Tuesday, March 13, 2012

PTSD on a Greyhound Bus

(Continued from Saturday . . . )
Three years ago, the counselor I visit once every three weeks suggested that I had PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. I thought she was kidding. I’d never been to war. Never been involved in daily strife.
            She insisted that several happenings explained why, when greatly stressed, I went from serenity to desolation in a nanosecond. In the past year, that has happened twice:
1.     Late one evening last April I realized that the skin cancer I have—mycosis fungoides, a type of cutaneous T-cell lymphoma—could kill me. Within a matter of seconds I imagined myself so ill that I’d be unable to complete a manuscript. There you have it. Serene one moment; desolation the next.
2.     Last August I blithely ran the sweeper over a pile of wet dirt from a plant, thus staining the carpet. Within a mere second I had myself staying here in Missouri and being unable to move back to Minnesota because I couldn’t afford new carpeting and so couldn't sell the house. Serenity becomes desolation.
The reason I resisted the counselor’s suggestion for several months is that I’d once met a person who’d experienced PTSD on a Greyhound bus headed from Kansas City, Missouri, to Minneapolis, Minnesota.



I’d been visiting my father for spring break in 1971and was headed back to Minnesota. Next to me sat a young soldier who’d recently returned from Vietnam. He was traveling north to Ames, Iowa, to visit college friends. He sat next to the window; I, by the aisle. We began to talk. His voice quavered as he spoke; his hands trembled.
I’d read enough about the two world wars to wonder if he wasn’t suffering from shell shock, or “battle fatigue.” The term post-traumatic stress syndrome was just coming into usage in the early seventies for men and women who came home from Vietnam, troubled by an array of symptoms—one of them flashbacks.


As we traveled north toward Iowa, I asked the young man about his days in high school. He’d been a quarterback on his high school football team. I knew nothing about the game, but my ignorance was good because explaining the game seemed to calm him.
The sun set; darkness settled within the bus. We were now comfortable enough with each other for the young solider to confide that his sweetheart was afraid of him. His parents loved him but couldn’t understand why he’d come home so different from the cherished son they’d sent off to war. He feared sudden noise. Flashing lights. Yelling. He shared all this somewhat apologetically—as if he were unfit. Unmanly. Not a credit to the uniform he’d worn.
An eighteen-wheeler passed us, blinking its lights and honking, creating a wave of movement. Suddenly the young man—the soldier—the son of parents who’d been proud—began to shout. “Charlie! Get down!” Trembling, he crouched in the space between his seat and the back of the one in front of him.
The semi passed. Then other cars zoomed by, their speed swaying the bus. Blurring headlights in the deep night. Honking.
All of this caused his flashback. He was there in the jungles of Vietnam. Charlie—the enemy Viet Cong—loomed there, ready to kill him and his buddies.
He stood suddenly, whispering hoarsely, “It’s an ambush!” