clutch situation in a big football game.

  The passion of the crowd wasn’t necessarily focused on what I had achieved, but in the unfailing hope—their unfailing hope—of what was still possible to overcome.

  The message from the crowd during that “fourth-down play,” as I have come to interpret it, wasn’t pity or sorrow, but hope—and love of another human being: “That,” they were saying, “is a guy I want to see fight and win!”

  MAY 2012

  Eighteen months after standing on that football field, I was much worse for wear but able and willing to acknowledge an incredible sense of wonder at still being alive and an unexpected discovery of joy and inspiration for life.

  My feeding tube had been removed, I had just finished penning a first-ever strategic communication plan for the Minnesota National Guard, and all my garden’s flowers were in full bloom.

  I still had a visible “bullet hole” in my abdomen and a catheter running through my ribs and liver, but the pain and nuisance had long become tolerable. I even got used to the idea of putting up with one or two bouts of sepsis per month, as my body seemed capable of fighting back so effectively in the thirty episodes I had experienced so far.

  Then on Memorial Day, some trouble with the bullet hole prompted me to visit the hospital. Dr. Ehrenwald ran a quick X-ray to gain some perspective on the size of the hole, and then we retired to his office to check it out.

  When the image of my abdomen appeared on the screen, my internal organs were as immediately familiar to me as the features on my own face. Forget the bullet hole. What I noticed instead was that the biggest tumor in my liver—the one that had been as large as a silver dollar—was now twice as big. And two of the other fifteen tumors were clearly “awake” again.