The Broken Soldier

A friend lives with a serious threat looming everyday. Her threateners: Her command. Her threatened punishment: Incarceration. The wording of the threats leveled against her: “The lesbians in military prison are waiting for you.” Her crime: Iraq Veterans Against the War membership.

I want you to think about that, my friends, before you do whatever it is you do on a Friday night. I want you think about that before you go to bed. This, my friends, is what those who defend your freedoms, ensure your safety, who guard the walls so well many of you don’t realize/recognize the evil gathering outside them, deal with everyday from their ’superiors.’

“Hutchinson, 1SG wants to know if you’d like to talk to COL Earls.” “Why would I?” “Okay.” Taken from my conversation with one of my squad leaders.

No one, and I mean no one at Ireland has my interest in mind. I know that. They know that. I’m sure those in my chain of command know that.

Had to go to the hospital to take care of my yearly HIV blood work (after already doing a Phase 1 physical, which includes blood work) and Hep vaccination. On the way down to Immunization, down steps because the elevators are often broken or maddeningly slow, LTC Raney - Deputy Hospital Commander, and also the guy gaining my assent to come here by telling me my stay would be between 2 weeks to three months; I’ve been here for 8 months - held the door with one hand while holding what looked like a Styrofoam cup of God-knows-what in the other held the basement door. As I passed, he looked at me with what I can only describe as a ’shit eating grin.’ As though he wanted me to know I know he and the rest got away with doing something wrong. Wasn’t surprising, and I didn’t bother acknowledging him or his expression.

Those in power at Ireland know what needs to be done. They know what is best for me, not only in terms of greater probable success with the nerve stimulator, but also in terms of keeping my sanity. That is to send me home for treatment, and then leave me there until my board is complete. Instead, they’ve opted to medicate me and shove me in a ten by ten box for past 8 months - calling this ‘treatment.’

After having my blood drawn, which took several pokes on several different areas of my anatomy, I was contemplating re-reading the Anarchist Cookbook so as to learn of a good way to raze that place to the ground. Useless as medical facility, perhaps it’d better serve as a large bond fire. After calming down a bit, I’ve decided on a different route. Those responsible will be burned, but not physically.

“For patient selection, psychological factors like fear avoidance, depression, secondary gain or refusal to be weaned off narcotics should be avoided. Trial Stimulation is an important tool to reduce the rate of failed permanent implants, and to improve cost-effectiveness. The etiology of pain has a strong influence on the success rate. The success rate is inversely proportional to the time interval from the initial onset of symptoms to the time of implantation (Kumar and Wilson (2007)).”

The decision-making powers (of that most refulgent constellation of medical stars) at Ireland have me shaking my head loose again. Colonel Earls, Commander, put the kibosh on a plan that would a) Get me home, and b) get my spinal cord stimulator implant trial quicker. The reason: “The Army no longer promotes remote statuses of any kind.” (My primary care doc, MAJ Hair, who I thought had my best interests in mind, added the silicon making command’s position airtight, “He knew he was going to be med-boarded when he got here.” Right on!)

Wrong. This contradicts the opinion of the recent visiting General. It contradicts common sense. And given that my current local trial is scheduled for July 30th, when the Pain Specialists of Michigan could perform the procedure in May, it contradicts the Hippocratic Oath.

Nicely played guys. You suck. But you already knew that. As will the rest of the Army when the results of the latest Inspector General’s report are released wide.

Reading the above quote from semi-recent lit, echoed in every other bit of lit I’ve read between 96 and 09, there are two matters germane to my case and the probable success of this implant: Depression and length of time between onset of symptoms and implantation. The longer I am here the more depressed I become. The longer these folks dick around, the less likely this procedure, the only procedure left on the shelf with any hope of relieving my chronic pain, will succeed. Did I mention you guys suck? What’s worse, you don’t really care.

To my wife, yes Sarah, I am very interested in pursuing publication of my experiences and those of other soldiers (approx. 30 have agreed at this time) at Ireland Army Community Hospital. An interested major publisher, the hell you say? I’m sure I could have a synopsis and sample chapter finished before, ah, um, eto, July 30th!

“Baby Cody” isn’t a baby. He’s a six foot four-five inch, two hundred and fifty pound man. I call him baby Cody cuz for a time I raised him. He’s my baby brother.

Got word today Cody, a six year combat medic recently returning from Iraq where he was attached to Infantry/MP, with clear symptoms of debilitating PTSD, was told he’d have ‘a rough time getting a claim through Detroit Regional.’ That is, ‘unless he uses a service organization.’

I’m not surprised, though I am disappointed. JR and I had to really push Cody to seek help. I feel guilty that, in a sense, I’m responsible for his experiences today. Detroit Regional has a terrible reputation. In fact, they’re rated one of the worst Regional Offices in the US, and the State of Michigan has one of the lowest average compensation rates in the country. For those who aren’t aware, there are no explanations for these “differences” consistent with the law.

Cody ducks at various times of the day for no apparent reason. He engaged in similar behavior during raids on his AO. He jumps when cars backfire. He has nightmares, hypnogogia, startles easy, is generally depressed and anxious, and other symptoms consistent with PTSD (not listed to somewhat spare his privacy). He lost three (3) men in his care after fire-fights.

Cody has clear symptoms. Cody has clear stressors. The law is clearly on the side of awarding Cody compensation. Yet this motherfucker, on the first day of his claim process, is already running him around.

