Blue Star Grit: A Mother’s Journey of Triumph and Tragedy Raising a Defiant Child into an Exceptional Leader

Part I

BLINDSIDED

Chapter 1

The Second Blindside

You never realize how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.

—BOB MARLEY²

9:30 p.m. September 8, 2008

Don’t fuck with me! I screamed into the phone to Jerry, my ex of 20 years, while pacing back and forth from the living room to the dining room, trying not to hear what he was telling me. It’s true, Ginny. Bart is dead, his words came in gasps. He could barely get them out between sobs, as if wanting to retract every word before it slipped out. I heard his pain but couldn’t acknowledge its cause.

I never mince words when I’m in fear or pain. What comes out of my mouth is unpredictably repugnant and scary at times. Expletives tumbled out of my mouth as if they had been sight words in my elementary school primer "This is not a joke, you asshole. I don’t believe one fucking thing you’re saying. Don’t pull this shit on me."

Jerry handed off the phone to someone. I could hear them fumbling with it as it changed hands. An unfamiliar voice identified itself as an officer of the United States Army.

At that moment my doorbell rang. Panic gripped my throat. Jack, my husband of 18 years, flung open the door. As if on cue in what I mistakenly thought was Jerry’s melodrama, two uniformed military officers stood on the threshold. The suddenness with which the door was opened threw them off their script. They looked at me, standing in the middle of the room with the phone in my hand, mascara smeared across my cheek, staring back at them as if they were aliens on my doorstep. They looked at Jack, his hand still on the doorknob. And then they looked at each other with dread. Obviously, the horrifying news they were there to deliver had preceded them.

I threw down the phone and began shrieking. Jack clutched me like an attendant on a psychiatric ward trying to contain an out-of-control patient.

Breathe, sweetie, we’re gonna get through this, he whispered in my ear.

No, no. He can’t be dead. He just got back from Iraq. No! I screamed.

My world began to slow, the pace dragging and picking up again. What were those terrifying screams? Who were they coming from and where had I heard them before? I couldn’t hear what the officers were saying. I could only read their body language and watch their lips slowly spell out the message I had dreaded for so long. My baby boy was gone…forever.

On behalf of the President of the United States…

He would never walk through that door again. I would never again see that beautiful smile that could light up a room in an instant.

…and the Secretary of the United States Army…

I would never be able to touch his precious face or feel the Mom-hug he demanded whenever he hadn’t seen me in a while. I would never again listen to his laughter or be the recipient of his playful jokes that challenged my gullibility.

…it is my unfortunate duty to inform you…

We would never have another chat in the wee hours of the morning that defined the closeness and understanding we shared…

…your son, First Lieutenant Robert Fletcher…

We would never again be able to cook together during the holidays or engage in a lively political conversation.

…was killed in the line of duty at 08:30 this morning.

In fact, his whole life passed through my mind in an instant as I continued to scream in denial of what was. I was only conscious of Jack’s tight embrace as he whispered into my ear, Keep breathing, honey. You are going to handle this. We’re gonna get through this, sweetie. Keep breathing.

As my consciousness flickered in and out, flashes of my past emerged. I was crying for Bart, but I was 15. It wasn’t Jack holding me; it was my oldest brother, Gordon, and there were no reassuring words. All he could offer was, He’s dead. My mind was flitting back and forth—fearing the past and denying the present. Bart. Dad. Jack. Gordon. At times it was hard to distinguish where I was, or who was there with me. I couldn’t focus on anything around me. All I knew was that the place I was in felt very familiar; it felt like hell.

After 20 minutes of outright tantrum, my body began to settle into a surrendered, but numbed, state. Everything was surreal, as if it wasn’t actually happening or I was making it up as I went along. I pinched myself to see if I could feel it. I could. No, I moaned. This can’t be happening again. What have I done to deserve this? I’ve worked so hard to bring peace to this world in all I do, work and play. It’s my mission. I have tried all my life to be a child of God. I have worked hard to live by His rules, and this happens again? Why?

