I am a fiduciary and over the past month, I’ve been wading my way through fiduciary purgatory, actually hell if I wish to be blunt. Eighteen hours of organizing a year’s worth of banking records and I’d like to offer up some advice to those who are new to the fiduciary life.
Normally, fiduciaries are appointed when the recipient of VA benefits is deemed mentally incompetent. A veteran with a rating of 100% for PTSD is almost alway assigned a fiduciary. Some are assigned "professional" fiduciaries, but many more are family members.
If you are married to your veteran, paperwork is considerably less, or so I’ve been told by two very helpful gentlemen I spoke to over the phone. If you are not and this is your first year, you are in for a bumpy ride so here’s what I’ve learned.
First, thank you. Thank you for taking this responsibility. It’s not easy and it’s not fun, but it’s worth it to know you’re taking care of someone who’s served their country and given so much.
Second, get a separate bank account for the VA payments even if the VA officer who comes to your house says there is no need. He is wrong. This is for ease of accounting and your privacy. At this point they are wading through my personal finances as well as my veteran’s because I did not do this.
Third, start a spreadsheet now. Don’t just save your receipts in a box and wait for them to ask for accounting. They won’t. You are expected to know that after a year you must send in the paperwork. Begin your accounting and keep up with it all year. I did it in a matter of two fun filled days last month. That paperwork by the way was rejected for a number of reasons, none of which had to do with the numbers I submitted. The papers must be filled out exactly as they want, but you have to ask what they want.
Forth, get the paperwork now. You will need VA form 21-4706b and VA form 21-4718a. Look it over so you are familiar with how to divide up the expenses. It will make the accounting easier in the long run. Why the VA does not hand out the first set of forms when they interview the perspective fiduciary I will never know. Had I had the forms from the beginning, we could have avoided a huge amount of stress over the past weeks.
Oh, I forgot the most important point. The paperwork they send you is computer generated. Do not hesitate to call your fiduciary hub with questions or concerns. Though you may get the run around at first and you will, sorry, there are many helpful people who are willing to work with you to get the paperwork filled out correctly and keep you on track to taking care of your obligation as a fiduciary.
Luckily, a week and two days ago, Chris and I were married. I am technically no longer his custodian or fiduciary. I am now spouse. After I resend last terms fiduciary papers, which were refilled out with the help of a lovely man at the VA named Larry, I only have October and November of this year to account for, then I’m done. Hopefully. I’ll let you know if things change.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
This is Our Mountain
Chris wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close. Over and over he told me how much he’d missed me while he was gone. Trouble was, this wasn’t some tearful reunion after a long deployment. He’d been right next to me having a flashback.
It starts with a trigger. Thunder, a car door slamming, a jackhammer. Chris’ eyes go distant and he “fades” as we have come to know it. If I’m lucky and recognize it, this is the easiest point to snatch him back.
Flashbacks are like being dropped back into the war zone.
It’s hard for Chris to talk about his PTSD; he’s embarrassed. When I first began writing about this journey, I didn’t write his name. I didn’t allow a picture of myself on this site because Chris feared people would know.
“Know what? That you have PTSD? That you went through some unbelievably traumatic events which left your brain scarred? That you’re human and war affected you?”
They’ll know I’m crazy.
How I hate that word now. Crazy.
Sometimes, I know this reality, this life, exists and I need to get back to it, but other times, I’m back in the war and I’m just doing my job.
Chris doesn’t always remember his flashbacks. Most of the time he wakes up with no knowledge of what has happened. Worse yet, large chunks of the previous days are missing. Usually only one, but sometimes three or four depending on the severity of the flashback. When Chris lived alone, he would lose days. We have since come to the conclusion he’s suffered from regular flashbacks for the better part of five years.
I would think how can it be Thursday, what the hell happened to Tuesday and Wednesday?
Sometimes, months pass for Chris while I’m looking at him in a semi conscious state on this side. For me, and though it feels like an eternity, only moments pass. His flashbacks can last from five minutes to a couple of hours with him “fading” in and out. Those are the worst, the long ones. They are the flashbacks that cause me to worry.
My worry is born from his fear that this life is not real and the flashbacks are truth. I hate when he talks like this, I worry for his health because I know the mind is a brilliant work of pure art and sometimes, pure fiction.
Not too long ago, during a flashback he clutched his chest and curled in pain. He said he wanted to die over and over. Said he'd lost his men. They'd all died. They were all gone.
