Camp helps kids grieve for a parent killed in war
By CAROL SMITH
P-I REPORTER
FORT LEWIS — Kaylee Sharp-Henderson had been silent much of the morning, and now she was avoiding, with all her 8-year-old might, directions to write down what made her feel sad. Or angry. Or scared.
Around the table, the other children in her group bent their heads over their construction paper and made furtive lists with colored markers.
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| Scott Eklund / P-I | |
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| Kaylee Sharp-Henderson, 8, is comforted by Sgt. 1st Class William Harlan of Fort Lewis and by Gail Kriete, a volunteer with the non-profit Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, which conducted a "Good Grief Camp" on Saturday at the fort. The program attempts to help children like Kaylee, whose father was killed three months ago by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan, come to terms with their feelings. | |
When they were finished, Tina Saari, the group leader, handed each child a small tin of Play-Doh.
Kaylee wadded the clay into a ball.
"This is the Iraqi that killed my dad," she said, her voice rising as her fists pummeled the clay into a flat pancake. "I hate you, I hate you. I hate you."
The other children hammered at their own piles of clay, and in a flurry of pounding, they smashed out feelings of grief only the smallest casualties of war could know.
Each of them had lost a parent or a sibling in Iraq or Afghanistan. For some, like Kaylee, the loss was only a few months ago. And for many of them, this was the first time they had been able to share that experience with others who knew what it felt like. On Saturday, 62 families, most of whom had lost soldier sons based at Fort Lewis, gathered to share their emotions and look to one another for ways to survive the knock on the door.
The grief camp was organized by the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., that offers resources and peer counseling to grieving military families.
"A loss in the military is unlike any other loss," said Bonnie Carroll, who founded TAPS after the death of her husband, Brig. Gen. Tom Carroll, in 1992. Families struggle not only with sudden, traumatic death, but with the severed connection to their military "family." They are cut loose from a culture and a way of life that for many had been a main source of community and emotional support.
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| Scott Eklund / P-I | |
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| Elizabeth McFall, 7, writes a note to her dad, Staff Sgt. Thomas McFall, who was killed in Iraq in May. Writing notes to fallen loved ones was among the exercises at Saturday’s camp, which included fun activities with soldiers. | |
TAPS was founded as a way to give the children and spouses of slain service members a military connection in their own right. Children especially need a way to identify with that part of their lost parent’s life, she said.
On Saturday, 20 children and teenagers broke into groups by age and worked with facilitators while their parents attended seminars on trauma and loss. In addition to giving youngsters a chance to be with their peers, the groups incorporated "grief work" activities designed to help children express their feelings.
No amount of glitter glue or glossy stickers could patch the holes in these hearts, but the connections the children make in these groups often become lasting forces for healing.
Tori Johnson, now 17, lost her father four days after her 12th birthday in 2002. "At first, my mom made me go (to TAPS), and I thought it was corny, but I can’t even explain how much it helped," she said.
"Being raised a military kid, you don’t want anyone to see you cry," she said. "It helps me be around kids going through the same things."
Tori returned this year as a volunteer to help others through what she has been through, and she does it for her dad.
"This work is in his honor," she said. "My grief will never go away. But I can help others while I’m helping myself."
Kids often feel that they can’t talk to anyone, said Saari, the group leader. They may be angry with surviving parents, or they may want to protect them.
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| Scott Eklund / P-I | |
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| As Saturday’s camp came to a close, children released helium-filled balloons carrying notes they had addressed to their fallen loved ones. | |
Katie Staats, 8, said she talked with her mother and her grandmother about her dad, who was killed by an improvised explosive device in December 2006 — but only sometimes.
"I do, but I don’t usually a lot because they get sad," she said. "And I don’t want them to be sad."
The kids also managed to be just kids. When several dozen soldiers from Fort Lewis, including Brig. Gen. Donald Campbell, deputy commander of I Corps, appeared for lunch, an hour of vigorous rough-housing ensued that left more than one large, fatigue-clad soldier on the ground crying uncle.
Kaylee, whose father was killed in June when a roadside bomb blew up his Humvee, threw herself into the melee, giggling until she was out of breath, her cheeks flushed.
"Being a soldier is about more than deploying," Spc. Darald Adams said as he watched the mayhem. Adams, who was wounded in Iraq, said he came Saturday with his squad mates because he hoped to make a difference for the children of his fallen comrades.
After lunch, the kids trooped back to their rooms for one more task — writing letters to the ones they had lost. The adrenalin charge from playing with the soldiers evaporated, and the mood turned quiet.
"I love you," wrote Chrizchele Bunda, 9, whose father died while patrolling the Tigris River in Iraq in January 2004. "I wish I could see you one more time."
"You’re my hero," wrote another youngster. "Always brave, strong and true."
The children rolled the notes carefully and tied them to helium balloons. They gathered outside under a bright blue, cloud-scattered sky, the hard truth of war in their small faces.
"One, two, three," shouted Blake Higdon, 11, whose oldest brother was killed in May by a roadside bomb in Iraq.
On the last count, a battery of balloons lifted into the air, their jelly-bean colors scattering in the wind.
All but one.
Kaylee clutched the string of her yellow balloon, her arms folded around her chest, her slight frame caving inward.
And didn’t let go.
For more information about TAPS, go to taps.org or call 800-959-TAPS.