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.

Come at me, 2012!

New Years is on the way and in this house resolutions are a little different.  Yes, I’d like to lose a couple of pounds and get back in shape and finish all the projects I’ve started and and and… but let’s face facts those all fall way behind what many of us dealing with PTSD and the aftermath of war, whether it be our own or a loved one’s, will resolve to do this year.

Here’s my short list. 

This year I will breathe and watch him leave the house alone without turning blue with worry.  I will not make the face that says please wait for me so I can come and make sure you come home alright. 
I will speak up and not swallow my emotions for fear they will tip off a bad day because every time I swallow them, he knows anyway.  I will approach gently like a breeze in the night, but I’ll say what needs to be said as I have learned I’m not doing either of us favors by being a silent martyr. 

I will, once again, try to get him back to the doctor for help because I am not a doctor and I am not a therapist.  As much as I know about PTSD, there is three fold more that I don’t know.  We will seek help and we will do it together.

I will not punish myself for getting mad at him.  He’s a pain sometimes and I’m allowed to feel that way.  He makes me crazy sometimes because he’s human.

I will try to stop thinking about being alone in this house sooner than I should.  Though I know this thing, this monster, can shorten his life worrying does nothing.  We must be active in making sure we are living as healthy as we can and forget all the rest that we cannot control.  Life comes with no guarantees.

I will also try to stop worrying about him taking his life when I have to leave the house without him.  Bad days are normal and they don’t mean he’s standing on the edge.  I will watch and be aware, but I will not give myself an ulcer by entertaining my own dark fears.

And lastly, I will try to make this year better than the last but I will understand I cannot make his life stress free. No one gets that luxury.  He will have lousy days, sleepless nights, and anxiety.  I will shed some tears and get mad over things that aren’t really that important.  We will have ups and downs, but the coming year will bring us a lion’s share of happiness because we made it through this year, scathed and tired, alive and together.  We are happy and hanging on.

I wish you all a new year filled with accomplishments, big or small.  And I hope for all to be able to see these steps and not fall into despair when things seem bleak. We scale a flight of stairs the same be there a hundred or a thousand.  One step, one moment, one move forward.  Happy New Year.

Oh No, Not the Holidays

The holidays are difficult.  Living up to the expectations and obligations is a challenge no matter who you are.  Gifts, parties, family, traffic, holiday shopping, planning, etc, it’s a weight even the most organized and healthy of individual finds hard to cope with.

Imagine having just come home from the war and being expected to jump right back into the hustle and bustle of a soldier’s civilian side of life.  I know what you’re thinking.  They’ve been in a battle zone, a Christmas party with friends and family should be nothing for them.

Have you ever heard the pop of a Champaign cork?  They may register it as the pop of a weapon and take cover in front of a crowd of shocked onlookers.  I’ve seen it happen and I’ve seen the absolute look of embarrassed bewilderment on his face when he realizes where he is and what he’s done.

“Aside from the fact we don’t want to be around anyone because we associate bad things happening when we’re around,” my husband said after I read him the previous paragraphs.  Then he shrugged.  He hates the holidays.  They bring stress to an already stressed man.

There are a lot of soldiers coming home right now.  They’re looking forward to something they’ve been away from for a long time and many families have built expectations that everything will be perfect and fall right back into place.  It won’t be perfect.  Things will go wrong and how loved ones react will make a world of difference to their returning warrior.

When he or she comes through that door remember to ease in to exposure to crowds and noise.  Don’t think for a second that everything will necessarily be the same as it was before, even if you’ve already danced this deployment dance several times.

Good luck to all in having a stress free and happy holiday. And remember, people who are important will choose to understand if your plans cannot include them and people who won’t understand just aren’t important.

I Lost My 'S'

I’m sitting here this morning with scattered thoughts. Thanksgiving has just passed and the street is already alive with Christmas at night.  It’s beautiful. But I’m unable to really focus on anything other than cooking.  Silliness but it’s my way of coping.

As I try and form some coherent thoughts about Chris and I and dealing with PTSD my mind goes to the hospital where my Father-in-law has been for the past three weeks.  Three weeks of needles and meds and machines and the doctors have asked for a decision.  I already know what the choice is, what it has to be, but even with the prognosis it’s not any easier for anyone involved.  Especially Chris.

His depression is palatable in the house and none of my old cures have helped. This is hard to accept for me. In our years together everything has revolved around PTSD and dealing with it. We’ve not had a major family crisis like this ever and suddenly I’m floundering around in strange waters.

I’m afraid. I know the stages of grief are difficult and can cause PTSD themselves.  So what does that mean?  I’m at a loss here but hoping I can find something meaningful out of this to help others.  So far I don’t think there is anything different than what I would have done had Chris not had PTSD.