Let me die.
I went with it. Told him we had his men, they were all being evaced. That he was next and a doc would see him right away.
“You're going to be ok, Sergeant,” I said to him, holding his hand.
It took a long time, a very long time to wake him from this aspect of his flashback. We went round and round, him fading in and out of consciousness. Where are my men, I'm hit, tell my mother I love her, let me die.
Then he stopped breathing. I waited, counting. I got to ten and leaned over him to listen closer. I was sure his mind had gotten the best of him and had convinced him he was hit. I didn't know what to do other than beg him not to go.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
And he gasped for air. I jumped. He gasped again. I saw it as my chance to grab him back. “Chris wake up.” I shook him, patted his face, and finally I yelled at him. “Chris WAKE UP.” He jumped. But he was not here. He was still in Iraq.
Recently, while reading a political forum I frequent, I came across a post talking about a woman who’d been kidnapped and kept for 18 years. The poster spoke of how she would be fine if she just got past it. I was taken back once again by the callous nature of the general public. Their insensitivity is due to being uniformed or worse, ill informed.
Getting past is a phrase I have stopped using because I have started to view this as a mountain, ever changing and always challenging. We do not however simply, get past or go around our mountain. We climb it. We scale it.
We conquer it.
At the top, is understanding. Once there, the terrain can be viewed from an educated standpoint. Still dangerous, climbers can descend the mountain a little safer, but not completely so. Mountains are not constants as anyone who has climbed one knows. They can change in the blink of an eye and force your path to shift. Being ready is the key.
Chris’ flashbacks have become less and less frequent. Triggers can be avoided at times, subtle changes in stance, expression, mood can be noted giving a loved one the chance to stop the waking nightmare. Through careful observation, information can be gleaned and used to help a PTSD sufferer cope with their flashbacks while they climb.
This is our mountain. And our ability to climb it depends on information.
It starts with a trigger. Thunder, a car door slamming, a jackhammer. Chris’ eyes go distant and he “fades” as we have come to know it. If I’m lucky and recognize it, this is the easiest point to snatch him back.
Flashbacks are like being dropped back into the war zone.
It’s hard for Chris to talk about his PTSD; he’s embarrassed. When I first began writing about this journey, I didn’t write his name. I didn’t allow a picture of myself on this site because Chris feared people would know.
“Know what? That you have PTSD? That you went through some unbelievably traumatic events which left your brain scarred? That you’re human and war affected you?”
They’ll know I’m crazy.
How I hate that word now. Crazy.
Sometimes, I know this reality, this life, exists and I need to get back to it, but other times, I’m back in the war and I’m just doing my job.
Chris doesn’t always remember his flashbacks. Most of the time he wakes up with no knowledge of what has happened. Worse yet, large chunks of the previous days are missing. Usually only one, but sometimes three or four depending on the severity of the flashback. When Chris lived alone, he would lose days. We have since come to the conclusion he’s suffered from regular flashbacks for the better part of five years.
I would think how can it be Thursday, what the hell happened to Tuesday and Wednesday?
Sometimes, months pass for Chris while I’m looking at him in a semi conscious state on this side. For me, and though it feels like an eternity, only moments pass. His flashbacks can last from five minutes to a couple of hours with him “fading” in and out. Those are the worst, the long ones. They are the flashbacks that cause me to worry.
My worry is born from his fear that this life is not real and the flashbacks are truth. I hate when he talks like this, I worry for his health because I know the mind is a brilliant work of pure art and sometimes, pure fiction.
Not too long ago, during a flashback he clutched his chest and curled in pain. He said he wanted to die over and over. Said he'd lost his men. They'd all died. They were all gone.
Let me die.
I went with it. Told him we had his men, they were all being evaced. That he was next and a doc would see him right away.
“You're going to be ok, Sergeant,” I said to him, holding his hand.
It took a long time, a very long time to wake him from this aspect of his flashback. We went round and round, him fading in and out of consciousness. Where are my men, I'm hit, tell my mother I love her, let me die.
Then he stopped breathing. I waited, counting. I got to ten and leaned over him to listen closer. I was sure his mind had gotten the best of him and had convinced him he was hit. I didn't know what to do other than beg him not to go.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
And he gasped for air. I jumped. He gasped again. I saw it as my chance to grab him back. “Chris wake up.” I shook him, patted his face, and finally I yelled at him. “Chris WAKE UP.” He jumped. But he was not here. He was still in Iraq.
