thedrifter
05-13-07, 08:05 AM
Posted on Sun, May. 13, 2007
Sean's father tells his own story
Sean Langley's father, Bill, lives in Tampa, Fla. He was interviewed via e-mail by staff writer Amy Wilson. As the story unfolded, it became clear that he could tell it best.
In his own words, then, these are a father's remembrances of his son and of the days after his death in Iraq.
I think Sean always wanted to be a Marine. He was always athletic and fearless. Growing up, he was a competitor in virtually everything.
I knew at some point there would come a time when Sean would be ready to make the decision to enlist. I was an Air Force recruiter for some of my career and jokingly told him I'd have to break his leg if he went into the Marines. When the time did come, I made the recruiter and Sean sit down at my table and convince me that it was the right thing for Sean, and it was truly what he wanted to do. You have to remember, this was during the week immediately following Sept. 11, 2001.
Once he was at boot camp, a remarkable thing happened. The kid who was never good at communicating at an adult level, at least in my estimation, and who seemed to be the quintessential teenager who talked low and fast when addressing adults (probably so we wouldn't understand half of what they said) turned into a great communicator. His letters home and rare conversations on the phone opened a window to a man who understood things about the world in which he lived and how people interacted and what was important, and who could articulate clearly and in depth his view point. This remarkable transformation (or perhaps it was just an awakening on my part) was most evident when I attended his graduation from boot camp. He had become a self-confident man who was comfortable in his environment and anxious to demonstrate his new-found maturity.
I knew then that he was no longer a kid.
I recall the day he called me in late January 2003 to tell me he was leaving the next day for Kuwait. This was during the build-up that would eventually lead to the war. I cried my eyes out. I was breathless and could hardly talk. He spent most of that conversation reassuring me that he would be fine and not to worry too much. I just couldn't stop crying.
Yes, I considered he might die there and I might not see him again, and it scared me to death. But, at the same time, I realized that Sean was a man who knew what he was getting into, felt it was important to fight the terrorists and those who support them, and was aware of the risk.
I don't think he could have imagined not going.
He came home safe in August 2003, but he was changed to some degree. He was quieter, more circumspect, but still somewhat of a teenager at heart, yet still so very different from the kids and friends who had not experienced war. You cannot imagine the joy I felt the night I picked him up at Blue Grass Airport when he came home. It was just so absolutely wonderful to see him safe and whole.
I recall him sitting at the dining room table going through mementos, photos and gear from his time in Iraq. At one point he showed a picture of himself looking exhausted and he had healing wounds on his chin. I asked what had happened, and he said an RPG had hit nearby, and he had caught some shrapnel in his chin during the initial push to Baghdad. When I asked why he hadn't told me about it, he said, "I knew you would freak out."
He was right. It would have had me so scared for him I couldn't function. In fact, I recall the absolutely gut-wrenching terror during the first weeks of the war every time a news report mentioned Marines getting injured or killed. We had no way of knowing who, so you just wait and hope there is no knock on your door.
My wife and I were spending a lazy day -- it was Saturday -- just hanging around the house when the phone rang. It was Staff Sgt. Demalteris from Camp Pendleton. He informed me that Sean had suffered a very serious injury to the head and that he had been transported to a military hospital in Baghdad. He said that from Baghdad, once he was stabilized he would be transported to Landsthul, Germany. He then said that a Marine officer would be coming to talk to us. I recall being absolutely terrified to the point of almost hyperventilating. I told my wife, Susan, what I had been told. We immediately called Trish and told her we were coming over because Sean had been injured.
I called Staff Sgt. Demalteris back and told him to have the Marine officer meet us at Trish's house as we lived a short distance apart. When we got to Trish's house she was very upset and crying, and I tried to convince her, and myself as well, that he would be OK. Within an hour a Marine Lt. Col. Weckerling and a sergeant major came to Trish's house.
Lt. Col. Weckerling told us that Sean had been declared brain dead and was being transferred to Landsthul. He then said they would keep us informed if there was any change to his condition. I got very angry when he said that. I asked if he thought we were stupid because once someone is pronounced brain dead there is not going to be a change in their condition. I learned later that they had done surgery on his head. He had a severe shrapnel wound to the back of his head. The surgeons always place them on respirators for a 24-hour period because there can be changes.
Later, I think it was the following day, Lt. Col. Weckerling and the sergeant major returned to officially notify us of the death. I think it was at that point we lost it. I recall Trish running out of the house and seeing her through the window pounding on Col. Weckerling's chest and yelling "No! No! No!"
I had to tell my younger son, and I think he was heartbroken but more concerned about his mother and me than anything else. He became a real trooper and very protective of his mother. A lot of people came to her house, perhaps a hundred or more over the course of the following week.
