11 Truths of Special Needs Parenting

It’s been ten years since our son Aidan was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. Since then, no single thing has impacted our family more. We are defined by our experience as a special needs family. There’s no way around it. There’s been no miraculous story of our child’s recovery. There’s been no “cure.” Just ten trips around the sun as a family on a unique and challenging journey.

Nothing fragile has survived.

All that’s left now, is made to last.

In 2016, my wife Annette and I founded Care For Us, a nonprofit organization that provides free individual and group counseling for caretakers of special needs children. Through our own experiences as special needs parents and in our engagements with countless families on the same walk, we’ve learned some foundational truths about what it takes to live this life without falling apart.

Spoiler alert. It’s not easy.

In an acknowledgment of the journey many of us are on, and the miraculous people we’ve learned from walking it with us, we wanted to share a few things so that others might be able to thrive beyond what the limitation that their unique journeys might allow, if not for a healthy mindset, and a few nudges from those further down the path.

So, here they are. Our 11 Truths of the Special Needs Parenting Journey. 10 is tidier perhaps. But tidy really isn’t our style around here.

1-Acknowledge that this is your journey. You didn’t ask for it, but it’s yours to walk. And it’s going to be a long, long walk. Find comfort in surrendering to the task. Denial only puts distance between you and those who need you to walk it with them.

2-See yourself in the service of others. See yourself in your children. This work is exhausting. If you can’t see the care you give to your children as a form of caring for and honoring yourself, your tank will run dry quickly.

3-Don’t run from the suffering. Cultivate the ability to be with people who are beyond your help. If a cure for what impacts your child is possible, great. Do what you can with what you have to pursue it. But if you secure your fate to a cure, an end through which all your troubles are over, you’re investing everything in a potential child and ignoring the one you have in front of you.

4-Caring for yourself is caring for your children. There are nearly endless obligations to help your children. Most parents if given the choice to invest in care for themselves or care for their children will always choose the latter. Extreme selflessness sounds admirable. Trust me, it’s not. Because hero’s don’t scale. And you’re going to be at this for 60 or so years.

4.1. If you don’t know how or where to start, you can start with us by clicking the link at the top of the page.

5-Seasons of hardship expire. Behaviors rarely last forever. And when they do, your ability to deal with them adjusts to accommodate them. Seeing any given difficulty as temporary is important. Extending periods of acute hardship forward in perpetuity in your mind, will break you faster than anything.

6-Celebrate every bit of progress. No matter how small and no matter how long it takes, take the time to acknowledge the wins. It takes no effort to notice the losses. They’re everywhere in this life. If you aren’t intentional about noticing the wins, they get crowded out.

7-Lift up your partner. Be kind and caring towards those on the journey with you. This life is hard. Let their mistakes slide. Appreciate the effort they give. And find ways even out the load. The life itself needs no assistance pushing people down. So, lift them up. No one else will know how.

8-Make your world as big as you can. Be open an honest with your journey as you are comfortable with being. Lights on, windows open if you can stand it. No one worth anything sees shame in what you’re dealing with. Never forget that this journey, well walked, is an example to others of how to live a purpose driven life. So, find purpose in your example. And fight the urge, at any cost to close in on yourself.

9-Fight the Good fight. Know your rights. Know what’s best for your child. But make a conscious choice to fight FOR things instead of against them. Things rarely change for good by forcing action. Things change for good by eliminating resistance to action. Nothing eliminates resistance like leading people to what right looks like and making it easy for them to follow.

10-Find your faith. Whatever it may be. You have to see your journey as a part of something bigger than yourself. Bigger than those walking it with you. Bigger than your child. None of this started here, with you. And none of it will end with you.

11-Be grateful for every second of it. Be openly, irrationally and vocally grateful for the experience of raising your child. You have to say it before you believe it. You have to believe it before you see it. But the simple act of giving thanks is illogically magical. It’s a universal truth of the human experience.

 

For more on our story, click the video below. For information about how to connect with or support Care For Us, click the menu above.

 

Gracist

A woman once asked my wife, if we knew then what we know now about our severely autistic son Aidan, would we still have gone through with it. It of course being him. The answer to that question for most emotionally healthy people, is of course, yes. The woman didn’t really know any better, I guess. She was young. With no family yet. And she didn’t really grasp the fact that she was asking another woman if she’d rather her child had never been born. My wife gracefully brushed it off, only bringing it up to me in passing the next day. Continue reading “Gracist”

Our Story: Part 5, The end..and the beginning.

