An Open Letter to Congress

Dear Mr. President and members of Congress,

My husband is a 100% disabled veteran. He served during OIF as a combat medic and did his job to the absolute best of his abilities. When he returned home, he struggled to reintegrate into society outside a combat zone. He failed for a number of years before being diagnosed with PTSD and TBI.  

Suddenly, everything made sense.  The anger, the blackouts, the fear, the fact he couldn’t manage a normal relationship with those around him.

When we met he was near homeless and his paperwork was held up in the system leaving him to hang in the wind.  Together we fought tooth and toenail to get his needs fulfilled from those he’d fought for and who had promised him help.

I gave up my business and my job because he needed someone with him around the clock as his flashbacks had taken over his life. We lived on Ramen noodles and rice in an apartment with no furniture but he feared he could hurt someone without knowing it so I stayed home.  Finally, his paperwork was green-lighted and we were relieved.  But he wasn’t allowed to access his benefits because he required a fiduciary. I volunteered. We were not married at the time, so this required more time.  Time we did not have.

One month before we would have to leave our empty apartment his benefits arrived.  Three years later we sit in our own home that we purchased with a VA loan and his benefits. His PTSD is becoming more manageable as our life stabilizes and I have been able to finally pursue a career. Though I still work only from home and only part time, I am more than happy with his progress.

So, I have to ask how you and all of congress feel it is necessary to use my husband and every other veteran who depends on a disability check to get by as pawns in this game of chess you are playing. For you, if the debt ceiling is reached and the checks do not go out, nothing on a personal level will happen.  Your children will still eat. You will still be able to pay your bills.  Your home will be safe and life will go on as usual.

But for us, we will sit here with our chests tightened at the fact that we cannot pay our mortgage and may end up losing the house we fought so hard to get. We will not go to the grocery store and we will not be able to buy my son school supplies for the coming year.

I will also spend each night waiting for the anxiety to cause my husband to fall into the shadow that his experiences in Iraq have cast over him these last seven years. He will put on his Kevlar and ready his medic bag for patrol. He will call out the names and perform triage during the night. He will spend months in the desert again even if he is only gone for moments.

And all this is because the men and women we as Americans trusted to take care of our country’s business have to play the blame game.  I have news for you, standing over an open chest trying to decide which bullet caused the most damage is futile. Stop playing the partisan game of who is to blame, Republicans or Democrats, and start being Americans.

Sincerely,

Proud wife of an American Veteran

I Remember Their Names

I’ve been going over things in my head the last few days, trying to push stress aside and find something to write about this month.  A lot of things have gone wrong and we’re in a tough place right now, so I went to some of my old writings.  I wrote this back in 2009 when Chris’ flashbacks were out of control.  I still remember the names.

...

I’ve spent some days thinking about this, and trying to form my thoughts into words. It was prompted by a stupid thread on a message board where people callously discussed who’s fault it was that a 93 year old man had frozen to death in his home after his power was shut off.

He has a name.

His name was Marvin Schur and he was a US Army Medic who earned the Purple Heart in World War II. His nickname was “Mutts” and he saw six years of battle while serving his country. My country.

Soldiers have names. And in the name is power. I learned the names of four soldiers who gave their lives for this country last night.

Out of respect for my husband, I will not state them, most specifically because he doesn’t remember their names. He has blocked them from his mind.

This flashback was a long one. Two and a half hours long. We went rounds. He fell to the ground, hit his head, and ran. He laid on the ground and ran like he was being chased, the back of his legs pounding the floor. It continued for so long I thought he would pass out from exhaustion, but he finally stopped and I got him talking. I went through my usual questions.

Where are you? Iraq.

Who are you? Sergeant C.

Who am I? He paused. 

Who am I? That new medic. He said her name. And then he told me he’d been hit. He couldn’t feel his legs. It hurts. It burns.

Where are my men? he asked.

I lied.

I told him over and over they were fine.

He rattled off three names and I lied. They’re on the chopper being evac-ed. They’re ok. Yes, they are alive.

And then, he asked about a specific soldier. By name. He tried to get to him. Tried to save him. He was just a kid. They blamed him. They all blamed him. And then he ran. He ran and ran.

I will never forget their names. They are ingrained in my mind.

Power in a name.

Those soldiers are people. And they have names.

Power.

I know their names.