A Soldier's Mother's Personal War

ability to make logical sense of our children’s missions or what. Although they tell you they are fine, you don’t believe them. If they tell you they are in a safe place, you don’t believe it. Your mind thinks the worst and your heart sits at the bottom of your chest all the time. That is until you hear word from your kids. A brief moment of overwhelming joy floods through your body when you hear their voice or receive an email. The disappointment when you have not heard from them for a few days churns your stomach. As a soldier’s mom I think of all the horrible, nightmarish possibilities that could be happening to my child.  It is not that I want to think about it, it just happens. I cringe when there is a knock on the door. I take a deep breath before opening it, and then sigh when it is just a neighbor’s child. This fear sets so close to the edge of my throat that it makes it hard to breath. It is a constant struggle. Maybe I need to see the doctor. This is severely affecting every aspect of my life. My youngest son thinks I need to get out. He doesn’t understand these obsessive feelings that overwhelm me. I don’t want to budge from my chair. I wish I didn’t feel like this, but I can’t stop.

It’s almost time for me to leave for to work. I am a total basketcase. I hope to hear from my son soon. I need to come up for air.

I have decided to call this my “mother bear instinct”. I want to protect my child. I want to go to Iraq myself. I want to be there and know what he is going through: the good times and the bad. For some reason the Army wont let me-I think its because I am way to old. But the desire to protect your young is an animalistic trait that is apparent in most parents. I will defend my child in anyway possible. I would die for my child if need be. I will also punish my child if that is warranted. This is my job not anybody else’s job to do.

One of my biggest fears is that my son has been exposed to the hideous behaviors of some of the insurgents. I could not imagine some of the images that will be engraved into his mind- long after this war is over. I hope that he knows that no matter what he has had to do, no matter what he has seen that his family will always stand beside him.

It’s July 9, 2004. Another soldier from the First Calvary is reported on the casualties list. The report says it was a non-combat death. I am sick to my stomach. Each time another soldier dies I feel ill. My mind soars with this damn war, hating it and knowing it had to be. I just don’t know. I certainly do not wish to give up my child for a country that is not willing to stand up to the insurgents and continue to live in a hellhole.

Everyday seems a little harder to get through.  Each day I wake up and say hello to my son. Sometimes I even touch him. He can’t feel it because his picture is on my computer. I talk to him regularly and see his smiling face. It’s almost like he is sitting in front of me; however, he is twenty-seven hours (+ or – a couple of hours) away. The news media shows me only a few tidbits of the Iraq War. Usually there is about a two-minute blurb on the local news reporting on the war.  Today, the news reported three US military people were killed. Yesterday, another soldier died. This is so much for the mind to comprehend.  My computer acts as my media source, since the television shows me only a few minutes of where my son maybe. The terrible thing is that I have become an obsessive-compulsive inter-shell of a person. My daily routine starts as I check the web-news for any updates on the Iraq War. My day ends routinely the same way it starts. Each day I see that another person has been killed in the War. Very few days have gone by that are not plagued by a soldiers death. Each day I am grateful that it was not my son. I grieve for the parents who have lost their child and feel that I should somehow get the message through to them that I am sorry. I am sorry that their son or daughter, husband or wife, father or mother, brother or sister has paid the ultimate price for our freedom. I am also sorry that I am grateful that it was not my son who had to pay the price. My inter being tells me that I should feel guilty that I am thrilled that another day has past and my