When I was ten, after coming home from school, I would get all of my homework out and take it upstairs for my mother to help. Because I was younger, it was naturally easy for my mom to help explain all of the difficulties I had with a question or problem. Ever since I was three years old, my mother and father had been divorced, so she was my sole source of help. During this time, my mother was a single-mom working as a hairstylist and my father had joined the military until his contract was over, then he quickly joined the Navy as a medic. He was later stationed at the Navy base in Bremerton, Washington.

One day when I was in my mother’s room, the news interrupted the show we were watching. I knew the interruption must have been important because my mother turned up the volume and told me to quiet down. “Today is March 2, 2011,” there was a brief pause before the reporter continued, “Osama Bin Laden has been killed.”

Again, I was ten, I wasn’t completely oblivious to what was happening in Afghanistan. After they broadcasted his death, I was relieved and I thought the war was over. This meant all of the soldiers would be able to come home healthy and happy to their desperately waiting families. I thought everything was good until I saw the look upon my mother’s face; it was the look someone would have after hearing about a loved one’s death.

I was soon told that my father had been deployed before Osama had been killed, and my family was keeping it a secret from me so I wouldn’t be too worried.

“Well now he doesn’t have to go, the war is over!” I announced.

“The war isn’t quite over yet, especially since we killed their leader; they will be wanting revenge,” my mother quickly stated.

Later, I found out my father was going in for a guy named Rocky. Throughout Rocky’s deployment, he would give my father updates about the conditions and the patients he encountered. Rocky stated that there was only about four rocket attacks, but ever since Osama was killed, the numbers were increasing rapidly. Before my father was able to go to Afghanistan, he had to make a few stops.

First, he went to Port Hueneme, California. There, they made him get physicals to make sure he was healthy. Once he was cleared, they gave him army uniforms, shots, and everything he needed to be able to survive in Afghanistan. His next stop was Fort Dix, New Jersey. Here, they were training the deployed to fight and be with the army. They learned many things such as unarmed combat. Also, they learned how to drive a Humvee, find IED’s, and use army weapons like an M4. From there, they flew him to Kuwait to stay for a couple of days to get used to the heat. They did a lot of training in the language and learned a little about their culture. Finally, the next stop was Afghanistan.

When I first found out he was deployed, he told me to watch a show called, “Combat Hospital.” The show was set in Kandahar, Afghanistan, the same place my father would be stationed. The series revolved around the life and work of the doctors and nurses from the ISAF, the International Security Assistance Force. My dad and I watched the series to get a good idea of what to expect. We saw the facility looking very clean and somewhat organized.

I remember our first Skype call, when he told me that the place was the complete opposite of the show. He mentioned the stuffiness of the place and how hot and dirty the air felt. Throughout his deployment, he would tell me about a lot of the patients he had. He would mention how some of them changed his life and how nice they were. I’ve heard many stories but a few stuck out with me the most.

One quiet evening, my father was on nightshift, playing cards, when they got a nine line about a family that had been hit by an RPG-a rocket propelled grenade. Our troops had been chasing four known terrorists and in order for the terrorists to get away, they would have to fire an RPG, which is exactly what they did. They had shot the RPG into a crowd of civilians knowing that the troops would stop and help the injured, innocent civilians.

By the time the helicopter landed, the only survivor was a beautiful Afghan boy. My father became so instantly attached to the kid, that the hospital ended up naming him Little Boy Murphy. His leg was so badly injured and he was in such bad shape that they decided to keep him in the hospital for a couple of weeks where he would slowly begin to get better.

Another story my father had told me was about the time he went for a run to get exercise. During the day, it was usually 118 degrees, so the best time to go running was during the night. On this particular evening it was just after midnight, my father was finishing a 5.25-mile into a 7-mile when he heard a woman screaming. When my father looked over, there were two men trying to drag a woman into a truck.

It’s sad to say that in Afghanistan, sexual assault on women is very high. My father went over to intervene and traded a few words with the two guys. His mistake was getting too close without fully looking at the situation and who else might have been involved.

It turned out that there was another guy and my father was hit from the other side before he could even react. He was hit a couple more times before he blacked out. When he woke up, he was in a pool of his own blood. It turns out he had been cut by a large knife on his scalp and his temporal artery had been cut. He tried to walk back to his dorm, but he had passed out again in the middle of the road. Thankfully, a car saw him, picked him up, and brought him back to the hospital. My father ended up staying in the hospital with a concussion, two broken ribs, and a severe cut on his head. Because I was ten, I never knew things could get so bad and why they did. It was stated that there was 483 rocket attacks, which took place during my father’s deployment. Throughout all of the stories he had told me, it only made me want him to come home even more.
Towards the end of 7th grade my father came home. I remember a perfectly normal day. My first class was choir, and as I sat next to my friend Paige, we were babbling about how slow this day was going so far. In choir, Mr. K. announced there was a talent show coming up and they wanted us to vote for the people who were going to be performing. The first act was Yuka who played a beautiful piece on the piano. After that, the principal announced the second act, “He plays many roles, including father, husband, maybe someone that has helped our country out a lot..”

Then the curtains opened, and I saw my mom, grandma, and Mrs. N.-my old neighbor. I remember thinking to myself, “What’s going on? Why are they here, up on the stage, taking pictures?” Then, I saw my father. His smile was big and wide. He was happy and healthy. I couldn’t believe he was actually right in front of me; I thought I was in the middle of a dream, but reality hit. So, I ran to his open arms and gave him the biggest hug a thirteen-year-old girl could.
I remember feeling so relieved and lucky. All the prayers of him coming home safely had been answered. Through all of the troubles and being constantly worried, I could easily say that that was the best day of my life. With this experience, I learned to not take things for granted and when there are times of distress, a little bit of hope can get you a long way.