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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 1, 2010
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.
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.
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