Tag: Wounded warriors

As They Heal, Our Nation Will Heal

When a warrior returns home from battle, they are changed. If their scars are visible they are recognized as wounded heroes. Heroes who have paid a price for our freedom. And we think we can comprehend what they have given simply by looking at their scars, but we cannot.

For those who come home with invisible wounds, well, we are still in our infancy as to addressing their need for compassion and healing.

There are always those people who are visibly helping our wounded, the nurses, the doctors, the volunteers who have dedicated their lives to serving those how have served us. There are private organizations that have sprung up all around this nation to help “take-up the slack” for our heroes. Operation Mend, The Gary Sinise Foundation, Operation Homefront, The Elizabeth Dole Foundation, and The Bob Woodruff Foundation are just a few worth while organizations to be recognized.

The goverment of this great country of ours has been overwhelmed by the large number of injured returning from war. They are unable to provide each of them with the personal, diligent care to heal that they so glaringly deserve.

The burden to watch over our wounded warriors falls most heavily on the families, friends and communities where they live. The support that is received in each of their hometowns is the defining factor as to the level of healing that will take place in their lives.

As they heal, our nation will heal. When you give of yourself to any wounded warrior and their family, you will find that your own heart will begin to heal in a place that you did not even know was in need.

IMG_2699 Bob Woodruff and Aaron IMG_4291

Warriors

I have not met one single warrior who has come home from war and accepted the title of “HERO.”  Even though they have been through tremendous pain and suffering from injuries, or suffered from the emotional scars of PTSD, they still do not like being referred to as heroes.

It took me a while to understand why, when my son came home from war wounded, he had a kind of discord to this word when it was applied to him.  You could see him physically tremble, when this word would come his way.  He refers to the scars he will always carry as badges of honor.  And at the same time, he says they feel like he is wearing a heavy coat every single day.  He can not feel the touch of my hand on his burn-scarred arms, unless I apply enough pressure to push through the scars to the muscles that remain.  It’s so sad when a mother’s touch often times cannot be felt…

Why–we all wonder–do our warriors not feel justified in holding this title they have all so willingly fought for.

The answer is simple–they do not believe there is any such thing as a hero.  Throughout all the wars in the history of our nation, those who fought have never liked this word.  All every warrior believes they have done is to fight for their families–their friends–the one standing beside them–the one behind them.  And this is simply what they believe anyone would do.

Heroes are something we create, to somehow justify the fact that we were not on those battlefields with them.  We believe we are honoring the sacrifices these warriors have made for us.  But it is not the way they want to be honored.

If we want to honor those who have fought, died, and come home wounded, then let us honor them in the way they want–for what they fought for.

Let us all remember our grandfathers, fathers, partners, and children, as they were and are, precious, courageous, loving souls who took on the job of protecting us and others.

IMG_0204_2

The Question

The early morning darkness was beginning to show the promise of another crisp autumn morning.  Through the window I watched the orange glow of the slowly rising sun sitting just below the hills in the distance, as I took another sip of my honey sweetened tea.

Instead of enjoying this peaceful time of the early morning dawn, I sit at my desk—remembering—writing another article on the question I am most often asked.

What is it like to answer a phone call informing you that your child has been injured in battle?  I must have answered that question in many different ways, over the past 9 years.  But, the words were never even close to the reality of that unbearable moment—that moment when time stops—that moment when you know that nothing will ever be the same again.

I remember hearing words that made absolutely no sense.  They were nothing more than a string of garbled utterances, carried through the air from a phone so far away.  They entered my world without hesitation, as my hand gripped tighter and tighter around my phone.  The string of words that seemed to be read from a sheet of paper, so formally, came crashing into my world trying to eliminate hope.  I suspected they must be read, because of the difficulty the person on the other end of this conversation is having in just saying such things.

When the call ended, the words spoken began to take on their combined meaning.  They ran through my mind while I felt as though my heart was being ripped from my chest, and I screamed with all that I am, “No!”

But the reality of those words remained, and I had to plan…

How do you plan for this “thing” you prayed would never reach your door?

You don’t—you can’t…

You simple respond, one small step at a time, as the details and realities are slowly set before you.

First the tears flow—for the life that was my child’s future, the life that has been forever changed, and then for my life as well.  How selfish I felt at that moment, wondering what would be required of me.  “How will I cope?” I thought, as I started that journey on a path that held only uncertainties.

