Twelve days ago, I got news a dear friend has a brain tumor. She’s a very private woman and doesn’t want anyone to know, but this is how I cope. I write. So let’s call her Mary. When the first call came it was simply thought Mary had had a stroke. When the doctor found the tumor we hoped it wasn’t what we thought. A little over a year ago another dear friend of mine was taken into emergency surgery for a tumor in her brain. Hers was large, but benign. Mary’s is not.
Mary has a primary type 4 malignancy in her brain. It has spidered out across healthy tissue and is in essence untreatable. I am, and will be, at a loss for elegant words. Mary has been my dearest friend more years than I care to count. She has been there through all my triumphs and all my tragedies and through it all she held my hand and helped me to survive.
I waited as patiently as I could to be able to talk to Mary. I needed to hear her voice and say all those things I’d neglected these last years. I needed my friend to know whatever she needed from me, I would be there. But when I spoke to her she was different. She doesn’t want to see me and was very matter of fact about it. I was crushed. I cried for myself and for Mary.
And now I finally understand. All the women who wrote to me looking for help because their husbands were different after they came home from war, I now understand. See, I met my husband after he was changed by what he saw in Iraq so I couldn’t fathom wanting for a different person than I had. I’ve only ever known this man. But I want the old Mary back. It’s not fair that she has to be different. Isn’t enough that she’s going to die no matter what they do? I want the woman who was my friend, my confidant, the person I could go to no matter what I’d done or said and she would still love me.
Part of Mary died when cancer took away part of her brain. Part of my husband died when he was in Iraq, but I never knew that part. As grief stricken that I am for Mary, I now feel luckier than most can imagine in regards to my husband. And now, I understand.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Angry Words
My husband wrote a letter a few weeks ago, and though I wanted to share it, I wanted to punctuate parts of it with my own thoughts because I watched him as he read it to me with anger and sorrow roiling beneath his surface.
“I saw something today that caused the end of what I considered a friendship. OK, truth be told, more of an acquaintance but one of my Army brethren. A brother in arms. One of the few who were unfortunate enough to have witnessed some of the things I have. Someone I trusted and, given a certain set of circumstances, would have risked my own life for just as I would any of the men and women I was blessed and honored to serve with.
It also took me back to the hatred for the hazing "profiles" got when they were off duty for injuries. I guess when you are infantry and break, you're less of a man than the ones still capable. I have a unique perspective because of my medical background. I was never given the opportunity to choose who I treated. If they were broke up and busted or not, they were seen and all treated equally. Now, if after the fact it was found out they were malingering they were dealt with on both ends but they were ALL innocent and considered sick or injured until proven otherwise.”
He was so angry when he read this to me, I wasn’t quite sure where the letter was going. I’d seen the post on facebook as well. I’d also been stunned because we’d spent time with this man. He was a friend, a friend who knew Chris has PTSD.
“I remember when I was at Ft. Sill finding a rewritten version of the Soldier's Creed that made fun of those who were sick or injured. It made me wonder what kind of insecure piss ant would take time away from his duties to pen a version of the warrior's ethos just to make himself look better in the face of his peers. From an NCO's stand point, I know this ass had WAY better things he could be doing with his time and I thought of the many things I could help him find to do if he didn't.
It also makes me wonder how many of these idiots laughed out loud, huddled in a group with their buddies reading this piece of literary shit later to have a limb blown off down range somewhere. I bet becoming the very thing they hated and belittled before never crossed their mind as they sought pity for their new found disfigurement.
The thing I saw today was a poster depicting a "PTSD Support Group" boasting a picture of Mel Gibson sporting that stupid beaver puppet. Both had retarded looks on their faces. And this poster was posted up on facebook by an Infantry group and commented on by my once trusted and so called friend.
Yeah, I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't legitimately injured. I'm so sorry I had to be less of a soldier than you obviously were and only lost my fucking mind from seeing one too many kids blown up or bagging and tagging too many young men who'll never get the chance to set there and laugh at me. Yeah, you're a real American hero aren't you? You paid a real price and deserve so much more than us head cases.”
There was a much angrier passage at the end of this paragraph, one I chose to remove due to the language. Understand the pain shines through the angry words. So many times Chris has said it would be easier if he were missing a limb or covered in burns or just dead. At least then people would believe he was changed by war. But he’s visibly unscathed to those who don’t live with him or stand by his side every day when the things he’s seen come back to remind him where he’s been.
“Maybe I'm being a little too hard on you though. Because I know exactly what’s going to happen to you. Something much worse than any of the things I've said or wished upon you. If you don't already, you're gonna start seeing things that aren't there. You're going to quit sleeping and start hurting the ones that love you. Oh, at first it'll just be harsh words but there'll come a day when your pretty little girlfriend says something off color in response to you because you're being an asshole and you'll blacken her pretty blue eye. You'll isolate yourself and ALL of your friends will be done with the way you're acting and all will vanish. You'll be in and out of jail and be remanded to the VA for treatment. If you're lucky you'll crave the taste of your side arm and paint the walls with your brains long before the alcohol and drugs eat away at you and you die alone in the street. Yeah... That'll be REAL funny wont it?”