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-Sean and Annette Hughes are the founders of Care For Us, a non-profit organization dedicated to helping special needs parents and their kids be the best they can be. This is Part-5 of a series chronicling their story. For previous posts click here.

Flash forward seven years and Aidan is now ten-years old. He sleeps ten hours a night like any normal healthy child should. That alone was a journey. He is a happy, loving boy. He has friends who care about him and two loving, protective brothers that don’t remember him any other way. He likes going to school, though some days are harder than others. From the outside he looks like any other neuro-typical fourth grader. But he’s not. Not exactly. He does have some language, though he still doesn’t speak in complete sentences. And though he’s much better at expressing his needs, it’s clear that you have to engage with him much differently than you do with other children.

Most of his bio-medical needs have been taken care of—yes, these are real problems for kids on the spectrum. He had gut issues, subclinical seizures, food allergies, vitamin deficiencies just to name a few. After what seemed like endless searching, it took us six years to be referred to a qualified neurologist. The science was starting to catch up with our needs. She put Aidan on a heavy vitamin regiment and anti-seizure medication after finding out he had irregular brain patterns. Interestingly, a DNA test showed that he did not have the known genetic markers commonly associated with autism. We don’t know what that means. Only that we don’t know exactly what triggered his developmental changes. It’s a question we may never get answered.

We don’t know what future will bring us. What we do know is it was a lot of work to get Aidan to the place he is today. Too much work for just us. It took a village. We couldn’t have come through this without the help of our support system and our faith.

Care for Us was born from the struggles and triumphs of our life as a family on the spectrum. We are committed to the idea that we can help new families in the early stages of the journey get the emotional support they need and continue to help those farther along stay strong through all stages of life. Community is important. Most people have no idea the emotional toll it takes on a family to raise a child with special needs. It affects you individually. It affects the marriage. It affects the other siblings. When we give and give daily, it’s easy for that well to get so depleted that we just want to give up. That’s when we need the strength of community and faith.

This story started with her story and his story. We were worlds apart physically, mentally and spiritually. Now we are one. We’d both change lots about our journey as a family. And there are things we’ve been through that we wouldn’t wish on anyone. But the family bond we’ve grown through the hard days and nights of autism is something I wish for everyone. Our mission is to help families like ours find it.

Though our journey is far from over, we have been able to come through this with a burning sense of purpose to give back to others. If you’re reading this, then you’ve found us. And if you’re on this journey and you’ve come this far, or know someone who is, then perhaps you’re willing to go a bit further. Look around the site. And reach out to us. We’re here. We’ve got support groups and counseling. All free of charge. You just have to show up. Because we know, especially in the beginning, simply showing up is about all you can muster. And If you do, you’ll find the power of spending time with others on the same journey, face to face with them and the world of struggle and triumph that we see every day.

Life with others is life better lived. And circles are better than rows. Find your circle. If you can’t, then find us. We’ve got a few for made just for you.

Our Story: Part 4

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-Sean and Annette Hughes are the founders of Care For Us, a non-profit organization dedicated to helping special needs parents and their kids be the best they can be. This is Part-4 of a series chronicling their story. For previous posts click here.

Her Story

The days after Aidan’s diagnosis were a blur. I felt sick to my stomach every day. I avoided seeing or talking to anyone because I couldn’t speak without crying. I was counting the hours until Sean would get home. When he did I could immediately see a difference in Aidan. He was very relieved to see his daddy and I realized how confused he must have been. My oldest cried every night he was gone but he understood where he was and that he was coming back. Aidan would start crying and wander around saying “where he go, where he go.” He had regressed very quickly with Sean gone. So when he ran to him and said “daddy’s home” my heart leaped and for one brief moment I wanted to believe it was all a mistake and that he would be fine now that his daddy was home. That’s not how it went though.

