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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Moments in the Sun
It’s early morning again and I’m sitting in quiet. No TV, no distractions, just the faint sound of the new kitten shredding the side of my couch. But I’m in the kitchen counting blessings so I can’t quite see her.
Blessings, you say?
Well, okay, they aren’t blessings. That’s a little shallow. Let’s just say additions to my kitchen. We bought the house a little over a year and a half ago and Chris has hit overdrive when it comes to projects.
In the past six months he’s added brand new pantry doors, shelving everywhere, a whole new wall of cabinets, and a beer tap set in the most beautiful black walnut and white oak countertop.
Beer tap, you say? Isn’t your husband listed as an alcoholic by the VA?
Yes, he is. And yes, he was heading that way. I okayed the tap for a few reasons, but the biggest was the need to socialize. Veterans with PTSD tend to isolate themselves from both friends and family. We have battled this for the last several years. We do hunker down at times, but humans need interaction.
A few months ago my parents decided they’d like to move to a smaller house in a different state. They’ve proceeded to empty their home into mine. This has been great for Chris and his projects because my dad is an avid woodworker but doesn’t want to do anything but fish during his retirement. Our garage is full of the best tools money can buy and that we could have never afforded.
They also sent over a small fridge. It’s just big enough for a small keg.
I know what you’re thinking. How could you encourage his drinking by installing a keg?
When I taught fitness and helped people lose pounds I found the worst thing for them was to deprive themselves of every treat they so desperately wanted. You want cake? Have a piece. But don’t have half a cake, don’t have it every day, and don’t beat yourself up after you eat it.
Chris likes beer. We have three couples who we’ve allowed knowledge of his PTSD and they also enjoy a drink now and again. This keg is a reason to socialize. Invitations and talk of a larger get together were almost immediate once the keg was installed and the foam had subsided. Chris wants to show off his handiwork. He’s talented and though his PTSD has left him unable to cope with the world regularly, he doesn’t feel worthless anymore.
He smiles now. Pats the countertop. Points to the ebony carving mallet he fashioned into a tap handle.
“Nice, huh?”
It sure is. It’s beautiful as a matter of fact and he’s proud. His hands are idle no longer. No, he’s not working on patients. He’s not doing exactly what he was trained to do. But he’s doing something and he wants to share it with the outside world by inviting them in.
The first day, He enjoyed three or four beers. Each with a bigger grin than the last. Our neighbors came to admire and partake. They stayed and chatted for an hour or two and he beamed.
In Ireland, there’s a little place in the back of some pubs called ‘the snug’. It’s a cozy area of the bar where people can enjoy a little more privacy and a little more quiet but still socialize and have a nip.
This is our snug and it’s like seeing him shed a little of his protective armor. Things are still hard. They always will be, so we look for moments. And this moment has brought the possibility of more moments to cherish.
Yesterday, Chris started talking about pulling out the kitchen cabinets and reworking them. He’s excited. And so am I. Not only at the possibility of a new and beautiful kitchen – come on, who wouldn’t be - but the possibility we’re gaining ground. He’s winning. It happens.
Blessings, you say?
Well, okay, they aren’t blessings. That’s a little shallow. Let’s just say additions to my kitchen. We bought the house a little over a year and a half ago and Chris has hit overdrive when it comes to projects.
In the past six months he’s added brand new pantry doors, shelving everywhere, a whole new wall of cabinets, and a beer tap set in the most beautiful black walnut and white oak countertop.
Beer tap, you say? Isn’t your husband listed as an alcoholic by the VA?
Yes, he is. And yes, he was heading that way. I okayed the tap for a few reasons, but the biggest was the need to socialize. Veterans with PTSD tend to isolate themselves from both friends and family. We have battled this for the last several years. We do hunker down at times, but humans need interaction.
A few months ago my parents decided they’d like to move to a smaller house in a different state. They’ve proceeded to empty their home into mine. This has been great for Chris and his projects because my dad is an avid woodworker but doesn’t want to do anything but fish during his retirement. Our garage is full of the best tools money can buy and that we could have never afforded.
They also sent over a small fridge. It’s just big enough for a small keg.
I know what you’re thinking. How could you encourage his drinking by installing a keg?