Here is my response to this soldier.
I won’t post your name, but I considered you my friend as well. I saw a man who’d been injured in war and understood where my husband had been. I never expected to see you laughing at him behind his back.
But someday, it will touch you. You’ll pick up the phone to find a crying mother or wife. She’ll tell you your buddy, your brother who wore the same insignia, the same numbers, is dead by his own hand.
She’ll tell you he’d been diagnosed with PTSD. That he didn’t want anyone to know. That he was so ashamed. She’ll cry. She’ll ask you why it happened, why no one helped, why no one saw. And you’ll be devastated he’s gone while wondering the same. Then you’ll remember. You laughed. Along side him, you laughed at those who “have PTSD”. He’d laughed too, but it wasn’t the same.
Someday, it will touch you, and when it does I’ll welcome your questions and help you through the grief because though you’ve forsaken your fallen brothers, I will not leave you behind the way you leave them behind.
“I saw something today that caused the end of what I considered a friendship. OK, truth be told, more of an acquaintance but one of my Army brethren. A brother in arms. One of the few who were unfortunate enough to have witnessed some of the things I have. Someone I trusted and, given a certain set of circumstances, would have risked my own life for just as I would any of the men and women I was blessed and honored to serve with.
It also took me back to the hatred for the hazing "profiles" got when they were off duty for injuries. I guess when you are infantry and break, you're less of a man than the ones still capable. I have a unique perspective because of my medical background. I was never given the opportunity to choose who I treated. If they were broke up and busted or not, they were seen and all treated equally. Now, if after the fact it was found out they were malingering they were dealt with on both ends but they were ALL innocent and considered sick or injured until proven otherwise.”
He was so angry when he read this to me, I wasn’t quite sure where the letter was going. I’d seen the post on facebook as well. I’d also been stunned because we’d spent time with this man. He was a friend, a friend who knew Chris has PTSD.
“I remember when I was at Ft. Sill finding a rewritten version of the Soldier's Creed that made fun of those who were sick or injured. It made me wonder what kind of insecure piss ant would take time away from his duties to pen a version of the warrior's ethos just to make himself look better in the face of his peers. From an NCO's stand point, I know this ass had WAY better things he could be doing with his time and I thought of the many things I could help him find to do if he didn't.
It also makes me wonder how many of these idiots laughed out loud, huddled in a group with their buddies reading this piece of literary shit later to have a limb blown off down range somewhere. I bet becoming the very thing they hated and belittled before never crossed their mind as they sought pity for their new found disfigurement.
The thing I saw today was a poster depicting a "PTSD Support Group" boasting a picture of Mel Gibson sporting that stupid beaver puppet. Both had retarded looks on their faces. And this poster was posted up on facebook by an Infantry group and commented on by my once trusted and so called friend.
Yeah, I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't legitimately injured. I'm so sorry I had to be less of a soldier than you obviously were and only lost my fucking mind from seeing one too many kids blown up or bagging and tagging too many young men who'll never get the chance to set there and laugh at me. Yeah, you're a real American hero aren't you? You paid a real price and deserve so much more than us head cases.”
There was a much angrier passage at the end of this paragraph, one I chose to remove due to the language. Understand the pain shines through the angry words. So many times Chris has said it would be easier if he were missing a limb or covered in burns or just dead. At least then people would believe he was changed by war. But he’s visibly unscathed to those who don’t live with him or stand by his side every day when the things he’s seen come back to remind him where he’s been.
“Maybe I'm being a little too hard on you though. Because I know exactly what’s going to happen to you. Something much worse than any of the things I've said or wished upon you. If you don't already, you're gonna start seeing things that aren't there. You're going to quit sleeping and start hurting the ones that love you. Oh, at first it'll just be harsh words but there'll come a day when your pretty little girlfriend says something off color in response to you because you're being an asshole and you'll blacken her pretty blue eye. You'll isolate yourself and ALL of your friends will be done with the way you're acting and all will vanish. You'll be in and out of jail and be remanded to the VA for treatment. If you're lucky you'll crave the taste of your side arm and paint the walls with your brains long before the alcohol and drugs eat away at you and you die alone in the street. Yeah... That'll be REAL funny wont it?”
Here is my response to this soldier.
I won’t post your name, but I considered you my friend as well. I saw a man who’d been injured in war and understood where my husband had been. I never expected to see you laughing at him behind his back.
But someday, it will touch you. You’ll pick up the phone to find a crying mother or wife. She’ll tell you your buddy, your brother who wore the same insignia, the same numbers, is dead by his own hand.
She’ll tell you he’d been diagnosed with PTSD. That he didn’t want anyone to know. That he was so ashamed. She’ll cry. She’ll ask you why it happened, why no one helped, why no one saw. And you’ll be devastated he’s gone while wondering the same. Then you’ll remember. You laughed. Along side him, you laughed at those who “have PTSD”. He’d laughed too, but it wasn’t the same.
Someday, it will touch you, and when it does I’ll welcome your questions and help you through the grief because though you’ve forsaken your fallen brothers, I will not leave you behind the way you leave them behind.
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