Zachary died in Mark’s arms, just after being told it was okay to go to heaven.
During the night, the news had traveled through our circle of friends and up the chain of command. A military chaplain was with us for support. He arranged to have the Red Cross fly our parents up, and even guided us through funeral arrangements. Mark’s squadron commander came by, telling him not to worry about returning to work but to take care of his family first. The Airmen’s Emergency Fund provided funds for the funeral.
I can never repay our military family for the love and support they gave us during our time of loss. Mark’s buddies from work were granted permission to leave duty to console Mark, and Amy came to me. While our relatives were on their way, our military family provided the immediate comfort we needed. Amy even went to our house, returning the double items meant for Zachary, so we wouldn’t have to face them on our first night home.
We received orders to move to McConnell Air Force Base in Wichita, Kansas. Hailey remained in the hospital growing stronger, and came home on her actual due date, December 16. By the end of February, we were packing up for our move. Our Alaskan military family saw us off at the airport, as we took off to build our family in Kansas.
Before we left, I looked over to the corner of Hailey’s room. There it was, her balloon, still fully inflated and floating over her crib as she napped peacefully.
Ann Hail Norris
War—A Widow’s Weeds, A Widow’s Words
Lead me from the unreal to the real. Lead me from darkness to light.
The Upanishads
John was to be stationed in Okinawa, Japan, for about four months. I just knew he was pounding a typewriter. I was marking off each day on the calendar in anticipation of the week after Thanksgiving 1968, when John would return home. I was so lonesome for him.
While running errands the first weekend in August, I found John the most beautifully styled summer jacket at a department-store sale. I knew he’d be so handsome in it on our trip to the Bahamas that winter. He thought his religious calling demanded he wear black, blue and gray. Boring!
We were engaged before he told me he was a Baptist minister. After we married, I started buying his clothes with fashion ideas from GQ. He almost lost it when I bought him French-style underwear in colors. He was happy in plain white military-issue underwear. Yuck. I told him those were for me to look at and enjoy. Sometime later, he told my dad that I’d bought him the colorful underwear, and my father placed an order for some, too.
I also managed to find some his-and-hers outfits. After all, he was to be out of the Marine Corps on New Year’s Eve. Our civilian life was to begin with a big bang. Since he was a Baptist minister and part of the Progressive Baptist Church in Nashville, I knew we’d not have much time to ourselves. I was making plans to meet him on his way home, store his gear and escape into our private space for a week or so in the Bahamas.
The mail from him was sporadic. He told me about how beautiful the world was. He also sent me a thank-you letter for being his wife. How strange. He mentioned that he had not had a chance to find me the promised pearls and silk in the colors I liked.
The next week, a letter came with an address change. He was in Vietnam.
I’d been feeling uneasy recently. Was it the New Jersey humidity? Was it being lonesome? On Tuesday, I went to work and felt worse. I’d never felt this way before. I went out to lunch alone. Until the day I die, I’ll never forget hearing my husband’s voice calling out to me as I walked back into my company’s building. It was so real that I spun around looking to see where the sound came from.
On Saturday, August 10, I had an early doctor’s appointment and was happy that I got a clean bill of health. I still felt miserable. I took a long, hot bath—yes, in the middle of the day in the New Jersey humidity. That was no help. I put on fresh clothes. My spirit told me to put his two favorite records on the stereo. He had bought the classics in Italy.
We’d decorated our living room in Mediterranean colors and furniture. I stretched out on the sofa and felt his presence in the music. The inner door was open to the street, and the screen door was locked. Before the second record dropped, I heard footsteps coming up the walk. The doorbell rang.
There were three U.S. Marines in summer khaki dress. I stared. “Oh, no!” automatically spilled from my mouth.
“May we come in?” asked the major. I opened the door and watched them remove their covers. All I remember was the major saying, “We are sorry. . . .” I know that I stopped the music at some point. John had died on Tuesday local time, and I heard his voice New Jersey time at about the time he took his last breath.
The words rendered by the marines were tender and sincere. I could hear people gathering outside our home. I remember yelling on the phone for my father to come to our house and not telling him why. When Dad did arrive, his arthritis did not keep him from bolting up the steps.
Plans, arrangements, phone calls. The Marine Corps was going to do this. I had to do that. The marines left, and I was alone with my painful thoughts and aching heart, along with my dad, and, now, a crowd of neighbors in my home. I’d seen my dad cry only once before, and that was at my mother’s funeral. He thought my husband was the greatest thing since sliced bread.
There was no rest. We waited days for his body to arrive from the military embalming center in Dover, Delaware.
The marines practically took up residence in my living room. They were protecting me from those who might have been against the Vietnam War. They had warned me about opening mail from those I did not know. I was fortunate that all the unknown senders were so kind.
Finally, my dad and I flew to Nashville. I had my first look at John in the funeral home, and it was a horror. He was sealed in glass, and I could not touch him. Only his eyebrows and long eyelashes were recognizable. I was told that the heat, time and injuries made him look that way.
If only I could have touched his gloved hand . . . “No.” “How about a button?” “No.” His escort was kind, but had his orders. The funeral home had its orders from the Marine Corps.
