Behind the headlines

This is the story: Audacious Raid on NATO Base Shows Taliban's Reach

This is my story...

I received a Facebook message from Randy (one of my best friends who started working for the USO the same day I did, and worked in Kuwait, Kandahar with me, and then Camp Leatherneck)

"As i walk up to the uso so does he and the big voice comes on for opp lockdown. bastion is currently under attack. we can see the helicopters firing. there are big fires on that side of base that we can see glowing. nuts. not like kaf. they just called all off duty fire fighters to their stations."

At this point a Google search turns up nothing.  The world doesn't know yet.  But I do.  I know my friend's base is getting attacked, and she is there, with only one other USO staffer, locked in a tent, unarmed.

Everything else quickly becomes fuzz.  Everyone's updates featuring pictures of the food they made, and the people they saw are insignificant blips.  They keep updating, they keep popping up, unaware of the attack raging half a world away.

Randy's message was sent to our close group of former and current USO girls from KAF.  The conversation right before Randy's message was laughing at one friend's drunken Facebook ramblings about another friend's relationship.

"update. there are people in the wire in uniform - taliban members. everyone is to report to accomodations and stay inside. small arms fire and cobras firing rounds. fires have subsided. Marines have started filing to their vehicles in full gear."

News outlets begin updating their sites with brief 3 paragraph long stories about the attack.

Then her messages stop. 

We're all familiar why.  It's a blackout.  To my understanding with 30,000 plus people KAF never had ordered blackouts because they would be too difficult to enforce, but at smaller bases when there are deaths they order a blackout.  They want to ensure there is time to inform the next of kin before someone posts it on Facebook.  I couldn't think of a worse way to find out about the death of a loved one than Facebook, but it happens.  I experienced my first black out at Camp Marmal in Mazar-e-Sharif in northern Afghanistan.  A Captain came quickly pacing into our USO tent, asked for the manager and then quietly, but with forceful seriousness, told me to disconnect the internet and phones until further notice.

One night has passed since Randy's first message and I'm sitting between my parents in my dad's truck on a 4 hour trip to my aunt's house checking my Facebook, USAToday, FoxNews, and Yahoo News every 10 minutes. 

We joke in our Facebook messages to each other to lighten the mood, only our jokes wouldn't be funny to most.  Randy was supposed to travel back to the states in a few days, and Erin lives in Dubai.  We discuss forming new identities for them since the Middle East isn't exactly keen on Americans at that moment.  These two blonde beauties, could they be French?  South African maybe?  We all laugh thinking about Randy with a head scarf and her trademark leggings on.

I talk to Randy's mom for a half an hour that night trying to reassure her.  There's a lot we don't tell our parents while in Afghanistan, but it's a little hard to hide when it's all over the news.  I feel for her mom.  Being on this side of the globe now, I get how my family must have felt. Although, I'm not sure if I'm worried more or less having been there.

The attack had ceased, Randy and her coworker were fine, and her flight was rebooked.

"oh how i am thrilled that you girls are home safe and sound. however it would be nice to have some friends to be in lockdown with"

Randy returned to America safely a few days later...and Erin flew into Camp Leatherneck.

I've never been in a battle, so I can not even begin to comprehend the bond troops have when their lives are in one another's hands.  But when you have your face in the dirt right next to a girl after feeling the ground shake beneath you from an incoming rocket, it forms a special bond. (That was during Megan's going away party, the Taliban sure know how to send us off with a bang).

We all met in Kandahar, Afghanistan.  Now we're in Colorado, DC, PA, WV, Dubai (with trips to Afghanistan), and NC but soon to be England.  We're spread across the country and spread across continents, but at a moment's notice we can all be there for one another.

Most of the headlines  wrote about Prince Harry's safety or questioning the drawdown tactics.  Prince Harry wasn't my concern, Randy was.  Thankfully she was fine, because of the bravery and sacrifice of the military men and women defending the base.

United States Marines Lt. Col. Christopher Raible, 40, and Sgt. Bradley Atwell, 27, were killed in the attack on Camp Leatherneck on September 15, 2012.

Boomerang Kid, not as fun as it sounds

I am a boomerang kid.  It sounds fun and playful; it is not.  One simple google search immediately confirms the suspicions, this is not a positive word... this is failure. 

Foreshadow: me learning to throw a boomerang in February

A boomerang kid is defined as a young adult who lives with his or her parents after a period of living away from home. Of the 5.4 million search results, three of them on the first page include, "Parents How to Kick Your Kid Out of the Nest," "Don't Let Boomerang Kids Derail Your Goals," and "Five Survival Tips for Parents of Boomerang Kids."  This doesn't sound like a sweet homecoming, but instead a disease ridden pest that needs to be eradicated from your house.

