My Little (ok, LONG) Soapbox About the War

Warning: This post is long, emotional, and politically charged. For lighter reading and happy pictures, scroll down.

7 February 2008. The day started out as happy as any other. A routine check of the email yielded a message from Mark's brother, Steve, asking about the best dates for the family reunion this summer. We hadn't had a chance to confirm with Mark's family, yet, that he was for sure set to deploy and for how long. For a number of weeks, we'd heard rumors that *all* doctor deployments were being cut to 6 months. Then we were told from reliable sources that the rumors were true. For a few days we allowed ourselves to believe this. We were so confident, in fact, that Mark had told his parents that he probably only have to go for six months. That's the last Mark's family had heard.

Well the truth is that *some* medical deployments have been switched to six months. Not ours. We applaud the Army for moving in the right direction, we recognize that this is significant progress. We also understand that in an organization this large, under such stress, total change doesn't happen overnight. Still, the news left us pretty deflated.

When the reunion email popped up, it seemed the best time to break the news: "You may or may not have heard that Mark is leaving [this summer] for his deployment. We expect him to be gone 17 months." How do you say that gently?

All morning, Mark's wonderful family replied with loving, supportive messages. As each arrived, I forwarded them to Mark who read them between appointments. It was a good way for the deployment to become very concrete to us. Sobering realization paired with comforting, strengthening encouragement.

In the midst of our communications, Mark asked if I had heard that Mitt Romney had dropped out of the presidential race. Surprised at the timing, but not at the announcement, I looked for a video clip of his speech. Sure didn't expect what happened next. I totally broke down crying. Like a baby. I'd calm down and try to go about my day, and then the floodgates would open, again. Not so much out of disappointment that "my candidate" was out, but because of his motives for suspending so suddenly.

In his speech, Mitt said, "I disagree with Senator McCain on a number of issues . . . But I agree with him on doing whatever it takes to be successful in Iraq, on finding and executing Osama bin Laden, and on eliminating Al Qaeda and terror. If I fight on in my campaign, all the way to the convention, I would forestall the launch of a national campaign and make it more likely that Senator Clinton or Obama would win. And in this time of war, I simply cannot let my campaign be a part of aiding surrender to terror."

"This is not an easy decision for me. I hate to lose . . . If this were only about me, I would go on. But I entered this race because I love America, and because I love America, I feel I must now stand aside, for our party and for our country."

In the midst of many prominent conservatives making such a big fuss about not backing McCain, I applaud Mitt for closing ranks and moving forward. This isn't about political posturing, it's about protecting our peace at home. Iraq is like a big game of pick-up sticks. If we move imprecisely in our impatience to withdraw, we will make ourselves terribly vulnerable to another 9/11.

Nothing personal against Hillary and Barak. I voted for Hillary's husband in '96. (Wouldn't do it again, but it seemed right, at the time.) And I'm not convinced that Barak is the Islamic extremist some make him out to be. But the thought of either of them as Commander in Chief of our military makes me shudder. Particularly when my husband will soon be in harm's way. No, I would much rather have a Vietnam vet at the helm in a time of war, never mind that I don't agree with all of his policies.

Mitt continued: "We cannot allow the next President of the United States to retreat in the face evil extremism. It is the common task of each generation – and the burden of liberty – to preserve this country, expand its freedoms and renew its spirit so that its noble past is prologue to its glorious future. Please stand proud today that you fought for a cause greater than yourself, and please continue to fight to preserve our ideals."

Now, all of that lofty speech is encouraging, but it must be said that we joined the Army to avoid debt. It seemed like a sound organization with witch to partner in reaching our financial and Mark's professional goals. Mark says if he knew then what he does now, he would not have joined. But he prayed about it and received a confirmation of that prayer.

So here we are.

On 9/11 we were 10 miles from the Pentagon. Actually, Mark was two miles away, as the crow flies. I didn't break down and cry that day, or ever, about the events of that day. As I held a two week-old Hyrum, I instinctively, totally knew two things: 1) My children would grow up in a far different world than the one in which I had grown up. 2) Our next nine years with the Army would bring us many more profound experiences than we had previously considered. I knew that day that we would likely do a deployment, and that if we didn't we would have many friends who would.

But I didn't cry, then.

Nor did I cry on March 18, 2003 when we invaded Iraq.

Didn't in the fall of 2003, either. That's when we met Army pediatricians who had returned from 12 month deployments. We knew that once residency was over, Mark would no longer be undeployable. He would go. He would go for 12 months.

Sometime during residency, we received a particular issue of a GW medical alumni magazine. While Hyrum napped in the back seat, I parked in the garage and read. The publication chronicled an alum, a family practice doc, who died while fighting in Iraq. Up until then, I had drawn great comfort from the fact that doctors are more protected than other medical personnel. Mark would not be a medic, would not likely be working in the battalion aid stations like the ones I'd seen on M*A*S*H hundreds of times. Doctors stay in safe places and have wounded brought to them in helicopters and ambulances. But here was a young father with dark brown hair and an MD gazing at me from an obituary. I lost it.

They call this anticipatory grief. Very normal for military spouses, I hear. For me it usually comes in small doses. But that day it was big. The car became my cathartic space.

To be continued . . .