thedrifter
05-25-07, 03:44 PM
Grieving parents find solace in each other
By Gregg Zoroya - USA Today
Posted : Friday May 25, 2007 6:37:21 EDT
ARLINGTON, Va. — Among the headstones of Iraq and Afghanistan war dead buried in Arlington National Cemetery is a small but growing community of broken hearts who have found one other.
Most are the mothers of dead soldiers and Marines. They make journeys of grief, spending hours at the graves writing letters, tending flowers or simply mourning in silence. As time passes, one grieving parent has reached out to another with a touch on the shoulder, a smile or a hug to build a lasting network of support.
“It’s a club nobody wants to be in,” says Paula Davis, who sets up her lawn chair each week at the grave of her son, Army Pfc. Justin Davis. The 19-year-old was killed in a friendly fire incident in Afghanistan on June 25.
“But here we are,” Davis says. “So we look after each other.”
Grieving families look after each other at Arlington and national cemeteries throughout the country. At Arlington, their spontaneous graveside meetings have evolved into more organized gatherings. A core group of about 10 family members will meet each month at the nearby Women in Military Service for America Memorial to work through their sorrows.
A similar cluster has formed in San Antonio, many members grieving for relatives buried at Sam Houston National Cemetery.
“I have found a need for these families to be together,” says Kim Smith, who formed the group in December. Her son, Pvt. Robert Frantz, 19, was killed in a grenade attack June 1, 2003.
In Portland, Ore., at the Willamette National Cemetery, Elfriede Plumondore has formed emotional connections with other grieving parents. She is there several days a week to mourn at the grave of her son, Sgt. Adam Plumondore, 22, who was killed Feb. 16, 2005, by a roadside bomb explosion in Mosul, Iraq.
“[Someone] will sit beside me. And we may not say a word. We just sit there. And we know, really know, how the other person feels. And then you hug and you get up and you continue,” she says.
Similar instances of bonding have occurred at other national cemeteries run by the Department of Veterans Affairs, spokeswoman Jo Schuda says. Sixty-five of those cemeteries are open for burials and have accepted about 600 war dead from Iraq and Afghanistan, she says.
This accidental coming together on hallowed grounds acts as salve for families and friends struggling with grief, says psychologist Therese Rando, clinical director of the Institute for the Study and Treatment of Loss in Warwick, R.I.
“They got thrust into this, and they share experiences,” Rando says. “To be able to have the support and involvement of others who have been through the same thing can be very helpful.”
Beth Belle curls up near the headstone of her son, Marine Lance Cpl. Nicholas Kirven, 21, every Sunday at Arlington National Cemetery. He was killed in combat in Afghanistan on Mother’s Day 2005, and she says connecting with others caught in the same cycle of grief eases the pain.
“Somebody who has this kind of loss wants to feel that they’re not alone and they’re not going crazy and that someone understands,” Belle says.
Section 60
The gathering place is Section 60 at Arlington National Cemetery, which has become a memorial to the sacrifices in Iraq and Afghanistan. Nearly 400 U.S. troops killed in Iraq and Afghanistan are buried here.
Section 60 lies several hundred yards from the cemetery’s busiest areas, where 4 million visitors a year see President John F. Kennedy’s grave or the Tomb of the Unknowns.
Arlington averages 28 funerals per day, most of them from the aging population of veterans from World War II or the Korean and Vietnam wars. Funerals for those killed in combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, nearly all in Section 60, are increasing. The per-month average has doubled from five to 10 since 2003, according to cemetery statistics.
As the number of Iraq and Afghanistan war burials has increased, so have the visitors, cemetery spokeswoman Kara McCarthy says. Most recently, Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe stopped to pay his respects.
From a distance, Section 60 resembles much of Arlington Cemetery, where 300,000 are interred beneath rows of government-issued, white marble headstones.
A closer look reveals greater splashes of color, where families keep replenishing graveside flower arrangements. Mementos, many from children or former comrades, are tucked next to headstones: construction-paper memorial cards in a child’s scrawl, medals and military insignia, teddy bears and stuffed Easter bunnies.
Wind chimes and ornaments hang from tree branches. Helium-filled balloons anchored to headstones dance in the breeze. They are left by families to mark birthdays for those who died barely out of their teens.
