Mothers, wives sacrifice to help wounded GIs

Staff Sgt. Michael Lage had always been an independent kid. The youngest of three and the only boy, he was the first to leave home. He joined the Army at 18.

He served two full tours in Iraq, first in 2003 and again two years later.

Through both tours, his mother prayed and lit a yellow candle every day at a shrine fashioned from his photo, angel figurines and military mementos in front of her fireplace in Atlanta. She continued the ritual when he was deployed a third time in May.

But less than a month later, his Bradley Fighting Vehicle was hit by a bomb in Baghdad. Lage was the only one who managed to crawl out or get blown free of the wreckage. He was on fire, still carrying his gun, witnesses later told his family.

Recognizing him by his eyelashes
Rose Lage and her husband, Larry, arrived in San Antonio to find Michael in intensive care in a medically induced coma. He was covered in bandages with tubes coming in and out of his body.

His mother recognized her son by his long dark eyelashes.

But she wasn't allowed to touch him, couldn't embrace him the way she longed to.

"It took everything I had to be strong," she said, her voice breaking.

Now, six months have passed since she arrived in San Antonio with one large suitcase.

Her husband stayed as long as he could, but he had to return to work after the couple tapped their retirement savings for months.

Her two daughters, too, have come to help, but they have their own homes and young children to care for.

Rose hasn't gone anywhere
Pieces of her wardrobe have arrived with family members as the seasons have changed and as she's lost weight from crisscrossing the post on foot. A few photos of grandkids have gone up around the hotel room, along with Indian dream catchers — charms traditionally meant to protect against nightmares.

Rose has cobbled together an unexpected life here, learning her way around town and building new routines and friendships she never imagined.

Days of housekeeping and care for grandkids have been replaced with new routines: the careful wrapping of gauze around reddened skin, vigilant adherence to medication regiments, the zipping and buttoning of Michael's clothes.

"We've given up a lot for him," Rose concedes, sitting in a hotel room where a giant flag signed by her son's unit hangs. "We'd give up a lot more for him."

Relationship tried, strengthened
Michael is grateful for his mother's help, but parents and adult children living together can get on each other's nerves. The close quarters and the stress chafe.

"I appreciate her being here, but living in a small hotel room with your mom tends to wear on you a bit," Michael says.

A career soldier and divorced father of 8-year-old twins, he never dreamed he'd be living with or reliant on his mother at age 30. (His son and daughter live in Tennessee with their mother.)

Even as a child, he was never good at asking for help, Rose says.

"That's what annoys her most: I never ask for help," he says.

Rose struggles, too, because she knows he doesn't tell her everything. He holds back some of the emotional and mental struggles that come with such serious injuries and with the memories of friends lost at war.

"It's been very hard because I know he is frustrated because I'm a mom and I haven't been there. I guess he thinks I don't know what's going on," she says.

"They forget that you're a person. You have a life, that you have feelings."

'I will never leave him'
The Lages both finally left San Antonio on Dec. 15 for a Christmas trip to see Michael's kids and other family and friends.

But Michael will have to return in January to face a series of surgeries to reconstruct his elbow, and eventually his amputated arm and his nose and ears. It will probably take another year of treatment and rehabilitation.

That means Rose will be back, too.

"I will always be here for him no matter what. He can always depend on me. I will never leave him," she says, looking at Michael. "I'll be here for my other kids, too. That's what a mom's for. I would give up my life for him, and if I could give him my other hand, I would."

At that, Michael quickly brushes away a tear, and his mother adds one last thing: "He's my baby."

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