Collateral Damage

My family has had several tough years recently.  My divorce from my first husband after almost 16 years, finding out my brother was about as dishonest a person as anyone could be, and my marrying a man with some grave health issues.  Now that Chris and I seem to be settled and safe, my mother and father have placed the house up for sale and are leaving my state.

I’ve never lived farther than a few minutes from my parents so this will be quite a transition for all of us especially since my father has grown quite close to Chris this past year.  They’ve found out they share many interests which has led my pops to give Chris more woodworking tools than I can count.

This afternoon I visited my parents after they showed the house.  We sat and talked about things, about how I’d rather they not leave but I understood.  That’s when Mom said something that broke my heart because I hadn’t understood at all.

She can’t take the stress.  This last year with Chris and dealing with his health and the VA and everything else had been heavy on me, but it had weighed on my parents as well - especially my mom because she understands something very deep about loving someone with declining health.

My father has had rheumatoid arthritis since he was thirty-four years old.  It started the summer we were painting the old two-story farmhouse in Kansas.  At first it settled in his feet and we assumed it was from standing on the ladder.  The following months I watched my father grow crippled.  He curled up as his body betrayed him.  Just as Mom started making plans to have a ramp installed for when Dad became wheelchair bound and looked into a job at the local grocery store, there was a miracle of sorts.  My dad got better.  He found a level of comfort, tenuous as it was, and life started back up again.  Pops is sixty-five and has won and lost when it comes to his disease.  He takes a medication now that controls it, barely, as it destroys his liver.

Mom looked at me today and said she couldn’t take watching Chris deteriorate.  She couldn’t bear to see the pain on my face while I took care of him.  It was a moment of such sorrow and joy I can’t describe it.  Like I said, it’s been a hard couple of years and Chris wasn’t exactly welcomed into my family with open arms.  I more or less tossed him in and said like it or not this is your son-in-law.  And they didn’t like it – at first.

I’d never considered my family when Chris’ health ebbed and flowed.  My son, who spends half his time at our house, my dad, my mom, his daughters.  I’ve tried hard to shield everyone in our lives from Chris’ PTSD, but it’s near to impossible to do.  His symptoms are obnoxious and rude.  They never call before they drop by.  If we have plans, they don’t get the hint when we grab our coat and keys.  No, they squeeze themselves in even when we don’t have the energy or the room.

Luckily, I’ve kept my parents from seeing the very worst, but I’ve confided in my mom on more than a few occasions.  I hadn’t realized what I was doing was inviting his symptoms to her house via my own need to speak to someone.  She’d become an unwilling counselor and because she loves me, her heart bleeds with my wounds.

When she said she couldn’t watch Chris deteriorate, I saw the damage I’d done and knew I needed to remember she doesn’t see the good days. I tend not to tell her when he’s slept beautifully and soundly for more than one day in a row, or about how we were able to go to the grocery store without incident, and how he managed to go to the gas station by himself and not come home in a panic. No, I don’t talk to her about the good things. Maybe I’m embarrassed those are victories to me. But more than likely I was taking for granted my mom understood there were good times as well as bad.

I’m taking her homemade soft pretzels tomorrow. We won’t talk about Chris’ health. We’ll talk about Christmas and all those years stretching behind us with no audible worries of the years ahead of us.

I Was a Combat Medic

For the last few nights, Chris hasn't been able to sleep. Early this morning I woke to find him wide awake looking at me. He'd been up writing. We talked for about an hour then finally he drifted back to sleep. Around the time the sun rose, I was up making coffee and reading an email he'd sent me.  This is what he wrote.

I was a Combat Medic. My guys called me 'Doc'. I died in Iraq.

I don't remember the exact day and time, but somewhere in the dirty rural streets of Iraq I met my fate. What exact circumstance or series of events had finally caught up to me eludes recollection, but I can say with all certainty, at that very instance time ceased to be linear and became a chaotic mess.

There were no letters home.  No sharply uniformed soldiers knocking on a loved one's door. There was no drill team toting my flag-draped carcass off an airplane.  No flag was handed off to my grieving mother by my commander. None of that. Those guys are the lucky ones. They did their job then left it behind to go to heaven or to be reincarnated or whatever construct they had made for themselves in the afterlife. I've held the hand and brushed back the hair of countless men and tried to comfort them as they left my futile struggle with God.  Is it wrong that I harbor a great deal of resentment for not having the same luxury?

I may not have died in the literal sense but I died none the less.  The person that came home was not me. All that remains of that person are faded photographs of some kid with no clue and little motivation for anything. I've never thirsted for innocence as I do now. I envy children. What bliss they must have in innocence.

-

The trip home was blur and all I can really remember is waking up in Germany, waking up in Baltimore, and my sphincter biting a hole in the seat of that GSA van as we entered the on-ramp leading from the airport onto the highway. And me with no weapon, no hoards of heavily armed men covering my nearly naked ass.

I remember waking up sweating and freezing in my parents' house. Not really sure where I was, I reached for my Kevlar. It wasn't there. I fumbled for my Level 4. Not there either. Nothing was there, no weapons, no noise, no nothing.

The first cognitive sight I had was of the ceiling fan beating the air above the bed. It looked like home. But there was an oppressive atmosphere that hung over everything. I felt like I was frozen. I couldn't move. Not one muscle. It wasn't easy to chew at the time but I was absolutely terrified for the first time since my first intimate encounter with live rounds.

Rolling out of my rack, I all but low-crawled to the bathroom. Regaining some composure, I turned on the faucet, filled my hands with water and splashed my face, a novelty I had not had for quite some time. Rubbing my eyes vigorously to clear my blurred vision I caught a glimpse of myself. It took a while to sink in, a couple of hours really, but something didn't seem right about my stare. I had noticed it once before when I was in theatre.  I reckon, something inside of me at the time was either fucking busy or subconsciously I had denied it. Anyway, it was there... again.

We've seen it before. That 'ocular emptiness,' if you will. I remember seeing this look on countless faces before. Patients with massive head injuries, those who had an altered mental status, the same look which accompanies the 'passion that kills'. Totally devoid of emotion, compassion, anything. I remember not feeling anything.

As if those notions weren't alien enough, I then embarked on what I can only call a residual haunting. Unlike the ghosts that go about moaning and moving stuff or showing up on surveillance cameras, my apparition only appears at the most inopportune times.  My ghostly embodiment changes but most of the time I become a poltergeist. Throwing things around. Hitting things. Breaking stuff. And immediately after one of these episodes it feels like I'm duct-taped to a flagpole in the town square naked. People all look at you in disgust and everyone is too afraid to try to improve the situation. You try to scream through the tape on your mouth but no sound comes out.

