Guest Opinion
A military mom’s lament
For mother of Marine, time goes slowly

By Julie Theander
Mar 14, 2007

I'm not sure how it has all come to this point of endless hours of worry. It seems that minutes morph into hours and hours into days, slowly, very slowly. You see, I am a mother of a United States Marine during war time. A war that is no longer supported and I'm not so sure that it ever truly was.

On Sept. 11, 2001, my son was attending a private university studying music theory. I remember calling him as soon as the towers were falling. He had a small TV in his dorm room, one of the few in the entire building. Most of the young men on his floor squeezed into his closet-like room to watch the sad progression of thousands of American lives perishing before their eyes. Coming from a strong patriotic family with passionate moral ideals, my son felt led to "do something about it," yet at that time, he wasn't quite sure what that was. His freshman year of college came and went and in that summer, a fellow Boy Scout was interested in signing up with the Marine Corps and wanted my son to join him on this journey.

My husband was a former Army drill instructor. From the earliest time my son can remember, his father told tales of the military and the camaraderie that is a result of being a member of the military "family." Many friends of my husband would come and visit that were enlisted in the Marine Corps, a branch that my husband had always wanted to be a part of–"the best of the best" he would always say. It seemed understandable that my son would be interested in the Marines because of the background he had with both my husband and the Boy Scouts of America. He showed natural leadership and thought that signing up would be the way to do something about the war that began shortly after 9/11.

One summer afternoon in 2002, my son and his friend had me come over to the dining room table and "sit down." I knew then that something horrible was about to happen! They informed me that they both had just signed up into the Marine Corps. Of course, many tears flowed. I am fiercely proud of our military and only have the highest respect for all the men and women who so freely serve our country. I just didn't want my son to be put into harm's way. No mother would. I kept saying "but you are a music major!" It was too late. The papers were signed and he would be off to basic training in just a short while.

The Marine Corps basic training is the longest of all the military branches. It lasted three months. During that time, I rarely, if ever, heard from him. Our entire family went to the graduation proceedings in San Diego, California in the spring. Both my husband and I were beaming with pride. We watched as hundreds of young men marched out in parade form in the most striking of uniforms. They were spectacular in their precision. I was in awe. A local reporter just happened to be there during the ceremony and interviewed my husband and me, as well as my son after the completion of the service. I couldn't stop blubbering and holding my Marine. Three months without him was torture for me.

Time went on with many different courses that my son had to attend. There is so much training involved in the military. These young men and women are experts once their education is complete. During this time, I relaxed, as I knew the longer he was in school, the farther away his deployment would be. I prayed for the war to end. That all would settle down and go back to "normal". Unfortunately, Operation Iraqi Freedom was to last many years at the expense of many lives.

In January of 2006 my first born son was deployed to Iraq. He served eight months in what he called "the armpit of the world." Throughout that long stretch of time I became one of the most emotional women on Earth. Everything was amplified. Happenings at home were not as joyful without our entire family present. A constant barrage of the media was ever present which would only serve to heighten the already intense fear within me. My daily life was covered by the persistent gnawing of dread. I was gripped with fear each time I heard a strange car pull into the driveway, sure that some military figure would emerge to give me horrifying news. I read the news on the internet, in the newspaper and watched the news on TV. Each time I heard that a Marine was killed, I would be wracked with fear and cry, a torturous cry. Many would tell me not to watch the news. I'm just not capable of hiding my head in the sand. I don't want to hear the negative; however, I need to know what is happening where my "baby boy" is. It is loosely something akin to football. When your son is involved in an important league football game with a team that is known for its fierce competitive and unsportsmanlike conduct, you are not about to stay at home and wait until your son comes home to tell you all that happened. On the contrary, you want to be there to experience all that your son is experiencing so that you can "be there for him" in body and spirit. And when your boy is "clotheslined" to the ground, you want to be able to run to his aid, right down on that playing field, no matter what everybody will think of you! Your son is that important! Yet, on the playing field of war, I can't be there. When he is frightened (yes, even strong, brave men can be frightened), I cannot be there for him. If he is hurt, I can't be there for him. When he's lonely, I can't be there for him. I don't understand how to do this! I am a mother. For 24 years, all I have done is nurture, protect, and love this son. It doesn't just stop because he is older and is in a war! I feel helpless and scared, constantly scared.

Phone calls from the Middle East were a major celebration. We clung to every word and couldn't wait for the next call. Sometimes it would be up to three weeks between word from my son. What's worse, I didn't know what to say to him. My first priority was to make him feel comfortable–to not worry him so that he would not have any issues at home to dwell on while he preformed his duties.

Sometimes, it was so difficult to keep my emotions in check. But I did. I did only for him, and if anyone knows me, they know that I am by nature an emotional basket case in the first place. It says a lot that I was able to be strong for him. I would make small talk. Things about the house, the town, his school and schoolmates, his brothers, his animals, anything other than the war. I wanted so badly to ask him how he was doing mentally, but didn't dare. It was enough just to hear his voice. I just wanted him to keep talking about anything just to hear him, to know he was alive and well.

When a family member goes off to war, it doesn't only affect the mother. The father and siblings are equally distressed. It is in the forefront of every conversation and is the cause of discord in relationships both within the family and without. My other sons’ performance at school was affected. The three boys are probably the most-closely-tied men I have ever experienced. They truly love each other beyond all limits. Therefore, they were deeply concerned for the welfare of their oldest brother. My husband's and my jobs were affected, in that everyday tasks seemed heavily laden. It was difficult to get up in the morning and even more difficult to go to bed at night. Sleep was never a complete satisfying rest. We were on edge to hear the phone ring. Our dreams were usually nightmares. Tempers were hard to keep in check, especially for me. I am usually a soft-hearted person who wouldn't dream of confrontation, yet without sleep and constant worry, I found myself being less than patient with fellow employees. And of course, no one understood. How could they, unless they had a son or daughter over in that desert as well.

Eight months dragged on and seemed like an eternity. I sent countless packages and letters so that the men who worked at the post office knew me well. I learned the tricks to sending a package so that it would most likely not be pilfered before it reached my son. I found that Crystal Light was a favorite of the troops and Marines, and that chocolate and homemade cookies are a "no-no.” It seems that the chocolate melts before opening and cookies turn into a mystical dust. Magazines are preferred to books, and socks are probably the best thing since sliced bread to a Marine. When on patrol, they can't wash clothes. So to keep their feet in good form, they always wear new socks, burning the sweaty, smelly used pair.

My faith was a constant calming companion. Without God's guidance and assurance I could have never pressed on. What was interesting, however, was other believers’ stance on how to endure the hurt and pain. I was continually reminded that God was in control. That I "shouldn't worry" and that worry is a sign of unfaithfulness. Powerful, hurtful words from people whom I respected. Yes, God IS in control and, yes, worrying is a sign of weakness, and at this time of my life I have become as weak as an infant. This does not reflect on my inability to trust God. It just proves that I am human and as such, am prone to have deep concern for my children. Prayer is powerful. When people said that they would pray for my son - THOSE were the words of reassurance that I found so comforting. Several churches were praying for my son, as well as, friends and family. I know that is why he was so surely protected from harm.

The months were drawing to a close and with just one month until my son could return to the States, we reminded him with each call to not get too caught up in the excitement of returning, but that instead to be ever vigilant of his enemy, to "keep his head down" and to remain focused on his duties. So many times we had heard in the news that soldiers have been killed within one to two weeks of returning home. We were still on "pins and needles". My husband and I began plans to fly to San Diego to greet our son home. We didn't even know the exact date of his return until just a few days before he left Iraq. We scrambled to get a flight (expensive when it's the last minute.) Sadly, we were unable to be there the moment he got off the plane as the military couldn't give either him or us an exact final date of destination. We saw him 3 days after he touched ground in California. He was there, in the terminal waiting for us as we came off the concourse in the airport. He was beautiful! A sight I so sorely missed. His girlfriend was with us on this trip and she had run to him for a much needed embrace. Then his father and I hugged him until we were all hugged out.

Over the following three days of our visit, we noticed a marked change in our boy. Most importantly, he wasn't a boy anymore. At times he would mentally drift off. Sometimes in mid sentence, other times while viewing photographs he had taken during the war and especially while watching the news. The only way I can explain the feeling that he seemed to emit was a deep, dark, intensity. One that no words can truly explain or can truly be understood. He had seen things that no human should have to experience. My little boy was no more. He was replaced by a knowledgeable, strong, brave, deeply caring individual who needed to learn that it is all right to smile and laugh again. At last, I could rest well knowing that my family was all safe.

We, as a nation, take this country for granted. Freedom has a price. Many mothers and fathers before me know this all too well. The men and women of the military, giving the sacrifice of their usual daily American lives for the safety of others, are so unselfish. Whether the people agree on politics, or the reasons for this war, one thing they should all agree on is the gratefulness and pride we should all have for the selfless individuals who don a rifle and shed all that they know as familiar, to go to an unknown place to serve their country.

The holidays have come and gone with my whole family enjoying every priceless moment together. Three and a half weeks we shared together. We filled every minute with love and laughter, enough to fill us all up for another year to come.

Another tour of duty was upon us. This time, filled with even more anguish as the war heats up on yet a new level of terror. My son is over there again. I'm still watching the news; just can't stop for some reason. I'm still listening for the cars in the driveway. We're still impatiently waiting for phone calls from the Middle East. And we're still praying fervently for my son's safe return. The minute hand is moving way too slowly. The hours and days are endless.

Ellie