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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 20, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, June 22, 2012
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.
“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.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, May 28, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)