Tag: PTSD

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Mysteries of Mental Illness

This one is probably not going to be terribly long, it is sort of my version of a PSA.  Airing tonight and tomorrow night on your local PBS station (or through the app, if that’s how you PBS) the documentary Mysteries of Mental Illness will air.  It airs at 9:00 PM Eastern (check your local listings for when it airs on your particular nape of the neck) and each night there will be two, hour long episodes, back-to-back. 

Here is my best attempt at providing a link to the trailer featuring Ryan.

The documentary crew followed Ryan, Danielle, and kids, off and on, for several months last year, including part of the inaugural RFOL last May. I’ve watched several of the trailers for this series and they are pretty powerful. Of course it’s easy for me to say that about the segment on him, but I mean each and every bit that I’ve watched has given me pause. And, in more than one case, has caused me to examine my own beliefs about some of the topics the show discusses. And realizing just how wrong society in general, and myself in particular, was about many things. A little self reflection is ok with me though.

So, I don’t know when specifically his segment will air, or if it is going to be woven throughout the entire documentary. But if you’re the least bit interested, from what I’ve seen it will be worth your while.

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Now Where Was I?

Welp, I pooped in a box today. How’s that for a way to start this post? 

That’s not technically true btw. I actually pooped into a plastic bucket and then placed the bucket inside the box. This is all due to my annual checkup, which took place last week. My Doc gave me the option of sending a sample in vs getting a colonoscopy and I chose the poop in a box route. It was ridiculously convenient too. I came home from running errands one afternoon and saw a package waiting for me on my front porch and thought “Ooooooh I got something!”  You can imagine my disappointment when I realized that, instead of some tasty treat a thoughtful, Beautiful Blonde has sent me, I would soon poop in a box.  Once you start saying that, it’s not easy to stop, it kind of rolls off the tongue, which is probably the wrong metaphor to use given the subject matter.  Still, you have to admit I’m right. Also, it got me thinking about jobs. There are many, many great jobs out there. I think I can safely say opening boxes of poop; eight hours a day, five days a week, is not one of them. I’m not sure what would be worse; knowing box after box after box contains someone’s poop, or opening a box and being surprised that the contents were poop. Probably the surprise box, but the surprise would wear off pretty quickly after the 40th or 50th box, I’m sure. And, yet, someone does this job. I hope it at least pays well. 

I’ve been thinking about jobs for the last week or two, a lot more than usual. This is due to a handful of conversations I’ve had lately with the Heir to the Throne. Wonderful grandchild that he is, he came out to central North Carolina to pay me a visit and get away from some of the stressors life can throw at a 19 year old. And there are many. We’ve talked about jobs, careers, futures, relationships, several things of a serious nature. We’ve also talked a little bit about pooping in a box, because who better to appreciate hearing about poop in a box than a teenage male?  

It hasn’t all been serious talks though. We’ve also managed to sneak in a little fishing along with a quick trip out to the mountains where we did a little sightseeing.  While an attempted stop at Grandfather Mountain turned into an epic fail; due to the pandemic you can only get access if you make an appointment, which we did not do, our Plan B became a stop at Linville Falls, which was beautiful.  We’ve also visited what has become my go-to group of restaurants in the area for guests from back home. Lexington BBQ for, well, bbq; Magnolia 23 for old-school, home-style, Southern cooking; and Johnson’s for a lovely local favorite, cheeseburgers “all the way” which is to say a cheeseburger with chili, slaw, and mustard on it. It’s pretty tasty too, despite how you may think it sounds. I’m really glad he was able to come out for a visit, I think it did both of us some good.

He’s heading home tomorrow morning. I am too actually although I’ll be a couple hours behind him. I’m coming home for a couple weeks to give Ryan and Danielle a hand.  Ryan starts a new, still experimental, treatment using the drug ketamine. The long-term results are encouraging, so here’s hoping. He’ll need a chauffeur for the treatments, since there will be some short-term level of impairment involved, and that’s where I come in. Six treatments over ten days.

Ok, so quick disclaimer; I wrote the bulk of what you’ve read so far Friday morning while the car was getting a pre-road trip service.  I’m currently sitting at the kitchen table watching the two littlest ones playing in their inflatable pool in the backyard while #LillyNO is crashed on the couch.  We drove in yesterday, pretty uneventfully.  Well, let me take that back.  Yesterday was, in fact, a momentous trip in that, in all of the shuttles back and forth from NC to IL, #LillyNO had NEVER produced a drop of pee in the fine state of West Virginia even though every, single trip, either northbound or southbound included a stop there.  You may recall, or not, that I’m particularly fond of stopping in Beckley, WV where there is a place, Tamarack, that features work by local artisans.  It’s a great place to walk around a bit, get a bite to eat, and check out the work of some really talented people.  We have spent, literally, as long as an hour there, walking around the pet-walking area, while #LillyNO sniffs everything and anything and yet, never, ever did what I intended her to do while we were stopped there.  And yesterday, as we neared exit 45 (the Tamarack exit) or at least we were within 25 miles of it, #LillyNO started whining, like, a LOT, so I pulled off at the next exit.  We walked around for maybe five minutes when, lo and behold, she burst her WV seal so to speak.  I can’t imagine beaming more brightly if I had won a Pulitzer and a Nobel on the same day. Shoot throw in a Grammy, Tony, Oscar, Heisman, or any other award for that matter.

Ok, disclaimer number two… I had to walk away from this production several hours ago when, according to my laptop, the server at Word Press stopped functioning. I’m guessing maybe the fact that it was receiving content from me for the first time in a really long time short-circuited something.

I’m gonna wrap this one up here before something else happens and I can’t get it posted. I’m hoping this will get those of you that have been questioning why I haven’t written anything to get off my proverbial back. You know who you are. I’m looking at you Ray.

With a little luck, I’m going to try and squeeze in a visit or two with some friends while I’m here, but I make no promises. Love to all.

Peace

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Deadlines

If you’ve spent any amount of time here, specifically over the last ten months or so, you are likely well aware of what’s been happening with my family. I’m speaking, in general about my son Ryan’s struggles with PTSD, but in particular, I’m speaking about Run For Our Lives and the effort Ryan and Danielle are making to call attention to, and raise money for, Illinois Firefighter Peer Support (ILFFPS) which is the resource they turned to when he was in a crisis state and almost added to the 130 firefighters that died last year by suicide.

One of the few ways Ryan has almost always been able to find solace, especially when he was deep in the throes of his PTSD, was through running. He’s been a runner for pretty much his entire adult life. The joy he’s found on the road or trail as he runs has helped him find some peace, even at times when that felt like the last thing he would ever achieve. So running was a natural way for him to try to raise funds to pay forward on behalf of firefighters that may be dealing with demons similar to those he’s fighting.

When Ryan and Danielle explained to me what they were doing; that he would run one kilometer for every firefighter that died in 2019 by suicide, and how it would work; that they would have people sign up to run “alongside” him in a virtual 130 km run, the skeptical part of my mind kicked in. Fortunately, I kept my big mouth shut. The last thing either of them needed from me at the time was doubt. But as they told me their goal was to get 50 people to sign up for their virtual run, which would take place from February 1st to May 30th, I thought that might be pretty tough to reach.

Let me just say, HAH!

I have rarely, if ever, been more glad to be wrong about something in my life. As of last night the registration total stood at 90. Which is incredible, to say the least.

But really, to be thisclose to DOUBLING their initial goal? I stand even more amazed at the fortitude those two have shown in the face of incredible adversity. I’m always, always, always proud of all of my kids. My bonus kids too. So the very least I can do is put this out there for any of you that have been thinking about signing up to be a part of this. Today is your last day to sign up.

As a reminder, $100 of the $130 registration fee will go to ILFFPS to help them provide essential service to firefighters, and their families, that find themselves teetering on the brink. You’ll be sent a Google Doc to track your mileage (in case you’re wondering, 130 km translates to 80.7 miles), you’ll be invited to a private Facebook group for encouragement, you’ll get, upon completion, some cool race swag in the form of a t-shirt and a medal. And, maybe best of all, you’ll be playing a role in helping to save someone’s life.

Think about that for a minute. Does it sound hyperbolic? Maybe. But it’s the truth. The $100 sent in from your registration will help save lives. What better feeling is there than that?

I’m keeping this one short today. A.) I don’t think I can top that last point and B.) I want to get this up on the interwebz as soon as I can. So I’mma end with this. If you’ve signed up already, thank you. If you’ve contemplated signing up, please do so, today. If my tired, old, ass can do this, your’s certainly can. It’s super simple to register, just follow this link to the form and don’t forget to submit your payment info at the bottom (I almost did when I registered. Don’t be me). Piece of cake.

And, of course,

Peace.

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Big Sigh

Let me start this by saying, I read a handful of different blogs, almost all of them about non-serious type things; sports, music, what have you. And, when I read them, I read them with a critical eye. I look at simple stuff mostly, spelling, grammar, typos, etc. When I find an error I shake my head, make a tsk-tsk noise and think to myself, how can you hit the “Publish” button without proofreading your stuff? When the frequency of these errors reaches a certain point, an arbitrary one admittedly, I tend to read that particular blog, or writer, with a jaded eye. Everything gets taken with a grain of salt; since they don’t even care enough to proofread their stuff, how can they care enough to confirm what they write? Makes perfect sense, right? Fwiw, I try to proofread my posts at least three times before I post them. In both edit mode and in preview mode because I figure the different looks will help me spot errors. And even after doing that, truth be told, it’s not unusual for me to go back and reread old posts and still spot a typo or some other screw up. Each one makes me a little crazy too. Not quite “a part of me dies” crazy but more like “JFC, how could I let that slip past me?” crazy. Which is a special kind of crazy all on its own.

That brings me to yesterday. Or maybe more accurately, this morning. When I sat down and reread yesterday’s post before trying to create another piece of finely crafted literature for your enjoyment. And a misspelled word jumped out at me. In the first effing sentence. So I fixed it and hit the “Update” button. Because I care about providing a quality product. Really, all joking aside, I care about what I put out here. Granted, it might not always seem that way, but I promise you, I do. And I kept reading. All the way to the second paragraph where another typo jumped out at me. Boy, I chastised myself. How did I miss these? Once again, I made the correction and hit “Update”. And kept reading. The wheels fell off in the third paragraph where I don’t even know what the hell happened. I know there was still oxygen in the coffeehouse atmosphere, because no groups of people around me passed out. Maybe somebody spiked my coffee, I don’t know, but whatever happened, I created a couple new words in there. So I made the corrections and, because learning had occurred, I waited to update the post until I’d found them all. Good thing too because I found a half dozen frickin’ errors in the bloody post. Good god, I hope I found them all. I’m a little afraid to go back and read it again, you know?

So, I want to apologize to anyone and everyone that read yesterday’s festival of errors. Especially due to the nature of the post. I assure you, the information I passed along was all legit, the stories are all true, they were just delivered to you in an incredibly fumble-fingered way and personally, I expect more from myself. As readers, regular or not, you should expect better of me than what you were served yesterday. At least the links all worked. I hope.

I kind of sat on this one for a few hours, to see if I wanted to add anything, and I think I’m good with where it is. So I’m going to close it out by linking to the well, maybe not new and improved, but certainly (I hope) more readable, version of yesterday’s post. Enjoy.

Peace.

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Run For Our Lives

I’ve referenced titling these gems on occasion here, that sometimes it’s harder to come up with a title than it is the subject. Well, this one was easy enough to title, since my focus is on the ongoing efforts of my son and daughter-in-law to promote awareness, and prevention, of firefighter suicide. For those of you that haven’t been following along, Run For Our Lives is the fundraising effort they’ve started since Ryan “went public” with his PTSD. He’ll be raising money by running one kilometer for every firefighter to die by suicide in 2019. As compiled by Firefighter Behavioral Health Alliance that number is 130. So on May 30, 2020 he’ll take off on a run of 130 km (80.7 miles). The target of this fundraising effort is Illinois Firefighter Peer Support Group which is the organization Danielle reached out to for help as Ryan sank deeper into the depths of his PTSD. Their support, by my son’s own admission, helped prevent him from becoming a statistic.

The method for meeting the goal they’ve set, raising $10,000.00 for ILFFPS, is called a virtual run. As I said, Ryan will be doing his run on May 30, 2020, however the virtual run will take place beginning February 1st and must be completed by May 30th. So you can run as much or as little each day until you hit the 130 kilometer mark. In case I’ve left something out, or caused you confusion about how this works, here’s a short video explaining the virtual run –

I don’t think the video mentioned the registration fee, although I know it’s on the form (link to follow), but the cost is $130.00. Of this amount, $100.00 will go to Illinois Firefighter Peer Support to assist them as they work to support Fire and EMS personnel in crisis. Let me take a minute here to say I recognize this post is already link intensive, but there’s a lot of information to share, and it’s important that this stuff gets out there accurately. Also I’m not done linking stuff so…

For instance, late last week the Chicago Tribune put up this story about Ryan and Danielle and their path through PTSD to this point. It’s been picked up by numerous outlets and is helping spread the word that we need to stop stigmatizing PTSD and instead need to address it for what it is, a fact of life for many people, but one that need not destroy lives. I feel like I need to say something here, not that I’ve been shy about saying it to anyone at any time, but I feel like it needs to come out again. I’m incredibly proud of both Ryan and Danielle for what they’ve gone through, what they’re going through and dealing with what lies ahead of them. This obviously hasn’t been easy for either of them, but they’ve responded to the challenge placed in their lives wonderfully. I also want to acknowledge the incredible outpouring of support they’ve received to this point from so many people, thanks for that.

I think I’m down to one last link for this post but it is likely the most important one, the registration form for anyone that wants to take part in the virtual run. It’s a Google document so it should be easy for even the most computer illiterate among us to fill out and submit and, as I mentioned above, the money raised is going to an incredibly worthwhile cause. Clicking on this link will take you to the document and following the instructions there will get you registered. If you’ve already registered, thank you! If you haven’t please consider signing up today. Together we can make a difference. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s the truth.

This picture was taken by Danielle and it is, to me anyway, one of the most powerful pictures I’ve seen in some time. Let’s hope through our efforts, no one on this job has to feel this sense of being overwhelmed again. Thanks.

Peace.

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The Neverending Story

I’ve had a few people asking me why I haven’t written anything lately and when I would. I’ve had some ideas bounce around my head, and was thinking I was ready to do something, maybe something light-hearted to get me back into the swing of things.

With apologies to the book/movie, the universe again provided. I wish it hadn’t.

But this really is how it feels some days.

Like today.

Mixed in amongst all the well wishes (thanks for those btw) I found out one of my son’s friends/mentors from his time at the IAFF Behavioral Heath Center took his own life last night. And so, I found myself sitting in my carport this morning, tears streaming down my face. For a man I never met.

I can’t begin to imagine how this blow struck my son. But it is a stark reminder of just how fragile the human psyche is. And how difficult it is to find, and keep, your balance.

For those of you that aren’t aware, my son is back in a counseling program, an outpatient program about 35 minutes from home. The last few times we’ve spoken, he has seemed to be in better spirits, but in all honesty, when we chat, it is such a small snapshot of his day, I’m not sure how he feels. And even if I was back in Illinois, I’m not sure I’d know. But, in all honesty, this is one of the times where the miles between us feels even farther than it really is.

My son and daughter-in-law continue working on Run For Our Lives and if you haven’t already “liked” their page, I urge you to do so to keep current on their progress. As a reminder, he’ll be running one kilometer for every firefighter suicide in 2019. As of October 31st, that number was 101 and quite frankly, that boggles my mind. The money they raise will go to Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support, (855-90-SUPPORT) a wonderful organization that has done, and continues to do, so much to help men and women in our chosen profession cope with the often overwhelming nature of the job. Even my simple math skills tell me that we’re looking at roughly 120 Fire Fighter suicides by the end of the year.

That’s too many.

Too many people that can’t find the answers. Too many people that feel they have nowhere else to turn. Too many people that can’t find peace. Too many people that feel taking their own life is the best, maybe only, possible choice.

As a parent, we’re programmed to provide for our children. And, when we are unable to provide the thing they need, the burden weighs heavy. This is not something that goes away when your child reaches a certain age. When it happens, we dig in and do whatever we can to try and help. But it rarely feels like enough, especially when crap keep coming at them in waves. A week or so ago I was able to offer up an analogy that resonated with him during a rough stretch. It felt great to know that I was able to contribute in some small way. But it never feels like enough. So I’ll do what I can, and in this case, what I do best, and write about our experiences so that hopefully sharing our pain will help open a door for someone, somewhere, in need.

This image, taken by my daughter-in-law, is one that sums up his struggle brilliantly. I hope that our story helps eliminate what it so perfectly illustrates.

Elliott, I hope you find the peace you sought but couldn’t find here in this plane.

Rest In Peace.

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The Fight For What’s Right

I had been thinking for the last few days I should put up a post here, kind of a scattered thought semi-mess of some of the events from the last several days plus the pending visit of a couple guys from the firehouse.

That all changed this morning when I read this post from my daughter-in-law, PhojoMama. In truth, I had read a draft of it last night, she asked my opinion on a couple things and I offered my input, fwiw. But when I saw it was posted, I sat down and read it again. And, like with my son’s earlier post, this time I read it as a Dad. Now, I know many of you know us IRL, so you may have aready seen her post. And if you have we appreciate you. But if you haven’t seen it yet, please take a couple minutes to read it. It’s an incredibly powerful, intensely personal look into the spouses perspective of PTSD and touches on a few of the hurdles she/they had and are having to overcome. I will tell you this though. If you’re not in a location where you can let emotion flow, wait until you are before you read it. As I looked at the laughing face of my son in the photo she chose to use on the post, I thought, again, about how close we came to losing him. She makes several key points too, not the least of which is that spouses, significant others, or really, any loved one, needs access to the information to get the help their first responder needs when they need it.

Yesterday marked the start of National Suicide Prevention Week. A couple quick statistics for you from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention website- Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. In 2017 there were 1.4 MILLION suicide attempts. 47,173 Americans died by suicide that same year. So to say I’m grateful to the powers that be for my son choosing to seek help rather than an end, it’s possibly the largest understatement of my life.

A couple other points I’d like to make. First, for those who brush, either suicide or an attempt at suicide, off as a sign of weakness, I’d like to ask you to perform an act that’s anatomically impossible. If you need clarification, it rhymes with “Go truck yourself”. I’d also like to ask you how it is that you can so deeply understand the history, the psyche, the trauma, the scars, the fears, the, well, the everything of a person that truly feels they have no alternative other than to end the pain? Really. What makes you an authority? And maybe more importantly, what happened in your past that sucked the compassion from you?

Ok, that’s starting to take a turn on me and I’d rather stay a little more focused. Because here’s the other point I’d like to make. I don’t claim to know a lot about politics or politicians. But here’s what I do know. When constituents call, write, or stop in for a chat, they tend to listen. And when whatever you present to them is compelling, they tend to act on it. And they should be shocked to learn that we lose roughly the same number of first responders each year to suicide as we do to on-the-job line-of-duty deaths. That’s pretty compelling. So here’s my larger point behind writing this today. Especially for my friends and family still in Illinois. Contact your elected state officials; State Representatives, State Senators and let them know this. Currently, in Illinois, there are minimal protections in place for psychological injuries sustained on-the-job. That needs to change. Blow out your knee on a call and you’re covered until you are ready to return to work. But blow out the synapses that keep you mentally in tune and you’re shit out of luck. Now, I’ll tell you this up front, firefighters are generally loved and respected right up until the point they ask for something. So if you talk to Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. political person and they seem all bright and happy until you explain what you’re looking for and then their mood changes, well, that’s why. On the good side, legislation to help protect first responders shouldn’t be cost-prohibitive from a tax standpoint. On the bad side, I feel it likely would add expense to a municipality to provide this higher level of coverage. Also, I feel confident in saying the insurance industry will probably fight passage of a bill of this sort. So our work is cut out for us. Maybe you’ll find out the value your politicians place on their first responders. As a resource, Kentucky recently passed legislation to this effect. And you can share that information with the politicians as a way to get the ball rolling. As I move towards the end of this, I’ve got one last link, at least for my Illinois friends. If you don’t know your elected officials, by clicking here you can enter your address and find out how to contact them. Now, I’m not going to put a link like that for all 50 states, but I would like to say that it really is easy to find out who represents you in your statehouse so fire up your Google machine, you non-Illinoisans and get some help for the people that have your backs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, whether you realize it or not. And if any of my non-Illinoisan friends would like to share this and put up state-specific info for wherever they are, I would be truly grateful.

Ok, I lied. Here’s one more link, in case you or someone you love needs it. It goes to Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support.

Let’s make a difference.

Peace.

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Keep Moving Forward

So, for this post, I’m doing very little of the writing. Allow me to explain. A couple hours ago, I got a text from my son, asking me to proofread something before he posted it to his social media accounts. I did, and after making a couple minor suggestions, asked him if I could put it up here. He graciously agreed. I’m not gonna lie, once I took off the proofreader hat and put on the Dad hat, I cried as I read it. It’s very powerful and in addition to illuminating the ongoing struggles he and his immediate family face down, it’s a sobering reminder of how close we came to losing him.

And not even knowing he was in pain.

That’s it for me, for now. I’ll probably put a little bit at the end. But the rest of what you read will be his words…

This is going to be a bit of a long and personal post. I pre-apologize for that. I don’t usually read them myself so I can understand if you keep scrolling. But if you’ve stayed this long maybe you’ll read a little further.                                                           

This is what PTSD and anxiety looks like for me today. I’m not having a particularly great morning. I had a triggering (I hate the buzzwords, but I don’t know how else to label it) day yesterday. Some work related, some not. I was on edge most of the day yesterday. I felt depressed. I tried to work through it. I tossed and turned most of the night. I came home from work this morning thinking that I was fine. But I wasn’t. I promptly snapped at Danielle when she asked me a simple question. I didn’t even realize I had done it until I noticed her change in demeanor. Then I could feel it coming back in the pit of my stomach. That awful feeling of guilt, shame, self doubt.

“Why did you snap at her?”

“What’s your problem”

“Pull your shit together”. 

After I took the kids to daycare I laid in bed for an hour and felt bad for myself. I really beat myself up about it. I tried to talk to Danielle about it but she was at work already and wasn’t really in a place where she could have that kind of cPonversation. So there I laid. Catastrophizing. 

I started to run. I hated every step. I ran too hard at the start and bonked a few miles in. So I took a lot of walk breaks. So many walk breaks. But I just kept moving forward. I wanted to quit so much. I started breaking it down into more digestible segments. “Run to that fire hydrant and then walk for 5 seconds” I did that over the last 4 miles. It sucked. But I eventually finished. My first long run training up for what will culminate in my longest run ever. Next spring. 

Today was my first long run as a part of my training plan. I didn’t want to do it. The thought of getting out of bed was too much. So I laid there some more. Then through a series of thoughts I remembered the fundraiser I’m working on (more on that shortly) I couldn’t give in to my feelings. I had to get up. So I did. 

Late spring of 2020 I am going to run a kilometer for every firefighter that commits suicide in 2019. As of this moment that number is north of 60. It’s been over 100 for the last several years. I almost contributed to that number. I’m doing this run to raise money for Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support. The organization that helped me get to a place where I could get the help that I needed. I will be getting a link to donate directly to them. I’m not sure how successful this fundraiser will be. But I’m going to try to make it big. It needs to be big. People need to know there’s help. 

As a part of the build up to this event, and the run itself, Danielle is going to be documenting my story and my struggles. She’s a phenomenal storyteller & I think with her help we can really make a difference in people’s lives. 

If you made it all the way through, thank you. And stay tuned for details on next springs fundraiser.