When I taught fitness and helped people lose pounds I found the worst thing for them was to deprive themselves of every treat they so desperately wanted. You want cake? Have a piece. But don’t have half a cake, don’t have it every day, and don’t beat yourself up after you eat it.
Chris likes beer. We have three couples who we’ve allowed knowledge of his PTSD and they also enjoy a drink now and again. This keg is a reason to socialize. Invitations and talk of a larger get together were almost immediate once the keg was installed and the foam had subsided. Chris wants to show off his handiwork. He’s talented and though his PTSD has left him unable to cope with the world regularly, he doesn’t feel worthless anymore.
He smiles now. Pats the countertop. Points to the ebony carving mallet he fashioned into a tap handle.
“Nice, huh?”
It sure is. It’s beautiful as a matter of fact and he’s proud. His hands are idle no longer. No, he’s not working on patients. He’s not doing exactly what he was trained to do. But he’s doing something and he wants to share it with the outside world by inviting them in.
The first day, He enjoyed three or four beers. Each with a bigger grin than the last. Our neighbors came to admire and partake. They stayed and chatted for an hour or two and he beamed.
In Ireland, there’s a little place in the back of some pubs called ‘the snug’. It’s a cozy area of the bar where people can enjoy a little more privacy and a little more quiet but still socialize and have a nip.
This is our snug and it’s like seeing him shed a little of his protective armor. Things are still hard. They always will be, so we look for moments. And this moment has brought the possibility of more moments to cherish.
Yesterday, Chris started talking about pulling out the kitchen cabinets and reworking them. He’s excited. And so am I. Not only at the possibility of a new and beautiful kitchen – come on, who wouldn’t be - but the possibility we’re gaining ground. He’s winning. It happens.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Beauty in the Desert
Sitting here in my newly organized writing room with a four-month old kitten sharpening its needle claws on my couch, I’m at a loss. Things have been good and honestly I’d rather hide in fiction than write about real life. So, in search of a subject, I rifle through some pictures and open a coke. Caffeine helps me think.
In the pile of pictures I find a photo of Chris and I sitting around a morning campfire in March of this year. It was an off-roading trip we took with a small group of friends. I remember fearing going back to the desert because the problems Chris had last year with the scenery in some of the areas and the no smoking campground we chose accidentally. He needs those little sticks of calming nicotine. This year however we decided to stay away from the campground where we couldn’t have a fire past ten, make noise, have glass bottles, or smoke. Instead we dry camped in the middle of nowhere. It was a good choice.
It had been a long time since I’d totally escaped the light pollution of town and witnessed the unblemished night sky. Dragging out of bed at three in the morning - after a very long and filthy day wheeling the trails - to witness stars pierce every inch of black paper sky was worth losing a bit of sleep. That early morning was a sight not to be missed, one I won’t soon forget. And we talked.
“At first it looked like this over there at night. So beautiful sometimes.”
Sometimes is the operative word. Only sometimes.
But still between the awful pictures he brought home in his mind Chris has tucked some breathtaking sights to be brought out only when reminded.
“The sun melts against the sand when it sets, waves of heat pushing and pulling it.”
I’ve seen the distortion of the sun against the Pacific Ocean many times. We drive to the beach when the stress is high and watch it paint a silver line across the waves. Beauty is everywhere, even in a war zone.
“The sunsets were red and orange until purple overtook everything and then the stars came into view.”
Even so, I have a difficult time imagining breathtaking views like this entangled in the ugliness of battle. But when he really sits down and remembers, those images are there nestled between the horrors keeping him from sleeping a full night.
I lay awake with him searching for those images in his mind sometimes hoping he’ll eventually be able to look for them without my direction. I know he’ll never forget, all I wish for is a shift in focus so he can find his way.
Shifting our focus is what we’ve done in the past few weeks. Ever since Chris got a new diagnosis which brought with it the possibility of Chris losing his arm we’ve been living like today is it. Today is when we have to make plans and set things in motion because time might be waning. It’s been difficult to think about but it’s forced us to take a good hard look at how we’ve been dealing with his PTSD and TBI. Staying home, avoiding, never taking chances, making sure he’s never in danger of extra stressors.
