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.