Somehow the whole world has changed. I left my country safe and sound. I left it in good hands. I went off to do the things that would ensure that it would be there when I got back. Hell, that was the only thing that really kept me going. 'One day, I would be back and pick up like nothing had happened.'

No, the world I returned to was totally FUBAR. I remember cursing out loud and commenting on how fucking stupid all these people back here had become. I remember listening to folks talking about things they thought were important with my mouth gaped open. And I remember my first altercation with someone whining about their infantile issues which I thought were little more than a cold pile of bullshit. I'm sure in their safe little stick house they had built for themselves, their 'problems' seemed like a big deal but I wasn't hearing it. There's a lot of sadness in this world and no one really gives two shits that you have to wait in the line for an hour or think your job is too hard. Give me a fucking break. Really?

Since then, the world continues to plummet out of control. It seems like the lunatics are all running the asylum. Hell, I'm waiting for some dickhead to nominate Charles Manson for President in the upcoming election. That would seem perfectly normal in this alternate universe I now live in.

I want my life back. I want my world back.

-

My only saving grace, the ONLY thing I wouldn't change, the singular reason that I haven't run hot lead through my brain before now is my wife. She's not your run of the mill wife. No, she really does sport a big red and yellow 'S' on her chest. And for some unbeknownst reason, she loves me.

Oh sure, we've had fights. We've struggled. I've broken things and acted a complete ass, made her cry over nothing. At the end of the day she still hugs and comforts me. Sometimes, just as now, when I think about the raw deal she was dealt when she drew me, it makes me cry. She deserves so much more than I can ever give her but I pray that somehow I never do anything that would make her go away. I need her. I don't just need her for emotional support and love, but my very existence hinges upon her. Without her, I am nothing.

I can tell the years of dealing with this has caused her to become weary. I can hear it in her voice and see it on her face. I ask her what's wrong and she just replies 'nothing' but I know all too well how taxing taking care of someone else can be. She tells me I'm paranoid for thinking she would ever leave. I dunno, maybe something in me is and I use that as a defense to keep myself in check. After all, fear keeps you sharp.

She shrugs often and just smiles when I speak about her just as a religious zealot would speak about his or her perspective deity. And the notion of someday saying or doing something to cause her harm is a sobering thought. I know within myself lies a monster but unlike most people that carry this specter, as of yet I have not directed my aggression solely onto her. For that is a path taken by a fool. I may be fucking nuts, but I am no fool.

One can go crazy trying to figure out why our situation is so much different than others. Maybe it's the fact that I was a Medic trained to care for people. Maybe it's the fact that my grandfather always insisted that under no circumstance was it appropriate to strike a woman. I can't say exactly and I don't really want to know. All I want is for her to be happy and know that she is loved.

My Family Tree

I write.  Fiction mostly, and it came easier before my head injury.  When I’m actively working on a new piece, I do a lot of ‘research’ which means I sit around talking to the people in my life.  My characters are based on the souls I’ve met or known or sometimes just briefly came in contact with day to day.

My mother has always been the main source of material.  Raised in a Catholic family she attended twelve years of school filled to the brim with uniform-laden girls and black and white nuns.  She’s told me the most amazing stories to which she always adds better not show up in any of my pieces.  She knows they will.  It’s a game we play.

While visiting with my parents not long ago, I looked to my father for a moment.  My maternal grandfather had just died without my ever having met him taking with him all the stories of his life.  I didn’t want to miss my father’s stories.

We sat on the couch laughing for a couple of hours.  My Uncle Arch was there because it was the holidays and he always stayed with my parents for a few days before he went skiing.  That day I learned some things I’d never taken the time to know.

My father joined the Navy when he was just seventeen.  His father signed the paperwork for him and he left home to travel the world.  I remember as a child seeing the slides, no digital pictures then, of the Sistine Chapel he’d purchased in Rome.  I remember how clear and crisp and beautiful his tattoo was back then.  Death before Dishonor.  But I didn’t know my father had stood on the deck of the USS Lowry during the Cuban Missile Crisis taking pictures of the Russian submarines. I’d never looked at him and thought veteran.

My father, like my husband, is a veteran.

Uncle Arch joined in adding to my surprise.  This man I’d loved since the day he brought me a wind up penguin on a cross-country trip to take my grandmother from Philadelphia to San Diego had flown helicopters in Vietnam.  All those years I’d know he was in the Navy, I had the pictures of him just home from Annapolis and the one of him with the awful mustache when he became commander of the base.  I’d even memorized every song from a Naval record he’d given as a child - I still know all the words to Anchors Aweigh.  But I didn’t know the rest. 

He is a veteran.

That evening we talked at length about my veterans.  My Uncle Donald, Army, Silver Star.  My Uncle Russ, Navy.  My grandfather, Navy.  My Great Uncle Michael, Army, gave his life in WWII. 

The list seemed to stretch on forever and I was taken by the fact I’d neglected knowing about all these people.  I missed their stories because I wasn’t listening. 

But I’m listening now and my pen is poised.

His Shadow

Until last night I didn’t believe it could happen but PTSD has taken a back seat for the moment. About a year ago Chris developed pain in his arm. With the years of abuse on his body in the military we both assumed it was arthritis. Most of us develop a form of arthritis at some point so it seemed reasonable to me. This pain however was odd. His joints and his muscles ached, and his skin hurt.

We waited a few weeks hoping it was as simple as an injury that would heal. Maybe he’d bumped or strained it somehow. But it didn’t go away. He stopped talking with me about it and I assumed it had stopped hurting. Silly me. Several months in I noticed he was walking with his arm pulled up next to his body with the hand curled under.

I made an appointment. Had a false start but tried again. We saw a new doctor and she started scheduling. They eventually diagnosed him with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. He has nerve damage and numbness in his hand from an injury in Iraq. From my understanding now the damaged nerves are sending signals that the arm is also damaged and his body is abandoning it.

This is a degenerative disease and the possibility of him losing use of his arm – worst-case scenario brings amputation – is looking more and more likely. Last night, I couldn’t even touch him because of the pain. He’s grown depressed and frustrated. The fact the VA took so long to schedule and figure this out aside – time is of the essence with this, only early treatment yields results –, it’s almost become a sick comedy. We started feeling like PTSD was the most awful thing anyone can deal with but we’d found a level of comfort. A combination of treatments had brought us to a place where we’d finally believed in the light we kept glimpsing at the end of the tunnel. And now this, a crushing setback enough to make us want to crumble.

