Emma’s second birthday

Here in the US of A, we’ve just had Mother’s Day, and we’re proceeding fast toward Father’s Day (June 18).
I’m thinking of all the mothers and fathers who are deployed in the US occupation force in Iraq, many under very difficult conditions, and I’m hoping sincerely that they can all come home soon, safe and sound, to be reunited with their kids.
And yes, of course, I’m also thinking about all the Iraqi moms and dads who have been separated from their children by the horrible circumstances of this war and wishing the same good things for them.
… So here, with great gratitute and appreciation to the author is a very moving piece of writing from David Steinbruner, a younger friend of our family who has been working as an ER doc in the Green Zone in Baghdad. He sent it to his family and friends and gave me permission to publish it here.

Back in Baghdad. And someone turned the heat up. I have been back now for about a month. It was good, though jarring, to go home. Everyone who is here for more than 8 months gets two weeks of R&R. For most of us this means a trip home. Although the journey drags on several days and nights and requires multiple aircraft, it really is disturbingly quick. One moment I am sitting in Iraq, wrapped in a heavy cocoon of kevlar plates with a hundred rounds of ammunition strapped to my body and an M-16 slung over my shoulder and then . . . I am back. Stripped of all the tools of war, I step off the plane in Dallas wonderfully unencumbered and wondering if I have just been having a strange, uncomfortable dream. Returning is exciting, awkward and moving. The world at home has continued on without any powerful indication of my absence. Life did not pause while I was gone. My children, at that age where they seem to grow overnight, are now not nearly as young as I remember. I landed in Dallas around 10 am on March 19th, many hours and half a world away from my last shower, with an aching need to be in [my hometown]. After two days of travel, this need was stronger than hunger or sleep, as if everything in my life had come down to those next few hours. Emma, my very talkative two year old, was having a birthday in several hours and there was no way in hell that I was going to miss it, not if I had anything to say about . . . Relax.
This must be a pretty common feeling for a returning soldier. I was met in Dallas by a very nice mother/daughter team that told me when the next flight to [my home city] was and which airline and where to go. I made the flight with time to spare. Many odd stares on the plane. There just are not that many soldiers flying back to [that airport]. The new uniform is not immediately recognized and most look puzzled. “Are you in the Army?”
“Yes, just coming back from Iraq”
“Wow” Then silence.
They want to say so much, to ask, but they are not sure where to go with it. Most just say thank you. I just smile and say “Your welcome, my pleasure” Don’t worry, I am thinking, I know the dilemma you’re wrestling with and I don’t take it personally. The dilemma of a professional, volunteer, soldier in a conflict that defies easy answers. Wrestle away, I think, you are citizen of the Republic and it is your right and responsibility. Good luck.
I make it in time for the party. In a time-zone hopping induced haze, my father-in-law picks me up at the airport and deposits me at the door to Chuck E. Cheese. Now that is a bit of culture shock. Four days ago I was resuscitating wounded soldiers fresh from the deadly roads of Iraq. Now here I stand, dozens of kids blasting around in a sugar-induced frenzy. I am having trouble processing all this, when in walks my son Ryan and my daughter Emma. Behind them comes Gilda, slightly distracted and looking so beautiful it hurts me a little. If you ever forget how important your family is to you, I have a remedy. It may take some time and distance, but it will recharge your soul and remind you what really matters most.
Gilda sees me first and smiles. It is amazing what your wife can say to you without words. She bends down to Ryan [the ‘big’ brother] and whispers in his ear. He looks over to me, blinks once and seems to shake his head, just to make sure I am real. Then it is a sprint through the crowd and up into my arms. You know your child’s smell, like a memory that you had nearly forgotten but now seems so familiar. Emma follows slowly, confused, but curious. Ryan knows this man, who is he? I crouch down and smile, but wait for her to come to me.
“Emma, it’s Daddy.” She pauses, unsure but the voice sounds familiar. Where has she heard that before? I walk over to here, kneel and put my arms out.
“It’s Daddy, Emma, remember?” Please God, let her remember, it has not been that long. Something clicks. She remembers the voice from the phone (she was listening) and she comes over. She lets me pick her up as she might a family friend who seems nice. Ryan is coming over and touching me, just to make sure. Now Emma understands, this is Daddy, the Daddy who talks on the phone to Ryan, the Daddy in the pictures. This is my Daddy. Suddenly all the hesitancy is gone. I cannot put her down for long before she turns to say: “Up Daddy, hold” And so I do. Home just in time…

