A profound sense of foreboding gripped my heart as I walked the driveway on that early morning in Texas. In front of the hospital, the American flag hung at half-staff; it was so large that the bottom corner was but a few short feet off the ground. I wondered why it was at half-staff. Had one of the service members died during the night? My son was one of those service members. Had he died, my emotions asked? But no, countered my head, surely they would have called us. Still, I commented on it to my husband and daughters.

          After we visited our son and brother in his room on the ICU burn ward for that brief half-hour, we went to breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. Looking at the date on a newspaper left at our table, I realized it was Pearl Harbor Day. While that date explained the flag at half-staff, it did not eliminate my sense of something unwanted lurking nearby.

          We headed back down the driveway toward our hotel, but I was restless. Five days of intense family togetherness and constant roller coasting of emotions were taking a toll. As we approached the end of the driveway, the fort's shuttle bus stopped at the corner, and although I was now just across from the hotel, I hopped on the bus. I talked to the bus driver and a passenger as we made stops at various barracks and offices. The passenger, himself a service member receiving treatment at the hospital, wished my son well. I was buoyed by the warmth of feeling from the man.

          I departed the bus in front of the hotel and went up to the room to try to rest. Early mornings to see our son at 6 a.m., the constant ups and mostly downs of his condition, and efforts to keep far-away relatives informed of his condition combined to keep us exhausted. But rest was elusive, and soon after returning to the room, my cell phone rang, and the hospital voice on the other end summoned us back.

          We met with a research physician in the quiet room, right off the waiting room where families napped and talked softly, perhaps discussing what possibilities had brought a family rushing back. Although just the previous day doctors had said that our son's condition wasn't grave enough to warrant this experimental treatment, they had reconsidered and recommended, strongly, that we consider allowing them to proceed.

          We instantly said, "Yes," hoping the treatment could start immediately. Instead, the researcher led us through the consent document_ As the gravity of the possible adverse consequences sunk in, we asked many questions: If he did not receive this treatment, was there any hope for his survival? Not likely. How bad were the long-term side effects? Some were dreadful. What would be his quality of life? Difficult to say. I wondered, "How do I measure the quality of his life against life at any cost? Would he want to live in that condition? Who was I to say? I gave birth to him. The rules of life say he should be making health-care decisions for me when I am old and infirm. How could I, along with his dad and sisters, contemplate his death?

          We decided. We were ready to sign consent, grasping onto any hope that would keep our son alive. As the researcher was going over some loose ends, someone from the ward opened the door and said, in words bulging with urgency, "The family needs to come back here NOW!"

          We leapt up as one and went to the anteroom outside Jack's room. Looking through the window, we saw doctors and nurses and others too numerous to count in our dazed condition surrounding his bed, attempting to restart his heart. Someone – chaplain, social worker, nurse, it's all a blur – told us our son and brother had gone into cardiac arrest at 9:03.

          As the doctors worked, my husband and I stood clutching each other, willing our son to revive. Our daughters – my son's sisters, one older, one younger – clung sobbing to one another. As I realized that Jack would not be coming back to his body, I wished for a quiet so deep that I would be able to feel the whisper of Jack's spirit touch my tears as he left this world behind.

          All too soon, the machines fell silent and the medical people hung their heads. People began clearing away debris left from the urgency of the crisis. Some filed out of the room, while others tucked a clean, white blanket around Jack's body. My younger daughter bolted from the room, but all I could do was look through the window, hoping beyond any sense of reason that the quiet was not what I knew it was. My head knew why they had stopped working, but my heart had not yet processed the truth. As long as no one said the truth aloud, I could pretend he was still whole and alive.

          I whispered, "Someone say it out loud."

          My husband replied, "He's gone."

          Our son had died at 9:25 a.m. Friday, December 7, 2006, just 20 days before his twenty-first birthday.

(MRFN Jack Valentine was injured in the boiler room of the USS Frank Cable on Dec. 1, 2006, as he was working as burnerman for pressure testing. He was burned on nearly 70 percent of his body, with extensive damage to his lungs from breathing the super-hot steam. One doctor said it was the worst case of scarring in the lungs that he had ever seen. A Navy investigation revealed that "a false sense of urgency" accompanied testing of the system that day.