But that’s not good enough. Just getting by isn’t good enough. As afraid as I am locking to doors and hunkering down every time there’s stress just isn’t good enough anymore.
Next month is our first anniversary. We’ll be getting down the camping equipment to make sure it’s ready for a couple of days down in the desert. We’re going alone this time with no obligations, no expectations, just three days to ourselves. Three days to look up at the stars and find our way.
In the pile of pictures I find a photo of Chris and I sitting around a morning campfire in March of this year. It was an off-roading trip we took with a small group of friends. I remember fearing going back to the desert because the problems Chris had last year with the scenery in some of the areas and the no smoking campground we chose accidentally. He needs those little sticks of calming nicotine. This year however we decided to stay away from the campground where we couldn’t have a fire past ten, make noise, have glass bottles, or smoke. Instead we dry camped in the middle of nowhere. It was a good choice.
It had been a long time since I’d totally escaped the light pollution of town and witnessed the unblemished night sky. Dragging out of bed at three in the morning - after a very long and filthy day wheeling the trails - to witness stars pierce every inch of black paper sky was worth losing a bit of sleep. That early morning was a sight not to be missed, one I won’t soon forget. And we talked.
“At first it looked like this over there at night. So beautiful sometimes.”
Sometimes is the operative word. Only sometimes.
But still between the awful pictures he brought home in his mind Chris has tucked some breathtaking sights to be brought out only when reminded.
“The sun melts against the sand when it sets, waves of heat pushing and pulling it.”
I’ve seen the distortion of the sun against the Pacific Ocean many times. We drive to the beach when the stress is high and watch it paint a silver line across the waves. Beauty is everywhere, even in a war zone.
“The sunsets were red and orange until purple overtook everything and then the stars came into view.”
Even so, I have a difficult time imagining breathtaking views like this entangled in the ugliness of battle. But when he really sits down and remembers, those images are there nestled between the horrors keeping him from sleeping a full night.
I lay awake with him searching for those images in his mind sometimes hoping he’ll eventually be able to look for them without my direction. I know he’ll never forget, all I wish for is a shift in focus so he can find his way.
Shifting our focus is what we’ve done in the past few weeks. Ever since Chris got a new diagnosis which brought with it the possibility of Chris losing his arm we’ve been living like today is it. Today is when we have to make plans and set things in motion because time might be waning. It’s been difficult to think about but it’s forced us to take a good hard look at how we’ve been dealing with his PTSD and TBI. Staying home, avoiding, never taking chances, making sure he’s never in danger of extra stressors.
But that’s not good enough. Just getting by isn’t good enough. As afraid as I am locking to doors and hunkering down every time there’s stress just isn’t good enough anymore.
Next month is our first anniversary. We’ll be getting down the camping equipment to make sure it’s ready for a couple of days down in the desert. We’re going alone this time with no obligations, no expectations, just three days to ourselves. Three days to look up at the stars and find our way.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Give Me My Cheese
It’s a calm beginning to a beautiful morning. I’m as of yet the only one who has managed to crawl from bed and start the day. With a cup of Coconut Cream coffee I might add.
The stress level in the house, for me at least, has dropped to pre-PTSD levels. Let me explain because I hold a belief that the high levels of divorce amongst returning OIF/OEF soldiers and their spouses is partially to blame from stress, but not the stress most people assume.
It’s a stress brought on by the confusing and often frustrating maze surrounding the VA. A while ago I wrote a piece about the ending of my fiduciary career with a marriage certificate. Two months ago I received a letter from the hub – that’s what they call themselves – stating that my accounting is due.
I was floored. Why? Because last year Chris and I moved our wedding date from March of this year to November of last so that I would no longer be a fiduciary/custodian. My status for my 100% PTSD husband would be spouse payee. Those who are familiar with the VA benefits side know that those who are unmarried and rated 100% with a mental disability must have a custodian.
Those who are custodians must supply the VA with a detailed accounting of their spending. They must have a separate account for the disability monies, and they must ask permission to spend over $500 on a single purchase.
I take issue with this system but I understand why there is a need for some sort of fail safe. I’m not writing this to rant about the VA. No, I’m writing so others will not have wake up with their hearts thumping out of their chest because they feel like the VA is bearing down on them.