Dealing with PTSD intensifies life’s other issues. We tend to forget this when life isn’t tossing us curve balls. It creates a slippery slop when depression over long-term issues looms. Those of us who are caregivers can easily slide down that slope. It is imperative we keep our footing. I do not have PTSD. This part is not about me. It can be about him. It can be about us. But it is never about just me as much as I’d like to lean up against him some days and tell him about why I’m depressed over him hurting so bad.

I know relationships are about both parties, about balance. But really, it’s a set of scales. We don’t want the scales to tip completely one way or the other leaving one party at rock bottom. Perfect balance can be achieved but more than likely the scales will continue to tip one way or the other. When a spouse is sick the other steps up, the scales tip.

My husband is ill. I am willing to carry more weight because of this. I am willing to make certain days all about him even if it stretches to weeks or months. I’m not saying that I never carve out time for myself and I’m not saying I can’t depend on him. I’m just, to be blunt, damned tired of people who have a loved one with a mental disorder regarding it as a burden on them personally.

Yes, it’s hard to deal with some days. Yes, sometimes I need to vent. But when I do have time to myself I can get away from PTSD for a moment. My husband cannot. He is trapped. PTSD is his shadow, his constant companion.

Unwilling Veteran

Veteran’s Day is on the horizon.  But he won’t be putting on his uniform or pinning on the medals.  He won’t be endlessly adjusting his cover until it’s perfect.  No shining of his shoes or straightening of his gig-line.

He’s not embarrassed.  He’s not ashamed.  He is an unwilling veteran.  He is unwilling to believe even after all these years that his military career is over.  In his heart he is a soldier.  He is a medic.  And though they tell him he is not capable of serving his country any longer, I see a man who served his country and could continue to if given the chance.

He is an unwilling veteran in a civilian world that doesn’t understand.  He was not ready.  I think he never will be.

Veteran’s Day is difficult for him, just as I’m sure it’s difficult for many in his shoes.  In his heart his job was left unfinished.  He wants to go back and complete the mission.

He is an unwilling veteran.

Moments in the Sun

It’s early morning again and I’m sitting in quiet.  No TV, no distractions, just the faint sound of the new kitten shredding the side of my couch.  But I’m in the kitchen counting blessings so I can’t quite see her.

Blessings, you say? 

Well, okay, they aren’t blessings.  That’s a little shallow.  Let’s just say additions to my kitchen. We bought the house a little over a year and a half ago and Chris has hit overdrive when it comes to projects.

In the past six months he’s added brand new pantry doors, shelving everywhere, a whole new wall of cabinets, and a beer tap set in the most beautiful black walnut and white oak countertop.

Beer tap, you say?  Isn’t your husband listed as an alcoholic by the VA?

Yes, he is. And yes, he was heading that way. I okayed the tap for a few reasons, but the biggest was the need to socialize. Veterans with PTSD tend to isolate themselves from both friends and family. We have battled this for the last several years. We do hunker down at times, but humans need interaction.

A few months ago my parents decided they’d like to move to a smaller house in a different state. They’ve proceeded to empty their home into mine. This has been great for Chris and his projects because my dad is an avid woodworker but doesn’t want to do anything but fish during his retirement. Our garage is full of the best tools money can buy and that we could have never afforded.

They also sent over a small fridge. It’s just big enough for a small keg.

I know what you’re thinking. How could you encourage his drinking by installing a keg?

When I taught fitness and helped people lose pounds I found the worst thing for them was to deprive themselves of every treat they so desperately wanted. You want cake? Have a piece. But don’t have half a cake, don’t have it every day, and don’t beat yourself up after you eat it.

Chris likes beer. We have three couples who we’ve allowed knowledge of his PTSD and they also enjoy a drink now and again. This keg is a reason to socialize. Invitations and talk of a larger get together were almost immediate once the keg was installed and the foam had subsided. Chris wants to show off his handiwork. He’s talented and though his PTSD has left him unable to cope with the world regularly, he doesn’t feel worthless anymore.

He smiles now. Pats the countertop. Points to the ebony carving mallet he fashioned into a tap handle.

“Nice, huh?”

It sure is. It’s beautiful as a matter of fact and he’s proud. His hands are idle no longer. No, he’s not working on patients. He’s not doing exactly what he was trained to do. But he’s doing something and he wants to share it with the outside world by inviting them in.

The first day, He enjoyed three or four beers. Each with a bigger grin than the last. Our neighbors came to admire and partake. They stayed and chatted for an hour or two and he beamed.

In Ireland, there’s a little place in the back of some pubs called ‘the snug’. It’s a cozy area of the bar where people can enjoy a little more privacy and a little more quiet but still socialize and have a nip.

This is our snug and it’s like seeing him shed a little of his protective armor. Things are still hard. They always will be, so we look for moments. And this moment has brought the possibility of more moments to cherish.

Yesterday, Chris started talking about pulling out the kitchen cabinets and reworking them. He’s excited. And so am I. Not only at the possibility of a new and beautiful kitchen – come on, who wouldn’t be - but the possibility we’re gaining ground. He’s winning. It happens.

Beauty in the Desert

Sitting here in my newly organized writing room with a four-month old kitten sharpening its needle claws on my couch, I’m at a loss. Things have been good and honestly I’d rather hide in fiction than write about real life. So, in search of a subject, I rifle through some pictures and open a coke.  Caffeine helps me think.

In the pile of pictures I find a photo of Chris and I sitting around a morning campfire in March of this year. It was an off-roading trip we took with a small group of friends. I remember fearing going back to the desert because the problems Chris had last year with the scenery in some of the areas and the no smoking campground we chose accidentally. He needs those little sticks of calming nicotine. This year however we decided to stay away from the campground where we couldn’t have a fire past ten, make noise, have glass bottles, or smoke. Instead we dry camped in the middle of nowhere. It was a good choice.

It had been a long time since I’d totally escaped the light pollution of town and witnessed the unblemished night sky. Dragging out of bed at three in the morning - after a very long and filthy day wheeling the trails - to witness stars pierce every inch of black paper sky was worth losing a bit of sleep. That early morning was a sight not to be missed, one I won’t soon forget. And we talked.

“At first it looked like this over there at night. So beautiful sometimes.”

Sometimes is the operative word. Only sometimes.

But still between the awful pictures he brought home in his mind Chris has tucked some breathtaking sights to be brought out only when reminded.

