Chris' Field Guide to the VA

Yeah, you guessed it and yes, I know there are lots of guides out there for veterans on how to deal with healthcare through the VA.  Even the VA itself puts out a guide.  But, I’m talking about down and dirty day to day dealings in making the most of your healthcare from the VA.

There’s too much complaining, and yes I realize a percentage is warranted.  But it was when I stopped complaining, stopped looking for what they were doing wrong, and started looking for ways to make the whole process easier for my husband that I started to find the VA more helpful than it had ever been.  This is based purely on my experiences over the past several years…

My first bit of information is relax.  This is not a fast process, and it’s not without its major irritants.  When I first started taking care of my husband’s healthcare, I went in guns drawn and hackles up.  I’d scoured the web for information and had started obsessing over watchdog sites and complainers.  Yes, there are things wrong, but I’ve learned that people are quick to complain publicly but not so quick to sing praises.  I’ve since smoothed my hackles and holstered my weapons.  There is one goal in all this.  That goal is to make my husband the healthiest he can be.  His doctors want the same. 

Speaking of doctors, your hands are not bound. You may request a new doctor if you don’t mesh with the primary care doctor you’ve been assigned.  It may take time.  Things are not fast in the VA.  Your hands may not be tied but those who work there are bound by red tape that does muck up the works a bit.  But don’t suffer through seeing a doctor you just don’t like.  We requested a new doctor and had one the next appointment.

Speaking of appointments, keep them and keep up with them.  Unlike in the private sector if you’re out for two years, you’ll have to start over.  They drop you from the system and you’ll be assigned a new doctor at the closest possible VA.  We are lucky in our area, we have two hospitals and a clinic between a half hour to an hour away.  My husband is often times difficult to keep on track with his healthcare.  He doesn’t like leaving the house, so he was dropped from the more convenient clinic down by the ocean.  That’s our fault.  His doctor was assigned a new veteran in his place, and that soldier needed care that my husband was not utilizing.  It would have been so easy to get angry over this -and I did for a moment -, to convince myself that it was unfair, but who’s fault really?  Ours.

If you can’t make an appointment, call.  We’ve gotten in earlier due to cancelations.  When needed, but not a life threatening emergency, getting in a week or two earlier might make all the difference in the world to a brother or sister.  Be at your appointments or cancel them.

Speaking of making appointments, I go back to my original bit of advice.  Relax.  You’re calling a call center.  It’s going to take at the very least a half hour.  Sit yourself down with a piece of paper, a cup of coffee or wine depending, and expect to be on hold for a while.  If you’ve got a speaker phone, use it.  You can do other things while waiting to get through.  When you do, be kind.  The person on the other end of the phone is likely a veteran, and regardless they’re just doing their job.

I’m going to stop here and talk only to the veterans.  If just cannot do this, if you cannot deal with the process, ask for help.  You were never alone on the battlefield.  Why would you insist on being alone on the home front?  Ask a loved one, ask a trusted friend.  Ask for help so you can get the help you need.  There’s no such thing as a weak warrior.

Rocks and Hard Places

I have become an unpleasant person to be around.  Don’t get me wrong, I laugh a lot, but I do it to cover up the fact I can’t, or worse, won’t concentrate during socializing among peers and friends.  This bothers me, especially now that I’m painfully aware of it.

There is such a thing as caregiver’s fatigue, compassion fatigue, or what has been coined lately as secondary PTSD.  They’re wide terms that basically point to a lengthy list of symptoms including insomnia, anger, and depression.  I don’t think any of those are what I have going however.  No mine feels all too voluntary.

Last week my husband and I attended a convention in Las Vegas for a freelance job of mine.  Normally I work exclusively from home, but this one week we go SEMA.  It’s hard on my husband.  Crowds are a bitch.  But it’s a car show and my husband is the biggest petrol-head I have ever known.  This show is closed to only industry and I’m lucky enough to have an in.  It’s something car guys dream about going to every year.  Hell, they’ll go to Vegas just to stand outside it and see the cars on display in the lots around the convention center.  So, I go and my husband takes a deep breath, fights his anxiety, and like holding his breath through a smoke filled room, he endures what must be horrible just to be a part of something he’s wanted to see since he was a young man.

I love this man, but I’m unpleasant.  I really noticed it these past few days.  I cannot enjoy anything that might leave us in a place where Chris will be caught up in an episode.  My chest is tight when I notice crowds gathering.  I jump at any noise then look to him make sure he’s okay.

As we walked through the Venetian, which is an amazing hotel, I caught a glimpse of my expression in one of the many mirrored surfaces.  I wore a scowl, those two lines between my eyebrows drawn so tight they touched.  I saw the old woman I’d become because I’ve tried so hard to grab all of his sorrow and anxiety and swallow it myself.  My breathing is shallow and I’m aging myself with worry.  I’m so afraid something will happen away from home.  So afraid people will see and he’ll be embarrassed.

I’ve become one of those people friends are concerned about at first but then avoid.  I cry a lot but I’ve also noticed an overall numbing.  I feel heavy, clouded, and I hurt all over.  I don’t think I have caregiver’s fatigue, I can sleep just fine.  I’m not having panic attacks.  I don’t resent my husband and I still have this deep down need to protect him from anything that might be a trigger.  I’m not sure what’s going on, but I hesitate to tell my husband because I don’t want to upset him.

I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place.  And it seems to be getting harder.

No Sleep 'Til

Another guest post from my husband...


I haven't been sleeping lately.  I've been up all night, every night for days now.  I'll get a few hours sleep here and there but it's hardly what you'd call "good" sleep.  I think it's getting to me a little bit.  More so than it has in a while, my trigger is set to "hair" and my mood shifts more than semi-truck going uphill.