First off, the VA sends out form letters. If you receive one that makes your heart pound because it sounds threatening, get on the phone. Be polite, be direct, be strong. These people, though they might not always have the correct information, are trying to help. If someone on the phone isn’t helpful ask for a supervisor.
These last few weeks have been up and down. When I opened the letter requesting my accounting, I got on the phone to our case manager. She got on the phone and then I got a call. We started the process of working out what had happened and then all communications broke down. My calls weren’t returned, the computers were down, I sat with my hands in my hair on the edge of the couch crying.
Have I thought of walking away before? Yes. This is hard. PTSD is hard. And this situation has tested my strength and determination more times than I’d care to mention. But what gave me pause to think about throwing my hands up in surrender was not his PTSD. It was the VA.
Luckily, I managed to pick myself up and get back on the phone to our case manager and she then provided me with two phone numbers. I called, left a message, then waited with my heart in my throat because by this time my accounting was late. It took a week to get a call back. In the end, I found that the VA had made a mistake and not sent the field examiner out. Until they did I was still fiduciary.
This issue has been worked through and the examiner is on his way within 45 days. Our case has a big sticky note attached to it placing a hold on the required accounting until my status is changed. I am relieved - this mouse managed to got her cheese.
How many couples couldn’t handle the maze? How many spouses had to split their time and just didn’t have the strength the run the maze to get VA issues worked through? How many put their hands up in surrender and walked away from the marriage?
As I said, I understand the need for checks and balances, but those of us who are dealing with the paperwork and phone tag are also dealing with nightmares, depression, hyper-vigilance. We’re tired. We’re angry. We’re scared. And we don’t understand why it seems like the people on our team are playing against us at times.
The only solution is to get on the phone and know the chain of command. Start at the bottom - plan on being on the phone for a long while – and start climbing. If one person does not offer the help needed, ask for a supervisor. In the end, I spoke with the head of the fiduciary branch of the entire VA.
These people work for us, but we must be proactive. Get on the phone and start making noise.
The stress level in the house, for me at least, has dropped to pre-PTSD levels. Let me explain because I hold a belief that the high levels of divorce amongst returning OIF/OEF soldiers and their spouses is partially to blame from stress, but not the stress most people assume.
It’s a stress brought on by the confusing and often frustrating maze surrounding the VA. A while ago I wrote a piece about the ending of my fiduciary career with a marriage certificate. Two months ago I received a letter from the hub – that’s what they call themselves – stating that my accounting is due.
I was floored. Why? Because last year Chris and I moved our wedding date from March of this year to November of last so that I would no longer be a fiduciary/custodian. My status for my 100% PTSD husband would be spouse payee. Those who are familiar with the VA benefits side know that those who are unmarried and rated 100% with a mental disability must have a custodian.
Those who are custodians must supply the VA with a detailed accounting of their spending. They must have a separate account for the disability monies, and they must ask permission to spend over $500 on a single purchase.
I take issue with this system but I understand why there is a need for some sort of fail safe. I’m not writing this to rant about the VA. No, I’m writing so others will not have wake up with their hearts thumping out of their chest because they feel like the VA is bearing down on them.
First off, the VA sends out form letters. If you receive one that makes your heart pound because it sounds threatening, get on the phone. Be polite, be direct, be strong. These people, though they might not always have the correct information, are trying to help. If someone on the phone isn’t helpful ask for a supervisor.
These last few weeks have been up and down. When I opened the letter requesting my accounting, I got on the phone to our case manager. She got on the phone and then I got a call. We started the process of working out what had happened and then all communications broke down. My calls weren’t returned, the computers were down, I sat with my hands in my hair on the edge of the couch crying.
Have I thought of walking away before? Yes. This is hard. PTSD is hard. And this situation has tested my strength and determination more times than I’d care to mention. But what gave me pause to think about throwing my hands up in surrender was not his PTSD. It was the VA.
Luckily, I managed to pick myself up and get back on the phone to our case manager and she then provided me with two phone numbers. I called, left a message, then waited with my heart in my throat because by this time my accounting was late. It took a week to get a call back. In the end, I found that the VA had made a mistake and not sent the field examiner out. Until they did I was still fiduciary.