“The sun melts against the sand when it sets, waves of heat pushing and pulling it.”

I’ve seen the distortion of the sun against the Pacific Ocean many times. We drive to the beach when the stress is high and watch it paint a silver line across the waves. Beauty is everywhere, even in a war zone.
“The sunsets were red and orange until purple overtook everything and then the stars came into view.”

Even so, I have a difficult time imagining breathtaking views like this entangled in the ugliness of battle.  But when he really sits down and remembers, those images are there nestled between the horrors keeping him from sleeping a full night.

I lay awake with him searching for those images in his mind sometimes hoping he’ll eventually be able to look for them without my direction. I know he’ll never forget, all I wish for is a shift in focus so he can find his way.

Shifting our focus is what we’ve done in the past few weeks. Ever since Chris got a new diagnosis which brought with it the possibility of Chris losing his arm we’ve been living like today is it. Today is when we have to make plans and set things in motion because time might be waning. It’s been difficult to think about but it’s forced us to take a good hard look at how we’ve been dealing with his PTSD and TBI. Staying home, avoiding, never taking chances, making sure he’s never in danger of extra stressors.

But that’s not good enough. Just getting by isn’t good enough. As afraid as I am locking to doors and hunkering down every time there’s stress just isn’t good enough anymore.

Next month is our first anniversary. We’ll be getting down the camping equipment to make sure it’s ready for a couple of days down in the desert. We’re going alone this time with no obligations, no expectations, just three days to ourselves.  Three days to look up at the stars and find our way.

Give Me My Cheese

It’s a calm beginning to a beautiful morning. I’m as of yet the only one who has managed to crawl from bed and start the day. With a cup of Coconut Cream coffee I might add.

The stress level in the house, for me at least, has dropped to pre-PTSD levels.  Let me explain because I hold a belief that the high levels of divorce amongst returning OIF/OEF soldiers and their spouses is partially to blame from stress, but not the stress most people assume.

It’s a stress brought on by the confusing and often frustrating maze surrounding the VA.  A while ago I wrote a piece about the ending of my fiduciary career with a marriage certificate.  Two months ago I received a letter from the hub – that’s what they call themselves – stating that my accounting is due.

I was floored.  Why?  Because last year Chris and I moved our wedding date from March of this year to November of last so that I would no longer be a fiduciary/custodian.  My status for my 100% PTSD husband would be spouse payee. Those who are familiar with the VA benefits side know that those who are unmarried and rated 100% with a mental disability must have a custodian.

Those who are custodians must supply the VA with a detailed accounting of their spending.  They must have a separate account for the disability monies, and they must ask permission to spend over $500 on a single purchase.

I take issue with this system but I understand why there is a need for some sort of fail safe.  I’m not writing this to rant about the VA.  No, I’m writing so others will not have wake up with their hearts thumping out of their chest because they feel like the VA is bearing down on them.

First off, the VA sends out form letters.  If you receive one that makes your heart pound because it sounds threatening, get on the phone.  Be polite, be direct, be strong.  These people, though they might not always have the correct information, are trying to help.  If someone on the phone isn’t helpful ask for a supervisor. 

These last few weeks have been up and down. When I opened the letter requesting my accounting, I got on the phone to our case manager.  She got on the phone and then I got a call. We started the process of working out what had happened and then all communications broke down.  My calls weren’t returned, the computers were down, I sat with my hands in my hair on the edge of the couch crying.

Have I thought of walking away before? Yes. This is hard. PTSD is hard. And this situation has tested my strength and determination more times than I’d care to mention. But what gave me pause to think about throwing my hands up in surrender was not his PTSD. It was the VA.

Luckily, I managed to pick myself up and get back on the phone to our case manager and she then provided me with two phone numbers. I called, left a message, then waited with my heart in my throat because by this time my accounting was late. It took a week to get a call back. In the end, I found that the VA had made a mistake and not sent the field examiner out. Until they did I was still fiduciary.

This issue has been worked through and the examiner is on his way within 45 days. Our case has a big sticky note attached to it placing a hold on the required accounting until my status is changed. I am relieved - this mouse managed to got her cheese.

How many couples couldn’t handle the maze? How many spouses had to split their time and just didn’t have the strength the run the maze to get VA issues worked through? How many put their hands up in surrender and walked away from the marriage?

As I said, I understand the need for checks and balances, but those of us who are dealing with the paperwork and phone tag are also dealing with nightmares, depression, hyper-vigilance. We’re tired. We’re angry. We’re scared. And we don’t understand why it seems like the people on our team are playing against us at times.

The only solution is to get on the phone and know the chain of command. Start at the bottom - plan on being on the phone for a long while – and start climbing. If one person does not offer the help needed, ask for a supervisor. In the end, I spoke with the head of the fiduciary branch of the entire VA.

These people work for us, but we must be proactive. Get on the phone and start making noise.

Reaching Out of the Darkness

One night three or four years ago, the phone rang in the wee hours of the morning. It was Chris calling to say goodbye. He had his side arm loaded and he was done. It had been a few years since he’d come back from Iraq to no job, no wife, and no home. Though he’d struggled to rebuild what was left, he was angry and confused. And he was still fighting the war in his mind. He felt very alone.

This was not the first time he’d called to say goodbye, but it was the first time since we’d become close that he’d decided it was time to take his own life.

That night I found out what it was like to talk someone down from suicide. It’s an unpleasant experience especially when the person on the other end of the line is the love of your life and you can’t get to him.

I don’t remember a lot of the 45-minute conversation but I can still hear the click of his weapon against the phone. It was as close to losing him as I’ve ever been.  And though he’s spoken of suicide many times since it has only been in passing about how things used to be.

I have stood on both sides of this particular fence, so I'd like to take a second to thank every person who has ever taken the hand of someone who has reached out to them in their lowest moment.

In His Own Words - Part 2

Tell me about your first day there.

Hit the ground running.   We immediately went to work.  We didn’t even get time to unpack.

How do they expect you to just fall in?

You’re trained to.  We did our job. But it’s different on an emergency response side.  We ran ambulances at home so we were prepared from some of it.

But I never saw anything in the states like I saw there.  I saw things I’d be hard pressed to see at a level-three trauma unit.  They don’t have to deal with blast damage.

Were the injuries shocking?

We didn’t have time to let them shock us… like watching Predator today [Chris imitates Jesse Ventura] “I ain’t got time to bleed.”

He smiles, but these discussions weigh heavy on him.  I know the injuries were shocking even if he doesn’t admit they were. He speaks often about just doing his job. 