I've been stewing over stupid things as well as having to deal with an unwarranted sense of guilt over things that are not under my control. I've also been getting paranoid and anxious.

I decided I should try to lay down tonight and sleep. Mind you, I've had all of about 9 hours sleep in the last four nights. So, I lay there, my mind kicks into overdrive and immediately I began to get all worked up over some bullshit going on with my kid.

Oh well...  What's another night without sleep right?  I got up and got dressed and headed out to the kitchen.  I grabbed a Mountain Dew and went out to the garage with my iPad to smoke a cigarette and surf the net.

I turn on the TV only to find about a thousand channels with nothing worth watching.  Pissed, I threw the remote onto the workbench as I glanced down at my iPad and caught a glimpse of my Facebook page.

The red mist descended upon me, my jaw line sharpened quickly and I felt my chest heave outward.  I felt the tension in my internal trigger of the hammer moving back slightly, getting ready to click forward and fire.    

I was just about to melt down "nuclear style" on Facebook about all the political bullshit that is flowing over the page like diarrhea, mucking up my feed, soaking in and stinking up the place. I had written out a nice long rant that fingered everyone involved labeling them as retarded when it hit me.

Earlier, the wife and I had a conversation about school. We had both agreed, "if the whole class is failing, it's usually the teacher -BUT- if you're the only one in class getting F's, it's you".

Amidst all of the irrational, "kill all humans", "scream over nothing", "cry like a pansy", "get pissed and throw something" notions, a rational voice chimed in repeating the conversation the wife and I just had.

I damned near got light headed. The finger came off the trigger without sending that round down range.

"Oh God... It's me"

I got a flash of heat across my face and a deep burning sensation of self loathing and embarrassment over the way I've been acting up to know. I set here for a good ten minutes before it started letting up.

What followed this discovery was this calm rationalization. The likes of which was more refreshing than the ocean breeze blowing across your face.

For that moment of discovery, that rational voice was the normal "before I had PTSD" me. In that instance, I was thinking like the old me. There, for a moment I was centered, squared away and even keeled. As I narrated the "school" conversation in my head my voice was temperate and calm.

I then realized, In between all of the problems, issues, damage and general lunacy, The old me is still in there. Oh sure, most of the time he's trapped inside with a raving fucking lunatic, not even being able to scream but, once in a while he shines through.

You know, it's funny. A long time ago, I told the doctor that I was afraid that I was crazy.  He said, "People who are truly crazy don't care if they're crazy or not".

This explanation always comes to the surface when I have these calm, self correcting epiphanies. But tonight, it was just what exactly what I needed to hear.

Maybe, since this time I identified that I was about to act out in anger, I'm not crazy. It makes me feel like I haven't fully lost my grip. It feels like there's hope yet.

I'm going to bed.

Hanging Threads

It's been a hard go lately and as it always seems, my husband writes...

Sometimes I try to step back and take a look at myself. Even though I'm oblivious most of the time, I see that my symptoms ebb and flow like the tide. In retrospect, I start to see patterns but they are everything but predictable.

How freakin' awesome would it be if these waves were predictable? I'd just plan to go "hermit it up" in the woods with a shotgun, living in a house made from an old school bus until it subsided and I was once again somewhat normal. Eating only what I hunted and would fully utilize and get out of my system this urge to kill in a way that wouldn't find me rotting in a state (maximum security) hospital.

Since I can't predict it, I'll just lock myself up here, take my meds like a good little vet and disassociate myself from society.  I only do this for their protection, not mine.

I spent my life obeying the law in order to avoid winding up in prison, only to create my very own and sentence myself to a life term. Granted, the house is much nicer than an old school bus or prison cell, but when you stand in the driveway and look down the block at the edge of and where your universe ends, it can be very isolating to say the least.

I'm having a rough go at it right now.  I can't fucking sleep and when I do, I can't wake up.  My internal clock has a spring hanging out of it and a cracked face.  Right now, I can not go a day without medicating and hiding. I'm angry, I sad, I'm jumpy and tense. I'm damned near chain smoking and want a drink so fuckin' bad I can taste it.  Oh, and by the way, Im taking a stomach med that gives me crushing headaches when I drink alcohol, which sucks because right now nothing and I mean NOTHING is helping.

There have been VERY few times, namely none, that I've ever actually wanted to check into the psych ward at the VA.  Well, I feel like I should.  I feel my grip slipping.  Something new is happening.  I can live with the people I see in my periphery that aren't there.  I can live with the nightmares.  Hell, I've even found a way to somewhat deal with the sounds that aren't really there.  But now I'm losing my short term memory.

I can't remember anything anymore. I walk into a room and wonder what the hell I came in there for.  That is, except for the bathroom. Thank God that hasn't started to fail me yet. But, I digress.

I get easily confused now. I'm having trouble concentrating.  I can't remember what I had for dinner sometimes.  I can't remember if I took my medication.  I can't remember what I was doing halfway though doing it and have found myself, wrench in hand, looking dazed at a pile of parts. I'll light a fresh cigarette only to find one burning, setting in the ashtray.

It came on all at once.  Granted, the stomach med label says it can cause some of these symptoms but,  I was feeling this way before I was taking it.  I just don't feel right.  I feel lost.  I feel behind.

As if I'm not anxious enough already, what if I forget something important and burn down the house or kill someone?
Case in point;  I was working in the shop today and found out that I had apparently left the valve open on a small torch I use once in a while.  All the gas in the cylinder had escaped.  Now, I have a gas fired water heater right here in the garage which means a constantly lit pilot light.  I could have blown up or at the very least burned down the garage and the house.