His mentor, Dr. Powell, was eloquent. The funeral was over. I followed the steel-gray, flag-covered casket to the church entry. The marine pallbearers took the earthly remains to the hearse for packaging to fly to Arlington National Cemetery the next morning.
Upon arriving in Arlington, Dad and I were taken to the chapel where we took our seats with relatives. The chaplain did the Final Rites, the gun salute, the folding of the flag and that much-said line of condolence: “On behalf of the president of the United States . . .” I received the flag, so hot from being in the sun. I asked the chaplain if I could kiss John good-bye. He said, “Yes.” He escorted me to the coffin. I kissed it and whispered a message to my darling.
I sobbed all the way to my grand-aunt’s home where there were more relatives awaiting us. After a couple of hours, some relatives were ready to drive my dad and me back to New Jersey. One of them reached for my still-hot flag to put it in the trunk of the car. I lost it. Never would John’s flag be in the trunk of any car. Just hours earlier, I’d seen his crated casket roll out of the belly of an airplane. I clutched the flag tightly during the entire trip.
I had to move from our home. I couldn’t live there without him. I rented a small townhouse. The marines were still checking on me. We had a medal presentation in the townhouse. They returned some of his belongings; the most important was his wedding ring, still caked in mud and his blood. I’ve never cleaned it. I removed my matching ring and put them together . . . forever.
For those who have lost and those who may lose family members, God bless you.
Patricia Barbee
I’ll Be There with You
No matter where you go
or what you do,
Always remember
I’m right there with you.
I’ll be there in the morning
whenever you rise,
and there in the evening
as
the moon fills the skies.
I’ll be there in your thoughts
and in your dreams.
Keep that in mind
no matter how bad it seems.
And if you should need me
I’ll be easy to find,
Just search all the memories
you have in your mind.
I’ll be with you always
as I was from the start,
I’ll be there in the love
we’ve shared in your heart!
Tracy Atkins
9
BEYOND
THE CALL
OF DUTY
My life is my message.
Mahatma Gandhi
Happiness Was Born a Twin
Upon awakening every morning, I ask my higher power to use me for something greater than myself.
Oprah Winfrey
When my husband came home on a stormy February day and told me we were being transferred to Korea for a two-year tour of duty, the weather and my mood were a close match. I couldn’t imagine taking our five children so far away. Our oldest son was planning on entering a nearby college that fall, the baby was barely a year old, and the other children were doing well in school. Our family life was humming along nicely, and the thought of a transfer to Korea was frightening. I entertained the idea of remaining in the States while my husband served a “bachelor tour” for one year. But my husband was determined that we should go as a family. We tossed the ball of indecision back and forth for over a week, but, in my heart, I knew we belonged together. Reluctantly, I packed kids, dishes and household items, and we were off to the Far East.
When we landed sixteen hours later, culture shock took over. On the way to our compound, we saw naked children playing in the dirt by the side of the road, and curious women peeking out from tiny shacks. The odor of open sewers permeated the air, and I wondered if my decision to spend two years in this part of the world was a wise one. But our quarters were comfortable, and we began to settle in.
I had barely managed to unpack the dishes when Ann, our chaplain’s wife, called to see if I would accompany her to the Boc gum Wonn Orphanage. I really didn’t want to go, but, as none of the other women from the chapel volunteered, I agreed. Ann picked me up that afternoon. With our arms full of fish that she bought at the market, we bumped along as Joe, the medic, maneuvered the Jeep along the rutted roads.
“Boc gum Wonn is the poorest of the orphanages in Taegu,” Ann told me. “The children are those that no other orphanage will take.”
As the Jeep swerved in the curve of the road, Ann shook her head. “It’s sad to see, but the kids watch for us every week.” She pointed to a hill on our left. I glanced up and saw a row of tiny figures lined up like tin soldiers. They didn’t wave. They just waited.
As Joe and Ann unloaded the groceries and started up the hill, I hesitated. I knew I didn’t want to see what was inside that ramshackle building, but eventually I followed along. Inside, Joe held a tiny boy in his arms.
“I call him Little Joe,” he said, “because he waits for me every week. He can’t walk because he is too weak.”
The kids were dressed in thin shirts, in spite of the chilly October weather. The building was cold and damp, with dirt floors and cardboard in the windows to keep out the wind. The tiny building housed forty kids. Ann was handing out graham crackers to grasping hands, and I asked her why some of those children weren’t in the hospital.
“Unless they’re on the verge of death, they won’t accept them,” she told me. A little girl beside Ann asked for another cracker. Ann smiled, “Oh, this little girl I call Lulu because of Lulu in the funnies . . . you know, big round face and round, sad eyes”
And then I saw the saddest one of all. He was skin and bones, and reminded me of the figures my kids drew in kindergarten, the ones with lines for body, arms and legs—a stick figure. I nudged Ann.
“Why isn’t he in the hospital?” I asked in disbelief.
“Oh, he won’t live through the week,” she answered. I felt tears welling up and knew that I’d never make this trip again. The anguish was too much.
