Once again: From the view of the spouse.

The song with the words "this means war" (forgot who sings it) comes on the radio as I pull into the V.A parking lot.  I think oh dear this is a sign brace yourself and breathe. 

My ruck sac is packed; my boots are on and prepared for the worst if it arises, as the graphic, shown above, and the words from the song run through my head. I transfer my husband to his wheelchair and get him settled in as I call Lilly (the fully licensed medical and mental service animal, yes she is a cat and I trained her myself) into her daddy's lap.  I kiss her and tell her she is a good girl.  I then ask her if she is ready to go to work and I get a kiss and a head butt so I know we’re ready for the possible war ahead as we walk into the local V.A. hospital.


I wish I had the above graphic on a shirt for my husband so maybe the medical staff at the V.A.'s eyes might be opened and they would treat my husband like a human being and not just another P.I.A person.  Three claims filed and 3 appeals in less than 4 years and yet the major concerns and issues have been once again overlooked by compensation and pension - PTSD and TBI.
So as I sit in the doctor’s office with the medical staff at the V.A., tears of exhaustion streaming down my face, their eyes glaring at me with looks of absolutely no human care or concern for the life of my husband, a young soldier of 32, I am informed that, even though one of my husband’s 1st diagnoses is major PTSD and TBI (which he is getting NO compensation for), I must start the process again; digging through twelve 80 pound suitcases of medical records they have lost, once again, to start the process all over again. The war and peace novel of red tape I must try to write, once again, with the normal sleep deprivation I go through.

Maybe we should call this the “spouses rucksack,” packed and ready to go to war once again.


As the anger in my husband starts to internally rage, Lilly (the cat) paces from his lap, over his wheelchair, to my lap and back again, trying to keep both her human mommy and daddy from losing it, trying to calm us down as she glares at the doctor. I see the fear Lilly has in her eyes.  She knows this means war.  She head butts my nose letting me know daddy's not well and she is afraid of him flashing or blowing.  My poor husband grips my good hand over the wheelchair and whispers to me please don’t give up on us, please baby, don't leave me now. I kiss him and mouth the words, “Never not your fault my love!”


The doctor interrupts, asking my husband what he said.  My husband angrily responds that the lack of action from the V.A. has almost killed not only him but his wife many times in less than 4 years.


My poor husband tries to explain all we have been through at the hands of the lack of compassion from the V.A.  The nurse and doctor stare at us like we’re aliens and say, “Well, that’s not our fault,” first by the nurse, after vitals, then by the doctor. Words they must be trained to say, or repeat, on a regular basis to sooth their own souls and consciences.


My husband and I had just come out of a deep depression when we were house bound on our anniversary, once again.  Depression made even worse due to lack of sleep and many other issues, in a home not fully equipped to allow my husband to, barely, get out of bed without my help, if his body will even move that day due to the extreme pain from head to toe, the silent demons of PTSD and TBI he constantly suffers from.

My husband angrily looks at the doctor and takes the information on starting the process all over again. He then, loudly (due to the ringing in his ears and the hearing aids not working correctly), says, “I am so sorry my love you have to fill all this paperwork out after you broke your arm when you collapsed on the V.A.s floor from anxiety and exhaustion.  After all the surgeries you had to have to try to repair your arm so the surgeon didn’t have to amputate it!” 

As the nurse responds, with not a care in the world, “Oh yeah… I remember that… I was there.”  My husband replies, “Well, you weren't there at the hospital for all the surgeries and the blood transfusions my wife had to have to save her life so have a nice day!” 

The nurse says, “Well, the V.A’s not gonna buy you a new house,” and my husband responds, “Yeah, didn’t think they'd help much when they haven’t even taken responsibility and paid the bills for my wife falling on a wet spot on your floor with no sign or warning and also from the anxiety of exhaustion and being called a bad caretaker.”
I had to cancel an appointment for a blood draw because it was raining so hard, and without a closed in garage it was just not safe to try to transfer my husband from his wheelchair into the car in order to get to the hospital.  Exhaustion?  Without enough sleep on a halfway regular basis, and from dealing with my husband’s wheelchair not fitting anywhere in the home except the living room, dining room, and back porch, and the nightly screams and night terrors we go through, would seem to be ample reason for exhaustion.

As my husband thrusts the paper work back into my rolling suitcase, along with his supplies, as I jump to attention, like a soldier grab my rucksack, and rush to the checkout counter while hubby waves down the V.A. police and rushes out the door.  As I see our favorite police rush out the door with him I breathe a sigh of relief because I know at least my husband won't black out alone, and poor Lilly won’t be trying to get out of his lap to get to me to help her daddy.

At checkout, I have to ask for the paperwork for the travel pay, the $6 dollars which we are extremely grateful for as it at least covers the tolls for the 40 mile round trip it takes to get to the V.A. hospital and back home.  I have to answer the same questions about paying the tolls, as the poor worker slowly tries to calculate it.  I say its $6 dollars round trip.