            (Jack and five others were airlifted from Guam to Hawaii to Brooke Army Medical Center in Texas. Jack was posthumously promoted to MR3 with Surface Warfare designation. It was only recently that we learned that he had passed his preliminary board for Surface Warfare designation and that he had just found out that day that he had made E-4. "He made the others (who were taking the SW test) look like two-year-olds," said his MM1.

            (Please see Stars and Stripes on-line http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?section=104&article=53406&archive=true for an overview of the Navy's investigative report. Although the report recommends that the commanding officer's, executive officer's and chief engineer's errors in judgment be reviewed for administration or disciplinary action, to my knowledge, no such action has been taken. The chief petty officer in the space the day of the explosion died April 30, 2007, while three men remain at Brooke Army Medical Center, Ft. Sam Houston, under going outpatient treatment for burns.)

Yea! I finally got my new Ford Escape Hybrid. I ordered it a long time ago and finally took delivery on Friday.

I am really jazzed that I can drive down the residential streets around my house without using gasoline!

I do get easily distracted, however, by the cool navigation stuff and the energy usage diagram.

My son's birthday is Dec. 27, so I go to his grave on the 27th of each month. This is my journal entry for August 27, 2007:

"Just having coffee at my favorite place before I go see Jack. Is it ok that I talk to him there? I read today's, my birthday's and Jack's birthday's entry in Max Lucado's "Grace For The Moment." Jack's said "Admission into Joy." from Psalm 30:11. I got goosebumps just reading that. Jack has truly been admitted into joy -- not just the joy of knowing Christ here, but the joy of living in heaven with Him.This is a really odd feeling, but I'm happy for Jack!

"I feel like my pain has been lifted. I still miss Jack, but I haven't felt that overwhelming pain lately. I'm at peace.

"Dare I say that? I know, the sadness could overwhelm me again, but over it all is my sense of acceptance and peace. Lord, let me enter into joy.

"'You took away my clothes of sadness and clothed me in happiness." (Psalm 30:11)

"Jack is in heaven enjoying communion with God -- his life is centered there, not here. He is experiencing joy eternal. I will, too, someday.

"If the book "90 Minutes in Heaven" (by Don Piper) is to be believed, Jack will be there to greet me whenever it is I get there. Who was there to greet him? ...

"Maybe he greeted (the mother of a classmate who died recently of cancer). And the two old saints from (church) who died recently.

"To God be all glory!"

If you want to know more about how to have peace, please send me a message. Thanks.

Life is good. I've come to some sort of peace about the death of my son. Thirteen years ago, my children and I were in a train wreck. From that experience, I learned that God loves my children more than I can, far more. Now, come forward to December 2006. My son died in service to our country. In January, I was so pissed at God that I yelled at Him and then didn't talk to Him for several weeks. When I finally started talking to Him again, I still didn't get very chatty with Him.

In July, my pastor preached a sermon on the Psalm that says that one day in God's courtyard is better than a thousand elsewhere, and all I could think about is how one more day with my son is better than a thousand elsewhere. At that moment, by actually admitting that I was putting Jack before God, I knew, I knew that I had to shift my thinking or I would be in pain for a long, long time.

The following Sunday morning, I was driving through Chicago on I-94, listening to WMBI Christian radio. I don't recall a particular song that was played, but the quiet time allowed my to think things through. In what was almost a question from God, I asked myself, Do I still believe that? Do I still believe that God loves my children more than I ever could? If my answer was still yes, then I needed to come to terms with Jack's death and with my relationship with God.

I had a wonderful two weeks visiting my friend in Vermont. (She said I was glowing!) I felt more relaxed and at peace than ever before. The first church service I attended when I returned home, I sang. I sang for the first time in a long time. And I meant the words of praise to God. Previous to this, I had not been able to sing the words and mean them, and when I would try to sing, I ended up crying.