Through the next week, I kept myself busy organizing our house and getting to know our neighbors. But, at night, when we sat down for dinner, in my mind’s eye, I saw Lulu, Little Joe and the Stick Boy reaching out to me. And, the next week, I was beside Ann as she headed to the orphanage. This time, I was looking forward to handing out the crackers, and sliced oranges, too. I began writing to my church back home, asking for anything they could send that would help our orphans. A remarkable chain of events ensued. Our church contacted other churches, and, soon, our service porch was up to the ceiling with boxes from the States, boxes filled with warm clothing, canned goods, medical supplies, blankets and toys . . . all for our Boc gum Wonn Orphanage.
There were so many boxes that soon the White Lily Orphanage, run by the Catholic Church, also enjoyed the bounty that flowed into Taegu. Within a couple of months, my husband contacted CHOW (Christian Hope for Orphans of the World), and they sent boatloads of canned soups and medical supplies into Inchon. These were picked up by the Korean Air Force and flown into Taegu; all these goods were targeted not only for Boc gum Wonn, but also for other orphanages, hospitals and old-age homes. The following year, we were privileged to witness the opening of the new Boc gum Wonn orphanage, built by the city of Taegu for its poorest forgotten children.
Too soon, our two years were up, and, as we took off from Taegu, I realized that only by stepping out of my comfortable lifestyle had I been privileged to become a part of these other lives. As we headed home, I knew what Lord George Gordon Byron said was true: “All who joy would win, must share it. . . . Happiness was born a twin.”
Mary E. Dess
Combat Boots to Keds
When you least expect it, someone may actually listen to what you have to say.
Maggie Kuhn
This is the story of my almost guilt-free transformation to professional mom.
In 1997, I moved from Andrews Air Force Base to the home my husband and I owned near Pope Air Force Base. My husband had been living there for months, and we were relieved that the long weekend commutes to see each other were finally over.
Shortly after getting settled, I was chatting on the porch with a neighbor. “Oh, you’re definitely a candidate for postpartum depression,” she said. “I had it for a whole year after my first kid was born. If you end up crying all day, go see a doctor.” Ignoring hormonal factors, her prediction was based solely on the fact that I was “making too many changes.” Moving, giving up my military career, having a baby: by her calculations, it all added up to doom.
But I was excited about my new life. Finally living with my husband and pregnant with our first child—I had long looked forward to this. I was proud to have served my country, but, truth be told, I’d lost my enthusiasm for my job. So, while I respected my active-duty-mom friends, I harbored few doubts about my decision to resign. Besides, I assured myself, I wasn’t giving up on having a profession; this was simply a career change. I’d teach at a local college—part-time at first—and increase my hours as the baby became more independent. It was a perfect arrangement.
I was right, in part. I didn’t suffer a bit of depression after the baby was born. I relished every minute with him. In fact, my biggest struggle was leaving him even for a few hours with a trusted neighbor. While I enjoyed teaching, I loved being home even more. Gradually, I cut back my hours until I’d given up teaching entirely.
Still, I struggled with guilt. Despite my husband’s support and assurances that his paycheck alone was sufficient, I wanted to contribute. So, on to Plan B: join the ranks of military wives with successful home businesses. I sold children’s books; I sold educational toys; I sold scrapbooking supplies. With each venture, my product discount was more than I could resist. I was my own best customer. Eventually, I had to accept that my business losses were excessive and that, as a salesperson, I stunk.
&
nbsp; By the time our daughter was born in 2000, I was halfheartedly pondering a Plan C. Finally, I relented. My career would be on hold until the children were older. The most compelling vindication for this new plan came to me as I sat at our kitchen table completing a life-insurance application. What would it cost to replace me? Never before had I tried to equate my role at home with a monetary value. Enumerating my many and varied duties was indeed a sobering exercise. In fact, I concluded that I couldn’t be replaced by a single hired hand. On a piece of scratch paper, I thoughtfully assembled and priced out my team of professional replacements: a caregiver who could work lots and lots of overtime, a cook, a tutor, a housekeeper, a driver, a secretary, a gardener, a bookkeeper . . . Soon, I felt like Wonder Mom, a wonderfully underpaid Wonder Mom. And I prayed that my family would never need that insurance.
Then, picking up my son at preschool one day, I noticed he was more animated than usual. “Mom!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Kate’s mother was in the army!”
In fact, I knew that Kate’s mom had been in the service. So had Nicolas’s mom, a former helicopter pilot; and Eugenie’s mom, a former army surgeon; and Olivia’s mom, a former army nurse. At preschool, I’ve also met civilian moms who’ve given up or scaled back their careers—an accountant, a teacher, a speech pathologist. There are also working moms, incredibly talented women who somehow manage that seemingly impossible balance between family and career. And, of course, there are those fortunate ones who’ve always known that being a mom was all they really wanted.
Kate’s mom had been invited to school to talk about being a jumpmaster. She’d shown the kids a video of herself and others parachuting from a plane. Then, she arranged the chairs in the classroom to represent a miniature version of the inside of a C-130, and the kids pretended to jump as she called the commands. My son was starstruck!
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 17
