A Soldier’s Mother

Brenda Stretch

As I watched my children grow throughout the years, I never imagined that I would hold the title of a soldier’s mother. Not only a mother of a soldier, but that my daughter, Stephanie, would be the one to bestow that distinction upon me.

My daughter’s ordeal of serving in Iraq tested me as a parent. It was a year-long endeavor, but there were very pivotal moments that will forever reside in my memory. As wearisome as it was, I don’t believe I would have ever known my daughter like I do today. The conversations we shared will be cherished forever. I know that because of her experience, I am much stronger today in my faith and I can persevere in the face of hardship.

March 12, 2003, my husband and I made the journey to Ft. McCoy, Wisconsin, for the weekend. It was family visitation; one last hoorah before the 233^rd Military Police unit deployed to Iraq, to help police the capital city of Baghdad. We spent a wonderful two days, mastering the art of avoidance. No one would speak of the impending exodus. As the weekend wore on, the faces grew longer, the conversation became less playful and the moments of silence became longer.

“It is time to go,” my husband reluctantly spoke. Our daughter began to whimper and said, “I’m scared.” Her father hugged her and told her everything would be fine. They had always shared a special bond, one that I envied. My daughter and I were close, but too much alike at times. We argued a great deal and frustrated each other to no end some times.

As we all walked to the car, I began to cry. Crying turned to sobbing, which turned to disbelief. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I had never felt so helpless. I wanted to run away with my daughter and save her from this unknown. A mother is supposed to make her children feel better and protect them. I couldn’t do either. We all began to cry and hugged like we had never hugged before. Once more, my husband had to be the strong one and told me we needed to go. We parted ways and my husband had to keep telling me, “Don’t look back; just don’t look back.”

As we drove away, I was sobbing. I gazed over at my husband and he had a small tear in his eye. I had never seen my husband cry. He physically looked sick, almost as if he had aged 10 years. Did we just hug our daughter for the last time? She was only 19, just a baby in our minds. We didn’t know when we would hear her voice or touch her beautiful face again. I had never felt so helpless in my life… “Our Father, who….”  The Lord’s Prayer became my pacifier. The prayer became a ritual. It was the only deed I could do to find solace. The only act that would allow me to prevail over the desperation I felt day in and day out.

We asked our daughter to call the house and leave a message just before she left the country. There is something heart warming about a voice. Even though you can’t see a person’s face, you can see so much through the resonance of their words. Stephanie called that day, to fulfill her promise. She couldn’t say where she was going, but we all knew. She told us how much she loved us and that she would be back soon. We saved that message and still have it today. On the days I would start feeling melancholy, I would play the message to hear her voice. Later, I learned that her father would call her cell phone and listen to her message just to hear her voice.

As the weeks passed, there was a roller coaster of emotions. I was starving for information, any word on our daughter. Friends, family, and neighbors were supportive. One morning we couldn’t find our newspaper. Our neighbor and very close friend had taken our paper that morning so I wouldn’t see it. That paper ran one of the first stories and photos of the war in Iraq. The front page displayed a photograph of a mother of a soldier leaning over the casket of her 19-year-old son. My neighbor said he didn’t want me to see that. That was one of the greatest acts of kindness I had ever experienced.

We don’t know what is happening with our daughter, so we watch the world news religiously. Somehow, in a city of 3 million people the world news is going to give me some sense of what is happening to my daughter.

In the wee hours of June 7 the phone rang. It was my daughter. She had been offered a satellite phone to make a call home. It had been 63 days since we touched that beautiful face and heard her voice. I couldn’t believe how brave her voice sounded. I immediately asked if she was okay. She answered, “As okay as I can be.” She said she could really use a hug. As I spoke to her, my husband hovered in the background, “Don’t cry! Don’t cry! It will just make her feel worse.” She could only talk a couple minutes. It wasn’t even long enough to get her brother alert and on the line. I reassured her she would be fine. At the same time, I was trying to convince myself it would be fine. I didn’t get much sleep the remainder of the night. I was relieved to hear her voice, but terrified beyond words as to what was happening to her. I could hear the sadness in her voice.…. “Our Father, who....”

The next several months became a blur. I pushed myself through each day, starting out the day hoping to hear her voice. Is she cold? Has she had enough to eat? Is she getting enough sleep to be sharp? I had thousands of questions rattling through my head every day. And, every question was followed by the Lord’s Prayer. It was overwhelming how she consumed my thoughts. There wasn’t an hour that went by I didn’t think about her.

As the day drew closer for her return, my thoughts shifted to what damage has been done to my daughter. Will she mentally survive this ordeal? I can’t imagine the things she has seen and done. How do I help her settle back into “normal” life? I started to become angry at the innocence that was taken from my little girl.

Finally, the day had arrived for the unit to come home. We watched as all the soldiers disembarked the plane, and one by one had to give up their weapons. As they gave up their weapons, they moved into formation and stood until the last soldier was processed. The plane was far enough away, I had to keep asking, “Was that her? Is that her? Did you see her?” I guess I was afraid that somehow this wasn’t really happening. Somehow she got left behind. I could feel the excitement building in me. I finally got a glimpse of her. She had her pack on her back with a pink “Hello Kitty” blanket hanging out of it - not what I would have expected to see from a soldier returning home. But for some reason, that vision gave me a sense that she was going to be fine. She still had a spirit of innocence.

The formation of soldiers started marching toward the waiting families. They drew closer and closer; suddenly my daughter broke formation and ran directly to me. She wrapped her arms around me almost knocking me down. I had this overwhelming sense of liberation. I began to cry and laugh at the same time. My daughter thought I was having some kind of seizure and kept asking if I was ok. I had never felt like that before. It was an emotion I cannot put into words. It was like giving birth to her all over again.

I thought her return home would be the answer to all our prayers. But the months following her return proved just as heart-wrenching. She had emotional scars that were going to take time to heal. We cried a lot and hugged a lot. But, we survived. We are all stronger today because of this challenge. Stephanie has made us so proud in the face of adversity. She has spoken before Congress, appeared on ABC Evening News and participated in countless newspaper interviews. As she struggled to deal with her trauma, she is using it to help others. Many countless soldiers go untreated for emotional scars.

The title of mother of a soldier is one I would not wish upon anyone. However, that year proved to be invaluable for my appreciation of life, family, and faith. I am not the same person and we are not the same family. Unfortunately, in life most people don’t take the time to cherish what really means most until it is gone. A hug is so powerful!

The Sleepy Weasel ● Vol. 12 (2007-2008)