Mortars for the 4th...

I wrote this back in 2010 and though we've spent a few more 4th of July holidays together, the feelings still hold true.  It saddens me to no end that the holiday will never be the same for me and thousands of other loved ones and veterans, but I'll never give up hope that some piece of it can be regained somehow.

_

July 4th is coming. It's like a monster approaching my house, a giant Godzilla - only not as rubbery and fun.

When I was a child, the 4^th was an important day. Family and friends gathered in the neighborhood. We ate blackened hot dogs and drank ice-chilled generic sodas from the old metal Coleman cooler.  At the end of the usually-sweltering Kansas day, we watched an impressive display of shimmering fireworks while fireflies blinked and mosquitoes did what mosquitoes do, all in celebration of this great nation we call home. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood.

Now, the celebratory whistles and explosions are twisted into small arms fire and mortars. I’ve spent two Fourth of July's with Chris and it has been a sad realization that the very day celebrating everything he stood and fought for has become a source of pain and fear. It’s another item on the long list of things he’s misplaced to PTSD, and by association I’ve lost as well.  I say misplaced because I refuse to give up on the possibility it can all be regained in one form or another.

Chris’s reaction to the sounds surrounding the 4^th is hard for others to understand, most think it’s simply being ‘jumpy’. 

‘Yeah, loud noises bother me, too. I’m not going to let it ruin the day for me. Man up.’

Loud noises don’t just bother Chris. They make him fall to floor to take cover. Incoming.

We’ve got inbound.

Baghdad tower to Dog Pound, please acknowledge.

He’s there. He’s back in Iraq waiting for helicopters carrying the wounded or sending rounds down range. He’s forced back into a reality that he’s already lived and shouldn’t have to live over.

So, while America celebrates her birthday, please give thought to the men and women who are hunkered down in their homes, windows closed, pillows clutched around their ears, waiting for the party to end. Remember them and their gift of freedom to the rest of us.

Maybe this year, don’t light that illegal M-80 because old man Jacobs down the street is a Vietnam vet or because the Martin’s boy just got home from Afghanistan and he looks ‘different’ somehow.

This day should not be a day filled with dread, but for many people, many amazing and valiant people, it is.  Be aware not everyone wants to hear explosions to celebrate our freedom because some listened to them while fighting for it.

simple things...

A couple of weeks ago, Chris and I went to the movies together for the first time.  I know it sounds odd, but simple things aren’t so simple when your spouse has PTSD.  Movies are loud.  They’re crowded.  They offer multiple triggers in a darkened two-hour session that we just always avoided.

But it was his birthday and he’s my Star Trek geek.  So I made him bagels, fixed him breakfast in bed, and gave him his gift – two tickets to see Star Trek Into Darkness in 3D.  Luckily his birthday fell on a Wednesday weeks after the movie had premiered.  I chose a matinee and crossed my fingers. 

We arrived early because I’m obsessive about not being late.  Luckily, I’d chosen well.  The theater was empty and practically stayed that way when the movie started.  Without missing a beat, the first trailer was filled with explosions.  I have no idea what movie it was for because my eyes were locked on Chris.  He began his frantic breathing and clutched my hand.  From the beginning I told him that if he couldn’t do this we could leave.  It wouldn’t hurt my feelings at all.  But he stuck it out. 

I missed parts of movie because each time there was a sudden noise I looked to him to make sure he wasn’t “fading” into the unconscious state he sometimes falls into.  But, I also watched his face light up when the old theme from Star Trek played and Kirk recited their five-year mission.  I watched him realize we can do normal things.  I watch him for the first time tell PTSD to piss off because no matter what he wasn’t going to miss this movie.  We made it to the end of the movie without incident.

It’s amazing how many people don’t understand why going to the movies would be stressful for us, but I know there are just as many who know exactly what I’m talking about.  Simple things, they just aren’t so simple anymore.  But they’re still pleasures if we take the risk and try.  It’s too easy to get mired in PTSD and become house bound.  Living a semi normal life with this issue is work, but it’s worth it because we deserve it.  He’s already talking about the next movie he’d like to see.  It’s a small victory, but it’s a victory all the same.  We have to move forward to keep from spending all our time looking back.  Stay oscar mike.  Always moving forward, always looking for the bright spots, the simple pleasures. 

poison...

The past couple of weeks have been epic in the sense that not an ounce more stress could have been crammed in, and no, this has nothing to do with taxes.  Our taxes were a rather pleasant experience by comparison.  I’m not even sure where to begin, or if I should write about this at all.  Feelings might get hurt, however at this point I’m at an impasse. Feelings are going to get hurt regardless of my actions.