Did you shut down emotionally?

Yeah, at work it’s an assembly line.  If a mechanic got attached to every car they worked on, you know?  No emotional attachment while working.  You grieve after hours.  And you grieve.

Along with that comes a sick and twisted sense of humor.  That’s how I got my nickname Dr. Evil. You laugh about things, never at the patient but you laugh… if you have time to do so.  A sense of humor is for when you have time.  It has a time and a place.

But you have to have a sense of humor or you’ll end up capping yourself in the field.  I know it’s like some hokey MASH Hawkeye bullsh-t, but it’s true… though everyone has worked under someone who can’t find the funny.

What about working on the enemy?

What about it? [He’s almost defensive here as though I’ve accused him of giving aid and comfort.] It’s harder when they’re conscious.  [Chris imitates Farsi] Shut the f-k up.  Yeah, it irritated me. 

We’re they kept afterward, after you worked on them?

It depended.  If they were just kids. [Chris hesitates and takes a long drag on his cigarette] Not everyone in Iraq are the baddies.  The media would like you to think that, but there are some f-king nice people in Iraq.  This isn’t some f-king John Wayne movie from WWII. See someone Japanese and they’re automatically the enemy. There are good people.

The roughest part was the kids. They used to pay them.

Pay them to what?

Lob grenades at Humvees and sh-t.

No way.

Yeah.

Chris begins to speak without prompts. It is a story he has never told me before. Somehow, I’d come to believe he’d opened up to me completely and shown me everything he had hidden inside.

This one time a group of insurgents decided to come onto the base.  They came across the wire, they thought this is going to be fun.  We’re going to take down the airport.  This is after President Bush stood on the carrier in his flight suit and announced Mission Accomplished.

Sixty of these little c-ks-kers climbed the wall at lunchtime right behind the DFAC [the dining hall for those who aren’t familiar with the thousands of acronyms the military uses].

I got it just then.  Dining hall and lunchtime equaled bad choice for the insurgents.

That hall held around 200.  Two hundred guys with weapons slung.  It honest to god had a parking lot it was so big.  Those [derogatory term] just started shooting.  It was 60 against 200 immediately.  And then it was 60 against everybody because everyone heard shots and acted. Then it was 30 against everybody, then 10.  I’ve taken sh-ts that lasted longer than this invasion. 

The ones who didn’t get blown the f-k up went back over the wall and back to the hooch where they’d planned the whole thing. So we decimated the house, mark 19s.  BaBoom boom boom.  We had Abrams from the parking lot rolling on that sumbitch. 

There were three survivors.  The mastermind and two kids.  An eleven year old girl and a younger boy.

Why were there children there?

The kids lived there.  Daddy was one of bad ones.  He used to have the boy throw grenades into the humvees. [Chris stops here and shakes his head] I don’t feel comfortable talking about this, I just don’t.

Okay, then let’s go back to my original questions. Did you get to sleep regular?

No.

Was there a time when you had to have sleep for the safety of the patients?

No.  I worked 46 hours straight more than once, we all did.  Hell, I’ve eaten over an open abdomen.  I don’t remember what it was but I remember being fed while I was working. 

Um, gross. 

Chris shrugs.  It was just a job and you did what you had to do.

You went over there a medic, but your duties changed big time didn’t they? You were expected to almost be a doctor after while.

Your duties changed no matter what.  You’re a soldier first, medic or whatever second, then after that you’re anything the f-king commander wants or needs you to be.

He hesitates.

I can patch people up gumball style.  I can take things out.

I interrupt. You were a doctor.

No.  I don’t want to call myself that.  I’m not a doctor.  I don’t have that training.

Chris begins talking faster than I can type, and unfortunately I’m not sure why we got on this subject other than the neighbors being noisy and rude.

Today, Labor Day.  If it was on the calendar it was a bad f-king day.  [derogatory term]likes to catch you with your pants down because [derogatory term]thinks all Americans are lazy and like to party.  But [derogatory term] got it broken off in his -ss.

Another drag on the cigarette and a bit of a smile.

We tried to have a good time as best as we could.  But you put miracle whip on a sh-t sandwich and it’s still a sh-t sandwich.

Next time can you tell me about the fun times?

We had fun. We tried.  But there wasn’t much.  Sh-t sandwich. Can you read this to me after you’re done? I don’t want to come off like…

Understand, this is a story being filtered through me, a civilian.  So the details I pull out as important will be different that what jump out at you, but yes, I will read it to you once I’m done.

Thank you.

In His Own Words - Part 1

I’ve always believed people have three faces. Who they think they are, who people think they are, and who they really are. It takes a great deal of trust to let someone strip away the first two faces to find the real core of a person. It also requires a person to let down their defenses and be open to knowing themselves, scars and all.

From the day I met Chris I strove to really know him. He has a depth I was drawn to, but I’ve always been drawn to deep water regardless of the rip current. I think listening and knowing him is the key to helping him regain himself and find freedom from PTSD.

We’ve discussed his experiences in Iraq many times, but I approached him a short while ago about asking him some questions and writing a series of pieces about his time in theater. While I was writing a fictional novel based on PTSD and him, we discussed Iraq thoroughly, but this was different. This was asking for him to open himself up to strangers. I felt it would offer a little insight to those searching for it. I wanted to paint a personal picture about his life in combat, but more I wanted to show what a civilian – me – draws out as important details.

I told him we would do it interview style and stop when he needed to.  I also told him we could end the series whenever he wanted. Chris agreed reluctantly and I am infinitely honored he would trust me to share his story.

This is the first interview. It’s rough, but it’s real.

Did you have that puffy chest I’ve seen on so many of the other guys who haven’t been there yet?

Yeah, I had that.  Of course.  I was going to use my training.

When did it sink in?

As it got closer to me leaving it got realer and realer.  But when the door shut on that plane, that’s when the possibility of this being a one-way trip hit me.  That was a sinking f—king feeling.

I bet it was. So that plane took you to Iraq?

No, no, we went to Kuwait first.  We lived in tent city for a while ramping up to go.  It felt almost like when we were in training.  Decent food, movie tent.  They tried to make it comfortable.  In the sh-t you had to do that for yourself.


They took us to the airport on a big air-conditioned bus with a TV playing a local station.  Soap opera.

Chris imitates the language and makes a dramatic gesture.  I’m glad I don’t watch soaps. He’d probably laugh quite a bit if I did.

They offloaded us onto a C1-30. That was a scary f—king flight. My first combat landing into combat.
He smiles wide and begins to tell me a story I’ve heard several times.