The perfect child that I had handed to another was being returned damaged, but this was still my child.  I had to reach deep inside my own emotions, and present a world of hope and healing that I wasn’t at all certain would exist longer than the light of one more day.

One moment, one hour, and one day at a time, I tried to do all I could to bring life back to some kind of normalcy.  Normalcy—what a strange word—Its definition had been so completely changed by that single phone call.  Then it had to be redefined, and its goals redirected.  My son’s life, nor mine, would ever be the same, and that could be a good thing or a bad one.  That was a choice we both had to make.  A choice that must be made every single day for the rest of our lives.

We learned to take each day as it came, and not to try and figure out all the answers at once.  The questions would change.  And those answers that we were finding some small bit of comfort in, would no longer apply.  Each new day would start with its own beginnings, and a different set of goals—yet to be defined.

IMG_0141

Labor Day

Labor Day always makes me think more of giving birth than of the years I spent in the workforce.  I have given birth to four beautiful children.  The day my youngest was born was almost his last as well.  After an emergency C-section to save his life, time, and time again, the fight to insure his safety would be a life long battle.  As an infant, then as a child, and then as a young adult, the fight for my son, Marine Cpl. Aaron Mankin, has at times been difficult.

But everything he has gone through, has made him strong, as he moves through life leaving his mark with humility, honesty, and humor.

.IMG_3233

 

 

 

 

So There I Was

“So there I was.”  This is a phrase that always gets the attention of all who are listening.  Aaron always makes light of the people who begin a story with this line.  He will stop the person who has just uttered these words and gather more people around to listen.  He explains that when someone starts with this phrase you can always expect to hear a very interesting story.

Now here I am, with a very interesting story…

MVV_7311

Beauty Is Who You Are

My Son and my Sonshine! There is so much more to Aaron’s story, to our story, and that is why I wrote, “A Mother’s Side of War.”

Gina left the mall's avatarGina left the mall

I had never heard of Aaron Mankin when they handed him the microphone. He only spoke for a few minutes, but I was inspired to learn more. I found out he was a wounded Marine, his opinion on beauty, and the amazing story behind it.

Aaron Mankin Cpl. Aaron Mankin addressing IAVA marchers before the NYC Veterans Day Parade 11.11.13

What I heard him say

I was standing with IAVA (Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America) marchers this past Veterans Day in NYC as they waited to join the parade on 5th Avenue. Aaron Mankin was introduced as a leading voice of this generation of veterans. Since November 11th is about expressing gratitude, he spoke of that.

He said that when people would come up and thank him, he always felt awkward and uncomfortable. “What do I say? Hey…you’re welcome!” The semi-cheesy way he delivered the line “you’re welcome” made everyone laugh. He…

View original post 562 more words

You Just Don’t Know

You don’t know just how far you will go, or what you will do, to protect your own.  

Whether you are a service member, defending this country, or the one who is standing next to you.

Whether you are a parent, watching over your children as they grow.

Whether you are a mother, standing over your wounded warrior, your child, to insure they recieve the best care available.

You just don’t know… 

IMG_3007

Life After War – Who Knew

It had been seven years after my son was injured in war, after I had crawled into his hospital bed trying to hold him.   The jerking and  flailing that would take over his whole body every time his eyes would close, was something I couldn’t stand by and watch.  I had to do something.  I had to hold him, I needed to hold him.

Seven years later, we shared a room while attending an event.  I woke in the night and looked over at him sleeping in the other bed.  He was still fighting that same war in his dreams, he was still jerking in the night.  The dreams were not as bad as they were in those early years.  But it was evident, they still haunted him.

I wonder, will he ever be completely free…

The Early Morning Dawn

I sat on the back patio, thinking, crying, hoping, and conversing with the night wind.  Only a few months earlier, my three children’s voices had filled the night air, with the joking around and laughter only the young seem to express so unflinchingly.  I wondered if Aaron, my youngest son, was in Germany yet, after being injured in Iraq. Was he aware of what was going on around him, or was he being kept unconscious? Did he know how much I loved him and how it was tearing me up inside, not being with him?

As the early morning sun slowly began to touch the clear, peaceful sky, all I could think of was that Aaron’s eyes mimicked that same cool blue color. I sat there with the phone held tightly in my hand, waiting anxiously for the next call, to let me know where my son was, what his medical condition was, and when he would be transported back to the States, and to me…