War...and Peace, Part 1

William Sherman was absolutely right when he said that war is hell. I know this first hand. No, I've never served in the U.S. Armed Forces, and I've never been on a battlefield except for various field trips I've taken over the course of my years studying the history of our great nation, but I can honestly say from personal experience that war is definitely hell.

I'm sure you're wondering how I can be so definitive about something I readily admit not experiencing first-hand, but I'm not talking about the kind of war you probably think I'm talking about. I'm not talking about the war with bullets flying to and fro as airplanes drop bombs over massive acres of land in order to take out as many enemies as they possibly can at once, all because the people being bombed believe in a different set of ideals than those doing the bombing. No, I'm not talking about that kind of war. Sherman was, however, and from stories I've been told by numerous sources who can say they've been in a war zone, I understand that Sherman was right.

War is hell.

But anyway, I digress.

The type of war I'm talking about is an emotional one. It's a war that I've personally gone through over the past one and a half years of my life, and I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt from my experience that war is absolutely hell. If you've ever encountered the pain and suffering that I've been through since last September, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. Otherwise, you're just going to have to take my word for it and believe me when I tell you that I know what I'm talking about, and the crap that I've been through over the past year and a half truly is an emotional war, and therefore - per General Sherman - it is hell.

In case you're not aware of this emotional malaise that I am referring to; in September 2010, my brother (my only brother, mind you) was diagnosed with cancer. At the time, I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know how sick he really was, or how far the cancer had spread, or if the cancer was even treatable. I didn't know how much time he would have left on this earth.

(That's the scary part - the unknown. It's hard enough to deal with trials when you have the information at hand, but it's a whole new level of difficult when you don't have a clue what's going to happen next.)

Looking back, I wish I would have known that he would only have as much time as he did, because when you know what time the clock is going to hit zero you tend to be more prepared than you are if you have no clue what's going to happen next. Of course, knowing the outcome is considered cheating, because none of us are allowed the privilege of knowing what's in store for us at any given time. But, it sure would be nice to have the capability to look at a specific point in the space-time continuum and know exactly when and where the end will take place, because having that competitive advantage against death would make things a lot easier for everyone involved, and honestly we could use every advantage over death that we can get.

But enough about me. This part of the story is supposed to be about my brother. After all, he's the reason I'm writing these words at this very moment. Although if I were to be truly honest with you, I'm doing this for myself as well, if for nothing more than to help me cope with the events that have unfolded since his diagnosis.

Notice I used the word cope. I used that word because it's really all I'm able to do at this point. I'm finally to the point where I can make it a few weeks without having a breakdown, and I've finally accomplished the feat of sleeping throughout the night more than one night in a row, but I'm still in the "coping" stage. To be completely honest I'll probably never get past that stage, because I don't think I'll ever fully accept that he's gone.

They say that time heals all wounds, and that might be true. But, I do know that if it is true, it's going to take a lot of time. We're talking the "coal turning into a diamond" realm of time here. And, that's okay. It's perfectly normal as far as I'm concerned, even though I'm not exactly what you would call an expert on "normal".

(Okay, I'm making this about myself again, so I'm going to move on and tell my brother's story. Well, part of it anyway. If I tried to tell his whole story I would have to write a novel.)

My brother was a member of the US Army who did three tours of duty in Iraq and one tour of duty in Afghanistan. He was a member of the Special Forces group out of Fort Campbell, KY for the first three tours of duty, but then he was re-assigned to Fort McCoy, WI when he was sent to Afghanistan. Of course, if life were fair (which we all know it's not), he would have never went to Afghanistan in the first place. He had served his initial contract which included the first three tours of duty, and when it was time for his contract to expire he chose not to re-enlist because he wanted to stay home and finish getting his Bachelor's Degree.

The Army had different plans for him. They called him back three years later, and told him he was being sent to Afghanistan. One of the benefits in joining the Army (at least for them) is that they can call a soldier back into duty at any time up to four years after their contract expires. (However, they can only give a returning soldier one set of orders, and they can't keep the soldier for more than one calendar year.) Since my brother was within his four year "probation period" (for lack of a better term), he was eligible to be called back to service, and he was instructed to report for duty for his last year of service which included a tour in Afghanistan for 6 months.

His mission was to provide intel support to a group from Alabama (there's a joke in there somewhere, I'm sure), but that's all I know about what he was called back to do. He wasn't allowed to talk about it, because it was highly classified information (at least that's what he always said). All I know is he went to Afghanistan with 14 or 15 other guys from Alabama, and he served about 9 months time. He never went into a lot of detail about any of his assignments, and I knew that it was because he wasn't allowed to talk about them so I never really pressed him for information. I do know, however, that his job wasn't to just sit at a computer desk all day like he led most of our family to believe. (Looking back on it, I know he did this because he didn't want anyone to worry about him every day. But - even though he didn't want us to - we still did.)