Now of course my parents have NOT made me feel even an inkling of being an unwanted insect.  They welcomed me home with open arms.  Problem is, I don't want to be a boomerang kid.

I lived in a warzone!  I traveled the world!  I spent time in a mud hut in Uganda and managed a travel debacle involving a bus in Dubai.  I got this independence thing pretty down pat...but now I need my mommy.

I wrote about my plan on this blog.  I had it all figured out.  In March I decided to leave Afghanistan in June, and I would spend a month or two traveling to see friends and family; then settle into a new job supporting our troops stateside.  Then reality hit me like a 2 ton brick.  While still in Afghanistan I applied for a job I thought was perfect for me!  I would help wounded warriors go to college.   I mean who else would have the unique work experience of being a college recruiter for 2 years, and work with wounded warriors in a warzone?  Well, apparently someone else did that, or better.  I didn't get the job.  I imposed a 24 hour grief period, then moved on.  I was still excited to go home and start a new adventure! 

Shortly before returning home I applied for another position that involved traveling and supporting our troops.  Again I naively thought, I got this.  Only 5 interviews later I figured out someone else had nearly the same experience as me and was a better fit.  That pity party lasted a wee bit longer. 

So those two jobs weren't for me.  But what is?  I was so sure I knew what I wanted.  I was so sure I set myself up to have the degree, the experience, the attitude to get what I wanted.

I even tried volunteering for a local troop organization and was told they don't take volunteers.  I can't even do the work I love for free?  What?!?!

I've been home nearly 2 months and this is my first post.  It's hard to write a blogworthy life, when I'm sitting on my parents' couch watching Gilmore Girls reruns.  I have 3 gorilla boxes stacked in my room, untouched, because unpacking them means I live here. 

I chose this.  It's not some crazy set of circumstances I've been blindly plunged into.  I chose to leave.  A friend from college asked me the other day what was the hardest thing about being in Afghanistan.  I contemplated answering the heat, the rockets, the living situation, but all of that was manageable.  My response, "leaving." 

I don't want to go back.  I want to go forward.  I just gotta figure out how.

Goodbye Afghanistan.

Shortly before I departed for Kandahar, my friend Lindsey gave me a bracelet that says, “LIVE THE LIFE YOU IMAGINE.”

Well I never could have imagined this!

I’ve ridden in a MRAP through an obstacle course.

I’ve taken a tour of an A-10.

I’ve flown in the cockpit of a C-130 three times.

I’ve flown in a Black Hawk to COPs and FOBs in Kandahar province.

I’ve taken a tour of a medical rescue helicopter and watched the ParaRescue Jumpers respond to a call.

I’ve spent a night in the control tower watching all the flights land and take off.

I’ve tried on an EOD suit.

I’ve played with military bomb sniffing and attack dogs.

I’ve heard the eerie whistle as a rocket flies overhead moments before impact.

I’ve felt the earth quake under my feet as an incoming rocket has exploded.

I’ve shared a room with 4 other grown women.

I’ve shared a bathroom with 35 of them.

I’ve eaten goat in Africa and a baby squid in Greece.  Eww!

I’ve visited 5 continents.

I’ve snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef.

I’ve seen the Caribbean, Uganda, Germany, Ireland, Australia, Greece and Italy.

I’ve made life long friends, and met others I’d rather forget.

I’ve been yelled at by a Sergeant Major, praised by a Lieutenant Colonel, and laughed at by a Brigadier General.

I’ve watched ACUs turn to Multi-Cam.

I’ve seen 3/2 SCR change to Lightning Strawberries and then into the giant Indian patch guys.

I’ve learned greetings in Dari, Pashto, Romanian, Bulgarian, and Slovakian.

I’ve seen an entire unit deploy to Afghanistan TWICE! – the Route Clearance Seahorses.

I’ve ran a marathon.

I’ve felt the pain of loss.

I’ve seen the joy of a proud father at his child’s birth.

I’ve held grown men as they cry.

I’ve rejoiced with grown men as they cheer.

I’ve witnessed a soldier be awarded a Purple Heart while in the hospital.

I’ve seen a soldier wince in pain at the shrapnel still in his side.

I’ve seen a soldier draped in a flag for his final flight home.

I’ve felt deeper sadness and joy than I had ever known possible.

I truly lived.

I gave 20 months to the brave men and women who give us their careers, family, and sometimes even their lives.  I thought it would be a great sacrifice, but instead it’s been a great adventure. 

To every family member, friend, and OLP parishioner, thank you for your undying support that gave me the strength to support our troops.

And to every USO staffer, USO volunteer, SF, MARSOC, SEAL, PJ, Coast Guardsman, Sailor, Airman, Marine, and Soldier, thank you for sharing your experience with me.

To my coworkers who became friends, and to those friends who became my desert family, I could not have made it through without you.  You were my rock, my sanity, and my overwhelming joy.

