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thedrifter
12-23-06, 03:31 PM
Posted on Sat, Dec. 23, 2006

Amid sorrow for one lost life comes hope for Iraqi girl

LEE HILL KAVANAUGH
The Kansas City Star

LEAWOOD, Kan. - Maureen Walsh buried her son a few days after Labor Day.

A month later, the day before his birthday, the letter arrived - a gift a grieving mother can hold close in this season.

Chris Walsh, a 30-year-old Navy medic, was killed Sept. 4 in Fallujah, Iraq, when his Humvee took a blast from a roadside bomb. Two Marines died with him.

But what this Leawood mother didn't know until she read the letter, written by his captain, was the story behind her son's last actions.

The letter - and a story this month in The Boston Globe - told how Chris Walsh had helped an Iraqi baby girl suffering with a deformity that would kill her just as effectively as any bomb. The letter spoke of a man's honor and heart.

Walsh, a 1994 Bishop Miege High School grad and an Eagle Scout, had a history of doing the right thing, whether it was inside the slums of St. Louis where he had worked as a paramedic, or stopping to help wounded civilians in Iraq.

He found the 2-month-old baby girl in June while his Marines were chasing a "bad guy" in and out of a slew of low-slung village buildings. But when Walsh saw her, his mission changed. He put down his M4 carbine and picked her up.

She was tiny and sick. She looked as if her insides had turned inside out.

Walsh took photos of her birth defect, called bladder exstrophy, in which the bladder grows outside the body. He showed the photos to the doctor back at his base, but learned that the surgery was too intricate for the military's combat support hospitals.

She needs to go to the states, the doctor told him.

For months, Walsh tried to find a way to get her the surgery. But that would mean a flight to the U.S., along with a visa for her and her family, and all the paperwork and financial commitments that a medical evacuation would entail.

With more than 5,000 Iraqis ahead of her, overwhelming odds leaned against it happening. But Walsh believed it was the right thing to do. He kept trying.

He continued to visit her, always after the sun went down, always taking a different route to her home, monitoring her health. She was growing sicker and more listless. Other Marines went along with the Navy medic, every one a volunteer. Walsh had told his platoon about her, making an impassioned plea one night about saving the sweet baby girl named Mariam with the big brown eyes and thick brown hair.

A baby who seemed to embody all that was good and pure and untouched by the ugliness of a war. A baby who needed help.

But he never told his mom about her. Only months later did Walsh's mother learn that her son was so dedicated to saving Mariam that he refused an offer for an early deployment home. He needed more time.

Then his convoy hit the roadside bomb.

His brother, Patrick, a Marine who also was serving in Iraq, escorted his younger brother's body back to Kansas City. For the family it was a blur of images. Uniformed officers at their door. The funeral. Last goodbyes.

The Marine platoon in Iraq feared the efforts of Walsh and his buddies would be forgotten. Officers worried about the unit's morale.

But Walsh's buddies couldn't let his mission falter. They couldn't let down the Navy medic they called "Grumpy," who had believed so much in saving a little child.

Maybe Walsh was her guardian angel now. He certainly was her angel in Iraq.

E-mails flew around the world about what Walsh and his Marine brothers had tried to do. So did prayers. And phone calls. Surely someone would help an infant innocent of war and hatred and killings.

The Marines' nightly visits began once more, eventually including all 30 members of Walsh's platoon. The tiny infant bridged all cultural differences between her family and these Americans.

Finally, clearance arrived for Mariam's evacuation. Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston volunteered to cover costs. And Capt. Sean Donovan wrote the letter to Maureen Walsh.

"I couldn't believe it when I started reading," she said last week. "But it was so like Chris to do something like this."

She said her son had a habit of befriending kids no one else liked, and a tendency to do what was right regardless of personal costs.

She rolled her eyes and laughed, remembering the trials her son put her through when he was in high school.

"Chris wanted to live with the homeless for his service project, and I kept telling him that 18-year-olds don't do that," she said with a laugh.

But Chris Walsh did the things few others wanted to do.

Maureen Walsh said she felt pulled to meet this baby. But her daughter, Erin, was expecting a baby, too.

"I didn't want to miss my first grandchild's birth, especially after Chris' death," his mother said. So she waited and waited, hoping to see them both.

Then, in St. Louis, her granddaughter came a little early.

And in Boston, doctors decided Mariam needed to stay a little longer.

So on a brisk November day, Maureen Walsh walked into a hushed pediatric unit filled with uniformed Marines, doctors, nurses, two Iraqi grandparents, two reporters and many tears from onlookers, and she cuddled a gurgling, pink-cheeked girl wearing an ice-cream pink dress and a tiny bow in her hair.

The baby had already gained 2 pounds and now tipped the scales at 12. And her eyes, once so dead-looking, were bright in the camera lights of the Boston Globe photographer capturing the moment.

All Walsh could do was stare at Mariam.

And it seemed all Mariam wanted to do was smile back.

"It was magical," Walsh said.

She came home, still warm with the memory. She knows she's behind in her Christmas preparations; she usually makes all the bows for her presents.

"Oh, I'm not wallowing or anything," she said. She paused, considering her words: "...Or maybe, too, I've come to realize that the stuff doesn't really matter."

Being together is what matters.

Her home isn't gloomy. It's gaily decorated with a Christmas tree and a swath of twinkling lights. Her two youngest children, Joe, 20, and Meghan, 17, have helped ease the pain of loss, she said.

Her husband, Thomas Walsh, died two years ago of leukemia.

But for all the sadness that has visited this household, the Walsh family can still feel happiness.

"With (Thomas) going through a couple of serious illnesses ... maybe that taught us something," she said. "Life isn't always fair, but that's what we have."

Her daughter, Meghan, nodded. They don't allow themselves to be sad.

"I think he'd be so mad at us if we were, don't you?" she said, and looked at her mom. "They'd tell us, `Suck it up!' "

For Christmas, the extended family will crowd into the three-bedroom condominium and celebrate both the new granddaughter and Mariam.

"I now have two more babies," Walsh said.

Mariam will need more surgery a few years from now. Her Iraqi grandparents who accompanied her to America, and then took her back to Iraq, asked for a picture of Chris before they left. They're keeping a scrapbook to show Mariam when she's older.

"I'll definitely want to go see her again," Walsh said.

Although Mariam's family doesn't have a computer, and there's no way to send a letter, Walsh winked and said she knew the baby would be watched and periodic updates would come her way.

"There's a lot of military over there," she said. "This baby is special ... and my door will always be open to her, whenever she might like to come to Kansas City."
Information from: The Kansas City Star, www.kcstar.com

Ellie