Across from me was a Marine and next to me was Army Airborne. It’s not like in the movies when you see these guys sitting on a C1-30 talking like normal.  No you have to lean in and yell.  The Army guy, I didn’t catch his name, I wasn’t going to see him again anyway, said he’d flown on a C1-30 hundred times but this was the first time he’d landed.  He’d always jumped out. This was all while the Marine across from us was booting into his Kevlar.

Problem with that is one - your Kevlar is round, so it splashes everywhere and two - we were landing in the combat zone and he needed that helmet on his head when we offloaded.

Chris has described to me many times what a combat landing is so I didn’t feel the need to have him describe it again.  My time is short during these discussions so I glossed over some things in an attempt to get further.

My description may not be exact but a combat landing begins with the plane descending aggressively, think stomach in throat quick, where it then begins evasive maneuvers which consist of series of S turns with the tips of the wings pointing almost to the ground with each bank.  The plane groans and screams as it comes in at a 90 degree bank.  Once the plane is on the ground they are offloaded onto another bus, this one is not air-conditioned and does not have a TV.

[I often read these articles to Chris if he’s ready to hear them and he many times clarifies details with additions]

This hot f-king kerosene smell hits you as soon as the door falls which is seconds after that b—tch is on the ground and you better being grabbing your sh-t because she’s going to be back off the ground popping flares before they start lobbing crap.

So when did the puff come out of your chest?

First time rounds came flying over my head.  Soon as we hit the ground we were in the shit.  No easing in.  Get off the plane, get the f—k off the plane - Camp Victory was lighting something up…

Chris imitates the artillery in a way that I can’t get across in this medium. He has very specific ways to describe every big gun, from mark 19s to howitzers, and every other weapon used over there from mortars to small arms.  He imitates them well, which speaks of how ingrained those noises are in his head.

From here I stopped asking questions and Chris talked about how the insurgents created ways to kill his men. Always ‘his’ men.

At first they had the big guns, but eventually all they had were mortars and RPGs. They could carry them around easily and hide, f-king [derogatory term]. There were thermite RPGs and what they do is burn into a tank then send the explosives inside.

[They] would take them apart, remove the thermite, and fill them with anything they could. Washers, nails, rocks… when they shot those things off they would rain destruction down on anything made of meat.

Chris got up at this point and looked in the fridge.  He stood for a few moments pretending he wanted something to eat. 

I can’t do this.  I can’t talk about this anymore.

We had to stop at this point.  I never push Chris past where he’s comfortable talking.  Though I’ve heard these stories many times before, I felt it was important that someone else hear them.  He’ll be distressed for the next few hours, but it’s worth it for him to talk about his time in Iraq.  He needs to get the stories out of his head so they don’t hold so much sway in his life.    


Chris was an Air Force combat medic and he served in Iraq from 2003 to 2004 at Camp Sather and at BIAP. 

Enable Happiness

“Every day, you walk a tightrope suspended between two skyscrapers with no net.  And there I am, on your shoulders.  Somehow you keep your balance.  You walk that wire and adjust every time I lean to one side or the other.

“And when you do lose your balance, we hang onto that wire and we hang on to each other. You never let go and you find a way to get back up there.

“You maintain balance against unbelievable odds.”

We built a front patio and it has become a replacement to our patio at the old apartment.  It is where we talk.  Tonight, Chris and I were talking about a piece I wanted to write about being an enabler.  I’ve been struggling with what I wanted to say for about three weeks.  So I asked him and he offered me the above analogy.  His voice cracked when he described himself as being carried.

“There are two kinds of enablers - enablers who let someone get away with destructive behavior, and those who enable others to live. You enabled me to live, because let’s face facts: if you hadn’t found me, I’d be either of two places – dead or standing on a street corner homeless.”

When Chris and I met, he was in a pretty low place. He drank excessively, stayed home constantly, and slept never. So when I was asked why I allow him to drink or hide or sleep well into the afternoon some days, basically why I would be an enabler, my only answer was, "Walk in my shoes."

He drinks and he smokes. This is his choice. It was also his choice to curtail both. He says because of the environment I created he made that choice. See, I wouldn’t have asked him to stop drinking.  On the flip side, I wouldn’t have lived with him spending every day drunk.

However, I understand on some days, when things get to be too much and he doesn’t want to take one of those pills that knocks him unconscious, he needs a drink.  I am not enabling him to abuse himself, I am giving him a place where he can be safe enough to make the choice himself.

That place, he explained, a place where he is not judged, where he is safe, where he is not defending himself against anything or anyone, is a place where he feels the ability to make clear choices. He dismissed that I might possibly be an enabler.

“What behavior do you allow that is destructive?”

I don’t believe that what I do is ‘allow’ anything. He is a grown man. He has choices and it’s up to him to make them good or bad. One thing however, on the subject of physical abuse, whether or not it’s accidental during a flashback - this I would not allow. But Chris has never once made any sort of move causing me to believe he would take that direction.

He does, however, have bouts of anger. Sometimes, they go too far and he breaks things. I tolerate a certain amount, but in the end we both end up laughing. My focus then is about defusing the situation. Last year, he broke the vacuum cleaner during an argument. In the end I told him he needed to break his own toys and not his playmate’s. We laughed, cried, and made up. The other day, he kicked my printer because it was out of ink. I still get that funny feeling I get when I’m about to laugh over the whole scene. It was and still is comical and it was easily defused even though at the moment I was red hot mad over how ridiculous he was acting.

I tolerate, but I do not enable his anger. In the end, I give him a place where he can make choices.  We’re lucky because we’re at that point.  I know many couples are not.

“You are the most selfless person I have ever met. That’s the key. You don’t think about your own emotions, you think about me. About how if you indulge your anger it will create a situation where I can’t control mine.”

I don’t agree that I’m selfless. I want him to get better because I need him. I need him in my life and I don’t want to be alone. As the solar lights came on lighting our newly built patio he said the clear thought I couldn’t get out of my pen.

“You give me a place where I can live almost normally. You make me happy.”

Short and sweet - enable happiness.

Laughing at Pandas

Listening to Chris laugh with his daughter out in the garage after these past weeks makes me smile. His ability to still find humor is amazing. We talk so often about death and the things that happened in Iraq that his laughter is precious. I draw it in whenever I can and keep it close.

My mind wanders. He once told me they ask for their mothers.

