The Broken Soldier

But Percocet, Flexeril, Neurontin, and Klonopin cocktails come awfully close.

I finally got eyes on my neurosurgeon’s notes.  Things are actually worse than I thought.  An unspecified facet at L5-S1 was 90% degenerated.  90%.  The neurosurgeon removed the bone fragments and disc materials floating around my spinal cord.  Using the 90% facet fragments, he fused L5-S1.  This was definitely news to me.

Other levels are involved too.  L2-3, L3-L4, and L4-L5.  Each level is bulging and dessicated.  Knowing this, and having it in writing from the neurosurgeon who had eyes on my exposed spine, arms me with info to use to counter what I assume will be an Army radiologist’s under call.  I feel good armed with an honest assessment of my condition.

Aside from having lunch with a retired CSM of the Army, there’s not much else to report.

Peace.

Sorry Lyle, had to take you down little fella.  Work on a decent comment.  Your keepers, bastards they are, give you only so much time out of your cage sans hockey helmet and oven mitts, I understand.  Spend some of the time you’d spend chasing parked cars getting me a comment worth keeping up, and the comment will remain up for as long as this site is up.

I’ll even help you out dude.  Speaking and writing naughty words and poking fun at one’s opponent are great fun, but shouldn’t be the meat and the veg of any statement in discourse.  See the paragraph above for example.  I swore and mocked you, but I was sure to make a point while doing it.

Don’t assign a weak argument to your opponent.  Give him or her the most charitable rendering of his/her position.  Then, if you’re able to overcome his/her argument, there’ll be no doubt who won the day.  As well, when you argue against a position you made up (called a straw man in case you’re interested), you really haven’t accomplished anything - unless you think having an argument with yourself accomplishes something.

That’s about all for now Lyle.  We’ll go slow.  If interested, look to posts from several months ago: Intro to Informal Logic primers.  When you stop by to test my manliness, my long-haired chihuahua will be ready to test your forensic prowess.

I attended a PTSD counseling session yesterday.  The program was created and conducted by Army chaplains, and is meant to address the spiritual component of PTSD.  If successful, the program may become part of voluntary treatment Army wide.  Given my vocational and educational backgrounds, I was asked to sit in as an observer.

Each participant was encouraged to tell a bit about themselves, and in so doing, to also share the Core Value most significant to them.  Listening to the group of men, clearly in pain, speak was overwhelming.  It made me angry to hear of our enemies’ tactics.  I wished I were well again so as to get into the fight.

As I listened, I was struck that no one mentioned integrity as their favorite value.  When one has integrity - firm adherence to a code, especially moral - those around him or her are certain he or she is a good person.  Simplified, to have integrity is to have “a tendency to do what’s right, even when no one is looking.”  With integrity there is no need to foster, nay, even mention the other values.  A man/women with integrity is already loyal, dutiful, respectful, selfless, honorable, and courageous.

This may be nothing more than anecdote.  I may be reading more into this than the situation deserves.  It’s a strange coincidence that the only value not mentioned is also the value lacking in those responsible for performing and or obtaining proper care for me, and for countless others in circumstances similar to my own.  A lack creating such bad outcomes for so many of us.

Integrity is much more than a poster in your recruiter’s office.  It’s an approach to living.  It’s part of the fiber of one’s being.  And I don’t believe it’s something that can be taught.  One has it, or one doesn’t.  The other values, significant in their own rights, are nothing without integrity.  I shudder to think what will be become of our Army, and of our country if/when integrity completes its fall from the wall.

I was okay yesterday.  Two appointments.  Seated most of the time.  Very little standing or walking.  With 1200 mgs of Neurontin, close to 2000 mgs of Percocet, 20 mgs of Flexeril EQ, and 30 mgs of Mobic, the pain was tolerable.

I went out with a buddy.  He has the same medical issues I have, more or less.  He has more severe cervical degeneration than me, but I have far worse lumbar degeneration.  We ate dinner at a Mexican resturaunt, joked around a bit, and then had coffee at Gollota’s.

I started hurting a bit more during coffee.  Maybe it was sitting up for so long.  Maybe it was the shifting around in my seat because of the uncomfortableness of my buddy hitting on the wait staff, thinking he was successful, but not seeing the nervous faces of those from whom he received hugs.

I took two more 5/325 Percocets, 10 mgs of Flexeril, and 15 mgs of Restoril at bedtime.  I slept, on and off, from around 10 p.m. to 12 p.m.  I woke up to extreme pain.  The kind of pain that wracks the whole body.  The kind of pain that makes one pretty sure there’s no lower one can fall.

I’m paying the comedians a bit more attention than their comments merit, but what the hell?  I have no other appointments, and I’ve already used up my medically prescribed fun for the week.  Repaying net trolls for their zany antics and efforts by way of metaphorically smashing their empty skulls was once one of my favorite pastimes.  It’s either this or masturbation, though I must say masturbation is rightly assessed a much higher Hedonic Calc score.

