Where Are You?

He called yesterday, his voice very small, asking me why he’d left the house.  Sitting next to him on the seat of the truck was a couple of cases of sodas.  We hadn’t needed sodas.  I asked where he was.
“I’m at the grocery store, why am I here.  Where are you?”

I was home.  He’d gone out to get a game card for his X-Box, and he’d only been gone twenty or thirty minutes – which in hindsight is far too long since the grocery store is within walking distance. 
I told him to come home; “we’ll talk about it when you get here.”  Then I went out to the front garden and waited for the familiar sound of his truck.

While I stood there, and it was only a short time, a million things went through my mind…
How long had he been catatonic?  Because that’s how it works, he goes far away in his eyes and becomes unresponsive.

How much had he lost?  Because every time he loses memories, be it a few minutes or a few days.
What had he done that he couldn’t remember?  Because sometimes he believes he’s back in Iraq working on patients and patrolling in the city.

Is he going to be okay?  Because every time we do this, I worry the next time will be the time something breaks and he gets lost – lost physically, lost mentally, I don’t know.

I’ve toyed with getting him a new set of dog tags – I am an OIF veteran, I have PTSD, Please call my wife – but I don’t want him to be embarrassed.  I’ve asked him to put wife next to my name on his phone – it’s actually a good idea to identify your relatives in your phone anyway.  I don’t know if he has, but today I’ll ask.  He needs to be safe and we need to do whatever we can do to ensure this.
He’s still asleep as I write these words, exhausted from yesterday but with no memory of the entire day.  We do this a lot.  He’ll have an episode and I’ll have to fill him in on the events of the hours or days leading up to it because they’re gone.  He’s not missing out on life, he’s having little pieces of it fall away like they never happened.  Sometimes it’s not important stuff, but it’s still his and he’s losing it bit by bit.

Sometimes he remembers, but never fully and never in a coherent manner.  He’ll have little flashes of things that he’s lost, but mostly they don’t make much sense unless I’m right there to help him.
I worry every day that something is going to happen.  Something we can’t fix with a little rest and reclusiveness.  Today, though, we’ll hang around the house letting him recover, then quietly and in private I’ll attempt to recover myself.

Have You Traveled?

When I started this piece we were sitting at my father’s home in the center of the mid west.  It was a short visit and we drove the twenty plus hours to arrive here yesterday.  It was a stressful two days on the road, but the visit itself is going as well as can be expected.

The area is beautiful.  Tree filled acres lining a wonderful lake, deer have been crossing the property regularly and we had the pleasure of watching a mother with her fawns this morning.  The droning calls of cicadas are relaxing for me, considering I grew up with them in Kansas.  The fireflies, which I haven’t seen since I was a child, are thick at night.  All this should be a wonderful experience for the whole family.  But, remember, my husband has PTSD. 

Strange noises and being away from home are difficult for him.  We’ve spent a number of years making our house into a safe zone and we’re two days out with our asses hanging over the wire.

It’s a short trip, but by it’s end it will be the longest we’ve ever spent away from home.  I tried to prepare for everything including bringing our own pillows to raise that comfort level up a bit.  It’s marginally working.

Unfortunately, pillows and prep don’t keep the boogyman at bay.  No matter where we go his shadow follows.  It hasn’t been too bad though, considering.  But it is difficult keeping his PTSD… well, private.  We’ve spoken to the family about it because they really do need to know, but sometimes they don’t realize though we try to stay light about his issues it’s not something to be joked about in the company of outsiders.  This community, though strangers, is not what I consider outsiders.  Outsiders are those tertiary relationships who family members bring along for the ride.  They aren’t family and they aren’t our friends and they really don’t need to know.

That moment, when his PTSD was mentioned off the cuff, was the moment I realized he’s still ashamed.  I could see it on his face and I ached for him.  I’d hoped that part was gone.

We’ve spent a fair number of hours on the back porch talking and listening to the woods behind the house.  Those old vets with their POW flags and hound dogs out in the middle of nowhere really seem to have it right.  It’s quiet, there are few neighbors, and there’s little chance of being bothered by anything other than the mosquitoes.  I see it now.  I see why that picture of a vet sitting in the middle of nowhere comes to mind when I think of the guys who’ve finally found peace.  I get it.  We could fall into the life if we only had to deal with family sans their extraneous tag-alongs. 

I see it because usually people go on vacation and spend their time humping around seeing the sights, drawing in everything they can about the areas attractions before it’s time to leave, we however did not.  We sat on that porch, in the quiet and solitude, and soaked up family.  In the end, even with the stress here and there, it was good.  We had a good time and it’s spawned the possibility of finding a little place in the middle of nowhere someday.

Maybe we will.  I’ll name the hound dog Sigmund.