He wanted to know why dying men do that but I didn’t have an answer for him. I don’t know why mothers are so important at the moment of a soldier’s death. Maybe the mind seeks comfort when it knows the body is failing. Mothers kiss scraped knees and solve all the world’s problems with only a word when we’re children. Maybe this is why.

And my attention shifts back to today. They’re out in the garage laughing about pandas and how evolution has been cruel to these giant ill-tempered slow-moving raccoons. It’s good to hear because of the other things I’ve heard. He owns resilience. The military gave it to him.

He once talked about a man who died in his arms in the field. There was nothing he could do. This man begged to be saved. He had a daughter that needed him. But there was nothing. The soldier was too injured, too far gone.

"I felt him die," Chris said. His body went limp, and then his eyes went vacant. No flash, no heavenly light. Just nothing. Alive then dead.

Chris knows details because he was, and still is at heart, a combat medic. The pupils go big when a person dies. They get like black marbles covering almost the entire iris. Though I know it is simply the muscles of the body releasing their last electrical impulses, it must be odd to see. I hope to never witness it.

The man that day died. That little girl never got to see her father again. But there are many daughters and sons whose fathers did come home because of combat medics, because of Chris. They came home different maybe, but they came home.

Maybe this is why he can still laugh. Even though he agonizes over those he lost, maybe the ones he saved give him the strength. However he does it, I am happy to laugh with him because  some months, these days are too few.

PTSD is Not Contagious, Promise

Living with a mental illness makes friends hard to come by, and even harder to keep. People tend to fade in and out of our lives because of the myriad of irritants and awkward moments friendship with us brings. On our end, friendship opens Chris up to loss so he many times bucks against allowing anyone close to him. It is a special person who weathers the storm.

We rarely go out when solid ‘plans’ are involved since things can shift at the drop of a boot or backfire of a car. This past weekend, however, we braved the highway and visited friends for an afternoon of drinking and eating. It was the highlight of July for us.

One of the discussions that came up was the definition of a friend. I’ll leave out the details as everyone might not find the humor. Between laughing and eating, the discussion hashed out one basic requirement of a friend.

When you call, I will come.

Friendship with a PTSD sufferer has a slightly longer list.  When he disassociates, you’ll pause and then go on as though nothing has happened. When we have to cancel plans, you say it’s fine and you will really mean it even though we've cancelled four times before. You’ll look past and understand there will always be the possibility of a flashback or outburst of emotion. You won’t be embarrassed and apologies though offered will remain unnecessary.

Unwanted isolation can be the end result of PTSD when the circle of friends shrinks away. Many services are offered to help make sure family knows and can cope with the residual trauma of war, but everyone needs the tools because sometimes a friend is all these guys have left.

Meet Chris' Symptoms

Several months after Chris and I became friends, he confided in me that the doctors said he had PTSD. At the time, he fell way short of accepting the diagnosis and still clung to the belief that it was not he that had changed, but the world around him.

I took a different approach by setting out to learn every possible thing I could about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Website after website, book after book, I gleaned the internet and stores for any and all information. I read lists upon lists of symptoms, personal stories, and possible treatments.

With Chris still living across the country, the only real experience I had was desperate emails and strange phone calls in the middle of the night. When he finally made his way out to my neck of woods I got my first true taste of PTSD.

And it was an eye-opener.

This is my real-life list of symptoms I’ve personally experienced since Chris came into my life.

Nightmares – Chris has nightmares on a nightly basis. During these nightmares he may talk, get up, sleepwalk, jump out of bed to take cover, check me for wounds, mourn my death, scream, cry, protect me from incoming, or run while laying on his back. I didn’t sleep an entire night for almost a year and a half. During that time, I learned how to comfort him without waking him up. He and I are sleeping more nights but the nightmares are still constant.

Flashbacks – This one was and still is the most frightening aspect of PTSD. During his flashbacks, Chris is in Iraq. I have watched him put on his gear and load his weapon. He has pulled me into his flashback thinking I’ve somehow ended up in theater with him. Nightmares and flashbacks sometimes melt into each other, but a flashback seems marked by his responsiveness to me. During flashbacks, he may be unable to tell me what the year is, where he is, or who I am.

Disassociation – This goes hand in hand with flashbacks, but it’s less noticeable. Basically, Chris will go catatonic. If I don’t notice, he can stay like that for a long while. Outwardly, he’s still and staring off, but inside, he’s in Iraq. I had to learn to watch closely for these periods because they leave Chris feeling as if he’s been back in the war zone for months. Many times he’s ‘woken’ and behaved as if we were having a tearful reunion after a long deployment. I didn’t know Chris before he went to Iraq, so this is not a memory. It is very real to him, including him breaking into a sweat even when it’s cold because he feels the desert heat.

Unreasonable Anger/Waves of Emotions – I say unreasonable because anger is natural. When it’s over nothing or minor things, it’s a symptom. Chris is irritable and easily agitated. He angers over little things. In certain instances he recognizes it as soon as his ‘fog’ clears. When he catches himself, he’s ashamed over his inability to control his emotions. Sadness also rushes over him for no reason, as does fear.

Extreme Sensitivity to Sound – This one is standard. Loud noises startle him unlike anyone I’ve ever known. They can also launch him head first right back into the sand. I have learned any time there is a sudden or loud noise, I have to go to him to help him calm down or he may fall in to a flashback.

Pseudoseizures – This one was never on any list and I was a year in before I witnessed the first of three occasions where Chris suffered what looked like seizures. Upon research I found the name. Pseudoseizures are connected to PTSD, after a little digging, and create what looks like an epileptic seizure. Chris’s first time was after a severe nightmare. He didn’t wake completely before his body curled.  His hands drew up to his chest and his body shook. When it was seemingly done and Chris was fully awake, he was paralyzed from the waist down. It took around twenty minutes for his legs to regain feeling.

Stroke like symptoms – On two separate occasions after a flashback, Chris has spent almost 24 hours unable to speak normally. Through out the day, his ability trickled back. It started with him being able to make noises, but not form words. Then, he could form words but he stuttered and struggled for the right words. Eventually over the course of the day he was able to speak just as he had the day before.

Unexplained body aches – Over the past year Chris has developed body aches. They steadily increased until now Chris is always in pain. Some days it’s enough to keep him in bed. It’s an all over pain that the doctors have not been able to explain. He had blood tests, EEGs, MRIs, but still nothing. We deal, and I keep him moving. We’ve taking up hiking recently in a very secluded nature preserve where the silence and the exercise are having a positive effect. Again, after research and the advice of a friend, I’ve found the fibromyalgia may be linked to stress disorders such as his.

