Matt Ferrera in his West Point graduation uniform, May 2005.
Cover
“Our Matty is gone”
by Linda Ferrara
Matthew Ferrara – nephew of Defence Minister Phil Goff – was the first New Zealander to die while serving in the war in Afghanistan. His mother, Linda, tells their story.
When I answered my door at 6:30am on Saturday, November 10, 2007, and saw two uniformed officers from the United States Army in front of me, I was propelled into a different world.
One of my babies was gone. I knew it – they didn’t have to say anything. Of course they did say something and their words are imprinted on my brain forever: “Ma’am, may we come in?”, and “Is your husband home?”
I am in my dressing gown, barely awake, and, yes, my husband is home, in bed asleep, as I was before the knock. I race to the bedroom, and I don’t want to say what my heart already knows, so I shake Mario awake and tell him to come quickly because two army officers are in our living room.
Bare-chested and in his jeans, Mario joins me because we are in a hurry. “Sir, Ma’am, on behalf of the Secretary of the Army, I regret to inform you that your son Matthew Charles Ferrara was mortally wounded in combat on November 9, 2007, in Aranas, Afghanistan.”
He could say anything after that and it would not matter. My brain has frozen and cannot take in any more information. One of the officers, a chaplain, asks us to sit down, and do we have any questions? We do. Lots of them: “What happened? How did he die? Did he suffer? What was he doing? Where is he now? What do we do? When will we get him back – his body, that is?”
Our Matty is gone – how can that be possible? The officers stay about half an hour, answering our questions as best they can and outlining the procedure for a fallen soldier’s return home. After they go we are left to make phone calls to Matt’s sister and brothers. All are US-New Zealand citizens. I discover there is no kind or gentle way to say, “Your brother is dead.”
A few years ago we spent nearly a whole year planning a wedding for our daughter, Simone. Suddenly, we have one week to plan a funeral for our son. Where to begin? Some things are taken care of by the Army. We are informed that all soldiers killed overseas are returned to Dover, Delaware, where an autopsy is performed (whether you want it or not), the remains are reviewed to see if they are able to be viewed, and the bodies dressed, casketed and returned to the funeral home of your choice. Paperwork needs signatures.
Do not set a date for the services until you are told when you will receive your son, because he has a long journey to make from the mountains of Afghanistan to California. Decisions must be made quickly.
Our eldest son flies in from Thailand. He is also in the Army, and luckily for us, well-trained to take charge. He gets a notebook and helps sort out churches, preachers, reception facilities. Our daughter, son-in-law and baby move back “home”, and our two younger sons arrive, one from his apartment in downtown Los Angeles where he attends university, and the other from New York. We want to be together. Friends arrive, food appears. Extended family fly in from New Zealand – my brother, sister, sisters-in-law, niece.
It is now more than seven months since that day. So much has happened, yet nothing has happened. Sometimes I wake and momentarily have no knowledge of what I really know, that Matt is gone from this life, and I cannot share my daily existence with him again. This is a hard concept to accept, but minutes after waking the reality hits. I want him back. He was only 24 years old. This is not how it should be.
Matt was the middle child in our family of five, and quite a handful as a youngster. He was very independent and full of confidence in his own ability to take care of himself. He could not understand why I wanted to know so many details, like where he was going and with whom.
He sent us all into a panic when he was barely two, leaving the house on his own and walking over to the tennis courts at the local high school.
He could disappear in a store in a flash, leaving me at first angry, then frantic when I could not find him, and no amount of reasoning or threats could dissuade him from this practice. He felt safe and completely at ease and could not understand my anxiety.
I never cured him of this habit; the only thing that changed was that it was not as bad to lose a 10-year-old as a two-year-old. He was smart, very smart, and I often felt he knew more than the rest of us, and along with his strong will, he was also brave.
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