Today, for the second time in my entire life, I locked my keys in my truck.  Not only that, I left the ignition on.  Luckily, I put the damned thing in park and thankfully, I wasn't locked out long enough to drain the battery but damn...  What the fuck is happening to me?

I find myself losing large quantities of time.  Huge blocks of my day are missing.  I'll look up at the clock and have lost three hours.  I'm also having more frequent dissociative episodes.  My wife came home from town and caught me in one of these lockouts and was able to snap me out of it.  And, I again found myself missing hours.

These are just a few of the more drastic examples of the dozen or so issues I have every day.  It's not easy for a man to admit when he's scared.  Right now, I'm scared.  I would rather have live rounds whizzing over my head than this.

And, on top of all of this, right now I'm feeling very "hair trigger" psychotic.  I want to break things and hurt people. I'm itching for a scrap and get that "I'm invincible, split second, red visioned rage". And deep down it's not a question as to "if" I'm gonna go off and hurt someone, it's "when".

More often than not in the past, I held my life with less than high regard and wanted it to end.  I even tried making it happen once.  Then, I found the woman who would become my wife.  She saved me from the brink and gave me a reason to live.

Granted, I gave up hope of ever getting better from this but with my new wife at my side, caring for me, giving me a purpose and a reason to live, I lost the urge to end my life.

I found it easier to deal with because of her support. I kind of settled into the understanding that I was fucked up, and there for a while, I was coming to terms with that. With real purpose to my life and the want and need to live I am frightened and beginning to feel an almost certain impending doom. Now that I want to live, how long do i have?  I know from experience that once a patient with advancing illnesses develop dementia, it's only a matter of time...

Now, instead of worrying about "living" with PTSD, I'm afraid that it's the thing that is going to end up killing me.

Be a Moving Target

His depression is back.  I know I’ve touched on this before, I’m not blind to it.  Waves.  Our life is filled with waves.  Looking back over these past few years writing about my husband’s PTSD, I see patterns, like waves.  Some waves, when we sit on the beach, are lovely to have.  Others, like his insomnia, not so much.  It’s good to be able to trace it back because I can always reason that “this too shall pass” is real.  These times pass and good times are always present.

Unfortunately there have been some worsening symptoms.  He’s always lost time, little bits falling away, but it’s getting worse.  He knows when it happens now and struggles to find the time, the memories.  If I’m not paying attention or I don’t check on him regularly he can lose an afternoon or morning, or worse stand blank eyed and catatonic for hours and end up losing days.  I don’t know what’s going on.  I do know that we talked to his doctor, but unfortunately there are so many symptoms she can’t treat them all at once.  If she tries he’ll end up not seeking treatment at all.  I’ve watched the appointment cards roll in causing him to approach saturation point.  Appointments have to be cancelled.  Choosing what is most important is stressful. I feel like one of those circus performers with the plates on sticks.  I have all these spinning plates all balanced, but I know I can’t keep all of them going, so I have choose which one to drop.  Each is delicate and will shatter.  I second-guess every choice I make.  What if it was the wrong one to cancel?

This week I cancelled a counseling session.  I know he needs to go, but he has so many dental appointments to deal with something that cannot wait and a couple of others for the loss of strength in his arm, which also cannot wait.  I feel like I can’t win. But, I push forward and balance my plates.  Sometimes I feel them slipping, but I persevere. I let one go, sacrificing it, then I move on. Regardless of whether my choices are right or wrong, I have to continue to make them.  It’s important to move.  Forward or back, each is a learning experience and with that I grow in my ability to help him manage this monster.

Keep moving people.  Moving targets are harder to hit. 

Stones In His Heart

For the last few days we’ve been working on getting my youngest son’s ROTC uniform squared away.  At his high school the program is Air Force.  This made my husband, his step-father, very happy.  They’ve always been very close but this has been a major bonding experience. Folding sleeves and blousing pants, my boy is, as Chris would say, “shit hot”.

I love the attitude my freshman is coming home with from his Master Sergeant.  He’s always been a good student, but he’s taking more and more pride in what he does.  I’m happy and I’m happy Chris can grab back this little piece of military since he so desperately misses the life.

We needed some extras to finish off my son’s uniform so yesterday we headed over the Army Navy store for a few bits and bobs.  This morning we discussed the trip because I noticed something odd.  We go to the Army Navy store quite a bit and every time he points out a certain patch.  It’s a unit patch from the guys he patrolled with in Iraq.  At the time he was in the Air Force, but the Army was lacking enough medics to go around.  He volunteered to fill a spot.  These are the guys he was “in the shit” with.  He stood in front of the patches yesterday and touched his unit’s.  Glancing over to me, he flashed a tentative smile and told me that was his guys.

This is a standard thing.  We do it each time we go there.  This morning however he told me he hates that patch.  It brings no good memories.  I’d always wondered why he never picked one up to have.  Now I know.  But now I’m left wondering.  I know quite a few of the stories, stories I’d rather no know.  He’s always said he can’t tell me all of them and I’m okay with that, but the stories I do know are so painful I can’t imagine anything worse.  Apparently though, there are stories he can’t voice because they are worse. 

We’re starting counseling again next week.  It’s been two years since he left the vet center angry and unable to continue fighting his way to healing.  Hopefully someday he’ll be able to look at that patch and have it not be a stone in his heart.  Someday maybe.

Change

My husband says I've changed.  I asked how.  He couldn't put it into words right then, so I asked him to write about it.  Here's what he wrote...

She didn't always flinch with every loud noise.  She never had an issue with crowds. She never needed to visually see the exit at every restaurant. She never got anxious, anticipating a trip on the freeway.  She never had these things before me. 