This issue has been worked through and the examiner is on his way within 45 days. Our case has a big sticky note attached to it placing a hold on the required accounting until my status is changed. I am relieved - this mouse managed to got her cheese.
How many couples couldn’t handle the maze? How many spouses had to split their time and just didn’t have the strength the run the maze to get VA issues worked through? How many put their hands up in surrender and walked away from the marriage?
As I said, I understand the need for checks and balances, but those of us who are dealing with the paperwork and phone tag are also dealing with nightmares, depression, hyper-vigilance. We’re tired. We’re angry. We’re scared. And we don’t understand why it seems like the people on our team are playing against us at times.
The only solution is to get on the phone and know the chain of command. Start at the bottom - plan on being on the phone for a long while – and start climbing. If one person does not offer the help needed, ask for a supervisor. In the end, I spoke with the head of the fiduciary branch of the entire VA.
These people work for us, but we must be proactive. Get on the phone and start making noise.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Reaching Out of the Darkness
One night three or four years ago, the phone rang in the wee hours of the morning. It was Chris calling to say goodbye. He had his side arm loaded and he was done. It had been a few years since he’d come back from Iraq to no job, no wife, and no home. Though he’d struggled to rebuild what was left, he was angry and confused. And he was still fighting the war in his mind. He felt very alone.
This was not the first time he’d called to say goodbye, but it was the first time since we’d become close that he’d decided it was time to take his own life.
That night I found out what it was like to talk someone down from suicide. It’s an unpleasant experience especially when the person on the other end of the line is the love of your life and you can’t get to him.
I don’t remember a lot of the 45-minute conversation but I can still hear the click of his weapon against the phone. It was as close to losing him as I’ve ever been. And though he’s spoken of suicide many times since it has only been in passing about how things used to be.
I have stood on both sides of this particular fence, so I'd like to take a second to thank every person who has ever taken the hand of someone who has reached out to them in their lowest moment.
This was not the first time he’d called to say goodbye, but it was the first time since we’d become close that he’d decided it was time to take his own life.
That night I found out what it was like to talk someone down from suicide. It’s an unpleasant experience especially when the person on the other end of the line is the love of your life and you can’t get to him.
I don’t remember a lot of the 45-minute conversation but I can still hear the click of his weapon against the phone. It was as close to losing him as I’ve ever been. And though he’s spoken of suicide many times since it has only been in passing about how things used to be.
I have stood on both sides of this particular fence, so I'd like to take a second to thank every person who has ever taken the hand of someone who has reached out to them in their lowest moment.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
In His Own Words - Part 2
Tell me about your first day there.
Hit the ground running. We immediately went to work. We didn’t even get time to unpack.
How do they expect you to just fall in?
You’re trained to. We did our job. But it’s different on an emergency response side. We ran ambulances at home so we were prepared from some of it.
But I never saw anything in the states like I saw there. I saw things I’d be hard pressed to see at a level-three trauma unit. They don’t have to deal with blast damage.
Were the injuries shocking?
We didn’t have time to let them shock us… like watching Predator today [Chris imitates Jesse Ventura] “I ain’t got time to bleed.”
He smiles, but these discussions weigh heavy on him. I know the injuries were shocking even if he doesn’t admit they were. He speaks often about just doing his job.
Did you shut down emotionally?
Yeah, at work it’s an assembly line. If a mechanic got attached to every car they worked on, you know? No emotional attachment while working. You grieve after hours. And you grieve.
Along with that comes a sick and twisted sense of humor. That’s how I got my nickname Dr. Evil. You laugh about things, never at the patient but you laugh… if you have time to do so. A sense of humor is for when you have time. It has a time and a place.
But you have to have a sense of humor or you’ll end up capping yourself in the field. I know it’s like some hokey MASH Hawkeye bullsh-t, but it’s true… though everyone has worked under someone who can’t find the funny.
What about working on the enemy?
What about it? [He’s almost defensive here as though I’ve accused him of giving aid and comfort.] It’s harder when they’re conscious. [Chris imitates Farsi] Shut the f-k up. Yeah, it irritated me.
We’re they kept afterward, after you worked on them?