The army officers were pushing papers toward me to sign, but I waved them away. All I wanted to think about was how I was going to get my baby back.

My mind flooded with images of my other children. How were they going to handle this? Nic. Oh, Nic. Bart’s older brother. He’s alone. Who will be there for him? And John, my stepson, Bart’s oldest brother. He at least has his girlfriend to hold and console him.

And Bart’s fiancée, Katie, whom Jack and I had practically raised in her teens. She was all alone in Killeen, Texas, waiting for him to come home. By now he was very late. She would be worried. Would she find out about his death by watching the news? No! She had no one there to support her. My mind was distracted by all the drama that would ensue, the suffering.

As the officers were trying to explain the paperwork they wanted me to sign, a wave of nausea enveloped me. I ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. There was a moment of hope that this violent purge would somehow make it all go away. When I was done, I rinsed my mouth and caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face was ashen, eyes swollen, I couldn’t recognize myself. Or maybe I just didn’t want to. I desperately wanted to disappear, to not be the mother of a deceased child. Losing a child is every mother’s greatest nightmare, and it was happening to me. Widow, orphan—these are labels that our culture can tolerate and accept in death. But there is no label for a parent who loses a child. Perhaps our culture isn’t willing to accept it because we don’t want to fathom ever being dragged down to that level of despair.

I found myself staring blankly into the mirror and I focused. I needed some answers. Everyone had told me all my life that I was strong, and I knew it was true. I had faced so many struggles, and my strength was the only thread of hope I had to keep me moving forward, choosing to face the fear rather than run from it.

Ginny, you are strong. You are going to get through this. Just do it!

This would be what I rehearsed in my head in the coming weeks, desperately trying to convince myself that it was even remotely possible.

Grudgingly I went back into the living room where the officers were still patiently waiting for me to sign the paperwork. Jack was on the phone making the dreaded calls to the kids.

Who killed my son? Give me details. I want details.

The only information we have, Ms. Luther, is that we know your son was shot by a specialist in his company who was suspected of criminally harboring some highly sensitive military equipment. The shooter committed suicide after killing your son.

I was shocked. But what happened? How could this be? How does a member of the Band of Brothers do this to one of his own officers? How could this happen stateside? Bart was safer in Iraq, for God’s sake!

We really can’t answer any of your questions until there has been further investigation. But, ma’am, we need you to sign this paperwork.

Looking at their faces for the first time, I could tell this was a job they dreaded. My hands went through the motions of signing, but I will never remember what the paperwork was about. I suspect it was verification of receiving the news of Bart’s death. Their compassionate persistence in getting me to help them complete their task was, I’m sure, an effort to get the hell out of my house and put this awful chore behind them. But imagining their own families receiving this same news endowed them with a particular gentleness and patience for which I was grateful.

Once the papers were signed, the officers told me that there would be a Casualty Assistance Officer who would be meeting me when I arrived at the army base in Fort Hood, Texas. He would be taking the lead in helping me with the processing of Bart’s remains, funeral arrangements, and so forth.

I could barely focus. My priority was getting to Texas and holding my baby in my arms so that I could say goodbye. Wanting to make that last connection, I longed to feel that last touch and store it inside me forever as a loving memory. He needed to hear the soothing, maternal voice that would tell him that everything was okay. Momma is here. I hungered to hold his hand, no matter how cold, to let him know how much I love him, how much I would miss him; to kiss his sweet forehead as I did in my goodnight rituals with him in his childhood; to be the one that closed the coffin on his life, like the straightening of the bedclothes and the soft click of the bedside lamp before closing the bedroom door. As soon as I got to Texas, come hell or high water, I was determined to see my son.

Once the officers left, Jack and I had the daunting task of deciding our next steps.

I should go, and you stay here to deal with everything on this end and arrange for his funeral, I said.