I remember the free spirit that took me in, so light and gentle yet tough at the same time. Wide eyed and focused. She jumped blindly into a life of caring for someone and never blinked twice.  It never crossed our minds that this role she chose would possibly change her in any way.  I never expected PTSD to be contagious.

It started slow and came to pass without us even noticing.  It wasn't until a few years later that she began to identify it and voice it openly.  

How cruel is it? Your mind is designed to betray you after extensive stress but, it will make it so your loved ones minds betray them as well?  Like some sort of messed up computer virus that jumps from account to account.  They see your actions, tune into your moods, adjust their lives to accommodate your behavior and the thanks they get from all of this are markers of the same behavior and disorder. Where's your "divine" design now?  No fair and just God would allow this to happen.

Please don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying my wife has changed totally.  She is still the same bright eyed, beautiful, bubbly, angry little scrapper that made me fall for her from the beginning. She still takes my breath to this day.  It's just... I can see it on her face, plain as day, when she's over stressed. I can see the pain in her eyes and the subtle stare that comes from fear.  I know her well enough to know that the fear she feels isn't fear for herself.  I can tell she's afraid something is going to happen to me and she's watching me through those "it's not if but when" glasses. 

I'm not trying to turn this around on myself and the only thing I'm going to say is that the last thing someone with PTSD needs is having to worry about how this is going to fuck up the ones you love. I mean, I would have rather hit her and had her resent me for that rather than have her sucked into this lifestyle or lack there of. At least if I hit her all she has to do is hate me. She wouldn't have to change.  She wouldn't be hurt.  She'd not show any of the signs...  I totally get why some with PTSD just up and take off or actually participate in domestic violence. I understand the hurtful words and the cold, hard demeanor. "Drive them away where they are safe".   

I guess the big heads call it "Secondary PTSD" but stress is stress and I just happen to be the trauma that causes her stress disorder.  It's pretty fucked up when you think about it.

Bing-Bong, Come Read

I looked around the other day and realized I’d become obsessed with PTSD.  On my email account I have no less than four news alerts, blog alerts, any mention of the letters PTSD alerts.  Over the course of a week I read seventy to eighty articles on PTSD.  I also read forum posts, blog posts, and any blurb out there including foolish internet memes.

The investment might seem like only time, but it’s also emotional.  Feelings that well up and exhaust me especially when I read more possible symptoms, negative writings, or awful outcomes of veterans who lost the struggle.  I live with a tension through my neck with fingers stretching around my skull.  I hear my computer signal a new email and I immediately check no matter what I’m doing.  Even in the middle of a workout I’ll stop and read or at the very least scan.

I’m tired of PTSD.  I hate it.  I hate the depressive state I can’t help him with.  I hate the pain he has every single day.  I hate that we live in a place with some of the most amazing things to do that we can’t do because of crowds, noises, stress.  I just want to scream.  Instead I wad it all up in a ball and stuff it down into my stomach and go about my business.

Then the computer bing-bongs calling me to read and PTSD comes whooshing back to the forefront of my thoughts so I can start the process all over again.  How healthy can this be?  We already ride an awfully rickety rollercoaster.  I really don’t need to build my own with words and worries I find on the internet.

I believe it’s good to stay informed, but at some point I don’t think I need any more information than I already have.  I’ve reached that point. So, today I’m removing the news alerts.  My computer will no longer be a fear monger in my life.  Here’s hoping I have the will power to stay away.

Missed Opportunities

I missed an opportunity yesterday.  While sitting at the VA dental office waiting with my husband, a young man walked in.  The very first thing I noticed about him was that he was missing an arm and a leg.  But that wasn’t the most poignant thing I took away from the meeting.

He wore baggy shorts, a sloppy t-shirt, and grey running shoes.  His hair was shaggy and he only had one prosthetic.  His arm was missing just above the elbow but he used it when he gestured.  I noticed immediately that the end was not shaped as I thought it would be.  I could see the unevenness of the bone and muscles as he stood checking in at the window. 

The second thing I really noticed about him was his voice.  I like voices.  My husband has a faint Irish accent that I love to listen to.  This young man had a big voice that was soft.  It was far deeper than I would have suspected and as he turned he had the brightest smile on his face.  He exuded cheerfulness.  I smiled because I couldn’t help it.  He was adorable.

His wait was longer than the rest of the people, mostly men who’d not seen these last conflicts whose only visible maladies were old age and hard living. He stood a few times, not awkwardly but not gracefully.  It took him a little extra to get up.  But he did, and he did it once for joke about a man’s name.  Miller.  He stood up and said “I wonder if he yells ‘It’s Miller time’ when he gets to a party.”  We laughed, and he laughed and sat back down.

When a man’s name was called who’d been there far less time than he, I looked over and told the young man they were messing with him now and winked.  He smiled and raised his eyebrows.  They eventually called his name and he went into the back offices.  A short time later my husband came out turning my focus back to him.  Trips to the VA are always stressful for him.  He doesn’t like strangers close to him or being away from the house.

This morning though, my thoughts turned to that young man.  I regret not speaking to him candidly.  Asking him, not how he was injured, but what he’s doing to keep that smile on his face.  He was so happy and adorable I wanted to hug him like I’m sure his mom hugged him when he was able to stand again.  I missed a chance I probably won’t get again, but if I do, I’ll seize it.  I will speak up at the risk of being that strange woman who talks to every veteran she sees.  I will hand out my email address and I will not pass up the chance again to talk to someone who is amazing.

History Repeats

I woke this morning to news of a shooting in Colorado and though my heart went out to the families and victims of this horrible incident my mind begged immediately that the shooter not be a veteran.  It sounds awful and self-serving, but with the continuing media coverage of veterans suffering from PTSD, my concern is beginning to grow.