There is also a constant outpouring of grief, from those who shed quiet tears to the inconsolable. A father lies prostrate on his son’s grave; a mother sits in a thunderous downpour seemingly unaware her lawn chair is sinking into the softening earth.
“When you’re there, I feel like I’m totally focused on my own grief. And then each of the moms, they would just come up and kind of touch you on the shoulder. You turn around and they look into your eyes and tell you they’re sorry,” says Regina “Gina” Barnhurst.
“That’s a gift from God,” says Barnhurst, who struggles with the death of her son, Marine Lance Cpl. Eric Herzberg, 20, killed by a sniper in Iraq on Oct. 21. ”You want somebody who really understands your pain.”
Families bond
A group of 10, mostly mothers, visits Section 60 about once a week. Xiomara Anderson, who brings armfuls of carnations and daisies to place at the headstone of her son Army Cpl. Andy Anderson, comes nearly every day. Andy Anderson, 24, died in a mortar round blast in Ramadi, Iraq, on June 6.
A dozen or so others visit less often — perhaps several times a year — because they travel hours from across the country. They, too, have been drawn into this circle of friendships.
Barnhurst lays a blanket over her son’s grave every Sunday and sits cross-legged on the ground, filling a spiral-bound notebook with letters for him. She says this helps her feel a continuing connection with Eric. The sorrow is all-consuming, Barnhurst says.
She empathizes with Iraqi women in black “abayas” shown in news images weeping over dead children in the streets of Baghdad.
“We’re in solidarity,” Barnhurst says, her outstretched fingers caressing her son’s headstone, “because that’s what I’m doing. They’re over there wailing. We’re over here wailing.”
Last Christmas Eve, Leesa Philippon was among the first to pierce that veil of sorrow and gently pull Barnhurst into the club of grieving families.
“Gina was kneeling at her son’s site writing and had lit candles,” Philippon recalls. “I jumped out of the car, and I walked close to her, called her name and then immediately hugged her and introduced myself. She was so alone and in deep pain.”
Philippon’s son, Marine Lance Cpl. Lawrence Philippon, is buried two rows away. Philippon and her husband, Ray, drive seven hours from their home in West Hartford, Conn., to mourn. Lawrence Philippon was 21 when he was killed in combat in Iraq near the Syrian border on the same day — Mother’s Day 2005 — as Nicholas Kirven.
The two Marines are interred side by side, and that has linked Leesa and Ray Philippon and Mike and Beth Belle, who live in Fairfax, Va.
“Leesa and I have become very, very close,” Beth Belle says.
The Iraq war, entering its fifth year, adds to the circle of friends. When Lawrence Philippon was killed, Capt. Brian Letendre delivered the news to the Philippons. They became close friends with Letendre and with his parents, Milt and June Letendre of Woodbridge, Va.
After Brian Letendre — who was 27, married and the father of a toddler son — was killed in Iraq by a suicide bomber May 3, 2006, he was buried one row away from Lawrence Philippon and Nicholas Kirven. His parents are part of the Arlington club of families.
The mothers have learned the etiquette of approaching grieving relatives in Section 60.
“I always look over to see if there is any eye contact,” Belle says. “If they look back and they smile at you, or they look at you like they’re approachable, then I will go up to them and I will just say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’”
Most ache to tell their story, she says. Anderson will talk proudly of her oldest son, Andy: how he became engaged before shipping off to Iraq, how he mentored young people, sang religious hymns and loved the Army.
“That’s why I have no regrets,” she says, toiling over her bouquets of flowers at his grave. “He was happy with what he was doing.”
Davis will explain how she did not know what “friendly fire” meant when she learned it had killed her only child. Justin Davis was caught in an errant mortar blast fired by U.S. forces.
“I don’t try to focus on that, how he died,” she says quietly, “because the bottom line is he’s dead.”
In the warm sunshine of a spring day at Section 60, Davis sits in her lawn chair gazing at his headstone.
“You have good days. You have bad days. But you come here, and you’re always pretty much going to run into somebody who’s going to help,” she says. “It’s just no more than listening, or it’s a hug.