My sister Gretchen wrote me an e-mail recently in which she said, “Trust me, it all works out if you have the courage to let go.”

As a college recruiter I’ve heard countless mothers talk about the strength it takes to let go of their babies and not feel the guilt of abandonment as they trust they’ll be okay without them.  I feel the same way about our troops.

I know I have made a difference in others’ lives just as they have touched mine, and in that way a piece of me will always be in Afghanistan.

So here’s to a new adventure!

New change, can’t wait! – Daren Hidalgo in his final letter to me. 

Sister Chaplain Husband Hunter One of the Boys Friend

In my 17 months in Afghanistan I have been called a lot of things.

In this land instead of wearing your heart on your sleeve you wear your rank on your blouse and immediately this signifies which box you belong in.  The box is your stereotype that you fit neatly in and there is no use on trying to punch your way out because this is no hypothetical cardboard box, this is more a gorilla box with a padlock that you got no chance escaping from.

1. Sister

I started with this one, because it is one of my favorites.  I am one of three daughters, and one of 11 female cousins on my mom’s side, so I never had any brother types growing up.  Now, I have plenty of people to give me a hard time, punch me, teach me how to do a choke hold properly, make fun of my girly attire, tell me I look tired, and threaten to tattle on me to my boss, or to my own mother via Facebook.  I jokingly say that being out here with about 20,000 men is God’s way of punishing me for never having brothers.

2. Chaplain

Men, especially those paid to carry weapons around all day, are macho.  They are taught to be strong and overcome weakness.  To show other men your worries, hopes, dreams, nightmares and fears seems to be admitting you are weak.  (I do not believe this, but I’ve had this told to me and shown to me numerous times).  They need someone to tell, and sometimes that someone is me.  I have heard in graphically horrifying detail about numerous IED explosions, gunfights, and tragically, deaths.  They usually start by saying it’s things they can’t tell their loved ones back home, because they don’t want them to have to know how bad it is.  It’s a picture you can’t un-see in your head, it’s stories you can’t un-hear.  But, I came here to support our troops.  That is my mission, and if what they need is for me to listen to them, then I’ll do it.  They made their sacrifice, one I’ll never have to make, so I can take the tiny moment of time to listen to their story.

3. Husband Hunter

This is about the nicest term to label this category.  I’ve heard many other versions.  Let’s just put it this way, if my choices are old maid: living my life tending to my ever increasing population of cats, while hoarding Rubbermaid containers that have lost their lids, and using a broom to the ceiling because I’m trying to watch my game shows OR husband hunter: working in an active warzone with incoming mortar rounds averaging twice a week, with disgusting food, no privacy, and separation from every family member and friend I have ever known for 17 months because those are my only two options as a woman in this world, well then yeah I’m gonna start deciding if Pat Sajack or Alex Trebek is hotter now.

4. One of the Boys

The insight into a military man’s psyche can be interesting, humorous, disgusting, perverted, and shocking, but mostly just disgusting.  After watching one of my female coworkers walk by one soldier elbows his buddy, “Dammmmmmmn Dude, my team.”  “No man!  I saw her first, I came to the USO 2 days ago and dibbed that shit.”  “You can’t dibs with no witnesses!  It’s like padiddle you gotta have the car in sight first.”   I’ve been told stories that I have repeated to grown men of other military branches that have made them gag.  That’s me one of the boys in my camo ballet flats.

5. Friend

This one’s my favorite.  This is the one where I get to embrace a soldier I haven’t seen in 3 months since he went on leave.  This is the part where I get to race to Role 3 to see a soldier who has just been blown up get awarded his purple heart by a 2 star general.  This is when I laugh so hard I double over and begin snorting on nearly a daily basis.  This is how I get through every day thousands of miles from home… because they are my home.

Perfect choke hold

Time for the Big Girl Pants

It feels like it is time to move on…but moving on is such a scary thing.  In a world where death can come at an instant, to you, your friends, your friends’ friends, life is in some ways easier.  Events aren’t overwrought with “he said/she said” discussions, work is work, food is food, and working out is my way to sweat out the toxins that want to scream I hate you Taliban!  Every aspect of life from what we wear to what we eat, watch, and do, has restrictions.  Life is simple.  When you are living on a military base in a war zone it seems that the rule of thumb is don’t color outside the lines, and you’ll be fine. 

When the biggest decision of my day currently is – which one of the 6 DFACs do I want to eat dinner in, how do I go from that to – what country, state, city do I want to live in, what industry do I want to work for, and what goals do I need to work hard at to achieve what I want for the rest of my life?

It’s daunting.  Although no one has placed it on me, I feel a pressure that I have to live up to my experience in Afghanistan.  I can’t go from living in a war zone for 16 months to filing paperwork for the corporate offices of a paper supply company.  What if I get bored?  What if I get restless?  What if I become one of those SUPER annoying people who constantly says, “Well when I was in Afghanistan blahblahblahblah.” 