By extension, if God loves my kids more than I can, then that means He loves me more than I can know or imagine. I know from the book of Romans that God makes all things work for good to those that love Him and are called according to His purpose. I also know that He will not test me beyond what I am able to handle.

Am I "over" my son's death? No. I doubt I'll ever be "over" it. But I do know that today I have peace and the first step to acceptance.

I'm currently in the Green Mountain State ~ Vermont. I am enjoying a much-needed vacation and staying with a friend. This is the kind of vacation that I prefer: we hang out, we go and do something if the mood strikes us, or we stay home. We walk down to the local American Legion for a drink or take the dog for a walk around the block.

Today we went to a Japanese restaurant. Earlier in the day, I walked with her brother-in-law from her house to her niece's house to deliver a basketball hoop, pole and all. We made quite a sight crossing the main street, walking down the sidewalk, and finally walking down the niece's street with him pushing a home basketball hoop with pole and big plastic container at the bottom to fill with water or sand for weight. My friend was getting rid of it, so he took it over to his grandson. I also went with him to the dump (sorry, town recycling center!).

 Friday, I went to the Vermont Country Store in Weston (one of my favorite places) with a friend of my friend. That's the kind of friends we are ~ I don't expect her to entertain me, and she has friends who I like, too. In any case, my friend is not into shopping, so a shopping trip meant leaving her at home and going alone or with a friend of hers.

On Sunday, my friend, her fiance and I went to Whitehall, NY, birthplace of the Navy; and Ft. Ticonderoga, site of the first battle of the Revolutionary War.

Vermont is home to wide shallow rivers, with water running over and among rocks in the stream bed. It is home to winding mountain roads, breathtaking views, and lots of road construction.

One way to know you're in Vermont is to look at the roadsides. If you see billboards, you're not in Vermont. Billboards are not allowed! There are plenty of moose crossing signs, but I've yet to see one of the advertised moose (meese for the plural?). My friend said her fiance has seen bears and that her friend (the one I went shopping with) had a bear sleeping under her bird feeders for a while.

This vacation was what I needed for my current state of mind. Thanks, J!

My son (currently on my default picture) loved The Simpsons TV show. Watched it whenever he could. I would look for Simpson stuff (found cool pj pants for him one time).

Now he's dead and they came out with this movie and all I can think is, he would have loved the movie. In the grand scheme of life and death, a movie is nothing. But he would have been excited about seeing it and deciding if it was faithful to the TV show. But now he's gone, and he won't be seeing it.

And my mind keeps going to the place that says the movie won't be complete without him seeing it. I don't think I'll ever be able to see it, because I'll be crying the whole time, thinking about Jack, while everyone else in the theater is laughing at Homer, et al.

I ordered a 2008 Ford Escape Hybrid last week. Unfortunately, they do not offer it in red, my favorite color. I had to settle for black pearl slate. I've never ordered a car before, so this was pretty exciting. I remember my parents doing it when I was a kid.

I could have gotten red ~ if I'd ordered five of them. Then I would have qualified for fleet ordering! They offer the regular Escape in red, but not the hybrid.

My son has been dead for seven months and three days. I sometimes catch myself getting a flash of realization that he really and truly is gone. The horror of that fact washes over me, and my grief is new once more. A friend of mine's daughter died several years ago, and she told me today that she still gets those flashes.

My youngest just turned 19 a few days ago. I dread the day she turns older than her big brother. I know I have two years before that happens, so perhaps I ought not to dwell on it. But the thought resides there in the back of my mind, ready to pounce and take me by surprise.

Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to live. I feel like I don't know how to do anything. Everything I learned about being a mom and by being a mom is now useless. When I called my sister right after my son died, I cried out, "I don't know what to do! What do I do?" It wasn't about what do I do next, in a practical sense, but my question was about what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life, now that one of the people who defined it was gone.

I avoid looking at the greeting card aisle when I go to the grocery store. When I went at Mother's Day to get a card for my mom, none of the cards seemed appropriate. None of them said, "Happy Mother's Day, Mom, but your grandson is still dead." All I could do was stand there and cry, thinking, "How do I say Happy Mother's Day, when I just lost one of the people who calls me 'Mom?'" I can't even park outside the Hallmark store at the local strip mall.