The time between the notification and Sean's return home was hectic and sad. We spent a lot of time spent remembering. A lot of time spent crying. A lot of time wondering why. There was an unimaginable outpouring of sympathy from the Lexington police department, from the VA where I worked, Family Practice Associates, where Susan worked, and from the entire community. Police Chaplain John Walsh and Trish's sister Kathy were like human dynamos getting the arrangements in order and taking care of our every need. The Marines were sensitive and caring in everything.
It was amazing to see how much people we did not know cared. The mayor, Teresa Isaac, was a tremendous presence almost constantly, especially at the funeral home.
Sean arrived home, much delayed, on a rainy night. We all traveled to the airport in limos provided by the funeral home and escorted by a large cadre of Lexington police cruisers. It was when he arrived and the hearse was getting ready to leave the airport that Trish finally gave up her false hope. She got out of the limo and rode in the hearse from the airport to the funeral home.
Once at the funeral home, after they prepared him for viewing, we were allowed to see Sean for the first time.
It was the most devastating thing that has ever happened to me.
The visitation and funeral are somewhat of a blur because of the pace of everything and all the various people involved. There seemed to be a whirlwind of people coming and going constantly.
I was a nervous, emotional wreck. For some time I could not stop crying, and my wife stepped in to get medical care to help me cope, thank goodness. Had she not done so, I cannot imagine having gotten through the week.
There seemed to be a constant movie reel of Sean, from birth to saying goodbye in his brother's hospital room to seeing him in the coffin. Trying to sleep was so difficult. As soon as my head hit the pillow, my mind would start racing a million miles an hour, the movie reel, imagining what had happened in Ramadi, what it had been like for him, whether he felt pain, did he cry, did he want his mother or me, did he get taken care of gently, did someone hold his hand. On and on and on.
I can't say when those racing thoughts finally dissipated but gradually they did. Now, they only happen occasionally, and they come from out of the blue.
The time I got to spend with Sean was precious. I stroked his hair, held his hand and told him I loved him. He looked so peaceful and so very, very young as he lay there. I can't say that it helped, but it did make me realize that his spirit, that great life loving spirit, was not there in that body. He was elsewhere watching and probably doing what he could to make us all feel better. I think he did comfort me but cannot be specific. I just know he was there.
The period after the funeral was a time of recovering for me. I went into a deep depression and was not functioning at an intellectual level at all. Couldn't sleep, couldn't concentrate, didn't enjoy those things that I once did, just depressed. There are days that are worse than others. I've really no idea what brings on the melancholy, but it comes on suddenly and deeply from time to time. Sean is always near me and I think his presence comforts me to a large extent.
The last 2 1/2 years have made me feel older to a certain degree.
I have lost my fear of death because I've faced something worse.
Ellie
Sean's father tells his own story
Sean Langley's father, Bill, lives in Tampa, Fla. He was interviewed via e-mail by staff writer Amy Wilson. As the story unfolded, it became clear that he could tell it best.
In his own words, then, these are a father's remembrances of his son and of the days after his death in Iraq.
I think Sean always wanted to be a Marine. He was always athletic and fearless. Growing up, he was a competitor in virtually everything.
I knew at some point there would come a time when Sean would be ready to make the decision to enlist. I was an Air Force recruiter for some of my career and jokingly told him I'd have to break his leg if he went into the Marines. When the time did come, I made the recruiter and Sean sit down at my table and convince me that it was the right thing for Sean, and it was truly what he wanted to do. You have to remember, this was during the week immediately following Sept. 11, 2001.
Once he was at boot camp, a remarkable thing happened. The kid who was never good at communicating at an adult level, at least in my estimation, and who seemed to be the quintessential teenager who talked low and fast when addressing adults (probably so we wouldn't understand half of what they said) turned into a great communicator. His letters home and rare conversations on the phone opened a window to a man who understood things about the world in which he lived and how people interacted and what was important, and who could articulate clearly and in depth his view point. This remarkable transformation (or perhaps it was just an awakening on my part) was most evident when I attended his graduation from boot camp. He had become a self-confident man who was comfortable in his environment and anxious to demonstrate his new-found maturity.
I knew then that he was no longer a kid.
I recall the day he called me in late January 2003 to tell me he was leaving the next day for Kuwait. This was during the build-up that would eventually lead to the war. I cried my eyes out. I was breathless and could hardly talk. He spent most of that conversation reassuring me that he would be fine and not to worry too much. I just couldn't stop crying.
Yes, I considered he might die there and I might not see him again, and it scared me to death. But, at the same time, I realized that Sean was a man who knew what he was getting into, felt it was important to fight the terrorists and those who support them, and was aware of the risk.
I don't think he could have imagined not going.
He came home safe in August 2003, but he was changed to some degree. He was quieter, more circumspect, but still somewhat of a teenager at heart, yet still so very different from the kids and friends who had not experienced war. You cannot imagine the joy I felt the night I picked him up at Blue Grass Airport when he came home. It was just so absolutely wonderful to see him safe and whole.