This job has ruined me, in the absolute best sense of the term.  Every single day I get instantaneous feedback and satisfaction from the work I do.  I don’t have to work on a project for months pounding away at excels to maybe get a pat on the back, I get to hand a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to the troops who work at mortuary affairs and see how excited they get and give them a hard time for not liking strawberry jelly.  They are the ones who no one wants to remember they are there.  They are the ones who do what no one else wants to do.  They are the ones who I made a PB&J for to say thank you from every mother, brother, wife, friend, and loved one of every fallen hero who they served with dignity.  All of that from a PB&J!

When I have something this good, I’d be a fool to leave.  To borrow from Carrie in every episode of Sex and the City, “I couldn’t help but wonder…” what more is there out there for me?  I can’t live in a war zone forever (well hopefully that’s not possible).  It’s time to put on my big girl pants and figure it out.

The Sweater That Saved Christmas

It seems every Christmas story involves the following ingredients:

- 1 widow/widower

- 1 child who has lost belief in Santa

- 1 very superficial businessman/woman

-  1 reason for them to be stuck together over the holidays – usually involving weather

Mix it together and the end product is they fall in love and realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Well our Christmas here in Kandahar had none of the above.  But we did have a sweater that saved Christmas!

It all began on a rainy day in November while I was on vacation visiting home and running a marathon.  In Kandahar, the USO center was ravaged by a flash flood.  I was busy sipping margaritas by the pool with my Grams while our center was about 6 inches under muddy water that to put nicely was not hygienic.  The floors floated up, and washed away, and the connexes that had all of our decorations flooded as well.  While the quick thinking staff managed to save most of the furniture and spent countless hours mopping up and cleaning up the entire center, it still didn’t quite have that “home away from home” feeling when I returned. 

Erin, my roomie/friend/coworker has the most unbreakable, relentless spirit I have ever met.  She immediately had her parents send her Christmas decorations and she transformed our center into a Winter Wonderland.  Randy, my other roomie/friend/coworker took something as simple as empty priority mail boxes and began wrapping them to assemble a HUGE present tree.  Now our center had the look of Christmas, but still not the feel.

I felt the Christmas spirit for about 15 minutes every day when we would pile up the car with stockings stuffed with goodies and knock on MRAP and Stryker doors giving out the stockings to soldiers preparing for convoys.  They were always so appreciative – I’m not sure if was actually for goods in the stockings, for the sight of the first females in months, or that someone remembered them on Christmas.  They would grin from ear to ear and then immediately begin trading candy like it was 2^nd grade lunch.  I loved that when we looked at the boxes that some of the stockings came in, they were from Boatsies Boxes operating out of Wheeling, WV!  My hometown made Christmas possible out here.  But besides those few moments, Christmas was largely absent from our lives.  Even a Christmas party for Role 3 that promised to be fun, was interrupted by a rocket attack.  Who invited the Taliban to Christmas anyway?!

With convoys going out every day to take Christmas to the troops at forward operating bases the back of our center became a storage facility of large cardboard boxes and endless care packages.  Upstairs was a virtual Santa’s workshop with boxes everywhere that were sorted with care package items in them, and an never ending stack that needed to be sorted.  It was a good problem to have though, because the amazingly generous people back home sent $83,445 worth of goods!  Although we were super excited about all the goodies coming in, the work involved to organize and pack the items was stressful and time consuming.  Christmas was slipping through our fingertips and it seemed no one cared to mind.

Months before Christmas our boss came up with the idea to have an Ugly Christmas Sweater party, and had USO Fort Riley back in the states send some.  We put them out on Christmas eve thinking oh haha it’d be funny.  After some gentle encouragement from the USO gals soldiers began donning the hideously tacky sweaters.  It looked like Bill Cosby’s closet from 1985 was on the back of every soldier.  They were wearing sweaters that were 2 sizes too big, or 2 sizes too small, sweaters that were obviously made for females, sweaters that had color combinations straight from the 80s…and they were rocking it out.  What began as us begging one soldier to put on a sweater spread into every soldier in the center searching the table for just the right one. 