Even though he didn't talk about his job that much, I do know that his one claim to fame is that he was a part of the group that tracked and found Saddam Hussein. He claims that not only did he get to question Hussein face to face, but he also had the pleasure of defecating in Hussein's personal toilet. When we asked him why he did it, he simply answered "because no one else from here can say they have ever done that".

It's an answer that I expected him to give, because he's always had a dry sense of humor. That's one of the many things that was so great about him. He had the uncanny ability to have a room bursting in laughter while he maintained a straight face that could win a game of Texas Hold 'Em with a Ten High hand. That's just how he was. It was incredibly hard to know if and when he was telling the truth or just blowing smoke because he always kept a straight face, but this is one of those times where I believe he was telling the truth.

I can see him sitting there on Hussein's toilet right now, smirking because he knows that he's going to have a story to share for the rest of his life.

Unfortunately for everyone, the rest of his life was a very short period of time. Much shorter than any of us wanted it to be, and - if you ask me - much shorter than he deserved.

To be continued...

A tribute in ink

People pay tribute to those they care about in a myriad of ways. Some people write songs, others write poems or novels, and some - like me - get tattoos. When my brother passed away last August from cancer (that he got due to his military service in Afghanistan - thank you very much Mister President), I knew that I wanted to get a tattoo in honor of his life and service so I would always have him with me.

Well, it took me seven months to determine exactly what kind of tattoo I wanted to get (and to be able to handle it emotionally), and this past weekend I finally got the tattoo done. As you can see in the picture below, it is a set of praying hands holding a set of dog tags with my brother's initials and lifespan stamped onto the tags, with a scroll containing the phrase "Some Gave All" underneath the hands.

I'm extremely happy with the way it turned out. (And why shouldn't I be? It's quality work and it's exactly what I wanted. Actually, it's more than what I wanted, because I never thought it would turn out as great as it did.)

I'm not going to try to be Mr. Tough Guy and say that it didn't hurt, because it did. It hurt like hell, especially when the artist started doing the shading. It's been two days and it's still sore in some spots, but that's the price you have to pay if you want to get a tattoo, and I honestly have no right to complain (and I'm not complaining, mind you) because my brother suffered a hell of a lot more than I did for the last year of his life, so the least I could do was not bitch and moan over something as simple as a tattoo. (That's what I kept telling myself as I was getting the work done, and it did help me take my mind off of the pain from the needle.)

At first I was going to get the tattoo on my chest, but after talking with the artist and The Wife I decided that it would be best to put it on my back left shoulder. In the end I'm glad I made this change, because I think it is in the perfect place. It's a reminder that my brother always has my back, even though he's no longer here on earth.

I may not be able to call him up and talk to him every day like I could before he passed away, but I can always look in a mirror and smile knowing he's always right there behind me, watching over me as I make my journey through this life.

I got another tattoo! (well, sorta)

Ever since I got my first tattoo, I've been wanting to get another one. (WARNING: If you're thinking about getting a tattoo, be aware that they can be addictive.) Well, my brother decided to be a really nice guy and buy me one for my upcoming birthday, so yesterday we went back to the place that did my first tattoo to set up an appointment for my new one.

While I was there I decided to get an addition to the tattoo I already have because I have been thinking that it needed something to spice it up a little since the day I got it, so I decided to add a scroll to give it more of an authentic feel. I printed a picture of a scroll that I liked and brought it with me to the tattoo shop, and the artist free-handed my scroll based on the picture that I brought in.

I can't complain about the results because I absolutely love it.

Reading vertically: Nicolas (left), and Natalie (right); the names of my children.

(Note: Please excuse the gratuitous showing of side-boob in the picture.)

I'm looking forward to getting my other tattoo done tonight because I'm excited to see what the artist has designed based on the concept that I gave her. (I'll give a hint: it's a USC Gamecocks tattoo.) I'll be sure to share a picture of it when it's finished.

If you're in the South Carolina area and you want to get a great tattoo from really cool people, check out Ivory Tiger Tattoo in Summerville. (I am not being paid for this endorsement. I'm only endorsing it because it really is a great tattoo place.)

Stay tuned for pictures of my new tattoo tonight or tomorrow.

UPDATE: Here's my new gamecock tattoo, as promised: