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.