Kathryn Eastburn: Memorial Day

This essay was written for public radio KRCC-FM's "The Big Something," published at www.thebigsomething.org.

(Theodore Kang Eastburn, Iraq 2005, flying in a Black Hawk helicopter.)

No Comfort
Remembering My Son, My Soldier

By Kathryn Eastburn

My son Ted was a soldier.

He was a brother, a son, a cousin, a nephew, and a grandson. He was a fisherman, a movie aficionado, an emergency medical technician, a practical joker, and a loyal friend. But foremost, he was a soldier.

It is sometimes hard for me to understand how or from where Ted’s military mindset evolved, given that he grew up in a non-military family with few apparent military influences. It seemed inborn, as inevitable as breathing.

He was born in Korea and adopted at seven months. His first American home was a small cottage in Colorado Springs across the street from a brick firehouse. He loved sitting in the small square patch of grass beyond the front porch, listening as the fire alarm split the air, watching as the shiny red truck backed into the street, and shrieking as the massive engine offended the peace of a quiet afternoon with its deafening diesel roar and window-rattling siren.

His first word was fire truck (pronounced “pie-tuck”).

Teddy was a Lego master, constructing elaborate helicopters (”hockingtockers”) and tanks. In one of my favorite photos, taken when he was around age four, he proudly holds up to his father’s camera a fighter jet, constructed completely of cardboard. As he grew older, he played fireman, policeman, and finally and forever, soldier. He camped out in pup tents, perched a green beret atop his round head, ate MRI’s, and conjured imaginary enemies.

By middle school, his play had become a lifestyle. He shopped for clothes at the Army Surplus Store. He wore polished black combat boots. We lived then in a rambling old four-square Victorian with rooms on three floors, and when Ted moved his bedroom to the third floor, he set up an Army cot camouflaged by netting in a narrow V-shaped dormer. He slept there, surrounded by scratchy military issue wool blankets, for years.

Finally, at age 17, at the end of his junior year in high school, Ted enlisted in the U.S. Army Reserves. I found no small amount of irony in the fact that he had to have a parental permission slip to do that. He attended basic training, finished high school, continued to train with his unit, and was deployed to Iraq. When he returned, he completed advanced training, switched units, and began to prepare for deployment to Afghanistan. But before he deployed for the second time, at age 22, he killed himself. A gunshot to the head.

I cannot write or say those words without a storm rumbling in my brain, a whirlwind of grief, sorrow, anger, guilt, and confusion. It has been nearly two years since Teddy left us, and the storm has not abated. We miss him more, not less, as Memorial Day approaches, as we face the second anniversary of his death, and what would have been his 25th birthday in September.

Ted was given full military honors at his memorial service. His buddies dressed him in uniform and guarded his body at the funeral home, then escorted him to the crematorium. On a stunningly bright and beautiful summer afternoon in Colorado, they stood at attention, their guns pointed skyward. His commanding officers praised his service. His commander commented: “Make no mistake. Ted Eastburn was a casualty of this war.” On the day of his memorial, he was promoted to corporal.

Our family banded together and faced the rest of our lives without him. We have held each other close and have tried to find ways to remember Teddy that do not hurt us more than we already hurt. I left Colorado and sought comfort near family in Galveston, Texas where Teddy grew up fishing with his cousin in the warm Gulf Coast waters.

There has been no comfort in reading and hearing about the rise in suicides among soldiers this year and every year since the U.S. invaded Iraq.

Army figures show that 2,100 soldiers attempted suicide in 2007, the year that my son succeeded. CBS News, with the aid of a detailed analysis by an epidemiologist, reports that veterans aged 20 to 24 who have served in the war on terror had the highest suicide rate among all veterans, and a rate estimated some two to four times higher than civilians from the same age group. Everyone agrees that the number of suicides among American soldiers has been dramatically on the rise over the past five years.

In recent months, top ranking military brass have addressed the urgency of the problem. Major General Mark Graham of Fort Carson has spoken openly about the deaths of his two sons — one an ROTC cadet by suicide in 2003, and one by an improvised explosive device in Iraq in 2004. “Both of my sons died fighting different battles,” said Graham.

Early intervention, better mental health care, and erasure of the stigma attached to needing help in the “can do” environment of the military have been topics widely discussed. The Army’s highest ranking psychiatrist, Brigadier General Dr. Loree K. Sutton, has urged that “seeking help is a sign of profound courage and strength.”

“Truly,” said Sutton, addressing a 2009 suicide prevention conference, “psychological and spiritual health are just as important for readiness as one’s physical health.”

This enlightened attitude and open communication is heartening, but it does not ease the knowledge that my son returned from Iraq and filled out a multiple-choice questionnaire aimed at measuring his psychological health. To every question he answered affirmatively that he was suffering no after effects. When we asked him he told us he was fine, though we could see from his sleep patterns and the level of suppressed rage he carried around that he was not. I suggested, as did his father, that he might see a therapist for what we perceived as depression. He couldn’t do that, he told us, because it would negatively impact his career.

