From a Mother’s Heart
Published May 9, 2004
Editors note: Today, Americans honor all mothers, but special thoughts and prayers are reserved for mothers with sons and daughters in harm's way in Iraq and Afghanistan.
We invited Nancy, a Marine mom who works in the Herald's advertising department, to share her thoughts on this Mother's Day.
Her son, Lance Cpl. Noah, graduated from Kennewick High School in 2002. He is currently stationed near Ramadi, Iraq, where he is a military policeman. This is his second deployment to Iraq.
People ask me how I'm doing and I give them the automatic "fine," knowing that most of the time that's the acceptable response. How can I tell them how I really feel?
I'm worried. They would tell me not to worry. They tell me not to expose myself to the news. When I cry, they tell me my tears won't change anything.
There are some people who understand, like my Aunt Elene, who tells me that God wouldn't have given us tears if we weren't supposed to shed them.
My tears are valid; my son is fighting the war in Iraq, and fear is a normal response to war.
Often, the only access I have to my son is through the news media's reports on the war, and I can't stop watching the news.
Other times, just knowing that he is in Iraq is so frightening I don't want to hear about it, and I try to silence the voices reporting the story, counting the casualties, selling papers, voices that remind me I could lose him to this war.
I realized early that most people I talk with aren't close enough to the situation to really understand. Max Beerup, a Marine family support volunteer, told me about a Web site for Marine moms. I seek it out for information and support. I have learned a lot from the other moms, and have also found none of us are alike, any more than our sons and daughters are alike. They all wear the same uniforms, but each is unique.
Other Marine moms have told me to visualize Noah in his uniform. They remind me that he is a Marine, with the best training in the world. I have tried picturing Noah this way, but always in my mind's eye, he is my little boy, setting jumping records on his pogo stick. This is the boy who took his teddy bear to Camp Pendleton with him.
Some people would say he is a warrior, but the voice I hear is not a warrior's voice, it is Noah's voice. I can still hear him as a 3-year-old, singing, "I was borned in the U.S.A."
Easter Sunday was a particularly bad day for me. My daughter called to tell me that she had some scary news about Noah. She had received an e-mail from him the night before.
He wrote: "Anna, I am going to Fallujah tomorrow. My buddy just got back and he was in a fire fight and killed 3 guys. This is real. I'm kind of freaking out. I can't tell mom. If anything happens tell her what I am doing and that I love her. I will e-mail you as soon as I get back, probably around midnight tomorrow night, your time. God I love you Anna. Take care of mom and dad and Adam for me. WRITE BACK SOON."
Five days later the phone rang and it was Noah, asking how work on his '66 Buick was going. All I could do was laugh. He is still a kid in so many ways. He's decided to use the money he is earning in Iraq to completely restore his car. This is his "happy thought."
I know there are many things going on in his daily life in Iraq, but we just talk about the car. He is protecting me from the realities of war. Noah's voice tells me not to worry; he is well trained and safe with his company. I realize that is what he has been trained to say to me. Noah's voice tells me what I want to hear.
Recently, he told me that I can't worry about him because it will make me sick, then he will have to worry about me and his head won't be in the "big game."
On the Marine moms' Web site they call Iraq "the sandbox." It's interesting that Noah would refer to the war as the big game — and it's being played in the sandbox. A sandbox used to be a place where children played, now it's where they die in war.
I remember the Gulf War, when my children were small. I remember what it was like to be removed from it. I cared, but didn't really understand. The casualties were nameless to me. Now they are real, they are my son and his brother Marines. They are the sons and daughters of women I have met online. They are the Iraqi children smiling out from the photos Noah brought home after his last deployment.
I was discussing this with my daughter and she made the comment that ignorance of war is really a blessing in many ways. I understand that not everyone can empathize with my daily fears. They don't hear the same voices that I hear. Hearing on the news that there were 12 Marines killed in Ramadi doesn't carry the same weight for them that it does for me.
I was recently talking about a mom I had met online whose son was killed in Iraq. A close friend overheard me and asked, "Is she from here?" My first thought was, "Aren't they all from here?" Our country has become a much smaller place for me since the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom.
This war, for many, is only a newspaper headline, or a television news break. For others, a good excuse for a political debate. For me, it is so much more. It's my first thought when I awaken, it accompanies my every nightmare and every dream. It is each knock at my door. It is the anxiety I feel rounding the corner to my home after work each evening. It invades every conversation and haunts every task I do. I can never go back to being someone remembering our heroes only on Veteran's Day or Memorial Day. Heroes have become a part of my daily life. War is now very personal.
I often work late so I won't be at home if the news I fear most arrives. I learned from an ex-sergeant that they come in threes, a Marine, a chaplain and a state patrolman. I try not to, but I find myself constantly looking for them and praying that they will not appear.
I pay attention to Iraqi time. If I think Noah is sleeping, I find I can relax a little. When I should be sleeping, I know he's awake and doing his job. If I know his job for the week is to guard the base, I am able to get a little sleep. I know he is still in danger, but not so much as when he is guarding convoys, traveling the dangerous roads and highways of Iraq.
When I hear about new casualties, I want to know if they are Marines. If they are, I wait for Noah's call. Noah, of course, doesn't know what I've heard, so his call to ease my worries doesn't always come. When that happens, I anxiously wait 24 hours, and if that dreaded knock hasn't come and it is after10 p.m., I breathe a little easier — until the next time.
Some say I am lucky because I can communicate with my son in a way that wasn't possible in past wars. Others think the communication makes it more difficult. I just know that the one thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is the possibility of receiving an e-mail or phone call from Noah.
When a few days pass without contact, I begin disconnecting from others. I feel myself shutting down and quietly going about my work. All the while, the voices inside scream louder. I write him letters and send him care packages. I keep everyone informed on his situation. I pray. The biggest comfort I have is that millions of people are praying for our troops.
The best thing anyone can say to me is that they will pray for my son. No other words are necessary. Please remember Noah, and all the other men and women who are fighting the war against terror, wherever they are.
Don't let the daily news become so commonplace it makes you minimize the importance of their service or the depth of their sacrifice.
Remember that each has a name and a face. To their mothers, the faces are those of their children. They have parents, sisters, brothers, spouses and friends who love and miss them.
They all made the selfless choice to put themselves in harm's way for our country. They, too, have voices that are being heard, all around the world.
Unfurl your flags and tie your yellow ribbons. Let the voices that mothers hear be your voices echoing support for our sons and daughters.
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