April 22, 2003

On the cusp of war a month ago, we were all in the same boat.

Our husbands were training in Kuwait or in the Persian Gulf, waiting for a conflict they thought may never materialize. In a letter written just hours before crossing into Iraq, Blair closed with, "The quicker this war starts, the sooner I return to you a terrible dilemma, I'm afraid."

Hours later, it began, and in the weeks that followed, fate led our families down extremely different paths. It's more noticeable every day.

Take today, for example, an ordinary Tuesday in April. This morning, I wave to Wendy while cramming my kids into the car. She hurries over, still sky-high from hearing that her husband will be home in less than two weeks. Everything needs to be perfect for his arrival, though, and a full-body makeover is in order. This morning marks the start of a search for the Ultimate Homecoming Sundress. I wish her luck and she drives away with a blissful smile.

An hour later, at the Camp Pendleton hospital for a routine doctor's appointment, I see many injured Marines hobbling around the hospital, families hovering over them, attending to their every need.

The wounded from Blair's company are recovering in Germany and at their homes around the country. On the phone, I've heard the depth of emotion in their voices, hearing both their pain and their longing to be with their Alpha Co. mates in Iraq. They nurse mangled extremities and blown-out eardrums and ask, "How are the guys?" Their bodies will always bear the scars of war.

When we return from the hospital, the light is blinking on my answering machine. I push the button, hang up my purse, and hear the sing-songy voice of my friend Cindy say, "Call me – I have goooood news!" I call, and learn that Blair should be home by June. I'm elated.

Around the same time, another Alpha Co. wife bids a final farewell to her husband, and he is laid to rest in his Iowa hometown. The ultimate sacrifice – that is how this war ended for her. The rest of us desperately want to ease her grief but can't come up with anything except flowers and, "I'm so sorry."

At suppertime, we dine with a neighbor and her 6-month- old baby girl. Her only knowledge of Dad is through a videotape, which her mother plays every night. As of now, he has not been scheduled to return.

Tonight, I see that the war took a toll on all of us, though in dramatically varying degrees.

In the next months and years, the full impact will be known. Some of our husbands will eagerly leave the Marine Corps; others will be compelled to make it a career. Some may not easily readjust to home life; others will be renewed in their devotion to family.

The impact reaches far beyond our husbands. In January, we came together as sisters, hoping and praying that the war's lasting effect on our lives would be minimal. Thankfully, most of our husbands will return soon, safe and uninjured. Our lives will pick up where they left off, and we'll lean on each other much less.

There's one exception – our new widow. She's one of us – even though we can't know how she feels – and we'll always be here for her to lean on.