The next few weeks were filled with trying to keep things as normal as possible for the kids. It was the holidays after all. We did all the things that Christmas that I didn’t  think we would have been able to do with Sean gone and me with a baby, 2, and 4-year-old. On the outside things looked pretty normal. On the inside we were trying to make sense of our new normal. Yes, he was still our same little boy that he always had been, but he couldn’t talk anymore and he couldn’t sleep anymore. It would take hours to get him down and some nights he would just wake up in the middle of the night and be awake for the rest of the day. We didn’t know this was a common issue with kids on the spectrum. It was one of the many things no one thought to explain to us. We were left to figure it all out for ourselves. Even then, only seven years ago, the medical community was still very divided on the medical issues associated with autism. So we turned to the internet-scary- and to other parents who were farther along on their journey.

We had early preschool screenings, ABA screenings, pediatric specialist appointments and we had to fit it all in before Sean headed back to Iraq. Doing it on my own would have been next to impossible in my exhausted state. Just figuring out the insurance aspect of it alone was a nightmare. We were fortunate because of Sean’s active duty status that we had Tricare. It covered everything. It was figuring out how to enroll in the specific programs that took skill and patience. My son would need speech, ABA, OT, and PT. I remember thinking over and over again that without insurance, this would be impossible for anyone. What in the world do the people who don’t have it do? Who is looking out for them? How about the single moms? Or the families where both parents worked multiple jobs? It broke my heart just thinking about it.

We were able to get through it though. And soon after Christmas Sean went back to Iraq.

It took three months from the time Aidan was diagnosed to when his first early intervention services began.  He started special education preschool six weeks after his third birthday. It took another month to start speech and occupational therapy and another month after that for ABA therapy to start. It had now been over a year since I said the word Autism out loud. A whole year had gone by before I felt like he was getting the help he needed. I’ve heard over and over again people talking about the over diagnosis of autism and criticizing the push for diagnosis from over sensitive parents and the stigma of labels, blah blah blah. Here’s the truth. If you don’t get your child in need diagnosed, you cannot get services. So pushing it off, to see if they will “outgrow it,” only means your child is not getting the help they need to be the best person they can be. Let someone qualified tell you they don’t need help.

As for labels? Labels are what you make them out to be. My son was diagnosed with autism. It does not define him. It is not all he is or all that he can be. It has impacted all of our lives, but that does not have to be an absolute negative. Not getting him the services he needs would be.

Soon, my husband would be home for good. And the rest of our journey could begin together. this was our new reality. My only regret, is that we could have started sooner.

His Story

It was really hard being back. Hours earlier I was planning missions in a war. Now I was laying with my son, trying to get him to sleep. Which he just wouldn’t do. It would take hours. I would lay with him and he would thrash and flop around. He wouldn’t talk to me. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. I would lay there in the dark, slowly sinking into the darkness with him.

By the time he finally slept, the whole house was dark and it was the middle of the night. But I was still wired. I was out of sorts from the time change and all the other differences. I couldn’t sit still. I would walk down the street to the park to run laps or do table jumps long into the night and into the morning. One night, while doing box jumps onto a concrete picnic table, I missed and ripped open my leg. I jumped for a little while longer until I realized how bad it was. There was blood everywhere. It was splashing in a puddle on the table as I jumped into it. So I stopped. I limped over to my car and drove myself to the hospital. They stitched me back up and I was back at it the next night. I was trying to be happy to be home, but I was stuck in between. Lost.

We got through what seemed like an endless list of appointments. It was good to stay busy and keep my mind off things. And it was good not to miss Christmas. I can’t imagine how that would have been without me there. After it was over though, it was time for me to go back. I don’t remember saying goodbye to the boys. But I remember my wife dropping me off in the minivan we had bought just before Ryan was born. It was the middle of the night, on the beach behind my command in Coronado. For the rest of my life I will remember the window of the car rolling up after I kissed her goodbye. I have trouble remembering a lot about that time. Large blocks are just gone. But not that.

Back in Iraq, I settled back into the routine. I stayed busy. I tried to keep my mind off of my family. We kept working nights and doing our thing. But I couldn’t sleep. At all. The fatigue started to get to me. I could feel myself shutting down. I remember one day, a slow day where we didn’t have any work, I looked at my side arm in my desk drawer and for just a second and wondered if that wouldn’t be better for everyone. I was too tired. And going home would be no relief from any of it. The thought passed though. And I never had it again. Not before. Not since. I only bring it up to make the point of how far I’d dropped from where I was. That was the bottom.