“I look forward to coming here.”
Ellie
By Gregg Zoroya - USA Today
Posted : Friday May 25, 2007 6:37:21 EDT
ARLINGTON, Va. — Among the headstones of Iraq and Afghanistan war dead buried in Arlington National Cemetery is a small but growing community of broken hearts who have found one other.
Most are the mothers of dead soldiers and Marines. They make journeys of grief, spending hours at the graves writing letters, tending flowers or simply mourning in silence. As time passes, one grieving parent has reached out to another with a touch on the shoulder, a smile or a hug to build a lasting network of support.
“It’s a club nobody wants to be in,” says Paula Davis, who sets up her lawn chair each week at the grave of her son, Army Pfc. Justin Davis. The 19-year-old was killed in a friendly fire incident in Afghanistan on June 25.
“But here we are,” Davis says. “So we look after each other.”
Grieving families look after each other at Arlington and national cemeteries throughout the country. At Arlington, their spontaneous graveside meetings have evolved into more organized gatherings. A core group of about 10 family members will meet each month at the nearby Women in Military Service for America Memorial to work through their sorrows.
A similar cluster has formed in San Antonio, many members grieving for relatives buried at Sam Houston National Cemetery.
“I have found a need for these families to be together,” says Kim Smith, who formed the group in December. Her son, Pvt. Robert Frantz, 19, was killed in a grenade attack June 1, 2003.
In Portland, Ore., at the Willamette National Cemetery, Elfriede Plumondore has formed emotional connections with other grieving parents. She is there several days a week to mourn at the grave of her son, Sgt. Adam Plumondore, 22, who was killed Feb. 16, 2005, by a roadside bomb explosion in Mosul, Iraq.
“[Someone] will sit beside me. And we may not say a word. We just sit there. And we know, really know, how the other person feels. And then you hug and you get up and you continue,” she says.
Similar instances of bonding have occurred at other national cemeteries run by the Department of Veterans Affairs, spokeswoman Jo Schuda says. Sixty-five of those cemeteries are open for burials and have accepted about 600 war dead from Iraq and Afghanistan, she says.
This accidental coming together on hallowed grounds acts as salve for families and friends struggling with grief, says psychologist Therese Rando, clinical director of the Institute for the Study and Treatment of Loss in Warwick, R.I.
“They got thrust into this, and they share experiences,” Rando says. “To be able to have the support and involvement of others who have been through the same thing can be very helpful.”
Beth Belle curls up near the headstone of her son, Marine Lance Cpl. Nicholas Kirven, 21, every Sunday at Arlington National Cemetery. He was killed in combat in Afghanistan on Mother’s Day 2005, and she says connecting with others caught in the same cycle of grief eases the pain.
“Somebody who has this kind of loss wants to feel that they’re not alone and they’re not going crazy and that someone understands,” Belle says.
Section 60
The gathering place is Section 60 at Arlington National Cemetery, which has become a memorial to the sacrifices in Iraq and Afghanistan. Nearly 400 U.S. troops killed in Iraq and Afghanistan are buried here.
Section 60 lies several hundred yards from the cemetery’s busiest areas, where 4 million visitors a year see President John F. Kennedy’s grave or the Tomb of the Unknowns.
Arlington averages 28 funerals per day, most of them from the aging population of veterans from World War II or the Korean and Vietnam wars. Funerals for those killed in combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, nearly all in Section 60, are increasing. The per-month average has doubled from five to 10 since 2003, according to cemetery statistics.
As the number of Iraq and Afghanistan war burials has increased, so have the visitors, cemetery spokeswoman Kara McCarthy says. Most recently, Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe stopped to pay his respects.
From a distance, Section 60 resembles much of Arlington Cemetery, where 300,000 are interred beneath rows of government-issued, white marble headstones.
A closer look reveals greater splashes of color, where families keep replenishing graveside flower arrangements. Mementos, many from children or former comrades, are tucked next to headstones: construction-paper memorial cards in a child’s scrawl, medals and military insignia, teddy bears and stuffed Easter bunnies.
Wind chimes and ornaments hang from tree branches. Helium-filled balloons anchored to headstones dance in the breeze. They are left by families to mark birthdays for those who died barely out of their teens.