Thereafter follow two weeks of reconnection, remembering and reunions. I switch back to being a father again. Each morning Ryan wanders into the bedroom, to my side of the bed and puts his head up next to mine. “Daddy?”
“Uh, yes Ryan?” It’s 5:30 by the way.
“Why did Anakin turn to the dark side of the force?”
This and other important questions need answering every morning for two weeks. Just checking in, to see that I am still there, that I have not slipped off in the night, back to the other side of the world. I love you too Ryan. I have missed you as well.
Emma, still locked into the crib at night, calls each morning: “Daaaddy, Daaaddy” And I get up happily, stumbling around their apartment, looking for where Gilda keeps the diapers. It is never too early to start training your father, apparently. For two weeks I get to give baths, read stories, and walk to the park. I remember what living is about. What my real purpose is.
In a gesture of cruel irony, our dog, Chief, chooses the moment of my return to stop eating. He has been sick for a long time, but had not shown it until this week. It is cancer. Death follows me home. It is not a difficult decision for me, given those with which I have been wrestling this past year. Yet the pain of watching him fall to sleep one last time is surprisingly sharp. We have him cremated. The pet cemetery and mortuary in Colma is run by a Vietnam vet. When Gilda and I go to pick up the ashes, he makes a point of coming over to me and shaking my hand. The pain of that conflict plainly shows on his face as he grips my hand. “Good luck over there. Take care.” The air is thick with what is not said. “I will.” I reply. We scatter Chief’s ashes at [a beach], the site of our first date.
And then it is over. Back to the war. There is a terrible feeling of life interrupted. I have been warned about the second farewell, about how difficult it can be. I leave them again, nearly the same place that I did the first time, standing by the security line. The pain of it is ragged across my wife’s face. She keeps it together for my son who has no such need to be strong. Ryan squats down on the floor, his back pressed to the glass window and cries. His sobs penetrate through the noise of the crowd and clutch at me. The vision of his little body, crumpled with sadness, fills me with overwhelming guilt. Emma, completely unaware, waves at the cars outside. “Bye bye cars.” She will ask about me in a few days. “Where did Daddy go?”
The guilt springs partially from my mixed feelings. I am, after all, a volunteer. What is happening to my family has a great deal to do with my choices. I am a co-conspirator in their pain. I am also eager to get back to work. It sounds strange, but my job in Iraq may turn out to be the most professionally satisfying moment of my life as a doctor. As I have said before, there is clarity of purpose, a sense of mission that is intoxicating. Whatever the political realities of this country, what we do and why we do it are made painfully clear with each IED explosion, with each fire-fight.
There is a somber tone of resignation on the flight back to Kuwait. Most of the soldiers sit quietly. All of us seem to be reflecting on the previous two weeks. It was so brief. With unusual efficiency I find myself on a C-130 flying back to Baghdad the next morning after arriving in Kuwait. After several gut-wrenching aerobatics, we land at BIAP (Baghdad International Airport). By midnight, I am bouncing along route Irish, the airport road, in a massive armored bus called a Rhino. The driver and security detail chat about the IED’s that were found on the same road the day before. Now I know I am back. Strangest of all to me is how familiar this seems. That is perhaps the most disturbing thing.
I arrived at that CSH at 3am, completely awake. My entire trip home begins to fade like an early morning dream, so lovely but now slightly out of focus. In honor of my return, Iraq, quiet for several weeks, erupts in a spasm of violence. Each day for the next few weeks brings death to our trauma room. The weight of these losses sits heavy upon us and my colleagues ruefully suggest that I go back home for the good of the country. Nothing would please me more.
Take care