Jack, being the supportive partner he is, was more than agreeable. You took that right out of my head.

We often shared thoughts, speaking them in unison at times.

My first order of business was to call my remaining children who at this point, I was sure, were in the depths of their own personal hells, each trying to process the news that would forever change their visions of the normal family life the six of us had created over the past 18 years. From now on there would be a new normal. Not knowing what it would look like, I was determined it would be nothing like the chaotic dysfunction I had lived after the first blindside.

There were no words to share with my children, just the pure, raw emotion that comes from complete shock, awe, and despair. No words were necessary. The emotional connection eventually soothed us. I just ached to hold and cradle each one of them until they could cry no more. If I could only turn the clock back and make all the hurt go away. Isn’t that what mothers do? Make the boo-boos go away?

But at a deeper level, wisdom told me their grief was not mine to handle for them—that this was another time to let go and let grow. They were now faced with their first real blindside in life. My whole career as an early childhood educator had been centered on teaching children the skills necessary to cope with what life throws at them. My job now would be to model a grieving process for my own children that would inspire them to follow me through the healing. This would force me to hold on to that very fine thread of strength that would keep me from giving up, which at this moment I craved.

After connecting with my children, I knew I had to attend to my professional life. As a master instructor of Conscious Discipline® and public speaker in my Peaceful Parenting business, canceling my classes and speaking engagements for at least the next week was a no-brainer. I logged on to my computer and stared at the blank screen. What could I write to my colleagues that might lighten the burden of the news that was about to be dropped on them? One thing was certain: I did not want to be seen as a victim. That is what I have taught over and over from small, intimate parenting classes to hundreds of keynote speeches at early childhood conferences. Yes, I had been victimized, but I was not willing to call myself a victim. Being a victim—or not—is a choice. The latter was my choice. Experience had taught me that allowing myself to be carried away by a flood of pity would only lure me into the tempting, but toxic, depths of despair.

But telling everyone that all was well would be lying, because it clearly wasn’t. I knew what I had to do. I needed to ask others to wish me well— to believe that I could and would handle this. If they could lend me their strength, it would be the bandage—albeit too small for such a deep wound— that would be enough to carry me for the short term. Absent was my ability to connect with the strength that lay deep within my soul. Asking for help was not my strong suit, since I was the one usually giving it. Know in your hearts that all is well, I wrote. Please do not see me or my family as victims. Our strength in healing will come from how you see us handling this!

The next order of business was to call two of my most valued friends who I knew could be there for me unconditionally. At this point there were no tears. Shock was setting in, so the phone calls were short and to the point.

Becky, my Conscious Discipline mentor and personal friend, would be there to keep me in the present, reminding me hour by hour to eat, breathe deeply, take a step forward, and know that I was safe.

Bart’s dead. He was killed by a solider at Fort Hood.

Oh, no! Becky whispered.

Don’t cry now, Ginny, or you won’t be able to stop.

Listen, would you do me a favor and let our team of instructors know? All I really need is for you all to wish me well. Please don’t see me as a victim, okay?

Okay. I’m here for you. A pause. Ginny?

Yeah?

You got this. I’ll be in touch soon.

My lifelong friend, Cathy, dropped her workload after getting my call and flew from Toronto to my home in Florida, where she would be waiting to take care of me when I returned home from Texas.

Next, I had to arrange the first flight I could get to Killeen. Once that was done, I realized I was going to need cash for the trip. My wallet was empty. Frantically I scoured the house for some cash. The safe! I have some stashed in there. When I dipped my hand in and pulled out an envelope, on it were the words Katie & Bart’s wedding. This was the first moment I realized there would be no wedding.

Katie and Bart had been high school sweethearts and together for seven years. Love at first sight, and they never looked back. Bart had saved for more than a year to purchase the diamond ring that Katie fell in love with when they were shopping one day. He had just popped the question a few months earlier, and they planned to be married the next year after Bart returned from his second deployment.