It wasn’t long after that day that one morning, while trying to fall asleep in my blacked out trailer, I noticed a stack of CD’s piling up next to my bed. The church Annette started dragging me to before I deployed was sending me recordings of the weekend messages. I hadn’t opened any of them. In an act of thorough boredom and fatigue, I opened one up and put it in. When it was over, I put in the next one. And then the next one. It was hard to describe how they made me feel. I didn’t buy the message. I never had. But something felt comforting about watching them. I didn’t feel alone. And the darkness felt less so. So I kept doing it, until finally, I drifted off to sleep.

I kept it up for the rest of the deployment. I had a couple of dozen backed up since I left. So I would watch them and fall asleep each morning. And each day sleep got easier. Until finally, it was time to go home. For good.

Part 5 –>

Our Story: Part 3

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-Sean and Annette Hughes are the founders of Care For Us, a non-profit organization dedicated to helping special needs parents and their kids be the best they can be. This is Part-3 of a series chronicling their story. For previous posts click here.

Her Story

When I got home, my parents were anxiously waiting for me. I quickly told them what the assessor had told me, handed Aidan to one of them and ran upstairs. I don’t even remember if I acknowledged my other children. I remember hearing my father tell my mother not to follow me. I sat alone on my bed in an exhausted haze. I was sobbing and felt sick to my stomach.

I knew. I had known for eight months. How could I have let eight months go by! The average diagnosis for autism is well over three. Aidan was still two months away from his third birthday, by most standards I was early. So why was I feeling so guilty? I know now that it was the grieving process, a very real phase that all parents of special needs children go through. But at the time, I just felt like I had let him down.

I first learned about Autism on Oprah and was instantly fascinated and confused by it. Every child acted differently. I couldn’t make sense of it at all. But the epidemic was on the rise and we teachers and older parents were being told to be on the watch for it. And now it happened to us. To my son. Aidan was now a statistic.

As I sat there in that dark state, I had what I can only describe as an out of body experience. I felt like the air was sucked out of the room. I could hear wind but there was none. Then I felt an overwhelming calm and peace. I heard the words, from somewhere.

Everything is going to be OK.

I have always been a believer, grounded in my faith. I had felt this feeling of calm before in dark times. I was feeling it again.

Aidan is going to be fine, you are going to be fine, I am with you.

In that moment, my darkest moment, I felt peace. I believed it.

All of Aidan’s life I had been worried about him. We got pregnant with him when his older brother was just nine months old. Because I was older, in my late 30’s and the pregnancies were so close together, I was considered high risk. We were poked and prodded all the way through it. The entire pregnancy Aidan measured small and had low movement. At 20 weeks we had advanced genetic testing done and it was nerve wracking. On the car ride to get the results, I told Sean that I didn’t care what the tests were we are keeping this baby. He was less sure but it was clear the entire notion seemed to panic him. But it forced the thought. I believe to this day that the process was God’s way of planting the seed in us.

So there I was, three years later and for the first time in Aidan’s life, I felt that I was not going to lose him. Not in the way I feared, not in any way. After Aidan was born I had panic attacks brought on by the overwhelming feeling that something horrible was going to happen to him. I never told anyone. I chalked it up to postpartum emotions. But it never completely went away. I was always watching over him too closely and holding him too tight. I would have dreams of him getting cancer or getting in a car accident. I was in a constant fear that I kept all to myself.

But on that day, the day when I should have been feeling that my worst fears had come true, I felt peace. I felt the Lord tell me that this is what He had been preparing me for.

You are not going to lose him. I am with you.

Within minutes of that realization, the phone rang. It was Sean. He told me everything was going to be OK, and that Aidan was still our beautiful little boy, and that he was coming home to us.

 His Story

It took me a few hours to work up the courage to tell someone. I didn’t know what to say. Or how to start the conversation. All I knew was that I needed to get home because I didn’t think that there was going to be a home to get to if I didn’t. But I didn’t know how to ask. And I didn’t know how I felt about leaving my guys. I wasn’t vain enough to think that they couldn’t do it without me. They could. That’s the kind of troop we built.  But I also knew, that if I left, and anything happened to any of them, I don’t know if I would ever get over it.

That morning after the mission spun down I found myself alone with the operations officer in our shared office. He was technically my boss but he was the same rank as I was and had graduated just a year ahead of me at Annapolis. We’d become friends over the last three months. But still I struggled to find the words. So I just blurted them out.

