The Broken Soldier

I’m a ‘handicapper.”

My wife, step-daughter, and I went to WalMart to fill one of my scripts, to Taco Bell to pick up dinner, and to Blockbuster to drop off a rented video game.  My wife flipped the visor at some point, and I got a look at my most recent app for handicapped parking that fell out.  It had the usual stuff.  My contact info, my doc’s contact info, a series of “circle the best answer” questions, and a description of my injuries and limitations.  What was different was the length of time.  For the last year and half I’ve been getting capper parking in six months increments.  This one is permanent.

The last week or so has really driven things home.  Before the surgery talk of permanence was, while a true worry, almost academic.  I looked up journal articles, digested what I found, and posted it here.  It isn’t academic anymore.

I’m pretty depressed.  My doctor’s response is, as one might expect a biomedical model fella to do, to put me on medication.  I haven’t filled the script yet, but I think it’s either 40 or 60 mgs of Celexa/day.  I’d like to do some counseling too, as medication and counseling have better efficacy, and because this isn’t a purely ‘organic’ depression.  But, in spite of asking those appointed over me at the unit, the state, and at Fort Knox numerous times, my requests for psychiatric/psychological counseling have gone unanswered.