Stars, Stripes, and Handcuffs

“No ma’am, we don’t need an ambulance. My husband is an OIF vet. Yes, he called. He’s having a flashback, this is not new, we do not need an ambulance.”

She didn’t listen and soon a fire truck, ambulance, and two police cruisers were in front of our house. 

The police entered first. Hands on holsters boys, there’s a combat veteran in the house having one of those things most people never witness.

Are there any weapons in the house?

“No, sir, there are not.”

I needed them to leave, all eight of them with their bags and equipment. I explained the situation; that this is not new, that I can deal with this and have many times in the past.

Leave.

But they didn’t. I took them back to the bedroom where Chris was still balled up on the bed. In his head mortars, small arms fire, screams, all played out in the cruelest joke ever played on anyone who has ever served their country.

I climbed back on the bed with him and held him, talked to him, ordered him to come home. They watched for ten or so minutes then told me they would have to take him because of his altered state.

Take him? He hasn’t done anything wrong, how can you take him out of his home when he hasn’t done anything against the law? All things I wanted to scream at them, but didn’t because I was focused on getting him out of the flashback.

They handcuffed him.

They grabbed his arms and his legs, twisted his hands up behind his back like he’d just been apprehended after a committing a crime and they handcuffed him. Face down, he struggled and screamed. Begged me to help him and all I could do was watch.

He didn’t do anything wrong. He served his country, came home and tried to fit back in but couldn’t so I protect him. I am his buffer, and I couldn’t save him.

His first moment of clarity that night happened at that moment. He looked up at me and said “what the f*ck”. He was home and terrified. I grabbed the chance and told him what had happened as quick as I could because I knew his hold on reality was tenuous.

What did I do? Did I hurt someone, what did I do? Help me.

“They’re trying to help you, baby, I promise.”

Did I hurt someone?

“No, baby, you’re just having a flashback and they’re going to take you to the hospital. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Please, help me.

I watched them put the restraints on his arms and legs after he climbed onto the gurney, a bewildered look on his face. He was searching the faces of the officers and firemen for someone he recognized. Someone he’d served with. I didn’t hear what he said, but they laughed and he laughed.

My Chris, he can always make people laugh no matter how bad the situation is. They called him Dr. Evil in the desert because he found a way to make the worst moment humorous for a brief second.

By the time I saw him again, he was under a thin blanket in the hospital. He’d been given two injections and was still confused.

I need to talk to Doc Porter. Get the Colonel.

“The Doc isn’t here, baby.”

Where are my men?

His facial expression cracked and he started naming names. I don’t know all the names, but he talks a lot in his sleep and I have heard many. My knowledge of who came home is also limited, but I told him they were okay. They made it home, they’re okay. When we got to the last name, I knew I was wrong.

His face dropped into an expression of pain I’d never seen before.

No, he didn’t make it.

Then he heard the mortars again and took cover.

I stood, paced, and sat by his side in the hospital for about six hours. The sedation kicked in eventually so five of those hours were spent holding his limp hand or stroking his hair.

I cried a lot sitting in the hospital in the wee hours of the day. It was his birthday as a matter of fact, two days before Memorial Day. I made a red velvet cake and we hung the flag that morning like nothing had happened. But it did happen.

And I was powerless to stop it.