I get readers like “Lyle” and “Jay Starr” every now and again.  Those I’m reticent to label, as no single label would do them justice.  An agent must possess some recognizable characteristic, other than being a “retard,” to be classed in political discourse.  Some of these jokers claim to be military, current or former, and some claim to be concerned citizens.

The content of, for want of a better expression, ‘my critics” comments follow similar lines, almost as though they’re using the same formula, or sharing the same brain, to generate them.  “You’re fat.”  “You’re a piece of shit.”  “Why don’t you be a real man and post my comments?”  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me, but not for the reasons my critics might expect.  Their comments don’t hit a nerve.  Not the one they were aiming for anyway.

They focus on me, or the ‘me’ they’ve dreamed up, rather than on the reason for this site and its content: Problems accessing timely, appropriate, quality medical care for line of duty injured service members, and the consequences these problems create.  Demonstrating a problem is simple.  One need only watch TV or pick up any newspaper to learn about it.  (Or visit a Warrior Transition Battalion.)  The problems to which I often speak are the reason I was assigned to Warrior Transition.  The doctor basically running the program here at Knox was fed up with the way things were handled remotely.  So he brought me here.

Over a year to treat an LoD injury.  A once treatable injury is now permanently disabling.  That alone should be enough to justify any criticisms I might level at this system.  My circumstances are, unfortunately, not as uncommon as one might think.

There are 300 soldiers here in the WTB.  Many of them experienced problems like my own, especially those in reserve components.  What strikes me odd about folks like Lyle, aside from holding and offering such strong opinions but lacking the strength of conviction to use their real names and email addresses, is that if one can’t, as one should, support service members in times of crisis, I would hope one might be self-concerned (signpost of a minimally intelligent animal).  Lyle, assuming he’s an American citizen, will be paying for my medical care and, if my rater buddy’s intuitions are correct, which upon review of the rating schedule they likely are, close to $4,200/month tax free with increases for purchase parity for the rest of my natural life.  Costs that would not exist had the Army done what it was supposed to have done.

So next time you get the eager urge, Lyle or anyone like him, to play Eric Cartman Conservative hero, right or wrong defender of the Army and its ways, consider the above.  Hopefully the pain you feel in your pocketbook muscles will remind you of the pain my family, my fellow soldiers, I, and everyone else who’s been harmed by the imperfections of this system endure everyday.

I do have a serious matter to discuss.  It came to my attention today an NCOIC at Ireland Community is essentially proposing denying care as punishment for arriving too early or too late for appointments.  “Denying care” for want of a better turn of phrase.  Care isn’t given at that time, but at a later time.  Top’s working on it, and hopefully this issue will be handled without several of us having to take it to the two-star.

Many here are highly medicated, have difficulty with mobility, memory, etc.  For those who can’t drive or don’t have cars with them, finding rides to the hospital can be a challenge.  Often these wounded warriors are seeking care to manage pain.  Denying them care, even if only until the next available appointment - which can be a few hours to who knows when? - strains fairness (just a bit) and possibly the law.  Extra duty, loss of privileges, non-judicial punishment, etc., these are appropriate to address the matter.  Denying care, for any amount of time, is not.  And beyond its unfairness and possibly extra-legality, it’s just plain cruel.

“Why don’t you be a real man and post our comments to your site? You know most people reading this think you are a pile of shit. Your site so I suppose yuo can have a one way site. Be a man you little terd. “The Army is picking on poor little Jimmerson Wimmerson.” THe Army has nothing better to do than to conspire against poor wittle Jimmerson. You fat slob”

Found the above comment waiting for moderation.

I’ll do my best, “Lyle,” to address your concerns in the order they’re written.

Re: Comments, clearly I do post comments.  Yours is number 8 if memory serves, and I did, against better judgment, recently open all posts to comment.  However, I do moderate so as to separate comments from spam.

Re: Most people reading this site think, that’s an interesting statement.  I wonder from which segment of your battered colon you pulled that one.  I seriously doubt the statement was driven by any standard form of knowledge justification, but I guess when one’s brain is housed in one’s ass, elbow deep colon-wading is as good a method as any.

But to correct you, on content, not your spelling or grammar and every other solecism your comment contains (as I’d like to get to bed sometime before my natural death), most people reading this site are family, friends, and or colleagues.  The remainder of my regular readership include Medal of Honor winners, US Senators and staff, presidential campaign staffers, other disabled vets, military members, and the occasional riffraff.  Whether those reading agree or not with my positions, what they think of me personally, etc. is not at issue.  The purpose of this site is to share my experiences with Army medicine with the world in hopes of improving upon it.

Re: Being a man, I have served honorably in two branches of the military - combat medics in both and OCS Candidate in one.  I broke my back in service to this country.  There is nothing unmanly in expecting the government and its agencies to meet its legal and moral obligations to me, and to air instances in which they have not in hopes of bettering the system for posterity.  That I occasionally use this medium to ‘bitch,’ as it were, it is my right.  My spine is sufficient payment for use of 1st Amendment rights relative to you, Lyle, a knucklehead gaining his right to post here by some combo of electricity, internet access, and a third grade education.  Though while we’re on the subject, and talking all tough, I use my full name on this site.  I’m sure a smart fella like you could easily find me and put your theories regarding my lack of manliness to the test.