My concern is over the growing fear of veterans and the calls for monitoring of those suffering from PTSD.  Public fear can grow into something awful, something unfair and cruel.  Think it can’t?
In 1942, 110,000 Japanese Americans were gathered up and sent to “War Relocation Camps”. President Roosevelt himself issued Executive Order 9066 on February 19, which allowed the local military to designate certain areas as exclusion zones.  This power was used to remove anyone of Japanese decent from their homes along the entire west coast.  The United States census assisted these efforts by providing confidential information on Japanese Americans.

Many of these people had been born in this country, they were not immigrants, they were not illegal, and they were not criminals.  Fear mongering led the charge.  Fear after Pearl Harbor, fear of the unknown.  And I’m watching this fear rear it’s ugly head again.  Immediately after any gun violence the media looks for the assailant to be a combat veteran.  PTSD is not whispered, it is screamed as if it is not an awful debilitating disorder, but a horrible monster running wild in the streets.  The possibility of PTSD suffering veterans “snapping” is mentioned ad nauseam.

How long?  How long before the government is swayed by the public’s fear and we’re gathered up and placed, for our own safety, into “Veteran Relocation Camps”?  We’re already on a list, we’re already being monitored.  I can no longer sit here and keep telling myself it won’t happen to me because it happened before.  History repeats when we don’t learn. 

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.

Memorial Day

It’s Memorial Day and this morning I shed tears while taps played at Arlington.  Taps always brings tears but this morning I wasn’t so much crying for those who’ve fallen.  I don’t think they would want tears.  I was crying over a sudden realization.  I’m so lucky.  I’m not rich, I don’t drive an expensive car or have all the material things that outwardly indicate success.  I do however have my freedom.  I also have my soldier. 

For all the issues he has left over from the time he spent in the combat zone, I have him.  I can touch him every day and do all the simple things I take for granted.  My soldier answered the call without thought of his own safety.  He put himself in harm’s way, risked his life for me and my fellow countrymen, and he came home alive.  War beaten, but very much alive.

Despite all the sorrows I perceive in my life I know, especially this day, how blessed I am.  I am free.  I can vote, I can leave my house without fear, I can work and play and live because I am free.

And I am free because of those whom this day is about.  They gave their lives for me.  I’m so lucky, so lucky there are brave men and women who every day answer the call of their country without thought of their own life.  They walk a narrow path I don’t think I could traverse. 

So this morning I thought not only of how lucky I am, but I thought of the families who only have a picture to remember their loved ones by.  Past and present, they are not forgotten.  The sacrifice will always be remembered and always be genuinely appreciated. Thank you from the very corners of my soul.  Thank you so much.

Home Invasion

I’m so desperately tired.  It has been an incredibly difficult couple of months and with impeccable timing and infinite wisdom the VA has decided it’s time for another home visit.  The letter came with attached paperwork to fill out, paperwork which I found to be inappropriate.

But let’s go over some history before I get into that whole mess.  This is not the first time the VA has sent a field inspector out to pry into our personal business.  When my husband and I were not married and I was simply a girlfriend/fiduciary I understood.  He needed to be protected.  They didn’t know me, didn’t know if I was in it for the money. 

Wait though, I have to stop there and laugh.  And I mean really laugh so hard my butt could literally fall off.  Just in case anyone from the VA is reading this, there is no amount of money in this world that could entice me to live with, let alone care for, a PTSD sufferer whom I did not love with every ounce of my being.  He is my best day and that’s why I’m here.  Good, we cleared that up.

The instructions when I became fiduciary were let’s say vague at best.  In fact, they were a post-it note attached to the letter telling me I was accepted at his fiduciary that said “Oh you do have to keep account of the money”.

Well a year later that accounting that was explained in a post-it was extremely complicated.  Hope they’ve changed that up since I signed on for the job several years ago.  Fast forward past the rejected accountings, the nasty-grams and threats, to Chris and I being a somewhat normal married couple.  The field inspector came last year, this would be the third time they’ve been in my home, to confirm we were married and change my status to spouse payee.  Please take into consideration that our third wedding anniversary is this year.  We’d married a year and a half by the time they made it out.  But okay, whatever.  They have to check, I understand.  I handed over our bank records, let him look where ever he wanted in the house – yes, they like to look in your closet to make sure you’re buying your veteran clothing, fun stuff.  It was degrading and unbelievably stressful for my husband.

Jump forward to not too long ago when I get the newest letter from the VA fiduciary hub.  Attached were three pages to fill out.  On the first page they asked the “nature” of my husband’s disability.  Well that tore it, along with their timing – Chris’ father died in November, my mother died in March – I wasn’t very cooperative in what I wrote back to them.  I’m tired.  I’m tired of their intrusion into our lives.  My husband is not a charity case.  His benefits were earned from what he permanently sacrificed and if he wants to stick the money in a rat hole that’s his business and not theirs.  It’s bad enough he’s lost so many freedoms, but to have some stranger demand access our bank records, his medical condition, and our home is too much.
I hate that I’m gearing up for a fight.  I have letters prepared ready to hit the inboxes of congress if I have any issues.  I’ve had enough of this intrusion.  I’m tired.  Every day my goal is keep my husband’s stress level to a tolerable level.  They made me his custodian.  They gave me the job of protecting him and caring for him.  Now they are the problem.

How sad that I have to protect him from the very people the American public has trusted to take care of her veterans.

Pain, Anger, Frustration

Sometimes, when things seem to be going well, I forget how angry and frustrated my husband gets with his physical as well as mental issues.  That frustration used to manifest itself in emails I got in the morning after he'd been pacing all night.  Now he writes to you, the readers of this blog.  I think he wants to scream to the world and shake them awake.  To force them to understand, but I'll settle for him helping any veteran who can take solace in the fact they are not alone.