Recently, while reading a political forum I frequent, I came across a post talking about a woman who’d been kidnapped and kept for 18 years. The poster spoke of how she would be fine if she just got past it. I was taken back once again by the callous nature of the general public. Their insensitivity is due to being uniformed or worse, ill informed.
Getting past is a phrase I have stopped using because I have started to view this as a mountain, ever changing and always challenging. We do not however simply, get past or go around our mountain. We climb it. We scale it.
We conquer it.
At the top, is understanding. Once there, the terrain can be viewed from an educated standpoint. Still dangerous, climbers can descend the mountain a little safer, but not completely so. Mountains are not constants as anyone who has climbed one knows. They can change in the blink of an eye and force your path to shift. Being ready is the key.
Chris’ flashbacks have become less and less frequent. Triggers can be avoided at times, subtle changes in stance, expression, mood can be noted giving a loved one the chance to stop the waking nightmare. Through careful observation, information can be gleaned and used to help a PTSD sufferer cope with their flashbacks while they climb.
This is our mountain. And our ability to climb it depends on information.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Through the Eyes of a Warrior
Several years ago, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. This was not one horrific moment in time which left me in the hospital but a cumulative injury I acquired over the course of my career in a mixed martial arts gym.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Like He Never Existed
Several years ago, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. This was not one horrific moment in time which left me in the hospital but a cumulative injury I acquired over the course of my career in a mixed martial arts gym.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Fight to Win, Argue to Fix
Maybe if you’d get over it, we wouldn’t have this discussion over and over again!
I spent years in the boxing ring. Though I was never a professional fighter in the traditional sense, I was a professional trainer, so my fights were always to teach people to win and win fast.
I’m tired of hearing about your damned PTSD!
When fighting, the purpose is to knock your opponent out of the conflict as quickly and easily as possible with minimal damage to yourself. Emotions have no place in fighting. It’s a cold and calculated sport, much like chess. Fighting has no place in a relationship.
This is an attitude I’ve implemented in my dealings with the people in my life, especially my significant other. I do not fight with my soldier. Fights are to win and I’m not in it to win against him. He is not the enemy.
I'm so tired of you being this way! Why can't you be like you were before the war?
We argue and discuss to fix things. It’s so important to remember each time my voice approaches the point of no return that yelling does nothing for either of us. We both shut down, much like most people. And even though it might feel good for a moment, those things we say in the heat of battle cannot be unsaid. Apologies only go so far and though wounds heal, scars last. Had the words not been said in the first place, they wouldn’t have to be to be retrieved or damage repaired.
I’ll admit, there have been those times when I just let fly. Said those things I shouldn’t have said. Yelled.
I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean it. Please forgive me.
And sometimes we have to yell, both of us. But not at each other. This is not a winner takes all sort of thing. Trading punches to win the purse does nothing for either of us, and in the end causes damage which takes precious energy to be fixed. Energy we could focus elsewhere.
The desire to win is a natural one, but in this case if I win, he loses.
I spent years in the boxing ring. Though I was never a professional fighter in the traditional sense, I was a professional trainer, so my fights were always to teach people to win and win fast.
I’m tired of hearing about your damned PTSD!
When fighting, the purpose is to knock your opponent out of the conflict as quickly and easily as possible with minimal damage to yourself. Emotions have no place in fighting. It’s a cold and calculated sport, much like chess. Fighting has no place in a relationship.
This is an attitude I’ve implemented in my dealings with the people in my life, especially my significant other. I do not fight with my soldier. Fights are to win and I’m not in it to win against him. He is not the enemy.
I'm so tired of you being this way! Why can't you be like you were before the war?
We argue and discuss to fix things. It’s so important to remember each time my voice approaches the point of no return that yelling does nothing for either of us. We both shut down, much like most people. And even though it might feel good for a moment, those things we say in the heat of battle cannot be unsaid. Apologies only go so far and though wounds heal, scars last. Had the words not been said in the first place, they wouldn’t have to be to be retrieved or damage repaired.
I’ll admit, there have been those times when I just let fly. Said those things I shouldn’t have said. Yelled.
I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean it. Please forgive me.
And sometimes we have to yell, both of us. But not at each other. This is not a winner takes all sort of thing. Trading punches to win the purse does nothing for either of us, and in the end causes damage which takes precious energy to be fixed. Energy we could focus elsewhere.
The desire to win is a natural one, but in this case if I win, he loses.
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