Our winner for his sweet moves

Justin, my coworker came up with the idea to have a fashion show.  We scrounged up some gift cards and announced the competition.  What unfurled was the single most hilarious event I have ever seen.  Randy, Erin, Jillian and I sat up stools at the end of the catwalk to judge our competitors.  The Airforce band that came to play a live set later in the night immediately took their places and began playing songs like “Walk This Way” and “Dude Looks Like a Lady.”  The first soldier “model” set the stage by doing what can only be explained as sashaying down the catwalk and striking a fierce pose.  What followed included the moonwalk, soldiers blowing us kisses, giving us presents, skipping hand in hand, shaking their bootys, and breakdancing.  Everyone was doubled over laughing.  We crowned two winners, one for his smooth moves, and one for how awesomely hideous his sweater was.  After the competition, they didn’t take them off.  They continued to wear the sweaters as the Role 3 (the trauma hospital on base) choir sang, one of our amazing volunteers JD spread Christmas cheer as Santa, desserts were eaten, garland relays were conducted and Christmas movies were played.  When a troop walked in the front door their face would instantly light up as you saw them trying to figure out why everyone had hideous sweaters on over their camis.  Christmas Day was delightfully awesome too with us handing out gifts to every troop that walked through our doors.  We also stalked the boardwalk and gave out stockings to everyone there.  It concluded with a Skype session with my parents and sister to open up the presents they sent, and the ones I sent them.

The soldier far right won for picking the most hideous sweater

My new recipe for a Christmas story:

-       1 team of dedicated morale boosters

-       Countless people back home who love and care about us enough to send numerous care packages

-       Hundreds of funny troops

-       Some ugly sweaters

-       1 reason for them to be stuck together over the holidays - war

Mix it together and the end product is they have a good time and realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Santa making them earn their presents

Team Daren

I ran a marathon.  But this is not a marathon blog.  While yes, mile 18 was my big fat brick wall and by mile 20 my knees were screaming noooooooooo, stop the horror!  Nonethless, I ran, I walked, and I ran and with my sister’s encouragement, lots of water, and lots of sports beans later we crossed the finish line.  But, like I promised that is not what this is about.  This is about a boy, like many great writings have been.  A boy who through his passion for life inspired couch potatoes and military super athletes alike to run a race in his honor.  This blog is about Team Daren.

Have you ever met someone’s family and thought to yourself, okay that explains it.  I’d be a wackjob too if they were responsible for my raising.  Well upon meeting Daren's family, it was the exact opposite experience.  Daren Hidalgo’s parents, brothers and sister are exactly the reason why we all loved that boy.  I had spoken with friends and family of Daren’s in the months after his death, but had never met any of them face to face.  Well minus the one time in a DFAC I saw Miles across the room and recognized him from Daren’s Facebook but didn’t want to be a creeper so instead I chose to just awkwardly stare at him while whispering and pointing to my friends that I thought that was Daren’s brother.  (because just introducing myself and saying hi would’ve been the embarrassing alternative, riiiiiight).  Miles later told me, he definitely did notice the table of girls in civys that said USO and knew it was me. 

Anyway, first time meeting Jorge, Daren’s father, and upon seeing me he says, “SARAH!” and embraces me in one of those awesome bear hugs!  You can literally feel the love this family exudes.  In Jorge, Andrea, Jared, Miles and Carmen, you can see his radiant smile in theirs.  

The day before the race there was a marathon expo  and you picked up your registration packets from The National Infantry Museum.  You could choose to run in memory of a fallen hero.  They had small bibs to place under your race bib with the fallen hero's name.  We already had ours, 1LT Daren M. Hidalgo, but they had a table set up if you didn’t personally know a fallen hero, so you could pick one to honor.  As I perused the table one name jumped out at me, “PFC Jesse Dietrich.”  I attended his ramp ceremony.  I was there when he was loaded into a plane in Afghanistan to start his final journey home.  I read the brief synopsis and he was 20 years old from Venus, Texas and killed August 25^th in Kandahar Province, Afghanistan by small arms fire.  I thought about how this race was bigger than me, bigger than one girl hoping to finish 26.2 miles.  It was a race to honor those men and women who fight a war, so we don’t have to.  It was the Soldier Marathon.

People came from all across the country to run in Daren’s honor.  Some knew Daren from Pennsylvania or Wisconsin, others from West Point or 3/2SCR, others were there as friends of one of Daren’s family.  While waiting in line for the spaghetti dinner I overheard an older gentleman behind me say, “Well look at that, they know my grandson.”  My sister and I had the race bibs with Daren's name attached to our bags.  We turned around to introduce ourselves to Daren's grandparents.  It seems it doesn’t matter who you meet through Daren, every single person is going to be overwhelmingly nice.  

Overall there were more than 50 runners gathered on a FREEZING 40 degree morning huddled together in heather gray shirts emblazoned with “TEAM DAREN” across the front to run for our fallen hero.  Some ran the marathon relay, the half marathon, or the full.  My sister and I chose the full.  By mile 15 I was saying, “Okay Daren, why couldn’t you have sponsored a 5K, really?!”  But his motto was always, “You only have one life to live, so go big!” and that we did.  I just tried to stay focused and remember who I was running for.  I remembered messaging Daren while he was back at the COP about one of his soldiers telling me a story that he had to wake Daren up one morning so he looked for the smallest dude in a sleeping bag and told him to wake up.  Daren immediately woke up and karate chopped his way out of his sleeping bag.  Daren’s response to this story was, “F yeah I karate chopped my way out of the sleeping bag, I hate those people that don’t start moving.”  So I kept moving!