My husband rushed out the door before he blows and blacks out. He knows by Lilly's warnings its coming and it’s not safe for him to be alone. He ask the only V.A. employee he trusts and knows he can depend on, the V.A. police, to put the keys in the ignition and turn on the air for Lilly. The policeman gladly puts the key in the ignition and calls Lilly to him so he can put her in the driver’s seat with my husband. 

Luckily Lilly loves that policeman as she has known him since she was a kitten. He always comes to help me get the wheelchair off the ramp if he sees us pull up and pets Lilly and gives her one of her goodies.  Thankfully the police waited with my husband and Lilly because he knew, by Lilly yelling, what was going to happen; that my husband’s PTSD would soon kick in.  So he waited there so hubby could have a smoke without hurting the fur baby or himself, while I finished up inside.


 Hubby has one of four cigarettes a month to try to calm his nerves, something both the nurse and doctor ream him for, after dropping from four packs a day.  He also no longer drinks, thankfully, due to the medications he is on.  They seem more concerned with his few cigarettes he needs on the days he has to face the public for doctor appointments or errands, than the fact he is so depressed and frustrated. 

The only reason in this world my husband holds on is because he knows his wife is his battle.  That I am by his side and has his back, just like I have since I was a child. Not only have I had my husband’s back, but any other active military personnel or veterans back I can, when I find one in need.


After all, he has very little contact with any of his brothers in arms after returning from 15 months in Iraq, and being called a broke dick by a master sergeant and many of those same, so called, brothers in arms.  They might as well have just loaded a gun and given it to him, along with the “brotherly love” they were sharing with him.  I quickly joined in his battle, even though I didn't sign on the dotted line to wear the uniform.


 Hubby quickly blacks out after his one smoke.

The war rages on in our lives.  Every night we travel together, with Lilly, into battle with the kitchen broom as his imagined, dreamland, weapon.  Maybe one day, one day we will be fully compensated for my husband’s service, sacrifices, our shattered dreams and 24/7 tears, for the pain, agony, and near death experiences we both have been through together due to serving his country. 

Then, maybe we can afford the mortgage on a home that his wheel chair will fit in and at least get him to the bathroom so he can feel more like a man.  So at least we can further rebuild his self-esteem and enjoy life a little instead of living in a black hole, spiraling down every night and then struggling to get back to where he can see a little light again.


After all, we do still have our dreams; they are what keep us alive, and going; the dream of a program to help others with PTSD before we lose any more of our veterans, their families, or anyone else struggling with PTSD.  We don’t have degrees in the subject, yet we both have PTSD.  I now have secondary PTSD, and poor Lilly probably has it also.  Maybe then we can be grandfathered into the program.

So for now the black hole is still turning, as the war wages on!
Once again, in my eyes, thank you will never be enough.

Much love, Gypsy

End of Guest Post 
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There's nothing here for free
Lost who I want to be
My serpent blood can strike so cold
On any given day
I'll take it all away
Another thought I can't control

This means war
-- Avenged Sevenfold, "This Means War"

Editor's Comment:

Once again, I thank Gypsy for sharing another small piece of her family's life and battle with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD).  She tells her stories from the view of wife, and loving caregiver, of the suffering veteran.  Her stories are colored with the stress and emotion one would expect.  She tells it as she feels it.  Does this color the telling of the story with attitude?  Probably, but I think one must ask a question of our government:  Why must soldiers going through what they and their families have had to face during battle, continue to endure this kind of treatment at the hands of those assigned to assist them?  To quote the Liberty Mutual car insurance commercial, "Don't those people know you're already shaken up?"

This is evidence of the continuing, general, state of our Veterans Administration and the V.A. Hospitals in this country.  How we treat our wounded vets is unconscionable.  It reflects the continued lack of respect we, as a nation, show toward our soldiers, police, and first responders as a whole.  We ask them to give their all for us; we ask for their lives and their families lives.  We do this selfishly so we don't have to do the job they do to keep us safe; so we can enjoy the freedoms and other fruits of their labors and sacrifice.

I have an idea for all of us.  If you hate any or all of the groups mentioned, don't be the coward you seem to be.  Post it clearly on the front wall of where you live, this way, when they respond to assist you, regardless of your selfish feeling toward them, everyone will be able to consider the kind of person you truly are.  Fortunately for all the haters in this country, our soldiers and first responders really, truly, believe that all lives matter... even those we might feel are better left to fend for themselves.  

It is sad our Veteran's Administration is still coming to grips with their own heartless, selfishness.  I suppose this is why we have to form civilian veterans groups to take up the extreme slack of our government.


Editor's Note 
(re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card) 


Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so.


It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and then engaging in peaceful, constructive, discussion and debate in an arena of mutual respect concerning the opinions put forth. After over twenty years as a military intelligence analyst, planner, and briefer, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we do afterward, and what we learn from the experience.

Frank Anthony Villari (aka, Pastor Tony)


Pastor Tony is founder of the Congregation for Religious Tolerance and author/editor of the Congregation's official blog site, "The Path."