Our wedding anniversary is in two days.  Two years married.  In those two years I’d focused on creating our cocoon.  I’d become absolutely confident in my actions, secure I’d done my research and knew what was best when it came to helping Chris live a normal life. Now I’m questioning every move I make. I’m just not prepared for this.  I've lost my ability to save the day.

They’ll be coming to revoke my superhero status next week.

Unseen Soldiers

Another from my husband.  He's battles hallucinations for the past several years.  It's become an unnerving reminder of those days back in the sand.

"I see dead people". Yeah, kind of cheesy I know. But it's true.  I say dead because rationally, I know they are images from the past.  However, it takes me a while to finally rationalize this. They tell me it’s a direct result of my TBI but it’s still hard to comprehend.  And, no, I don't have ghosts rattling chains at the foot of my bed or slamming doors or any of that other paranormal mumbo-jumbo. I have worse.  That unsettling corner of my eye bullshit that makes me have to set down.  These apparitions aren't shadowy figures beeboppin' around.  Well, sometimes they are but they are mostly soldiers, fully clad in their battle rattle and just right there in the corner of my eye.  I can see them but cant look at them.  I can sometimes hear them and every once in a while I can smell them.  You smell that?  Yeah, that's "Army Strong".

These fuckers either sneak up on me without me seeing them and are just there -OR- I catch them walking out from behind the car or around a corner. Again, I can see them; I just can't look at them.  In other words they live only in my peripheral. Sometimes there is just a single soldier, sometimes a whole squad. At times I get pissed off enough to yell, "fuck off" out loud. But, and this is a BIG but, I don't encourage this openly verbal behavior within myself and you can damn bet I'm NOT going to be telling the head shrinkers about this. It's bad enough that they've already tagged me with an ever increasingly embarrassing acronym let alone them telling me I'm all schizophrenic and shit. I've got enough to think about and the initial diagnosis was hard enough to swallow. 

Sometimes I suspect that all this may be a leftover from being hyper-vigilant for so long because they aren't ALL soldiers.  I see his and her Hajis and kids. Those goddamned kids. So, you can imagine my reaction one day when the Hispanic neighbor's toddler son quietly walked up on me while I was out in the driveway, wrenching on my car.  Yeah, that was a shitty day...  Probably for us both.  

And then there are the sounds... 

There are occasions where I see nothing but hear all the sounds associated with combat.  I hear small arms, shouts, radio chatter and screams coupled with the sounds of RPG's and mortars.  Luckily none of these instances have lined up with the Jar Heads playing with their BFG's down the road.  Yeah, of all the places in the world I could have ended up, I bought a house just miles from a live fire artillery range. It could be worse I guess. Hell, I'm surprised I still hear anything over this damned ringing in my ears.  I guess these phantom sounds are so clear because they are coming from the wrong side of my eardrums. 

The frequency of these unwanted visions and sounds comes and goes and just when I get good and complacent about them, they come right back to bite me in the ass. Every time it happens my wife has to talk me down from the "I've lost my fucking grip" ledge.  And trust me, that's one slippery slope I've been traversing for years. Just when you think things are getting better, something, some shitty, unnerving fucked up thing happens to knock you right back down again.  I can't tell you how many times in my mind I've been recycled back to day zero.

I'm sure there’s a pill I can take to fry out my mind enough to suppress them. And, I'm sure the VA would be more than happy to provide such a pill in the interest of protecting others from me. But screw that, I've been all "zombie" before and as much as I don't want these fuckers hanging around, I do enjoy the clarity I somewhat retain from time to time.  Although there are the times when I wish they would just ram a shrimp fork of my fucking nose and scramble my frontal lobe with great vigor.

Learning Never Seems to End

I found myself in an interesting predicament these past weeks. We’ve had for a lack of a better term some invaders in our space and it hasn’t been a pleasant experience, but it has taught me something vital to our ability to be part of the extended family. I cannot encourage bitterness and anger. Holding a grudge when I know my husband has been wronged has been something I’d held onto these past years. I’ve realized, for his health more than mine, I have to learn to let things go.

I would love to give all the dirty details and spew the anger I felt and still feel somewhat, but I won’t so forgive me if this all seems a little vague.

I watched myself, almost as if I was standing outside myself, encourage the anger he’d been harboring for years all because I’m angry they wronged him.  I made sure not one action was left unnoticed even to the point of letting him know they’d walked out over their hurt feelings while he was still unconscious on the floor after an episode.

Suddenly though, I had an epiphany.  The resulting anger was and is my fault.  He ground his teeth for days practically frothing with the expectation of another blow up.  I started slowly smoothing the wounds I hadn’t caused but had kept open.  My epiphany resulted in his epiphany. He let go of past hurts.  His eyes brightened and I learned a lesson about following my own advice.  Anger isn’t something to be saved.  Spend it right away, get it out of your system, and don’t waste time revisiting.
Deep breath.  I can do this. Wish me luck... and strength.