Re: Conspiring, nowhere have I mentioned conspiracy against me.  Others have suggested it, but not me.  My position is clear.  I have a disabling line of duty injury.  I expect treatment and fair compensation as required by law.

Re: What the Army does with its time, that isn’t my concern beyond treatment.

Re: Fat slob, yes Lyle, I’ve gained quite a bit of weight since my injury.  As I suspect anyone in similar circumstances would.

You’re a funny guy Lyle.  Keep up the good work.

To the rest of my audience, I apologize for the disruption.  I’ll have serious matters to address as treatment plans and medical/physical evaluation boards progress.

… mother fucker throws rank at me for some stupid shit, I’m going to put him through a wall.

I’m having a bad pain day.  A 9 or so out of 10.  So bad I had to go to the emergency room.  The Army’s idea of pain management, for me anyway, is Mobic (an anti-inflammatory) and Gabapentin.  Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, it’s insufficient (big surprise, I know).  No narcotics, not even for breakthrough pain.  The ER shot me up with Toradol and Dilaudid.  I’m still in a lot of pain, but if I’m really still I can convince myself I’m too high to care.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m in severe pain I tend not to stand on ceremony.  It all hangs out.  I was trying to make myself comfortable in the extremely uncomfortable ER seats.  Those around me, who clearly fancy themselves as belt-fed hard chargers, kept looking at me.  My head is recently shaved, and I’m in PT gear.  I suspect they mistook me for a boot - as Knox is a basic training base.  That is, until I asked them what their fucking problem was.

Then I got back to the barracks.  I’m in pain and high as a kite.  Almost falling down and passing out.  I have trouble walking most of the time, but it was particularly hard, due to pain and drugs, today.  My hands were full with the PT jacket, my meds and personal effects.  As I made my way to my room, I passed two people.  I did not recognize either of them as I couldn’t see straight.  One of them stopped me, making some smart ass comment about not saluting.  What the fuck?  Hands full.  Hobbling on a cane.  Clearly drugged out of my mind.  Customs and courtesies are fine, but there’s a time to turn that shit off.  That situation is a good example.

And it’s this lack of common sense in applying rules, and of recognition when it’s appropriate to get in someone’s ass about a perceived breach of protocol, among many other things, that makes me glad I’ll soon be using my uniforms as kindling in a post-discharge bond fire.

Today’s the big appointment day.  Five of them beginning at 0930, ending around 1630.  Two with the physical therapist.  Two with social workers.  One with my primary care manager.  I’m not looking forward to any of this.

I woke up this morning with 5 out of 10 pain.  By day’s end, I expect to be close to 10 (or if Spinal Tap rules apply to quantitative descriptions of pain, perhaps 11).  This has been the way of things for the past week.  More activity is my theory, though it’s possible pain and activity increasing together is coincidence.

In a social work appointment yesterday, the nurse stated, “You really seem to be hurting.”  “Yes, I am.”  “No, not just physically.”  “Of course, ma’am.  This injury and the manner with which it’s been handled has destroyed me.  Am I angry?  Yes.  Am I depressed?  Yes.  Do I expect to be jerked around by those who’re supposed to be helping me?  Yes.  I’ve got the double whammy going.  Non-stop physical pain and disability working its magic on my psyche and my physiology.  I’m in constant ‘fight or flight.’  And of course, one of God’s little jokes, the presence of glucocorticoids, one chemical among many in the body’s chemical cascading response to stress, destroy SAM and HPA - the areas of the brain that regulate ‘fight or flight.’  Meaning the more stress, the less able I am, physiologically, to regulate it.”

She promised me the people here are here to help.  I think she believes that.  I would like to, and do to some extent.  But there are those who aren’t here to help.  They either don’t know how to help, or they don’t care to.  Functionally it’s the same.  And it’s what I’ve come to expect of Army medicine.  But today I have no interest in convincing the irrational skeptics (skeptics by ignorance or some other unsupportable suspicion rather than substance) there’s a problem.  Not today.  I’m hurting.  And it’s likely to only get worse.

I wish I were home.  I miss it.  Relative comfort.  Familiar folk and environment.

This is not my home.  Fort Knox.  WTB barracks.  It’s not home in word or feeling.

This place hurts.  From skin to soul.  I’m still unsure why I’m here.  Half want to help, half of them can’t.  The other half doesn’t care.

I have a heavy week upcoming.  Appointments from 9:30 to 4:30 one of the days.  I’m not looking forward to the pain that’s certain to come, or the humiliating neurological problems that may.  That some, those whose jobs it is to help and heal, deny a problem, or perhaps more apt, the problem worsens the foreboding.  All my limbs, no sucking chest wound, no piping hot metal, and all’s well.  Or I’m faking it.  A different standard.  An absence of standard.  This place is foreign.  This isn’t my home.