As if having a "disorder" wasn't bad enough, along with it comes a great deal of pain. Anxiety carries with it its own form of pain which manifests itself in many ways. Lower back pain, joint pain, headaches, stomach and gastrointestinal discomfort. The list goes on and on.

 

But, it seems that PTSD, as a whole, not only creates pain but exacerbates the pain that years of beating your body up produces. Hell, I'm writing this at 3am just because the pain is keeping me up. Shit, I'd rather have had a nightmare tonight rather than being awakened by the burning, tingling and pulsating I've got. It's like some weird shit from a science fiction movie. I shit you not, this thing is straight out of Raccoon City. All I need is to grow some big ass hook for an arm and start spewing acid out of some freshly formed orifices.

So, when pain is injected into an already unstable condition it can tend to make one more suicidal or homicidal. I'm not kidding, if I'm having one of "those" days, and I'm behind the wheel of my truck or waiting for the mailman or just trying to take a shit, my patience is gone. The horn blows, the finger goes up, I get "puffy" as my wife likes to call it or I strain out a huge purple, pulsating vein on my forehead. I swear to god, one of these days, I'm gonna stroke out. That is, if I'm lucky and I haven't already snapped and killed a bunch of people.

And, lets talk for a minute about tinnitus. Yeah, I know what you're thinking... "Tinnitus doesn't hurt!" Agreed, but when every fucking thing hurts and you lay there, trying to sleep and all you hear are two mismatched tones somewhere around four octaves above high C, it sure as hell adds to an already shitty situation. And although the tinnitus doesn't actually hurt, the residual ear and head pain from my initial injury does. And, there again, it seems to be worsened when I’m overly anxious or stressed.

I'm not trying to whine here but since I've been diagnosed, I've experienced pain in many forms all over my body. Some days everything hurts. Every joint, every muscle, every single fucking cell. On good days only one or two things hurt. Sometimes I feel like all of my joints are solidifying. Sometimes it all hurts so bad that I feel like I'm gonna puke then pass out. Sometimes it only hurts just enough to piss me off and make me unbearable to the people around me. Oh sure, you learn to live with it and press on but god damn, once in a while I'd like a fucking break. Alcohol sometimes takes the edge off or makes it so that I hurt but I don't really give a good god damn. But, more often than not it comes back to bite me harder than before when I sober up.

And NOTHING over the counter helps. Aspirin, Motrin, Aleve... None of that shit. Oh, and I dare not ask my Primary Care Provider for pain meds because then it becomes a big deal. Hell, the VA doesn't trust me enough to handle my own money, they sure as hell aren't about to willy-nilly give me any "controlled" drugs to take. Fuck, I can't even get a sleeping pill! You know that old joke about building bridges and dams and not ever being called an "engineer" but if you suck one little peter, you're a cocksucker for life? Well, all you have to do is tell your shrink, one time, that you've had thoughts of suicide and BOOM, you're on the fucking list for life my friend. And after that, trying to get any medication that works is moot. Oh and just FIY, DO NOT under ANY circumstance tell the doctor you've had a seizure either. They are bound by law to contact the DMV and POOF, there goes your license. But, I digress.

Going to the doctor also presents a rather odd set of circumstances. I was a medic for years and for the life of me, some of this shit I simply CAN NOT find words to describe be them medical terms or just a simple description. Some of it boggles my mind. I mean, how do you tell a doctor that your arm aches, but has sharp pains and all the while it's feeling numb and tingly like you've slept on it wrong and is cold and hot at the same time and feels full like it's swollen and is hard to bend at the elbow?

Let me speak from the experience I've gained from the doctors I've worked with in the military and the ones I've seen in the VA; If you come at that son of a bitch with that much information at once he'll either start laughing, tell you you're nuts or focus on just part of what you said and end up telling you that your arm is the least of your worries because you're fat, and you smoke. Then, he'll end up treating you for a fucking eye infection you don't have, give you blood pressure medicine to "help with the nightmares" and then prescribe you Motrin. Remember kids, that's 800mg every 8 hours with food OR 600mg every 6 hours. What the hell ever.

Hell, I don't know why I'm bitching so much because I'd rather have this pain all over my body as opposed to the way my ass burns when I have to go to the VA. I can't help but get defensive every damned time I walk into that place. Oh, I know that due to recent law suits from some Senators son who got pushed aside like the rest of us and what not, they are now walking behind you, blowing sunshine up your ass, throwing rose petals in your path, fanning you, feeding you grapes and stroking you every chance they get. Hell, they even sent me a new "personalized" book in the mail outlining their findings and, get this shit, giving me a complete list of POC's for the VA and the Clinic. Yeah, I know. That's a sure sign the apocalypse is upon us. But don't get too excited, this won't last. The new will wear off, the public will forget about the last two wars and the hundreds of thousands of new veterans and it'll be business as usual all too soon. Then the VA can sweep us all under the rug once again and go about doing what they do best... Spending money and neglecting veterans.

And on that note, when's the last time ANYONE at the VA gave you the right phone number for ANYTHING? Eh, it doesn't matter, they're just written down in this fancy book that costs millions of dollars to print. It's not like anyone is actually going to answer the phone when you call. You'll have to bash the phone receiver against your head trying to navigate the automated "please get frustrated and hang up so we functionaries don't have to do our jobs" telephone system. On the bright side, maybe the mild brain damage you'll suffer will ease the pain somewhat. There I go digressing again.

Four Crooked Years

April marks four years for Chris and I being physically together.  For me, it’s four years living with the reality of PTSD and not just morning emails written desperately in the wee hours while I slept and he didn’t.  So many things have changed from then to now, yet some are exactly the same.