It depended. If they were just kids. [Chris hesitates and takes a long drag on his cigarette] Not everyone in Iraq are the baddies. The media would like you to think that, but there are some f-king nice people in Iraq. This isn’t some f-king John Wayne movie from WWII. See someone Japanese and they’re automatically the enemy. There are good people.
The roughest part was the kids. They used to pay them.
Pay them to what?
Lob grenades at Humvees and sh-t.
No way.
Yeah.
Chris begins to speak without prompts. It is a story he has never told me before. Somehow, I’d come to believe he’d opened up to me completely and shown me everything he had hidden inside.
This one time a group of insurgents decided to come onto the base. They came across the wire, they thought this is going to be fun. We’re going to take down the airport. This is after President Bush stood on the carrier in his flight suit and announced Mission Accomplished.
Sixty of these little c-ks-kers climbed the wall at lunchtime right behind the DFAC [the dining hall for those who aren’t familiar with the thousands of acronyms the military uses].
I got it just then. Dining hall and lunchtime equaled bad choice for the insurgents.
That hall held around 200. Two hundred guys with weapons slung. It honest to god had a parking lot it was so big. Those [derogatory term] just started shooting. It was 60 against 200 immediately. And then it was 60 against everybody because everyone heard shots and acted. Then it was 30 against everybody, then 10. I’ve taken sh-ts that lasted longer than this invasion.
The ones who didn’t get blown the f-k up went back over the wall and back to the hooch where they’d planned the whole thing. So we decimated the house, mark 19s. BaBoom boom boom. We had Abrams from the parking lot rolling on that sumbitch.
There were three survivors. The mastermind and two kids. An eleven year old girl and a younger boy.
Why were there children there?
The kids lived there. Daddy was one of bad ones. He used to have the boy throw grenades into the humvees. [Chris stops here and shakes his head] I don’t feel comfortable talking about this, I just don’t.
Okay, then let’s go back to my original questions. Did you get to sleep regular?
No.
Was there a time when you had to have sleep for the safety of the patients?
No. I worked 46 hours straight more than once, we all did. Hell, I’ve eaten over an open abdomen. I don’t remember what it was but I remember being fed while I was working.
Um, gross.
Chris shrugs. It was just a job and you did what you had to do.
You went over there a medic, but your duties changed big time didn’t they? You were expected to almost be a doctor after while.
Your duties changed no matter what. You’re a soldier first, medic or whatever second, then after that you’re anything the f-king commander wants or needs you to be.
He hesitates.
I can patch people up gumball style. I can take things out.
I interrupt. You were a doctor.
No. I don’t want to call myself that. I’m not a doctor. I don’t have that training.
Chris begins talking faster than I can type, and unfortunately I’m not sure why we got on this subject other than the neighbors being noisy and rude.
Today, Labor Day. If it was on the calendar it was a bad f-king day. [derogatory term]likes to catch you with your pants down because [derogatory term]thinks all Americans are lazy and like to party. But [derogatory term] got it broken off in his -ss.
Another drag on the cigarette and a bit of a smile.
We tried to have a good time as best as we could. But you put miracle whip on a sh-t sandwich and it’s still a sh-t sandwich.
Next time can you tell me about the fun times?
We had fun. We tried. But there wasn’t much. Sh-t sandwich. Can you read this to me after you’re done? I don’t want to come off like…
Understand, this is a story being filtered through me, a civilian. So the details I pull out as important will be different that what jump out at you, but yes, I will read it to you once I’m done.
Thank you.
Hit the ground running. We immediately went to work. We didn’t even get time to unpack.
How do they expect you to just fall in?
You’re trained to. We did our job. But it’s different on an emergency response side. We ran ambulances at home so we were prepared from some of it.
But I never saw anything in the states like I saw there. I saw things I’d be hard pressed to see at a level-three trauma unit. They don’t have to deal with blast damage.
Were the injuries shocking?
We didn’t have time to let them shock us… like watching Predator today [Chris imitates Jesse Ventura] “I ain’t got time to bleed.”
He smiles, but these discussions weigh heavy on him. I know the injuries were shocking even if he doesn’t admit they were. He speaks often about just doing his job.
Did you shut down emotionally?
Yeah, at work it’s an assembly line. If a mechanic got attached to every car they worked on, you know? No emotional attachment while working. You grieve after hours. And you grieve.
