Those left behind
War widows find ways to cope, but there's really no cure for the pain
The Army offered grief counselors, but Kiser said she got tired of hearing that it was OK to cry. "I wanted to say, 'I don't feel like crying. Is it OK for me to punch a hole in the wall?' " An 11-year stay-at-home mother, Cub Scout leader, PTA volunteer, and former foster parent of two troubled children, Kiser has done a good job of finding what she and her children need. She's always been a community volunteer and knew how to plug into the network. Even before the bad news came, Kiser found a support group called Silver Linings, created to help families confront uncertainties like a cancer diagnosis. But it's tailor made for children whose parents are deployed, says director Judie Meise, because it deals with fears of the unknown.
Kiser could see that her children were depressed when their father left for Iraq. They missed him, they were scared for him, and political discussions at school would put them on the defensive. But they didn't talk to her about it. "In many cases, the mom gets upset if you talk about it. So the kids have no one to talk to. They want to protect her," says Meise.
While Chuck was still sending daily E-mails, Mark learned that he had feelings and could begin to talk about them; Ali kept a journal of her fears; and Deb, a little to her surprise, recognized that she was angry. "I was mad at him. I was mad at the Army. And kind of mad at myself for letting him play Army for as long as he did: "What's he doing, 37 years old with two kids, and going to war?" Since he died, they have begun going to meetings of Rainbows, the parent organization of Silver Linings, for grieving children and parents.
Military assistance with funeral arrangements and paperwork and community-sponsored grief counseling helped a lot--but it didn't put shingles on the roof. When Chuck went to Iraq, his wife's task was to order shingles and siding for the house; he would do the work when he returned home. When Sheboygan firefighter Tim Kohlbeck heard that the Kisers needed help with the roof, he went back to the fire station and put out a sign-up sheet asking for volunteers. About 20 firemen signed up. Firefighter Bob Irish, who owns Irish Roofing, donated shingles, and his son, Jon, who runs the business, asked his crew to pitch in. "I got up at 6:30, made my coffee, and saw that all the supplies had been dropped off," says Deb. "Then the cars started showing up. And vans. And trucks." The local Piggly Wiggly donated sandwiches. The firefighters' wives made desserts. Volunteers clambered up and down ladders, and within 12 hours, the garage and the house each had a new roof.
For many war widows, however, grief has not been softened by military benefits or community concern. Diane Rooney was in the midst of planning a homecoming for her husband, Sgt. 1st Class Robert Rooney, when the military messenger arrived. She was to pick him up in three days. Rooney, an Army national guardsman, was 44 when he was killed in Kuwait on Sept. 25, 2003. He was struck by a forklift while helping his unit load gear. His wife has not gotten over the cruel timing of the accident. "I'm still in therapy, still on medication," she says. But members of his unit came through for her. After selling the house in Nashua, N.H., that they had planned to remodel together, she moved to Plymouth, Mass. "It only took one phone call to my husband's unit and the whole maintenance section showed up," she says. "They got our house all packed and moved down to Massachusetts."
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