There is also a constant outpouring of grief, from those who shed quiet tears to the inconsolable. A father lies prostrate on his son’s grave; a mother sits in a thunderous downpour seemingly unaware her lawn chair is sinking into the softening earth.
“When you’re there, I feel like I’m totally focused on my own grief. And then each of the moms, they would just come up and kind of touch you on the shoulder. You turn around and they look into your eyes and tell you they’re sorry,” says Regina “Gina” Barnhurst.
“That’s a gift from God,” says Barnhurst, who struggles with the death of her son, Marine Lance Cpl. Eric Herzberg, 20, killed by a sniper in Iraq on Oct. 21. ”You want somebody who really understands your pain.”
Families bond
A group of 10, mostly mothers, visits Section 60 about once a week. Xiomara Anderson, who brings armfuls of carnations and daisies to place at the headstone of her son Army Cpl. Andy Anderson, comes nearly every day. Andy Anderson, 24, died in a mortar round blast in Ramadi, Iraq, on June 6.
A dozen or so others visit less often — perhaps several times a year — because they travel hours from across the country. They, too, have been drawn into this circle of friendships.
Barnhurst lays a blanket over her son’s grave every Sunday and sits cross-legged on the ground, filling a spiral-bound notebook with letters for him. She says this helps her feel a continuing connection with Eric. The sorrow is all-consuming, Barnhurst says.
She empathizes with Iraqi women in black “abayas” shown in news images weeping over dead children in the streets of Baghdad.
“We’re in solidarity,” Barnhurst says, her outstretched fingers caressing her son’s headstone, “because that’s what I’m doing. They’re over there wailing. We’re over here wailing.”
Last Christmas Eve, Leesa Philippon was among the first to pierce that veil of sorrow and gently pull Barnhurst into the club of grieving families.
“Gina was kneeling at her son’s site writing and had lit candles,” Philippon recalls. “I jumped out of the car, and I walked close to her, called her name and then immediately hugged her and introduced myself. She was so alone and in deep pain.”
Philippon’s son, Marine Lance Cpl. Lawrence Philippon, is buried two rows away. Philippon and her husband, Ray, drive seven hours from their home in West Hartford, Conn., to mourn. Lawrence Philippon was 21 when he was killed in combat in Iraq near the Syrian border on the same day — Mother’s Day 2005 — as Nicholas Kirven.
The two Marines are interred side by side, and that has linked Leesa and Ray Philippon and Mike and Beth Belle, who live in Fairfax, Va.
“Leesa and I have become very, very close,” Beth Belle says.
The Iraq war, entering its fifth year, adds to the circle of friends. When Lawrence Philippon was killed, Capt. Brian Letendre delivered the news to the Philippons. They became close friends with Letendre and with his parents, Milt and June Letendre of Woodbridge, Va.
After Brian Letendre — who was 27, married and the father of a toddler son — was killed in Iraq by a suicide bomber May 3, 2006, he was buried one row away from Lawrence Philippon and Nicholas Kirven. His parents are part of the Arlington club of families.
The mothers have learned the etiquette of approaching grieving relatives in Section 60.
“I always look over to see if there is any eye contact,” Belle says. “If they look back and they smile at you, or they look at you like they’re approachable, then I will go up to them and I will just say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’”
Most ache to tell their story, she says. Anderson will talk proudly of her oldest son, Andy: how he became engaged before shipping off to Iraq, how he mentored young people, sang religious hymns and loved the Army.
“That’s why I have no regrets,” she says, toiling over her bouquets of flowers at his grave. “He was happy with what he was doing.”
Davis will explain how she did not know what “friendly fire” meant when she learned it had killed her only child. Justin Davis was caught in an errant mortar blast fired by U.S. forces.
“I don’t try to focus on that, how he died,” she says quietly, “because the bottom line is he’s dead.”
In the warm sunshine of a spring day at Section 60, Davis sits in her lawn chair gazing at his headstone.
“You have good days. You have bad days. But you come here, and you’re always pretty much going to run into somebody who’s going to help,” she says. “It’s just no more than listening, or it’s a hug.
“I look forward to coming here.”
Ellie