Along with that comes a sick and twisted sense of humor. That’s how I got my nickname Dr. Evil. You laugh about things, never at the patient but you laugh… if you have time to do so. A sense of humor is for when you have time. It has a time and a place.
But you have to have a sense of humor or you’ll end up capping yourself in the field. I know it’s like some hokey MASH Hawkeye bullsh-t, but it’s true… though everyone has worked under someone who can’t find the funny.
What about working on the enemy?
What about it? [He’s almost defensive here as though I’ve accused him of giving aid and comfort.] It’s harder when they’re conscious. [Chris imitates Farsi] Shut the f-k up. Yeah, it irritated me.
We’re they kept afterward, after you worked on them?
It depended. If they were just kids. [Chris hesitates and takes a long drag on his cigarette] Not everyone in Iraq are the baddies. The media would like you to think that, but there are some f-king nice people in Iraq. This isn’t some f-king John Wayne movie from WWII. See someone Japanese and they’re automatically the enemy. There are good people.
The roughest part was the kids. They used to pay them.
Pay them to what?
Lob grenades at Humvees and sh-t.
No way.
Yeah.
Chris begins to speak without prompts. It is a story he has never told me before. Somehow, I’d come to believe he’d opened up to me completely and shown me everything he had hidden inside.
This one time a group of insurgents decided to come onto the base. They came across the wire, they thought this is going to be fun. We’re going to take down the airport. This is after President Bush stood on the carrier in his flight suit and announced Mission Accomplished.
Sixty of these little c-ks-kers climbed the wall at lunchtime right behind the DFAC [the dining hall for those who aren’t familiar with the thousands of acronyms the military uses].
I got it just then. Dining hall and lunchtime equaled bad choice for the insurgents.
That hall held around 200. Two hundred guys with weapons slung. It honest to god had a parking lot it was so big. Those [derogatory term] just started shooting. It was 60 against 200 immediately. And then it was 60 against everybody because everyone heard shots and acted. Then it was 30 against everybody, then 10. I’ve taken sh-ts that lasted longer than this invasion.
The ones who didn’t get blown the f-k up went back over the wall and back to the hooch where they’d planned the whole thing. So we decimated the house, mark 19s. BaBoom boom boom. We had Abrams from the parking lot rolling on that sumbitch.
There were three survivors. The mastermind and two kids. An eleven year old girl and a younger boy.
Why were there children there?
The kids lived there. Daddy was one of bad ones. He used to have the boy throw grenades into the humvees. [Chris stops here and shakes his head] I don’t feel comfortable talking about this, I just don’t.
Okay, then let’s go back to my original questions. Did you get to sleep regular?
No.
Was there a time when you had to have sleep for the safety of the patients?
No. I worked 46 hours straight more than once, we all did. Hell, I’ve eaten over an open abdomen. I don’t remember what it was but I remember being fed while I was working.
Um, gross.
Chris shrugs. It was just a job and you did what you had to do.
You went over there a medic, but your duties changed big time didn’t they? You were expected to almost be a doctor after while.
Your duties changed no matter what. You’re a soldier first, medic or whatever second, then after that you’re anything the f-king commander wants or needs you to be.
He hesitates.
I can patch people up gumball style. I can take things out.
I interrupt. You were a doctor.
No. I don’t want to call myself that. I’m not a doctor. I don’t have that training.
Chris begins talking faster than I can type, and unfortunately I’m not sure why we got on this subject other than the neighbors being noisy and rude.
Today, Labor Day. If it was on the calendar it was a bad f-king day. [derogatory term]likes to catch you with your pants down because [derogatory term]thinks all Americans are lazy and like to party. But [derogatory term] got it broken off in his -ss.
Another drag on the cigarette and a bit of a smile.
We tried to have a good time as best as we could. But you put miracle whip on a sh-t sandwich and it’s still a sh-t sandwich.
Next time can you tell me about the fun times?
We had fun. We tried. But there wasn’t much. Sh-t sandwich. Can you read this to me after you’re done? I don’t want to come off like…
Understand, this is a story being filtered through me, a civilian. So the details I pull out as important will be different that what jump out at you, but yes, I will read it to you once I’m done.
Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)