Being the Mother to a Family of Soldiers—A Commentary by Ken Harbaugh ’08
Being the Mother to a Family of Soldiers
By Ken Harbaugh '08
As his older brother heads back for his third tour in Iraq, one man wonders how his mother has coped with watching several of her sons go off to war. In this essay, he decides to ask her.
My Mom is getting the staples pulled out of her knee today. She had the whole joint replaced a couple weeks ago. My brother and I have been calling every day to check in, and to take turns scolding her for riding her horse before she’s well enough. But my mom’s tough that way. I remember a nasty riding accident about fifteen years ago. She was thrown clean off her mount, and landed hard. Her femur shattered, and before the muscles could tighten she straightened the leg with her own hands so the bone shards wouldn’t tear into her artery.
Pretty soon, my brother will be heading back to Iraq. For the third time. I wonder what that must be like for my mom. I wonder if, somehow, the staples in her leg feel a little less significant with this war hanging over her family. The last time we were all together was before this past Thanksgiving, when I had returned from Afghanistan and my brother from Iraq. It seemed, on the outside, like a normal visit. We helped out on the ranch, ate together every night, and caught up on stories. We even discussed the war.
But talking to my mom every day for the past couple weeks made me realize her tough-as-nails exterior hides a real ache for my brother, about to leave yet again. I asked her how she deals with it.
I tell my boys I’m not half as brave as they give me credit for. I just make a real effort to dwell on the good things. And when my sons are home, I fight hard to make life feel normal. I want them to feel safe here, to feel at peace. Because I know that soon enough, war will beckon one of them back. So we enjoy being together, as much as time will allow. I don’t see the point in a lot of overwrought emotions. Still, every time I hear about the latest casualties, I feel that stab of fear. The horror of losing a child, which has visited so many families already, always lurks in the background. But my husband was in the military, like my boys, and I know the routine. Should that dark government car ever pull into our dirt driveway, I know just what I will do. I’ll stop the chaplain at the door, and ask him not to say anything yet. I’ll put a pot of coffee on. And then I’ll go into my bedroom, drop to my knees, and pray that my beautiful child is only wounded.