There you have it. I’m so proud of the transparency he’s willing to show, baring his soul on the page like this. I can’t think of a better way to remove the stigma than to get this out in the open so people in need are more willing to talk about it without feeling they’re showing weakness. As I said, I’ll publicize the shit out of his efforts, and this is the first of what I hope will be many reminders.

One last thing, and this holds true with anything I post here, if you feel so inclined, please share the post. Hopefully someone that may need to see the message my son is sharing, will see it that way.

Peace

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PTSD

You may have noticed I haven’t produced any content here in, oh, almost two months. There are many reasons for this, and I’m not about to bore you with any of them. Instead, I’d like to do this. Devote today’s post to something different from my typical light-hearted fare and dive right into the topic I’ve chosen to come back here with.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Last fall I wrote about the way we (mis)treat our veterans and I included some statistics I found on the interwebz along with some nonprofits that provide essential services to vets in need. I had no idea how close to home any of this was at the time. I found out just how close it was this past April.

I had already planned a trip back to Illinois for various grandkids events. What I hadn’t planned for was finding out my son had been diagnosed with PTSD as a result, not only of his time in the Army, but that service coupled with coming home from Baghdad to the immediate aftermath of Caitlin’s death with a topper of the often times life and death (emphasis on the death part) of our chosen career.

For some background, after he graduated high school he knew he wanted to make the fire service his career. The fly in the ointment was that he was too young to test for FD jobs at that point. I had told him, probably several times, that I thought the military would be a good experience for him. As I’ve said numerous times, both here and IRL, he was never a bad kid by any means, but I felt that the self-discipline the military would teach him would serve him well as an adult.

Then September 11th happened.

And, of course, everything changed.

In January 2003 he was sent to Kuwait for the second time. His unit had spent several months there in 2002, but this time they prepped in earnest for what would become Operation Iraqi Freedom. In March of 2003 his unit was among the first into Iraq. They were in country for about eight weeks when Caitlin was killed and I contacted the Red Cross to get him home, ultimately too late to say good bye to her.

Due to his short-timer status (he only had a few months left in his enlistment) he was allowed to stay stateside after Caitlin’s funeral. I don’t recall exactly how long he was able to stay with Diane and I but it seems as though it was several weeks, maybe a month, before he had to go back to Fort Benning, GA to finish out his enlistment. We didn’t talk much about his time overseas in these days. The only conversations I remember having with him were that it took him about two weeks of being home to stop scanning the rooflines for snipers for one; and that one day, as he cut the grass for me, a couple neighborhood kids innocently lit off some firecrackers. It was a week or two before July 4th, so that wasn’t unusual. His response to the sound of the firecrackers was to hit the ditch. That’s the environment he had come from, so I understood it and wasn’t too alarmed when he told me. I figured as he reacclimated to civilian life, he’d get a better handle on things.

I had no clue how wrong I was.

We had always been able to talk about any number of topics, he and I. But, looking back, few of the topics were of a serious nature. And I don’t say that to throw stones at either of us, more as matter-of-fact. I don’t believe for a second that either of us feared difficult conversations. Maybe more that by our nature we each tend to put off the difficult conversations.

So now, flash forward to April 2019. A got a text from my daughter-in-law one morning asking if I had a few minutes to talk. I did and she called me a moment or two later.

As I listened to her tell me my son had been diagnosed with PTSD I felt all the air in my lungs leave me. I had had no clue. And as the realization that I’d had no clue washed over me, I felt an almost instant sense of failure. How could I have missed something like this? How could I never once have a conversation with him about this? And, almost as quickly, I recognized the same behavior in myself. I mean, after all, I chose the name of this blog due to my own ability to hide personal struggles from the general public. Again, this is not me pointing fingers, this is me trying to lay this out as matter-of-factly as I can. These were the thoughts that went through my head. And they rocked my world like it hadn’t been rocked in a very long time.