So here goes…

We have a stressor in our lives right now.  It’s a loved one, a close family member, who has disregarded my husband’s PTSD since he came home changed from Iraq almost 9 years ago.  This person is selfish and ridiculous in many ways that I can overlook, but some things are inexcusable.  I have spent every day since I met Chris minimizing anything that exacerbates his PTSD.  We have carefully crafted a beautiful sedate life that he can feel safe in, and I cannot overlook this person’s intrusion into his haven any longer.

I won’t go into past hurts, they don’t matter in the grand scheme of things and they are a separate issue in my eyes.  To begin, my husband’s medical issues are many.  Extreme stress causes him to have what are called pseudo-seizures.  They are not epileptic in nature, but are physical manifestations of emotional distress.  Usually he seizes for around 20 minutes; this leaves him horribly sore the next day.  He eventually loses consciousness and also loses varying amounts of time.  He’s suffered from them for a couple of years, but we’ve minimized their occurrence quite successfully until now.

For the past several months, this family member has brought their life problems, problems of their own building, to our house, our haven.  Chris hid his distress from me for long time, and he hid it well until Easter.  Since that day, he’s had two major episodes that have come very close to me calling for an ambulance.  Just last night he admitted to me that suicide has been on his mind since this person came back into his life. 

So what do I do?  Immediate family members are hard to remove from your life especially when they’ve burned every bridge and you’re all they have left.  I have talked and explained until I am blue in the face about my husband’s needs but I have hesitated to get mean.  I fear however time is growing short and my inner fighter is starting to surface again.  I will not allow anyone to ruin what we’ve built.  But how do you tell someone that they’re poison?  That their presence is the finger that squeezes the trigger?  How do I tell this person whom I do care about, that they’re not welcome in my home anymore unless they can come over and not covet everything we’ve built in an attempt to create guilt, not cry and whine over unimportant non-issues in an attempt to bask in sympathy, not talk about how depressed or how horrible and sad their life is when it is no different than anyone else’s reality, and not expect him to solve all their self-made problems when they’ve not spent a single moment trying to help or understand his condition and what he’s been through?

How? 

To be continued when I find a solution. Wish me luck.

what might come may never come...

Sometimes he doesn't see me. When I say that I don't mean he can't see me, I mean he doesn't know who I am. It happens most often after a longer flashback.  It’s not fun.

He told me once about how he lost a couple of years and found himself at the house he'd shared with his ex-wife before they’d divorced. She was wide-eyed about him walking in unexpected. I imagine for her it was distressing but for him even more so. For a moment the woman he'd loved didn't know him; didn’t want him there; didn’t love him back. I've felt that. I've looked into his eyes more than a few times and found myself a stranger.

He shrinks from my touch when it happens and regards me with suspicion. It's frightening for the simple reason that the possibility exists that he might stay that way, that our years together could be wiped clean in the blink of a flashback. What do I do then? Other than convince him he's got to see a doctor, I'm not sure what course I would take. This fear leads me to want to carry our marriage license; leads me to want him to wear a medic alert bracelet with my phone number; makes me want to never let him leave the house alone ever again. But I can't do these things. I need a normal life as much as he does. I need to be able to smile as he goes out and not be paralyzed with worry. And that's what I do. I smile and I put the possibility out of my mind though upon his return I can feel the invisible truck drive off my chest.

I know I’ve written about this before but each time it happens it’s like the first.  As strange as it sounds I’ve grown accustom to his seizures, his flashbacks, his bouts of anger.  But this, this not knowing me, not loving me, I can’t get used to it.  I don’t want to get used to it.  I’ve accepted he’ll have certain symptoms for the rest of his life.  I’m okay with that.  I signed up knowing about them.  Hell, I signed up knowing about this.  He’d spent time before we were married struggling to find me in his memories.  And I’ll muddle through, but I don’t want to get used to it.

So what do we do when the person we love has something we can’t get used to but have to accept.  Do we ignore?  Do we get upset?  Or do we push it aside after the initial sting?  What is the healthiest option?

I suspect my best path is to keep the bridge in sight but to not worry about it until I am forced to cross.  Being prepared is always more desirable than letting things blindside you.  But sometimes you can’t be prepared no matter how much worry and thought you put into possibilities.  So, in light of that, I’ll continue to write and put thought into what may come, but I’m going to try and keep that truck parked elsewhere.  After all, worry is a waste of time.

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.