Four years ago I experienced being pulled out of bed for incoming for the first time.  Being woken from a dead sleep, yanked to the floor, and covered by someone who not only thinks they’re back in a combat zone but sees, hears, and smells all that’s associated with that place is an eye opening experience.  Lately though, the nightmares are still as frequent but not as violent.  He rarely even wakes me anymore with his moving about.  No more midnight triages or helping him get his gear together for patrol.

I can’t attribute this to him getting better.  I have to be honest with myself.  I don’t think he’s getting better.  I think as a team we’re getting better at coping with the symptoms.  Flashbacks are less frequent, not because he’s free of them but because I’ve been diligent about learning the triggers and heading them off.  He’s learned avoidance in certain situations.  I’ve learned to catch him when that distance look darkens his eyes.  We’re working at coping.

However, I don’t think he’s getting worse.  I think he’s on a level plane but think of it as a glassy ocean that can change in an instant.  Like a storm at sea, his anxiety and pain still rule our life.

Despite this, we managed a couple of years ago to buy a house, build a home, and carve out what we both consider a sanctuary.  Yes, we sometimes spend weeks at home without leaving but that’s our life and we like it.  Then it gets called to my attention and I start to wonder.  Not if I’m happy but if I’m or we’re getting a normal life.  Building it correctly or just slapping together shoddy materials in an effort to fool ourselves.    

I spoke to an old friend from college a couple of weeks ago and she wanted to do some catching up.  As I wrote the email I started to think, My God my life sounds like a disaster zone with so much heartache in the last years.  But I don’t feel like it’s all that bad as crooked as it may seem to outsiders.  We’ve managed to eek out a lot of really wonderful moments.

Maybe my idea of a normal life has shifted but I do consider our life normal.  Just for us, normalcy is a little more… interesting.  Find joy.

2x+y=sleep

We look for patterns.  It’s human nature.  A long… long long time ago, when I was in college, we learned a great deal about how people create pattern where there is no obvious one.  We can find faces in granite, or groups in seemingly random things.  So I hope this is not just a Gestalt happening when I say I think after all these years I’ve found a pattern in my husband’s sleeping or lack of sleeping actually.

Over the past few weeks we’ve done some renovations to the house.  We had an extra bedroom that I use as a writing room, but I hate being tucked away.  I’m constantly getting up to look out front or in the living room to see what’s going on.  Add to this two very noisy cats who seem to know when I’m coming and stop whatever it is they’re doing.  Some day I will catch them in the act.

The plan, which worked beautifully, was to add a set of French doors and two interior windows in the corner of this bedroom.  This opened the room, but allowed me quiet simply by closing to the door.  I can see the front door, the fireplace, and those pesky cats.  It was quite an undertaking considering my husband and I do all the work ourselves.  Though the day was physically draining, Chris still didn’t sleep that night when we started opening the wall.  The next night however, he slept.  Odd as it was, I didn’t think much about it until we came upon more puzzles with the construction.

Rewiring was a challenge.  Not because he didn’t know how, he just had to spend a couple of hours working out the best possible way to run the wires around the new opening.  He spent a lot of time writing on the inside of the wall where we’d left the opposite drywall so we had less repair.  It was mentally taxing.

And there in lies the pattern I’ve found.  Yes, physical work will cause him fatigue, but it doesn’t seem to help him sleep.  He’s been exercising regularly for the last two months with no results to his sleeping – he does look great though and is happier.  However, mental challenges, problems he must work out over the course of a day seem to leave him drained enough to sleep most of the night. 

I’ve been watching and I’m thinking I may be on to something here.  I hadn’t thought much of it but over the time he was building cabinets in the garage he spent a good deal of time figuring out how to use the boards with the least waste.  Mental puzzle.  He slept and woke up the next day fairly well.
This may just be a coincidence and I may be reaching for straws.  Sometimes we see patterns when they really are not there.  He still mostly can’t sleep and is still impossible to get up in the morning, but maybe this is a little step forward.  Something to build on.  I hope so. 

I think I’ll get him an Algebra text.  Quadratic equations should put him right to sleep.

Anger

I've always encouraged Chris to write about his PTSD.  I think it helps to get things on paper to possibly examine the thoughts later or simply to get them out of his head.  This time I think he just wrote about what was going on.  He saw no purpose to piece, but I feel differently.  Possibly disjointed, I felt this piece needed to be seen because he's not the only one feeling this way and I'd like others to know they aren't either.

I don't look at myself as special nor do I seek any pity for having PTSD. If I'm acting like a douchebag, I expect people to call me out on it.  My wife does an outstanding job of this, handling my douchebaggery in such a way that it (9 times out of 10) defuses the situation.  I couldn't imagine life without her and I truly wish all who are afflicted with this were as lucky as I am to have someone in their life like I have found.  Sometimes I envision her setting naked on a keg of gunpowder blowing out the matches I'm constantly striking. She willingly puts herself in harm’s way just being with me. To me, she deserves the same credit and level of respect as those who roam the battlefield wielding their weapon.  She ranks right up there with all of those who I served with.  Hell, she actually far exceeds them due to her willingness to put up with all my other bullshit.

But goddamn it I get angry.  And often.  I get so angry I can actually feel a weird pressure on my face from the bridge of my nose to the tip of my chin as if my body is preparing for a fight.  These sensations are usually followed by an episode and then large blocks missing time.  Of course, I never initially remember any of these things and have to rely on my wife filling me in on the events I have no knowledge or memory of.  Later, the memories come back to me in broken and order-less fashion. I guess there is a breaker box in my brain that kicks off when there is a spike in the circuit.