“I talked to Annette today. Aidan was diagnosed with autism.”

He wasn’t married. And he didn’t have any kids. And the last time he was out there he’d lost some of his platoon and got shot up pretty bad himself. I had no idea what he was going to say. He’d sacrificed much for this war and somehow I felt lesser for asking him what I felt like I needed to ask him. For what seemed like an eternity he just sat there.

“I’m sorry to hear that Sean.” he said in the direct, clear way he spoke to everyone in just about every circumstance. Then he asked me the question I didn’t have the courage to answer.

“What do you need?”

I couldn’t get the words out. But he knew. And he never made me ask it.

“Let’s go talk to the skipper.”

Standing in my commanding officer’s office,  I told him what Annette had told me. Without hesitation he looked up from his stack of papers and told me I needed to go home. He didn’t ask.

I responded apologetically.  “Just a week, maybe two, just to help set everything up for his treatment and the medical crap.” .

“So you’ll be back the middle of December?” he asked.

“That’s the plan.” I said.

“That’s a stupid plan.” he said and then he paused and looked me square in the eye and said something that I know now, probably saved my family.

“Don’t come back until after Christmas. Go take care of your family Sean. We need you. But we need you right. And I don’t want you here if you’re not. We’ll be fine until then.”

And that was it. He drafted a release letter to get me out of the war. And our air planner got me a flight out, scheduled a week later. I called Annette and let her know and told her that everything was going to be OK. And that no matter what, we’d get through it. I didn’t believe it.  But it was my script. Over the last fifteen years or so I learned to deliver it through other times that didn’t end up OK either. So I did it one more time.

Over the next few days, the shutdown began. When I wasn’t at my desk or in the planning room working, I was locked in my trailer sitting in the dark. Thanksgiving came and my guys knocked on the door and asked if I was going to eat. I sat there silently and waited for them to leave. A dark rage began to grow inside me and all I wanted to do was feed it. It felt good. It was consuming and it helped me focus. If I let it wane, my thoughts would scatter and the sadness would come.

When the day came for my flight, I sent a two line email to my lieutenants telling them that I was heading home for a few weeks and why. That night we kicked off a heavy operation sweeping through the desert rolling up known terrorists, our largest of the deployment. I worked the plan all the way until my ride took me to the helo and out of Iraq. The last thing I saw on the screen in the ops center was an overhead view of multiple tactical units moving on targets. I was bathing in anger, secretly hoping for violence. And then I was gone.

Two helicopter flights, a C-130 and then a commercial flight out of Kuwait and in less than 36 hours I was on a plain touching down at Lindbergh field in San Diego. I still had the Jazirah Desert dust on me as I walked through the airport. And then they were there. My wife and my three boys. It was night, way past their bed times, but she had gotten them dressed and brought them. They looked so different. Ben was huge. Ryan, just an infant when I left, was unrecognizable. And then there was Aidan. He had a distant gaze that fixed on me as soon as I knelt down to hug him.

“Daddy’s home” he said.

Part 4 –>

Our Story: Part 2

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-Sean and Annette Hughes are the founders of Care For Us, a non-profit organization dedicated to helping special needs parents and their kids be the best they can be. This is Part-2 of a series chronicling their story. For previous posts click here.

Her Story

The first few months of the deployment were as brutal as I thought they would be. None of my kids were good sleepers. And none of them were able to do anything on their own. I would have nights where I was up trying to get one of them down to sleep and another one would wake up. And then it was all me all day. Ryan was still nursing. It felt like my body never recovered from the first pregnancy and I’d just gone through two more. I was completely spent.

In late November of 2009 I finally made time to get Aidan properly tested. This was after his preschool early learning assessment came back, “not able to be tested in my category.” The tester referred me to the San Diego regional center. It was a Friday and Aidan was a mess that day. My parents came over to watch the other boys. I remember thinking, as I kissed them goodbye, that everything was going to be different when I saw them again.

I sat with the assessor for over an hour, answering what seemed like hundreds of questions. All the while Aidan was climbing all over me and was running amuck in the little room. When it was over the results showed definitively that he had Autism Spectrum Disorder- a moderate to severe rating.

