Chapter 16
We had spent a lot of time at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, at the bedside of wounded warriors.
When Joe was vice president, we’d gone almost every Christmas as the wars raged on.
I’d go from room to room to room, spending hours talking to people while taking in their cross-stitched bodies and red-raw skin set against the starched white sheets.
I’d always been anti-war, but seeing the suffering of those men and women had made it obvious to me that putting our troops in combat should always be a last resort.
When Beau came home, I asked him, “What do the soldiers need most after fighting in war?”
“Mental health, Mom,” he said.
When I traveled to military bases, I saw how increasing access to telehealth helped take away the stigma of those suffering from PTSD or brain trauma. At Walter Reed, I saw how art therapy let service members express their anxiety and challenges in creative ways.
Then there were the children—thousands of them who took care of an injured parent while the other parent worked. They would administer medicines, help them exercise, feed them, do whatever was needed that day. These children were true heroes.
When Gabby Rodriguez was little, she used to ask other five- and six-year-olds on the playground, “Was your dad in the military? Does he have a boo-boo on his brain?” At age nine, she helped her mom take care of her injured father.
Zianny Pabon, age twelve, helped her dad keep track of his medications and doctor appointments.
Noah Stephens, age twenty, had learned how to help his dad through a seizure if his mother wasn’t home.
Mason Wilson, just six years old, had become the family entertainer, always ready with a joke or story to put a smile on his parents’ faces when things seemed hopeless.
We partnered with the Elizabeth Dole Foundation to launch the Hidden Helpers Coalition, a national alliance made up of public and private sector organizations seeking to uplift the voices of military and veteran caregiver children.
As the promised withdrawal from Afghanistan approached, Joe’s military advisors seemed to be fiercely divided about how best to get out.
I watched on television, like everyone else, as the pullout took place.
Intelligence did not seem to anticipate how fast the Taliban would take over once we left, and how hard it would be to get our allies out of harm’s way.
On August 26, an ISIS suicide bombing at the Kabul airport killed thirteen members of our military along with 170 Afghans.
I will always hold the memory of the fallen American service members in my heart: Marine Corps Lance Cpl.
David L. Espinoza, Marine Corps Sgt. Nicole L.
Gee, Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Darin T. Hoover, Army Staff Sgt.
Ryan C. Knauss, Marine Corps Cpl. Hunter Lopez, Marine Corps Lance Cpl.
Rylee J. McCollum, Marine Corps Lance Cpl.
Dylan R. Merola, Marine Corps Lance Cpl.
Kareem M. Nikoui, Marine Corps Cpl. Daegan W.
Page, Marine Corps Sgt. Johanny Rosario Pichardo, Marine Corps Cpl.
Humberto A. Sanchez, Marine Corps Lance Cpl.
Jared M. Schmitz, and Navy Hospital Corpsman Maxton W. Soviak.
Joe took full responsibility, and yet that would mark the first time we went into a group of military families and were met not as friends but, by some, as enemies.
Joe called each family to offer condolences and listen to them.
Then we traveled to meet with them in person and to oversee what’s called the “dignified transfer,” or ceremonial return, of the fallen at Dover Air Force Base.
Dover Air Force Base in Delaware is where dignified transfers take place for all branches of the military.
The work they do is difficult, and they carry out their work with such deep respect.
I had been there before for a dignified transfer when I was Second Lady.
In the past, families were held in a rather cold room.
Then the military recognized that it needed a comfortable space.
They built the Families of the Fallen Center in 2009–2010 at the height of the wars on terror.
The mortuary on the base receives the warrior, and there are closely followed protocols intended to treat every man and woman with the utmost respect and dignity.
The families usually arrive the day before the transfer and receive a steady flow of clergy, military officials, and representatives of the government.
After arriving early that morning, Joe and I were given a thorough briefing by the military.
We knew the exact minute each movement would take place, were told precisely where to stand and when to salute.
From there, we were taken to the center to meet the families.
We slowly walked in. The families—all thirteen—were gathered in one large, open, dimly lit room filled with soft living room furniture and table lamps.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself.
I had to be strong for them. Some were vocal.
Some turned their backs. Most were weeping.
It had been three days or less since the families had gotten the news about their child’s or their spouse’s death.
Flown from all over the United States, and taken to the Fisher House on the base, they were still in shock.
It was too much for them to absorb. There was no privacy for anyone.
Then they had to come face-to-face with the man who had taken responsibility for their loved one’s death.
We were there to hold them when they’d let us, do whatever we could to show that we understood their pain.
We’d lost a child. Joe had lost two. There was still nothing we could do to remove their sorrow.
Not then, not ever. Then we proceeded to the flight line.
Breathe, I told myself.
We stood directly across from the families with Secretary of State Antony Blinken, Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Mark Milley.
I could hear crying, but I couldn’t look at the families for fear of losing my composure. I knew their pain was excruciating. Seeing the flag-draped coffins made it real.
Breathe.
One by one, each service member was transferred on their way “home.”
Sergeant Nicole Gee had deployed from Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.
I had been to Lejeune a few times and I wanted to visit to offer my condolences and spend more time with those grieving.
They’d set out the powerful marker of lost service members, empty boots in a row.
Where Sergeant Gee had left her car parked before leaving for Afghanistan, a makeshift memorial appeared.
I placed a bouquet of roses on the windshield and said a prayer for her.
I was supposed to meet with Nicole’s best friend, but she’d tested positive for COVID. I learned that she was sitting in her car nearby, so I went over and placed a white rose on her windshield and put my hand on it. Her hand touched mine through the glass as she wept, enveloped in sorrow.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, loud enough so she could hear me through the glass. “I’ll be in touch. God bless you.”
I called the next day to tell her I was thinking of her, and we kept in touch.
I knew that in the wake of the Iraq War, in which 4,432 US service members lost their lives and close to 32,000 were wounded, President George W.
Bush encountered parents who blamed him for the death of their children.
Joe and I hadn’t experienced that until the withdrawal from Afghanistan, but at that dignified transfer, a number of those thirteen grieving families expressed their pain.
The tragedy in Afghanistan was a turning point for Joe’s administration.
We’d started the year carried by the country’s high hopes and expectations.
By so many across the country, Joe was beloved, hailed as a savior.
His COVID strategy was working. People were able to gather again safely.
The economy was coming back to life. The divisions of the former administration seemed to be healing. But that summer changed everything.
I sometimes wrote Joe notes in lipstick on the mirror in his bathroom, where I knew he’d see them as he shaved.
Sometimes just a heart. Other times, “You’re my hero.
” On my way to work one morning, seeing how much negativity Joe was facing, I left him a note that said, “Get up, champ. Get up”—something his father always said to him in hard times.