At mile 6 there was a hill with Drill Sergeants "encouraging" us.  "YOU THINK THIS IS A HILL?!  YOU HAVEN'T SEEN A HILL!  OH YOU BEST NOT BE SLOWING DOWN NOW, KEEP IT UP, KEEP IT UP!"  It was hilarious and helped push us to the top.  Also thankfully, it was the last of the hills.  The scenery was gorgeous and people were sweet along the route yelling, "Go Team Daren!"  The route also looped around itself so we got to see other Team Daren runners and yell at them along the way too.  There were soldiers stationed all along the route to support us.  I did feel a little out of my element, wait a minute, I'm the one supposed to be supporting you.  At mile 25 we passed a man waving a Steelers "Terrible Towel" announcing to each of us, “You’re a marathoner!”  Those are words I never planned on hearing in my life, but was ecstatic to hear.  Because of one boy's presence in my life, I’m completing something I never dreamed I could.  Before this marathon I had ran one 5K.  ONE!  Now I’m running 26.2 miles.  Gretchen and I came around the bend toward the Avenue of Flags at Fort Benning 5 ½ hours after the race began.  I knew we’d see our parents waiting at the finish line.  What I didn’t plan on seeing was an entire crew of Team Daren fans shouting and clapping for us - probably the last Team Daren team members to cross the finish line.  As we neared the finish, the announcer said, “And now crossing the line are Number 255 Gretchen Kemp from Martinsburg, WV and Number 256 Sarah Kemp who took leave from Afghanistan to come here and run this race.”  (Turns out Daren's father, Jorge, had told the announcer the last bit as we were jogging up the avenue.)  I swelled with pride and jogged through the pain as Gretchen and I lept across the finish line in full cheesy fashion.  Then soldiers coined us and placed a dog tag medal around our neck.  Free beers and massages followed.

We returned to our hotel room with the lovely Sarah Brahm and Megan Pringle who were our roommates for the weekend.  I had never met either of them before, but knowing that they were Daren's friends was good enough reason for me to believe they wouldn't drug me and steal my belongings while we slept.  They, of course, turned out to be absolutely lovely ladies.  We all slathered ourselves in icy hot, placed ice bags on our legs, knocked back some pain killers and lamented about our sore muscles.  Later that evening we all went to Fudd Ruckers for a Team Daren reunion.

I was mingling with friends and family of Daren when it finally hit me how I recognized one particular man who ran for Team Daren.  All weekend I tried to place him.  He was Captain Garcia from 3/2SCR, G Co,  Daren’s unit in Afghanistan.  It was the first time I had recognized someone in the states from meeting them in Afghanistan.  We immediately began swapping G Co stories and USO tales.  It was nice to make a connection with someone who had been there for all of it too.

It was also a chance for my parents and sister to meet Daren.  Although they can’t meet him in the physical sense of the word, they got to meet him that weekend in the smiles, laughs, ridiculous and heartfelt stories that everyone who knew him shared.  They got a glimpse at the boy who everyone loved.

Through it all I think about the way Daren has changed my life and somehow finds ways to continue to do so.  A year ago this month I spent some time with Daren in Afghanistan.  He happened to be at KAF, and it was my day off so I needed to do some laundry.  There were plenty of washers available, but upon our return after gathering my stuff there were none.  I was pissed.  So I gave up on the laundry and instead we just talked.  He asked me about what I wanted to do after this.  I told him that I loved writing, but always got nervous that it wasn't good enough.  He shared with me his journaling so I wouldn't feel as self conscious about my blog.  Then he told me something I will never forget, “Don’t worry about what to write, don’t worry if you think it’s stupid or inconsequential.  If you thought it, it’s worthy.  Write it, even if it’s just that you got pissed today because there were no washers available. “  Well Daren, I write, and I run for you.

Please visit www.rememberdaren.com to learn more about Team Daren and how you can honor our fallen hero.

My sister Gretchen and I running down the Avenue of Flags.  I have a look of determination to get to the finish, hers is  a look of joy that the finish is so near!

We're marathoners!  The medals looked like dogtags.

Toward the end of the race soldiers were running with the racers to encourage them to finish strong.

Virtually everyone in this picture is part of Team Daren.  My mom, sister, Sarah Brahm and Megan Pringle at the foreground.

I'm running a marathon. Yep, still sounds weird.

I'm running a marathon...on Saturday.  On a scale of 1-10, I'd give my nervousness about an 8.  I mean I'm not near the "about to vomit in anxiety" stage, but I'm way past the "oh I'll be fine" stage.