It’s not fair, I screamed in despair, banging my fists on the metal door. The thought was a physical pain, as if someone had sliced open my belly and extracted all of my organs, leaving them on the cold, hard tile to wither and slowly die. I pounded the door with all my strength until I could no longer lift my arms.

It was midnight before the house fell silent and we made a pathetic attempt to sleep. It was an eerie silence, one in which I could not lie still. Jack and I lay spooned together, numb, anxious, and full of fear. The demons settled in my brain, chasing away the busyness of what needed to be done with heartbreaking images of what the future would look like without Bart. I didn’t know what to say, how to feel, what to do. A miracle was all I could pray for, that my child would walk through my front door and I would feel his loving presence in my arms.

The void I felt in that moment was so overwhelming that I grabbed Jack, and we made desperate and urgent love. This, I knew as we clutched each other, would only temporarily fill the deep hole in my heart. I dreaded the empty moments to come. Don’t stop, Ginny. Just keep it going.

But this distraction could not last forever. Staying in bed only increased the ruminating thoughts of what lay ahead. A wave of grief washed over my body. It would not be pretty, but giving myself permission to emote, alone, exactly as I pleased, without worrying Jack, would create the safety I needed to begin the grieving process. I did not want to be consoled, which would be the response of most people. Consolation would create an obligation for me to respond—more for their satisfaction than for mine—and it would only interfere with my grieving. I didn’t need that pretense right now. Grief is ugly, but it’s real and necessary. And at that moment I yearned to scream to the heavens above.

I slipped out to the back porch and wailed for hours. Wailing seemed to fill the place that sleep abandoned. I hoped it wouldn’t wake the neighbors, but there was no holding back. Holding back only meant the healing would be deferred. I knew I had to face my pain by being present with it, not resisting it. Wailing felt productive to me. It gave significance to all the years I had spent raising this most difficult, but intensely close child. For the second time, I cursed God.

In between wails, I pleaded for Bart to reveal himself to me, one last time. I was desperate to connect with him. On some strange level, I felt closer to him. His celestial energy enveloped me while breathing in the warm, sticky breeze of the late-summer night. I could feel him when I opened my heart to a sky filled with crisp starlight. Every cloud passed with purpose. Every wisp of wind that swayed the palm fronds seemed intentional. He was with me, trying to send a message that was vague and unreachable. Relax, Ginny. Let go. Listen.

Suddenly clarity emerged with Bart whispering the very words I had written to him while he was in military readiness training, preparing for deployment to Iraq.

What I want you to know is how proud I am of all the challenges that you continue to take on in your life. It is only with risk that we can fully experience life. If we all just played it safe, then we would watch life from a kaleidoscope rather than feel we had a part in it all. You, Mom, are a gift from God. You are here to make your mark in the world. I want you to know that I have always believed in you, no matter what the challenge. Any doubts about what you have done in the past are only doubts I have had in myself. You have always been one to live up to your tenets and the good of all people, no matter who has resisted or how you have stood in the face of others. Always, a leader must face the adversity of others’ fears. Sometimes there were moments when I have questioned, just for the moment, whether I did the right thing. It was only then that my trust and faith in God came to grips with all my questioning and self doubts of the past. You can do it, Mom, I know you will!

For a precious few moments, I felt a deep sense of gratitude, lucky to have been the mother of this incredibly powerful young man. He had made his mark on the world in so many ways. It was his persistence that helped me understand that his agenda for life was one that required support, not control. He had helped me find the path for letting go and letting him grow to accomplish all that he wanted in his short life. It was a journey we had shared since he was two-and-a-half years old.

