Mother finds true grieving begins after cameras leave.
Tue Jul 15, Op/Ed - USA TODAY
Ruth Voshell Stonesifer
My son, Kristofor T. Stonesifer, was one of the first two soldiers to die in the war on
terror. He was killed Oct. 19, 2001 in a helicopter crash during a rescue mission near
Kandahar, Afghanistan (news - web sites). I knew when his name was officially released
that the media would be hot on our trail to find out everything they could about my son.
After all, his death happened during America's first installment of ''payback'' for 9/11.
I envisioned the picture on the cover of some national news magazine: My family and I
would be lined up quietly witnessing the flag-draped casket of my son being carried to a
hearse by his fellow Army Rangers. Americans would see the dignity and honor afforded a
hero returning home after giving his life for his country.
In other words, I almost fell victim to the American obsession with fame.
Fortunately, I had a more valuable experience, one I am reminded of whenever I hear
another news report of a U.S. soldier being killed in Iraq (news - web sites): I learned
that true grieving begins after the TV lights go out and the media move on.
After Kris' death, I knew instinctively that chaos would rain down on my family if I
appeared on the early morning talk shows. I saw these live interviews as a diversion from
our family's need to remain strong and focused on preparing for Kris' memorial.
One of the best
My son had volunteered three times to be halfway around the world, first to join the Army,
then to become a Ranger and finally to go on this rescue mission -- while I thought he was
safely sleeping in Georgia. His platoon leader told me later that he chose the best men to
go that night. Kris must have been proud to be one of the few to climb aboard that Black
Hawk helicopter.
But despite his bravery, Kris was a quiet and shy person who recoiled from undue
attention. I'm sure he would have had such a laugh if we had done a ''crying tour'' of TV
interviews -- so we didn't. Still, I was astounded as cameramen filmed our front door,
mailbox, lawn and garage door.
The only time I thought I would be unable to control the cameras was at the Philadelphia
airport, where my son's flag-draped casket was returned to us by a Ranger honor guard. So
I prepared for the ''perfect'' media picture of a family steeped in military tradition.
There would be Kris' father, a retired Navy captain, and my oldest son, Ric, an Army
warrant officer. My brother, John, who flew an A-7 in Vietnam, would don his old uniform.
And, of course, the Rangers from Savannah, Ga., would salute my son as he was carried off
the plane. If the world had to witness anything publicly about our family, I thought, it
would be how proud we were of him and his service.
Facing reality
Here's what really happened at the airport: After a long wait, we walked to the dark open
cargo door of an enormous plane. We turned to face one lone video camera that the 75th
Ranger Regiment was using to document the ceremony for Kris' battalion.
To my surprise, there were no national or local media cameras, even though the public
affairs office had notified the media. Kris must have been laughing at his mother's ''all
in vain'' planning and worrying. But my thoughts were in turmoil. Had America lost
interest already? Was my son's death old news? How would Kris' legacy be documented?
After Kris' casket had been secured in the hearse and I could focus my eyes elsewhere, I
noticed that what had been a busy construction site next to us was quiet. With a start, I
realized that all activity in the area had stopped. Every construction worker, every
security guard, every person within sight of this small, simple ceremony had come to a
standstill, paying respect for this fallen soldier. Many were saluting.
They may not have known my son's name, but they knew that a soldier who had died in
defense of his country was coming home to his family. I was grateful that I could see
through my tears and witness this poignant tribute.
I started out thinking a magazine cover was what I needed to move on. But I discovered I
would rather have the respect of a few strangers on a runway than the empathy of an entire
nation.
Ruth Voshell Stonesifer, who lives in Kintnersville, Pa., is writing a book about her
experiences and the life and death of her son.