Now I'm prepared as much as I think I should be.  I didn't go plotting out water points or thinking up my peeing strategy (apparently some pros suggest this), but I'm pretty well stocked up.

1. I have my awesome/amazing Team Daren shirt.  Now mine is actually of the moisture wicking variety, but because I am getting SO prepared, it is in the washing machine (so as to not irritate my sensitive skin by giving it an ol' wash before the wear), so I borrowed my mother's for this pictorial.  The shirt serves two purposes, one it makes me feel like a badass like Superman with the big S on my chest.  It signifies I'm part of something bigger, a group of people that through their loss they want to do some good.  Two, when I'm hurting, and Lord knows I will be, I can look down and think this 26.2 mile sacrifice is nothing compared to what Daren and many others have sacrificed.  (And if he were here, he would mercilessly make fun of me for not finishing).

2. I have my Nike watch, which is one of the coolest inventions in the world!  It helps me keep my pace and says encouraging things at the end like, "Good effort!" or "Record Time!"  I'm thinking this time it will say, "What were you thinking?  Start ingesting painkillers now."

3. Which brings us to #3 - Drugs.  (Okay so actually they are some anti-inflammatories, and maybe some Flintstone vitamins thrown in, hey they make a body strong!)

4. My Wounded Warrior Project wristband.  I'm running a 5K to benefit them on Christmas Eve, well assuming my legs still function by then.  Each band says a different word, I picked the one that says, "Country."

5. Sports beans!  They are delicious, nutritious and my friend JD gave them to me.  He is a runner extraordinaire and has helped me train every step of the way by politely encouraging me to run 5Ks at 5 am.

6. My green shoes!  They're purty.  I do need to wipe some of the dust off though.

7. Knee band, because I tweeked my knee a couple weeks back running on these uneven surfaces they call "roads" out here that are just dirt with some rocks thrown in that twist your knee.

8. My Camelbak Randy got me!  She even had them embroider a nametape for me!

So I have all my necessary accouterments, well minus one sister, but I'm meeting her down there.  I read the reviews and they said there are drill instructors on the hills to "gently encourage" the runners, and soldiers at all the water points, so I figure it will be just like "home!"  Also I did the math, okay Google did it for me, and there is 3,000 feet of elevation difference between Kandahar, Afghanistan and Ft Benning, Georgia, so I figure that has to give my endurance an extra ehhhhhhh 6 to 10 miles, right?

My cousin, Michelle, completed a marathon last weekend, in a wicked fast time, but at least it shows me I can do it!  Also I have the motivation that my sweet boss told me before I left, "If you don't finish, don't bother coming back."  (Of course he was kidding...I hope.)  Then there's the excitement of meeting all of Daren's friends and family that are just as stoked about running this race in memory of him.

I couldn't resist sharing that because a year and half ago that was my life.  A lil Law and Order SVU Marathon on Sunday while doing laundry in my apartment in WV.  Now I'm running 18 miles, doing laundry next to a Bulgarian and living in Afghanistan.

Happy Veterans Day to every man and woman who has served our country!  I try every day to live a life that is worthy of the sacrifices for our freedom made by our Wounded Warriors and our Fallen Heroes.

Death

Out here it seems that death is tragic, but it is something to be “handled.”  Last September one of my friend/roommate/coworker/Afghanistan family lost a close friend to war.  I had only been in country for a day or two.  It was like being slapped in the face by reality. 

Then in December another soldier killed, another friend’s close friend lost.  Then in February, Daren was killed.  The moments I spent holding a weeping friend were now being returned.  It was my turn.  The love I outpoured was in the most literal way being given back to me.  I can still remember vividly, the morning after I had attended Daren’s ramp ceremony and found out he died.  I was lying in bed not sleeping, but just staring, when my roommate just walked into my area, said nothing, and climbed in my bed and held me.  She was a good friend of Daren’s too.  She lost him too.  It was the sweetest, most selfless act of not needing or wanting anything in return, but just being there for me.

Now another friend has lost another loved one.  It is painful to watch her knowing all too well that pain myself.

Sympathy is an act of kindness, empathy is an act of understanding.

Knowing how strong she is and being on the other side of it, I am certain she’ll get through it, but knowing the outcome doesn’t mean her path will be any easier.  Out here we are literally thousands of miles away from all our friends and family.  These are the people you desperately wish weren’t just a voice on the other side of the phone, but an arm around your back and comfort in your soul.  So we form our own bonds and try our hardest to be a proxy, a stand in, a poor man’s whomever.  We’ve made an Afghanistan family that is there when nothing makes sense at all.

Pain throws your heart to the ground

Love turns the whole thing around

No it won’t all go the way it should

But I know the heart of life is good

-The Heart of Life by John Mayer

To all those who we weren’t ready to have taken so soon…

MPV

STB

DMH

Home.