I walked out of the room in a fog carrying my two-year old. The case worker walked me to the elevator and told me someone would be in touch soon and asked me if I was ok.

Ok? I thought to myself, no I’m not ok. What a weird question to ask. I have since heard dozens and dozens of people with similar stories and they all make me sad. These poor people were not trained to handle the aftermath of the results. They were assessors, not care givers. They assessed and moved on.

I’d like to believe it’s better now but I really don’t know. As a trained marriage, family and child therapist, I know there’s a right way and a wrong way to handle it. I know that how those first minutes and hours are handled after that diagnosis can have long lasting affects on the whole family. I know that because of how it was for me. I wish my results had been handled differently. I wish I had not been alone. I wish someone had told me it was going to be ok instead of asked. There’s only one answer to that question when it’s asked to who they ask it to-No. Not now. Not ever. That’s how it feels.

By the time I got to my car I was sobbing. I strapped Aidan in his car seat, something that at almost three, he should have been able to do himself. I looked at him and felt that I had let him down. I felt that I let this happen to him. I felt that I failed him. He looked at my tears and for a split second he looked sad. I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes hoping Sean would call. He was supposed to call at 3:00, to find out how it went. The phone didn’t ring so I started to drive home. Still crying, I had to finally pull over because I was so upset my nose started to bleed. Then the phone rang.

His Story

The first few months of the deployment flew by pretty fast. We were working in the west, where, earlier in the war, most of the heaviest fighting had been in cities like Falujah and Ramadi. By 2009, the insurgency was on the run and my guys were out just about every night closing it out.

As deployments go, from a quality of life and personal safety perspective, it was pretty light. I was a Lieutenant Commander and I led a pretty big team. Which means when my guys were out, I was back at the headquarters. I woke up around noon, hit the gym and made it to the HQ by one o’clock to figure out what he had lined up for that night’s operation. We’d work on the plan all day and then execute at night. After my guys left, we set up in the operations center and drove the plan from there. When they got back safe, usually around sun up, I’d wander back to my trailer. It took lots of focus and long hours and I felt like I was trapped in a space that was about a hundred square yards for months. But the time went by fast and we were kicking serious ass trying to finish off the war.

When I got back to my trailer, I’d try to Skype with Annette. It usually didn’t work, but it did from time to time. One time, I did it without setting up an appointment by email first. She answered and man she look spent. The kids were crawling all over her. She looked like a zombie. She said she was sorry but she couldn’t talk. What I wouldn’t have done to be with them and let those boys tire me out. I hadn’t seen them in three months. They looked so different. That was the hardest part of the deployment, by far. Missing them.

A few weeks before Thanksgiving, Annette sent me an email. She told me she was going to get Aidan assessed for autism. She was still worried. I remember thinking, good, we can finally put this to bed once and for all. On the day it was scheduled, I called from the phone in my office. It took me forever to get it to work. But it finally did. I said hi and asked her how it went. I immediately knew something was wrong. She didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever. And then she said it.

“Sean, he’s autistic”.

Then the lights went out and the phone went dead.

I ran out of my office in the pitch dark. I heard our logistics officer calling out as I sprinted out the door that the generator had died. I didn’t care if a mortar had taken it out. I needed to get to a phone. A little further to the north, on the same base, one of the groups that we worked with still had power. They were on a different generator. I sprinted over found a phone and called Annette.

We talked. She told me the details through hysterical crying. I tried to calm her down, tell her we would be all right. But she was inconsolable. Eventually, I had to hang up and head back to my side of the camp. I walked out of the phone room and passed a few guys I knew. I couldn’t look at them. As I walked outside and headed towards the edge of where the flood lights ended and into the darkness, I broke down.

I could see in the distance, my team was sitting around a camp fire by now. The generator was still down. I walked as slowly as I could in the darkness along the banks of the Euphrates, the emotion running out of me, sobbing, uncontrollably. In that moment, I knew the life I had planned was over. I just wanted to hold my boy. But he was gone. And I was on the wrong side of the world.

I started to slow my breathing to control myself before I got within earshot of the campfire. As I got closer, I wiped my face and noticed they were huddled around some papers. I had forgotten, the guys were ready to go out again tonight. A few steps away now, the operations officer, my boss, noticed me. His raspy voice broke what felt like a permanent silence.

“There you are man. Need your eyes on something”

Part 3 –>