He taught me that his life was his journey, that his struggle was his growth. Who was I to deny him what he came here for? All his life he carried a deep drive within, and he had chosen me to be the unconditional, loving support to witness what he’d come here to achieve. In our journey, I learned that I was just like him in my passion for wanting to make the world a better place and my impatience with those who couldn’t see the need for change. We were soul reflections of each other, which was made abundantly clear by my resistance to his resistance of my control. It took me awhile, but eventually I realized that I needed to step through the looking glass and be present with him to help him make sense of his world. My efforts at control only resulted in undermining his internal guidance and confidence. I came to understand that there is a greater power in all of life and that I must trust that all is well, no matter the outcome.

Bart had lived a short twenty-four years on this planet, fully and completely. He had felt deeply and accomplished more than most adults feel or accomplish in a lifetime. I knew in that instant that when the clouds lifted, something bigger and brighter would come. Bart would continue his legacy on this planet, even though I would never be able to experience the physical sensation of him again.

When the wave of wailing began to subside, and my body returned to reality, I checked my watch. Shit! It’s 3:30a.m. I better get moving. It was time to take the next step on this surreal journey—get on a plane headed to uncharted territory. Jack would stay home to start making arrangements for a funeral. My job was to bring my baby home.

I threw clothes into a carry-on without much thought of what would be appropriate, knowing that I could not predict anything that was to happen in the next few days. I would be experiencing life like a two-year-old, entering each moment without any knowledge or forethought of what was to come, forced to live fully in the here and now, seeing and responding to only what was presented to me.

Turning to leave my bedroom, my eyes zoomed in on a blue glass star lying on the shelf in front of me. It matched the one I gave Bart shortly before he was deployed to Iraq. I scooped it up and slipped it into my pocket, not understanding why, but knowing I needed to take it with me.

Chapter 2

Fort Hood

Face it till you make it.

—UNKNOWN³

As my plane took off from Palm Beach International Airport, I considered my destination. I have always detested the concept of war and everything related to it, so going to an army post filled with uniformed people who relate to and respect each other based primarily on an assessment of how they will perform in battle did not sit well with me. And I did not know what to expect in terms of how they would respond to me under the circumstances. What was clear to me, however, was my desperation to make a connection with Bart before they tore him to shreds in forensics.

Equally important, I wanted details. What exactly happened that could have triggered one of Bart’s soldiers to want to kill an officer who was once his leader in combat? Was it revenge? Did Bart provoke him? Not likely since Bart had spoken of his soldiers with compassion and appreciation for their service to their country. He made a tireless commitment to keep every soldier under his command safe. He had sacrificed his own safety to make sure they each came home in one piece from Iraq. So, what happened?

As I faded in and out of consciousness during takeoff—my body’s attempt to catch up on the sleep I had missed—another wave of sadness engulfed me. The plane soared upward through the dawn clouds and emerged into a stunning sunrise over the ocean. An ethereal connection with my precious baby enveloped me. I had flown a hundred times in my profession and often witnessed scenes like this, but this time was different. This is what it must be like in heaven, I thought. The tears streamed down my face. It was easy to be in this sadness. I could give in to my grief without triggering a barrage of sympathy from the other passengers who were blissfully unaware, thanks to the blessed muffling of my sobs by the hum of the jet engines. Leaning my head against the window, I cried, deep and long. Each time I came up for air, there would be a celestial scene outside my window—peace, light, beauty. I hope this is where you are, Bart.

When I arrived in Austin, Bart’s commanding officer, Mike Doyle, was scheduled to pick me up at the airport to escort me to Killeen, about an hour’s drive away, where Fort Hood is located. I was apprehensive about meeting him. Was he going to be one of those gung-ho army types who is full of himself? One step at a time, Ginny. You can do this.

As I exited through the doorway of the baggage claim area, a man dressed in civilian clothes got out his car abruptly and headed in my direction. His eyes were wide and his pace urgent. This must be Captain Doyle. He did not seem certain of how I might respond. Would I shriek with rage, screaming every obscenity in the book at him? Would I pound on his chest, imposing all blame on this man who was the one responsible for my son’s safety?

He reached