Written by Melissa Hanks Ketchel
Pulling into my driveway, time seemed to slow down, and it unfolded like a movie: the white government van illuminated in the darkness by my headlights; the solemn gathering of family waiting for my return, their faces etched with unmistakable lines of despair; the stoic faces of the 3 Marines and a Navy Chaplain, all in their Dress Blues. The air was damp and cold as I opened the door and collapsed into the dirt driveway, damp from the recent rain. A primal wail echoed in my ears and through the depths of my soul. I didn’t realize, until my father grabbed me to pull me up, that it was me making that noise — that something so animalistic could come out of a human.
In that moment, the world as I knew it shattered irreparably, forever altered by the weight of five words uttered into the cold November air – “We regret to inform you…”
When I was 10, our family moved to the country, 5 acres surrounded by farmers’ fields. My parents had been renting a house in a small town when the opportunity to purchase this land was presented. I can still see my dad pulling our new, used home, an 80-foot mobile home, down the dirt road with a tractor. My 2 younger brothers and I were watching from my mom’s car, while Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” loudly played on the radio and we attempted to sing along, laughing all the while.
With no streetlights to call us in, we grew up amongst the stars. Each August, we would lay with our backs to see the Perseids dancing in the sky, making wishes. In the summer, we would swim in the creek that ran through our backyard, which was mostly mud, but we pretended we were rich and at a fancy spa, layering mud on our faces. In the fall, there would be impromptu football games with Michael and all his friends. We waved to everyone who drove by, bailed hay with the farmers, and watched animals grow up that we knew would be food. One day, I heard Michael yelling outside and opened the door to see him rolling on the ground and holding his crotch, learning the hard way you do indeed get electrocuted if you urinate on an electric fence. As we got older, the crazy things we did escalated: joyriding in my mom’s Ford Aerostar minivan while she slept. I often look back and think we are lucky we didn’t die then, and any day after is a gift. There was a particular bridge on the dirt road, made from a culvert pipe to keep the water from flowing onto the road. It was tradition to come to an abrupt stop on that bridge and do a burnout. One day, Michael, who was 11 at the time, opened the sliding door and was hanging out. I slammed on the brakes, and the door slid right into his head. He fell out of the vehicle, and I am not sure how he didn’t lose consciousness. In that moment, amidst the chaos and panic, there was a strange, twisted humor in the way the door rebounded off his head. I found it funny well before he did. After he got over being angry and screaming at me, we laughed so hard we were both crying. We often did things I still don’t tell my mom about that could have ended in one or both of our deaths. As teenagers, we would constantly fight each other; family beatings, we would joke. He broke my nose, was the reason for the first stitches I received, and on one occasion, he filled his pellet gun with cookie sprinkles. I spent two hours picking Christmas colors out of my legs where they were stuck in my skin.
Michael joined the Marine Corps in January of 2001. I was pregnant with my first child, and it was like we were both starting our lives. He graduated boot camp from Parris Island and was home on leave when I went into labor 5.5 weeks early. Michael was pacing the hallway when his niece was born and was one of the first to hold her. Stationed with the 3rd Battalion 1st Marines at Camp Pendleton, California, even as our paths diverged, our sibling bond continued to grow, sustained by phone calls and emails. I would tell him about the struggles and joys of being a mom, and he was quizzing me on military rank structure and organization, making me study and memorize: Battalion consists of 4 companies; companies are made of 3-4 Platoons; 4 squads in a platoon, 3 fireteams to a squad. Then yelling at me if I was incorrect, telling me if I wanted to talk to him, I needed to understand what he was talking about.
Then 9/11 happened, and as I held my 3-month-old daughter watching the second plane crash into the World Trade Center, I panicked. Thinking of Michael, knowing there would be a war, and my brother would be called to fight it. That premonition came true when in January 2002, he was deployed to participate in the initial invasion of Iraq.
In early spring 2004, I flew out to California and spent a few days with him, meeting some of his Marine brothers and going to bars in Anaheim and Carlsbad. Being my first time in California, he took me to see the Hollywood Walk of Fame and to eat tacos in Oceanside.
In the summer of 2004, Michael was home. The visit was bittersweet as we knew they were redeploying to Iraq, and this time he had an idea, or at least he thought he did, of what he was walking into. We tried to live in the moment and not think about what was to come, picking right back up going to bars and hanging out with our mutual friends. He started dating a friend of mine. I was moved down the call list, tying for second with my mom, affectionally called “Uncle” Shelly, as my kids associated her with Uncle Michael. His unit redeployed to Iraq in mid-2004. They were the main effort in November 2004, tasked with liberating the city of Fallujah from insurgents.
He re-enlisted while in Iraq; he could have come home, but wanted to stay. He didn’t want to leave his men, especially the less experienced Marines. We argued about this; I wanted my brother to come home, and he wanted my permission to stay. The phone calls came less and less as October turned into November.
Then there was the last phone call, and I didn’t even know it at the time. He had a few moments and was dividing his time between me, our mom, and Shelly. I wish I said, “I love you”; my last words to him were “stay safe” because we were both too tough and too stubborn to say the words I love you.
He died on a Wednesday; I don’t remember what I ate for breakfast this morning, but I can tell you every detail of the day he died. I lived an entire day without knowing he was gone.
In the days that followed his death, grief threatened to consume me. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to fully breathe again. His death crushed me; I didn’t know how to move on without him. We had plans together, and they died with him. The day Michael died, a fellow Marine was injured, Sgt. Conner. He was sent first to Germany to heal from his wounds. He found me on an online message board,
“I think I know your brother.”
Once he confirmed I was who he was looking for, he called me, and we built a friendship from there.
In December of 2004, while they were still in Iraq, I wrote a letter to Michael’s best friend, Cpl. Bill Sojda. When they returned from Iraq, I was there. When they redeployed, I sent care packages, including blow-up dolls and birthday cakes. I leaned into these guys and formed friendships that helped each other heal. I just kept showing up, the sister they never wanted. I got to be with the last people who saw him alive, and they, for better or worse, got me, Hanks’ sister.
I also built relationships with fellow Gold Star Family members, all leaning into each other in shared grief. We became family. I live a life that Michael would be proud of. I picked up the light he left and carry it like a torch. My biggest and first concern being the mental health of those in the military, having seen things I can only imagine, and throwing in survivors’ guilt. I wanted to be there if anyone needed someone to talk to, someone to understand, someone to forgive them, telling them what I would have told Michael if he were here. Then realizing I needed more formal training, attended suicide prevention classes, mental health first aid classes, learning about PTSD and trauma, becoming NLP certified, and taking crisis negotiation classes. These are my people, and I lean into them and hold space for them when they need to lean into me.
Michael was awarded the Silver Star for distinguished gallantry in action, but he didn’t get an award for dying. There is no award for dying, and there shouldn’t be. He is remembered for how he lived. And damn did he live. This Memorial Day, I want to both remember and reflect on the lives of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to encourage everyone struggling to stay. Reach out to friends you served with, reach out to Gold Star Families, attend reunions, call out of the blue on a random Tuesday. – Make it f*cking weird!
Be sure to tune in this Sunday for an incredible interview with Melissa on Urban Valor TV
Melissa is a Gold Star Sister and Veteran Advocate, Melissa specializes in non-traditional mental health care, certified in NLP and Mental Health First Aid. At West Michigan Mortgage, she focuses on VA home loans. Melissa serves as the Gold Star Family Liaison for the Warrior Reunion Foundation, VP of the 3rd Battalion 1st Marines Association, and founder of the Michael Wayne Hanks Legacy Foundation 501(c)3.
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