Cody, when you read this, I want his name and any other information you have on him in a comment. I want those reading here with juice to see what passes for ‘helping’ GWOT vets. This, my friends, to include Hugh and Stetson, is why I’m so pissed off. I wonder why you aren’t equally pissed.

Guess I should catch everyone up. I’m still at Knox. Still hating it, but at the same time, I know I’ll miss it when I’m gone. Still waiting for the spinal nerve implant, the follow-on care, and to be sent home to wait for completion of my boards. The hold-up has something to do with getting my DEERS eligibility figured out (something I was led to believe had already been done months ago).

Pain has not improved. Worsened actually. My attitude about the pain has changed. In part due to a renewed and more vigorous faith, and in part to higher dosages of psychoactive drugs - like Cymbalta, Clonopin, Hydroxyzine, and Ritalin. (Yeah, I’m on Ritalin. And you know what? I still hate doing math.) I’m also taking Atenolol - as my pain spikes, I have panic attacks, and my bp goes to 170 something over 110 something, and occasionally above. While I might look cute post-stroke, I sorta like my brain the way it is. And I fear if “stroked” I’d be living in a cage in our basement, and Sarah would be getting better acquainted with our pool boy. (Though I’d probably not know the difference.)

A couple of my providers are mistakenly assuming I’m significantly improved - based on running into them in the hallways at Ireland. I’m not. They all point to the same comparison. On the first day I was wheelchair bound. Now I can get on with a cane, and am usually in a good enough mood to politely smile and exchange a joke or two. But put me through two days of constant sitting, standing, and walking, and I’ll be right back to that damnable wheelchair. Especially now that I’ve refused to continue taking pain medication.

Sarah came down for a visit. She brought the dogs and my car. It was nice. My platoon leader told me to ‘disappear.’ So I disappeared. Very cool of him. I got to snuggle my babies. Best cure for what ills God or man could create.

Enjoying a bit of freedom was nice too. I normally rely on base transportation to get where I need to go. That means abiding by their rules - such as refusing to take soldiers to or from restaurants, tobacco shops, bars (titty or otherwise), and pretty much anywhere fun and or sinful activities may occur. Old enough to be maimed and killed in training or battle. Not old enough to eat a Bennigan’s, get cigarettes, have a Guinness (with or without booby accompaniment), or do/go where we please. Thank God for Paternalism. I’d hate to see we wounded warriors having a bit of non-issued mandatory fun.

Sarah was gone for about half the visit. She had work stuff to attend to. Things I’d try to explain if I understood them. Some-it bout creating the specs for the new Second Life viewer. I wish I knew what that meant. She made great impressions on everyone, as I knew she would (as she always does). Her job appears secure, and her upward mobility seems to be too. Keep bringing home that bacon, momma.

While Sarah was in San Fran, I would just get in the Pathfinder and drive. I happened across a beautiful 4-5 star hotel (built circa 1905, making it a historical landmark) in search of a cane with a little more character than the standard black, retractable, foam-handled Army Physical Therapy issue (which was harder to do than one might imagine, as most fancy canes are made for short people and others with inferior phenotypes). The men’s section of the hotel shop had no canes. The concierge, after we enjoyed a couple Djarums together, sent me down the street about 100 yards or so from the hotel’s front steps to “Fresh and Funky Male Wears” or something like that. This shop was full of, I don’t know how else to describe it, clothes that black people would wear to Church. I saw one guy leaving with a shiny gold suit, a purple vest, a yellow Robin Hood hat (sans feather), a shiny brown tie (clearly a clip-on), and what appeared to be Giorgio Brutini ‘frog black’ canoe-shaped shoes. He was either a Reverend or a pimp. Or possibly both.

I hobbled back towards the hotel. On the way I met a young lady who had clearly lost her grasp of reality. She mumbled something to me about being an Army brat, told me to “Stop doing that,” and stumbled across the street. In fear she could have harmed herself or others, I called the cops. Didn’t know what else to do.

I let the concierge know “Fresh and Funky” didn’t quite fit my style. He knowingly grinned, almost as though he had sent me there as a goof, and motioned for me to follow him. He noticed the haircut. The walk. The look of pride and strength even while in pain. “You’re a soldier,” he said. “Yeah.” “I got just the thing.” He took me down the elevator to the lost and found. He did a bit of rummaging, and found what he was looking for. With a beaming smile he turned and held up what’s become my new primary cane. A single piece of bamboo, approximately 34 inches tall, varnished, and topped with what is clearly a 4-5 inch tall hand-carved dragon’s head handle. With a bit of restoration, it’s perfect. I asked that he accept an honorarium, which he promptly declined, saying, “It’s been here for almost a year. If the gentlemen it belongs to comes back, I’ll take the heat in thanks for your service.” Wow. What else can be said about that?

Sarah got back a couple days later. We spent the remaining time together in the hotel room with the dogs, leaving only for food and other supplies. Due to inclement weather, we got to spend an extra day together. Very nice.

The day she left was very hard on us both. Sarah cried most of the drive between the hotel and the base. I tried to be strong, but broke down a few times in spite of my best efforts (though my tears hid behind my Oakley sunglasses). When we arrived on the WTU footprint, I knew right where to go: CH Jim Boyle’s office. We prayed, cried some more, laughed a little, hugged, and went on our ways. I felt better. Not sure Sarah did.

After smoking several cigarettes at the smoke pad, crying and shaking, I spent the rest of that day in my room, by myself, periodically breaking down. It gets a little harder every time she leaves. My caseworker has promised a late April homecoming. I certainly hope so. While there is good being done here, this place is wearing me out. “Home is where I want to be.”