I  do have hope that I will see him again in heaven, but that seems such a long way off.

I have an '06 Escape Hybrid sitting in my driveway tonight. It's not mine; it belongs to the dealership. They're just letting me use it for a day so that I decide to buy an '08 Escape Hybrid. Well, I've already decided, but they still let me use it! I really like the idea of a hybrid. The electric motor is recharged by energy produced by braking, and the vehicle is powered by the electric motor at speeds up to 25 mph.

Now, my daughter said that I never drive that slowly, but I'm willing to do it! I figure I can get to my local grocery store via the side streets at 25 mph or less. Don't worry; I'll speed up if someone behind me gets antsy. I think the speed limit is 25 mph through the residential area, anyway, so this will keep me honest! Also, it's three blocks from the main road to my house, with three stop signs. Using a hybrid, I can avoid using gas for that last three blocks to my house!

When I consider how often I come and go, I'm going to save some money in the few blocks around my house. Besides saving gas money, I am doing my part for a cleaner environment, I'm using less gasoline, and I will get a $3,000 IRS tax credit on my '07 taxes. The tax credit is available only on new hybrids, and at $3,000, the Escape Hybrid's is the highest, along with the Mercury Mariner's.

The interesting thing is that the two-year-old compact SUV in my driveway has about the same sticker price as the brand-new vehicle I'll take delivery of in a couple of days. The reasoning behind this is that during the first couple of model years (2005 and 2006, I believe), the Escape Hybrids were much more expensive. The new ones have dropped in price since then. The higher original price on the older models is causing the used vehicles to be pricier, according to my salesman.

Usually, I like to get a car about one or two years old. It has a good balance of lower price with new-car smell. But the deal on this one is better. The one that will reside in my driveway for the next 6+ years will be heading my direction sometime this week.

The Ford Escape Hybrid is hard to find. No local dealerships had one, so the dealership I'm using had to get the '06 brought in from maybe 100 miles away. And I'm in the Chicago/Milwaukee metropolitan area. The one I'm actually buying (OK, making payments on for the next bazillion years) is located at the other end of the state from me, about a 6 to 8-hour drive. Interestingly enough, my salesman had to go there on personal business tonight anyway, so he'll be able to drive it up.

This is really getting long, but hang in there!

My quest for a hybrid car started with a ride in a co-worker's Prius a couple of months ago. It was great, and I was impressed with her mileage, the savings, and the cool electronic graphic depicting her average mileage. I started to look into hybrids. As long as my dad is alive (he's 81 and still going strong) I cannot buy a vehicle manufactured by a foreign company. It's a respect thing. My sister has done it, and that's fine. I won't.

In any case, Fords fit me. When I go clothing shopping, I try on til I drop. When I find a label, cut and size that works for me, I go back and get it in a variety of colors. Same thing for cars. Fords fit me. It started with my Taurus station wagon in the late '80s, then a Windstar in the mid '90s, then a Taurus sedan in the early '00s til now.

The only drawback I see with this new vehicle: It doesn't come in red, and I am definitely a red-car kind of gal!

Well, my sisters and I pulled off the big celebration for our parents' 60th anniversary. A lot of people came to the open house, the food was good, and we were smart enough to hire someone to keep the food trays full throughout the party so that we didn't have to do it AND greet guests at the same time. We had an open house with finger foods. We got kudos on our punch: cranberry/grape juice and 7-Up, with strawberries and mandarin oranges floating around in the bowl. People specifically said they like it because it wasn't too sweet as a lot of other punches are.

We had relatives and friends from Wisconsin, Arkansas, Florida, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, as well as plenty of people from our home state of Illinois. Moms of two of my childhood friends came, and even though I'm all grown up now, I still call them Mrs. (Last Name). I just cannot bring myself to use their first names!

My advice to anyone putting together this kind of thing: Keep it simple, and hire someone to help. A friend of my niece served, and her husband (the friend's) took the photos.