So where does a parent, a wife, a brother, a sister, a loved one of a soldier who has committed suicide in the line of duty find comfort on Memorial Day?

There is no comfort in the fact of my son’s permanent absence or in the memory of the horrible way he died. But I find solace in remembering his dedication to being a soldier. I understand now that he truly wanted to be part of something larger than himself, and that he achieved that goal. I treasure the fact that he loved his country and that he was brave and daring and courageous. I will love forever his steadfastness and his unwavering devotion to his buddies.

I always tell my creative writing students that there are some things we are just not ready to write about, and Teddy’s death has been one of those subjects for me. His death has been the single most present determining factor in my life since the end of July 2007, and I have not yet digested it or synthesized it into anything I feel capable of expressing.

But when I began thinking of writing this piece, a remembrance for Memorial Day, I was blessed with dreams of Teddy. He rarely appears to me in dreams, but when he does it is as if I have been touched by a magical hand. I hold my breath and wake up trying to hold on to the dream.

In this dream, he appears at the kitchen counter. He is around age twelve. He is studying a map, his long fingers tracing lines on its surface. He wears a brown cotton T-shirt and military camo pants. The toes of his black combat boots are spit-shined. Atop his head, against his shiny black hair, a green beret is perched, tilted slightly to the side. He looks up, and then he is gone.

Kathryn Eastburn, formerly editor of the Colorado Springs Independent, is a freelance author, journalist, and teacher. Her books are Simon Says: A True Story of Boys, Guns and Murder (Da Capo Press, 2007) and A Sacred Feast: Reflections on Sacred Harp Singing and Dinner on the Ground (University of Nebraska Press, 2008). Her work has appeared in numerous regional and national publications, and she is a visiting professor at The Colorado College. She resides in Texas.

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5 Comments

As the child of a Vietnam Vet who has the worst case of PTSD that his doctors have ever seen, I feel for you. And as the sister of someone who shot himself in the head right before Christmas, at the age of 23, my heart bleeds for you. Even with everything that I have been through, I can not imagine how much worse the pain of a suicide must be if it is your child. It's been almost fifteen years (my God, has it really been that long?) since my brother killed himself, I have 3 kids now, I can not understand how my mom survived the death of her cherished, loved, funny, amazingly talented son. You are in my prayers.

Posted by: Susan | August 21, 2009 at 11:25 AM

Oh here you are....I've asked Daniel if he had any word of you, but no. And I didn't want to intrude on anyone else to try and find you. Anyway, I found a picture of the boys and wanted to send you a copy. I like to think it was a time when they were still innocent, well at least, a day when fun was foremost on their minds.
So many times I wanted to talk with you, knowing somewhat how you felt. But then for some reason I got it in my head that you were a stoic. Which to me is a venerable philosophy, as it permits one to really move forward in life.
But reading your thoughts of Memorial Day I realized the feelings are there, just tempered with wisdom and maturity, perhaps.
Daniel suffers tremendous guilt about Teddy. And Thomas. But he's been thru a little therapy and I hope he will grow to see the realities of suicide. Thank you for keeping him close during the memorial time.
In retrospect for me, the day we met at Laura's was my wake-up call. Somehow, could I have befriended Ted and prevented his departure? I was doubtful, as one of Thomas' friends visited me after his death and ended leaving accusing me of being the reason for it.
I grew up across the Gulf from where you are. A little further south on the west coast of Florida. My Mother completed suicide when I was 25. And 2 uncles, a brother-in-law, good college friend. So I know hurricanes and suicide.
Well, this is becoming one long comment and I don't know when you'll read it, so I'll keep trying to get the picture to you. You seem so balanced, as far as accepting the joy and loss in your life. I admire you for this.
With respect, Debi

Posted by: Debi | November 14, 2009 at 04:29 PM

I moved forward in my life, still with the belief that we live in different times, and we, the people need to act or our children will not have the opportunities that we did growing up.
Please don't take this wrong Kathryn. After our meeting, you were exposed to a devasting hurricane. Now I am reading another loss in your life.
I understand that you may not be the "right" person for the job, however, you are a woman with major influences and the doors continue to shut.
Everyone is all about "agendas", and thats perfectly okay. In order to conquer, you must divide.
The Independent shut me down over our local police department. I managed to rent a small low-income apartment at home and the Lord blessed me with more arsons at the complex. Training 8 year-old children now.
The players in your book and my game have all been promoted. Recently, I have been learning about a serious epidemic in our nation called organized stalking. WOW.
I guess responsibility, leadership, accountability and change mean nothing. I will continue to fight and pray for our military troops, who are the real men and women of courage. I believe we are a disgrace and of coward nature.
Fear is a powerful tool. The only right I have is to bear arms. Don't even go there with me.

God Bless.

Posted by: Kathy Northcutt | February 02, 2010 at 12:42 AM

You might be interested in reading a blog by Amanda regarding crime and victims rights in Colorado, or why not state the truth, the terrorist state!

http://vpione1.wordpress.com/2010/01/21/vpi-shelved-starting-today/

Posted by: Kathy Northcutt | February 02, 2010 at 12:56 AM