As with most homes, the heart of our house is the kitchen.  On the single most high traffic area of the house, the fridge, smack dab in the middle, my mom has placed this quote, 

When I speak of home, I speak of the place where – in default of a better – those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it but the same good name notwithstanding. – Charles Dickens

I am currently 7,180 miles, 1 ocean, a couple continents, and 8 ½ hours of time zones away from home.  Most days I don’t dwell on that fact or even give it more than a moment’s reflection, but during the holidays that distance because a nagging throb in the forefront of my head that chants, “You’re missing out on everything. You miss home.  Your family misses you.  What are you doing?”

Last Christmas I considered trying to forget it was an event all together.  I thought if I skipped Christmas I could skip the homesickness.  Well, life doesn’t work like that.  (You can read the full story of how that worked out here.) As I tried to conjure up ways to make myself feel better it finally hit me that the other 25,000 people on this base are feeling the exact same way.  There’s no excuse of ‘no one understands me,’ because get this, every one does.  We are all missing our family traditions: Midnight Mass, getting to search through our stockings but nothing else until our parents wake up on Christmas morning, Dad always joking that we have to eat breakfast first before present opening and us kids begging him no, Christmas day gift exchange with the cousins, watching White Christmas and singing the ‘Sisters, Sisters’ song with my sister, and the sight, smell, and silence of a perfect winter snow.

The thought that got me through it all was simple, my family supports me so I can support them.  From the outpouring of love in e-mails, cards, care packages, phone calls, Skype dates and more I have my spirit renewed and my hope strengthened. 

Last year we asked friends, families, churches, community organizations and anyone else we could think of to send care package items to us so we could make gifts for our troops.  We received enough to give a present to every Soldier, Sailor, Marine and Airman that walked through our center doors on Christmas Day.

My own parish sent numerous boxes of items including a homemade fruit cake!  My aunt sent packages with a note that said she always donates to a charity instead of giving her adult daughters Christmas presents, and this year she was sending care packages to our troops.  I couldn’t help but swell with pride knowing that my family and friends made Christmas happen out here.

No experience can match the feeling I had after handing a troop a bag and watching their face light up and, “For reals?  This is for me?!” come out of their mouth.  It meant so much to them to receive the gift not just from USO Kandahar, but from the American people.  It might have been just a small gesture, but it sent a huge comforting message to the troops that they weren’t forgotten.  People still care.  Just like school children at lunch, most of them sat down and immediately began trading Slim Jims for candy canes and hand sanitizer for razors.

This year we want to do the same, only better!  This is where we need help.  We need gifts from people back home to fill the bags.  I have posted the flyer below with our mailing address and wish list.

This Christmas I will again be thousands of miles from the place I call home.  I will be in a large tent, in the middle of a desert, surrounding by dirt, dust and the constant threat of violence.  But it is there that people will be gathered, they might not be my loved ones, but they are somebody's.  So here we will gather in our home away from home, “Until Every One Comes Home.”

My One Year Anniversary

September 11, 2011 marked my one year anniversary working for the USO. 

10 years ago changed my life in ways I never saw possible.  I was a scared shitless 16 year old who thought the world was crashing down around me.  Now here I am 10 years later, 26 years old, confident in a world that literally is crashing down around me.

The horrendous acts on September 11^th sent my generation, some my friends, to war.  In a roundabout way September 11^th also sent me to a warzone.

My coworker Sarah York set up a table in our center with a board for anyone to write a message to remember the lives lost on September 11^th and in OIF and OEF.  She set out tea lights so they could light a candle in memoriam.  It touched my heart as I watched a Marine pilot walk over and look at the lit table with curiosity, then realize it’s purpose, and take the few moments to light a candle and then bow his head for a couple precious seconds afterward in prayer.

Also on September 11^th Outback Steakhouse came to Kandahar and cooked their food in the DFACs.  It was AMAZING!  We had the most delicious steak I have had in a year, spinach artichoke dip with FRESH bread, and cheesecake that I almost had to fight a dude over to get the last piece.  Randy, York and I all agreed that Outback made the meal especially for our anniversary dinner. 

Upon returning to the center, Randy, York and I wanted to get a picture to commemorate our year, no sooner had Richard our boss taken the snapshot than the rocket alarm siren blared.  We fell to the floor and laid flat on our bellies.  I guess the Taliban wanted to celebrate our anniversary as well.

When we cleared the center, York and I blew out all the memorial candles because we had no idea how long we would be in the bunker. After the “all clear” siren, we re-entered the center and began tidying up.  I started to throw away the old candles, and York said, “Stop, each of those were a prayer too.”  So in complete silence York and soon Erin joined to relight every candle.  We filled the table with candles all suddenly much more aware that even though September 11^th was 10 years ago and we’ll never forget that date, every single day lives are still being sacrificed.

The tealight memorial with lit and burnt out candles