This is the main reason I stay home and don't venture out by myself much.  I've created a safe little environment here, albeit a personal prison, where I am assured that I'm not going to wake up in a gutter or a jail cell somewhere. I have spent days, weeks, and even months at a time not going anywhere but the mailbox. This is really for the best, trust me.  The head-shrinkers at the VA don't believe me when I say I've had no trouble or run-ins with law enforcement.  But, it's true, not counting the 8 police officers it took to load me into an ambulance from my house one evening to go to the hospital for a nice shot of happy juice to calm me and coax me out of a flashback. And then they are all like "it's not healthy to lock yourself away" when I tell them how I deal with it.  If I "Howard Hughes" it here at the house, I stand little chance of creating collateral damage all over town. 

Granted, that wouldn't and hasn't stopped me from going off the deep end and taking things out on my loved ones here in the house. Luckily, as of yet it hasn't resulted in injuries, jail time and be all around relationship ending.  But, the beautiful thing about my tiny little wife is the fact that she spent a lot of years training, military style, how to kill people and break their shit.  Yeah, I'm pretty sure she could defend herself from any of my psychotic advances up to the point where she would have to remove herself to safety.  Couple that with her unwavering understanding of my condition and that I'm not in control, the fact that I keep no weapons in the house and that we have a contingency plan tends to give me a sense of "warm and fuzzy" deep down.   

Don't get me wrong, I'm not spending a life sentence here inside my stronghold.  No, I do go out from time to time.  I go out alone but only if I'm making short trips to the grocery store or the hardware store... that sort of thing.  I go out with my wife other places.  My wife acts as a buffer.  I don't know exactly what it is but more likely than not, it's the fact that when she is with me I acknowledge her presence and feel a need to keep her safe.  With this in mind I guess instinctually, I alter my behavior in a way to ensure nothing bad happens. All the while she is constantly running interference for me, keeping me safe as well.  Hell, if I knew all the answers I wouldn't still have PTSD.

Having said that, I'm not afraid to go out of the house for my own safety. In fact, I have no regard for what happens to me given any unfortunate circumstances which may befall upon me. No, I live in fear of hurting or killing someone else.  And even though the memories are sporadic, I know from the fleeting memories of experiences and the accounts of others just how volatile and dangerous I can be.  I go blind.  And you know how someone says they "see red"?  Well, I have peered through a red veil.  While looking at the world through crimson eyes, my senses are heightened to the point where as even with red tunnel vision, I see every detail of those would be targets and my brain goes into "kill" mode.  All the while, all pain response and fear of self is deadened.  Like a Norse soldier bearing Odin's curse of the Berserker, the blind fury that rests within, once tapped can only be spent like a battery and not switched off. 

The other day I was setting at a traffic light coming home from Lowe's after picking up some hardware for a small project.  At the light in front of me was a small BMW convertible. Being already tense from putting up with the over all retarded-ness of the masses who frequent Lowe's, I was in no mood to put up with someone who has forgotten where the skinny peddle is once the light changed.  I was in the wife's Jeep and apparently its soft top wasn't enough to contain my rage. He heard me. And, I vaguely remember screaming then seeing this car blast away from the light after his extended pause on green.
I'm sure it wasn't intentional but stupidity rarely is.  In hindsight, I know he was probably just distracted but in the moment, he hesitated and in my realm of thinking at the time, when you hesitate, you die.  This really isn't a good example but it's the most recent one I can come up with right now. And the only one I'm willing to share.  Other examples are more colorful and I would prefer not to write them down and I'm sure you'd find little joy in reading them as you set there with your mouth gaped open wondering just what kind of monster I am.  Let’s just say that I'm the reason certain people have moved from my neighborhood due to their stupidity and my unwillingness to tolerate even the slightest level of bullshit.

Sometimes, He Forgets

We were standing in line at Lowes buying a couple of little things.  Chris had convinced me he could alter a planter so I could have a hanging plant in my office without it being one of those ugly orange plastic containers.  With all the stuff piled waiting to be scanned, Chris went still and his eyes, for lack of a better way to explain it, focused away.

I’m used to this, he does it not too often, but often enough. Lately it’s become more frequent and though he usually loses an hour or a day or two the memories always came back eventually.  They haven’t lately.  He’s losing time, little bit of life, and it’s not coming back.  I find this distressing especially after reading of a veteran who lost a year and never regained those memories.

What do I do if he loses a large portion of time?  Reminding him of the good things isn’t so bad, but what of the sorrow these past months?  I don’t want to have to remind him of these things and watch him mourn all over again. 

I’m becoming increasingly worried that he’ll have an incident when I’m not with him.  What if he forgets we’re not in the apartment anymore?  He’s recently started wearing his dog tags again.  Maybe it’s an unconscious precaution, but it makes me feel more secure about him leaving the house alone.  He has something on him other than his wallet that identifies him.

Years ago, before we met, Chris lost time and forgot he and his ex had gotten divorced.  He went ‘home’ to a very surprised woman.  What do we do to make sure these guys are safe but enjoy the freedom of an adult life?  I can’t be with him twenty-four seven though we are together close to that.  So what do I do?

This is such a huge part of what I worry about every time he runs to the store, I can barely do anything but hold onto the phone and watch for his big white truck to come down the street.  Hell, I’ve stood at the end of the driveway while he was gone so I could see all the way to the corner.

It’s quite a sick carnival those of us who deal with PTSD live in.  Every time I think we’ve conquered the one mountain in our way, we find another one behind it. I’m getting so frustrated, so I have to re-center and find a way to put my old rose colored glasses back on.  And for God’s sake, no more diesel wafting through the air.

12 Long Days

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.

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.