I recall him sitting at the dining room table going through mementos, photos and gear from his time in Iraq. At one point he showed a picture of himself looking exhausted and he had healing wounds on his chin. I asked what had happened, and he said an RPG had hit nearby, and he had caught some shrapnel in his chin during the initial push to Baghdad. When I asked why he hadn't told me about it, he said, "I knew you would freak out."
He was right. It would have had me so scared for him I couldn't function. In fact, I recall the absolutely gut-wrenching terror during the first weeks of the war every time a news report mentioned Marines getting injured or killed. We had no way of knowing who, so you just wait and hope there is no knock on your door.
My wife and I were spending a lazy day -- it was Saturday -- just hanging around the house when the phone rang. It was Staff Sgt. Demalteris from Camp Pendleton. He informed me that Sean had suffered a very serious injury to the head and that he had been transported to a military hospital in Baghdad. He said that from Baghdad, once he was stabilized he would be transported to Landsthul, Germany. He then said that a Marine officer would be coming to talk to us. I recall being absolutely terrified to the point of almost hyperventilating. I told my wife, Susan, what I had been told. We immediately called Trish and told her we were coming over because Sean had been injured.
I called Staff Sgt. Demalteris back and told him to have the Marine officer meet us at Trish's house as we lived a short distance apart. When we got to Trish's house she was very upset and crying, and I tried to convince her, and myself as well, that he would be OK. Within an hour a Marine Lt. Col. Weckerling and a sergeant major came to Trish's house.
Lt. Col. Weckerling told us that Sean had been declared brain dead and was being transferred to Landsthul. He then said they would keep us informed if there was any change to his condition. I got very angry when he said that. I asked if he thought we were stupid because once someone is pronounced brain dead there is not going to be a change in their condition. I learned later that they had done surgery on his head. He had a severe shrapnel wound to the back of his head. The surgeons always place them on respirators for a 24-hour period because there can be changes.
Later, I think it was the following day, Lt. Col. Weckerling and the sergeant major returned to officially notify us of the death. I think it was at that point we lost it. I recall Trish running out of the house and seeing her through the window pounding on Col. Weckerling's chest and yelling "No! No! No!"
I had to tell my younger son, and I think he was heartbroken but more concerned about his mother and me than anything else. He became a real trooper and very protective of his mother. A lot of people came to her house, perhaps a hundred or more over the course of the following week.
The time between the notification and Sean's return home was hectic and sad. We spent a lot of time spent remembering. A lot of time spent crying. A lot of time wondering why. There was an unimaginable outpouring of sympathy from the Lexington police department, from the VA where I worked, Family Practice Associates, where Susan worked, and from the entire community. Police Chaplain John Walsh and Trish's sister Kathy were like human dynamos getting the arrangements in order and taking care of our every need. The Marines were sensitive and caring in everything.
It was amazing to see how much people we did not know cared. The mayor, Teresa Isaac, was a tremendous presence almost constantly, especially at the funeral home.
Sean arrived home, much delayed, on a rainy night. We all traveled to the airport in limos provided by the funeral home and escorted by a large cadre of Lexington police cruisers. It was when he arrived and the hearse was getting ready to leave the airport that Trish finally gave up her false hope. She got out of the limo and rode in the hearse from the airport to the funeral home.
Once at the funeral home, after they prepared him for viewing, we were allowed to see Sean for the first time.
It was the most devastating thing that has ever happened to me.
The visitation and funeral are somewhat of a blur because of the pace of everything and all the various people involved. There seemed to be a whirlwind of people coming and going constantly.
I was a nervous, emotional wreck. For some time I could not stop crying, and my wife stepped in to get medical care to help me cope, thank goodness. Had she not done so, I cannot imagine having gotten through the week.
There seemed to be a constant movie reel of Sean, from birth to saying goodbye in his brother's hospital room to seeing him in the coffin. Trying to sleep was so difficult. As soon as my head hit the pillow, my mind would start racing a million miles an hour, the movie reel, imagining what had happened in Ramadi, what it had been like for him, whether he felt pain, did he cry, did he want his mother or me, did he get taken care of gently, did someone hold his hand. On and on and on.
I can't say when those racing thoughts finally dissipated but gradually they did. Now, they only happen occasionally, and they come from out of the blue.
The time I got to spend with Sean was precious. I stroked his hair, held his hand and told him I loved him. He looked so peaceful and so very, very young as he lay there. I can't say that it helped, but it did make me realize that his spirit, that great life loving spirit, was not there in that body. He was elsewhere watching and probably doing what he could to make us all feel better. I think he did comfort me but cannot be specific. I just know he was there.
The period after the funeral was a time of recovering for me. I went into a deep depression and was not functioning at an intellectual level at all. Couldn't sleep, couldn't concentrate, didn't enjoy those things that I once did, just depressed. There are days that are worse than others. I've really no idea what brings on the melancholy, but it comes on suddenly and deeply from time to time. Sean is always near me and I think his presence comforts me to a large extent.
The last 2 1/2 years have made me feel older to a certain degree.
I have lost my fear of death because I've faced something worse.
Ellie