This is my list. There are other symptoms, standard ones, and I’m sure there are others with different symptoms. The key is know your enemy and know it well. Using a site such as Not Alone and her forums allows us to gather and share information making this disorder much easier to live with. So please, if you have information share it, and if you need information ask for it. The forums are easy to find and I promise to try my best to read and respond to everything I can. We all need our own voice but during the darkest days we need to hear the voices of others walking the road with us.

Hanging Up My Gloves

I’m going to talk about myself for a minute here and it’s going to be all over the place. A few years ago I broke the top two vertebra in my neck and suffered my seventh and hopefully final concussion during a self-defense demonstration at work. That incident ended my career as a Krav Maga instructor. It also left me damaged. Among other things, I’ve lived with a constant headache for four years.

Up until that night, I had little problem focusing on my writing. In fact, I had so many stories busting out of my brain, I couldn’t keep up with them. I’d write for hours until the day was used up. Now I feel like a piece of paper crumpled up too many times. No matter how many times I smooth it, there will never be a clean surface to work with.

Chronic traumatic encephalopathy is a pretty big possibility for me. Scary name isn’t it?

“Dementia pugilistica (DP), also called chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), chronic boxer’s encephalopathy, traumatic boxer’s encephalopathy, boxer’s dementia, and punch-drunk syndrome (‘punchy’), is a neurological disorder which may affect career boxers, wrestlers, mixed martial artists, and football players who receive multiple dazing blows to the head. Dementia pugilistica, the severe form of chronic traumatic brain injury, commonly manifests as declining mental and physical abilities such as dementia and parkinsonism.”

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the future. It’s filled with images of Chris and I senile on the front porch hucking pinecones at the neighbor’s kids. I’m worried. Worried about losing my sanity. But worse, I’m worried about losing my ability to care for Chris.

Yesterday, I started an argument with him for no real good reason. I’m finding myself angry and antagonistic more times than I’d like to admit. We stood in a park, because I’d turned the car around – yes I was driving once again, dang it, I hate to drive on the highway – trying to talk it out. I wanted to go home. He wanted to go to the shipyards. I wanted him to admit we’d gotten out of the house too late to avoid traffic. He wanted me to admit I’d never mentioned what time we needed to leave. I wanted him to be normal for once and he wanted me to stop being like him.

We made up, went to the shipyards, and all is well, but this morning we talked about a term I’ve been seeing thrown around lately. Secondary PTSD. There aren’t many reports, and it is not recognized as a real issue in the medical community. I don’t personally think I’ve changed since we got together, but he had a whole list of things he says I do now that I never did before - including not wanting to leave the house or be in crowds. I’m jumpy, I can’t stand noise, and my temper is as short as I am. He says I’ve become a mirror of his symptoms.

I used to have an outlet for stress. As cold and calculating in the ring as I was, I fought and my stress melted. But having been told by doctors I’m lucky to be as high functioning as I am, I know I can’t trade blows anymore - which is why I think I’ve shifted gears a little. It’s not so much that I don’t want to leave the house, I just don’t want to deal with what it might bring. I’m angry because I can’t do what I love ever again. I don’t like crowds because I doubt my ability to defend myself since the injuries. I’m jumpy because I’m trying to predict every possible stressor.

He tells me, and anyone who will listen, that I saved his life, that I’m the only reason he has to live.  My point?  Rambling as it may seem, my point is we all have our cross to bear. We cannot stuff our own feelings or our own problems to solely focus on our loved one. As much as I strive to support Chris, I must also give myself permission to lean on him. My leaning on him forces him to dig deep, look past what he’s got going on to focus on another. I have to give him permission to hold me up and as a result let him know I trust that he can.

4th of July Mortars

July 4th is coming. It's like a monster approaching my house, a giant Godzilla - only not as rubbery and fun.

When I was a child, the 4^th was an important day. Family and friends gathered in the neighborhood. We ate blackened hot dogs and drank ice-chilled generic sodas from the old metal Coleman cooler.  At the end of the usually-sweltering Kansas day, we watched an impressive display of shimmering fireworks while fireflies blinked and mosquitoes did what mosquitoes do, all in celebration of this great nation we call home. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood.

Now, the celebratory whistles and explosions are twisted into small arms fire and mortars. I’ve spent two Fourth of July's with Chris and it has been a sad realization that the very day celebrating everything he stood and fought for has become a source of pain and fear. It’s another item on the long list of things he’s misplaced to PTSD, and by association I’ve lost as well.  I say misplaced because I refuse to give up on the possibility it can all be regained in one form or another.

Chris’s reaction to the sounds surrounding the 4^th is hard for others to understand, most think it’s simply being ‘jumpy’. 

‘Yeah, loud noises bother me, too. I’m not going to let it ruin the day for me. Man up.’

Loud noises don’t just bother Chris. They make him fall to floor to take cover. Incoming.

We’ve got inbound.

Baghdad tower to Dog Pound, please acknowledge.

He’s there. He’s back in Iraq waiting for helicopters carrying the wounded or sending rounds down range. He’s forced back into a reality that he’s already lived and shouldn’t have to live over.

So, while America celebrates her birthday, please give thought to the men and women who are hunkered down in their homes, windows closed, pillows clutched around their ears, waiting for the party to end. Remember them and their gift of freedom to the rest of us.

Maybe this year, don’t light that illegal M-80 because old man Jacobs down the street is a Vietnam vet or because the Martin’s boy just got home from Afghanistan and he looks ‘different’ somehow.

This day should not be a day filled with dread, but for many people, many amazing and valiant people, it is.  Be aware not everyone wants to hear explosions to celebrate our freedom because some listened to them while fighting for it.

One. Two. Three.

He has all ten toes.

But he doesn’t have restful nights or anxiety free days.

He has his arms and his sight. He is talented, and loving. Kind. He can walk, he can run, and though he doesn’t have total use of both his hands, he can paint and write.

But he has horrible nightmares, flashbacks, guilt, anger.

He has his voice, he has his memories, good and bad.

But he has lost so much.

He has many things. Much more than what he’s lost. He is alive. Focus. Focus on what he has, not on what he has not.

This is important. Focus on what you and your loved one have. Focus on what can be gained. We’ve been to counseling a few times and I’ve watched Chris and his counselor talk like old buddies. They spoke of places and things both experienced. Spoke of loss. But they also each spoke of what they still had, what they had gained. It was a good lesson, a good experience.

Why?

Because he still has all ten toes.

Breathe.  Focus.  Count to ten, and move forward.