Since I had planned on coming home in about ten days anyway, I told her I’d pack up my stuff and be there as quickly as I could. So while they made arrangements to find in-patient counseling for him, I made arrangements to get out of town and on the road home. 48 hours after finding out, I was on the road back to Illinois to help out however I was needed. I figured, at the very least, I could provide some sense of normalcy for their two littles, since we soon found out Daddy would gone for around a month, maybe more, depending on how it went. He ended up getting admitted into a behavioral health center founded by our union, the International Association of Fire Fighters (IAFF) in suburban Baltimore, MD.

Just a few weeks prior to all this we had both attended a legislative conference for the union in Springfield and one of the speakers was a young woman from the center. I remembered something she had mentioned, it was something I’d heard before, but this time, it stuck. She said, if you encounter a friend or coworker that was struggling emotionally, you need to ask them if they’d had any thoughts about harming themself or others. And I mentioned that to my D-I-L and told her if she hadn’t asked him that, specifically, she needed to. She texted me back a little while later and said she asked him and he said that he had not. So that was a small sigh of relief. After he had been at the center for a few days we found out that he’d lied to her. He had, in fact, given thoughts to harming himself, the stress had gotten so bad. He said he couldn’t handle seeing anymore dead people. It goes without saying that’s a part of our job.

We were able to speak with him pretty much every day right from the start. And as his time there went on (he was in for 30ish days) and he made more progress the frequency of his calls increased. In all honesty, I worried that he was pushing to get released too soon. But he assured me that wasn’t the case, that he was truly ready. To say there were no bumps in the road after he returned would be a lie. There were, without question. To the point that he and I went for a drive one night so we could vent at each other, and, while in the car he gave me, for the first time since he came back from Iraq in 2003, an example of what he’d been dealing with since then, unbeknownst to all of us. And I’m not going to describe it for you other than to say it was pretty horrific. And I can’t imagine carrying it with me for any amount of time, let alone for sixteen years. But it really helped illuminate for me what he’d lived through and with for all those years.

The plan laid out for him to return from the center was; his first week was off work, to get back into the flow of home life. Then back on the job for a week of light-duty. Followed by a return to full duty. His time on light-duty was pretty helpful for him as he went to each of his firehouses on each shift to explain to them what he’d been through and what the center had done for him. Talking about it helped. His return to full duty came at him like a young Mike Tyson. Relentlessly. Each shift, for his first four shifts back, his crew had a cardiac arrest call. Karma gave no fucks, clearly.

But he continued, and continues, making baby steps forward. It helped a lot once the people that lived in the town he works stopped trying to die every day he worked, but more than that, the things he learned at the center helped him keep upright and moving in the right direction. Which is, of course, the best outcome we could have hoped for, all things considered.

I’ve tried over the years, and I think I’ve done an ok job, of telling him that I’m proud of him, proud of the man he’s become. He’s got a good heart, an empathetic soul, and he truly cares about others. I think he’s on the right track to caring equally about himself and his own well-being. To that end, he’s working on a fundraiser with the proceeds to support an organization that benefits firefighters- Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support . Imma tell you right now, as he figures out what he’s going to do on this front I’ll be publicizing the shit outta this.

Before I wrap this up I want to get a couple things out here. I’m usually hesitant to name people for fear of forgetting someone. Today, I’m going to take that chance. I need to thank in no particular order; the guys from my union, Local 3234 for offering support in any way needed and with no hesitation. The men and women from my son’s local, Local 4813 for truly displaying brotherhood and sisterhood in his time of need. Matt Olson, the driving force behind ILFFPS, for answering every question I threw at him and also taking the time to ask me if I was processing everything ok. Thanks to Wendy, Vin, Carey, and Laura for letting me unload on you when I needed someone to talk to because, of course, I still have a hard time showing weakness in front of my own kids, especially when I feel like they’re looking at me for strength. I need to thank my rock star of a daughter-in-law for, well, pretty much everything. You kept the wheels on at the house when we were struggling to understand the changes coming our way, all while putting up with the quirks Lilly and I brought. We’re truly blessed to have you in our family. And if there is anyone I forgot to mention, I’m so very sorry.

Lastly, if you’re reading this and you’re struggling with whatever personal demons you may face, please remember you’re not alone. Talk to someone, seek help, recognize your value as a human being and how important you are to someone else. Please.

Peace.