Dismantling Monsters

I have the plague. Okay, I don’t, but I feel like I do. It all started a week ago not more than a couple hours after the VA field inspector rang my doorbell. I know it’s coincidence but I also know stress can cause a simple cold to become full blown Zombie Flu. Okay, okay, not Zombie flu… but here’s where I’m going with this.

When the field inspector called I smiled to Chris and shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal. He was dealing with his father being in the hospital so I chose to not pass on any of my fears to him.
And fears I had.

But now, after all is said and done, I don’t know why. Basically, Chris and I have been waiting for the field inspector to come to change my status from fiduciary to spouse payee for over a year. This fiduciary thing has irritated me from day one because in my eyes this man has suffered the removal of rights, the loss of his career, and lived every day with the fear he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t need any more indignities. So I bucked and bucked and built this VA monster up in my mind.

By the time the morning rolled around my walls were securely up against a snaggle toothed demon there to judge me and my ability to take care of Chris – yes, I’ve had this secret fear they could take him, childish I know.

When the gentleman came in I was almost shaking. In fact, I had a hell of a time filling out the paperwork because my hands weren’t steady.

This monster sat at my table and I found out the strangest thing. This VA rep was here to make sure not only Chris was benefiting from his benefits but that I had shifted my way of thinking and that I was taking care of myself.

Me. He was concerned about me.

We spoke about aid and attendance, that I needed to place my own needs into the budget every month, and then he talked a while about the fact I hadn’t put in for health care.

I didn’t know I had health benefits. He was so genuinely concerned I was, I’m embarrassed to say, flabbergasted. This is the VA we’re talking about here. Seriously. That horrible place where veterans are shoved around and mistreated.

I realized I’d allowed stories I’ve read and angry people who didn’t get the service they wanted color my view. Yes, we had issues in the beginning, and yes it’s still a bloated organization that has had some major scandals, but the individuals, specifically the man who came to our house, give me hope that I was spending too much time with a broad brush painting the whole organization with my fear.

I still have the plague – a cold – and I believe I caused it to be worse than it should have been. Those of us who are taking care of veterans need to relax and not allow our stress to take over. Unknown fears are just that. Unknown. No need to build a monster.


And I have a special shout-out to Groupon. Thank you for joining Not Alone and helping us spread the word.

When

When do we get to call him a survivor? When will there be t-shirts and wrist-bands commemorating his fight?

When will the fight be over?

I sat mulling over the word survivor for hours.

He came home from war and ‘it’ reared its ugly head as soon as he attempted to regain a normal life. He tasted gun oil, spent time in the hospital, took meds, saw doctors, and fought like hell to recreate something similar to normality.

For a long time it didn’t look like he was going to make it. But then he met someone. Someone who was willing to look past the duffle full of issues he’d carried with him since war awarded him with its dark parting gifts.

They built a life together. Got married. Bought a house. And they were generally happy. But it reared its head each time they thought they were free.

Still they lived on together in happiness even with its presence looming like a black cloud waiting for an opportunity to remind them and reclaim him.

But when does he become a survivor instead of a sufferer? We’ve clung to each other for three years and I have no intentions of him being a sufferer forever. But when? I want a new title.

I want him to be a survivor and I say he is.

It’s been years since he’s been in the field. He’s survived gunfire, IEDs, mortars. He survived his own attempts to quiet the voices. He’s survived to build a life not ruled by alcohol and anger, drugs or violence.

He’s managed to stay alive a damn long time. Longer than, at one point, I thought he would. Isn’t this the definition of survivor?

But he says no. Not a survivor until it’s gone. We disagree on this point and will continue to do so, because when I look at him I see him surviving.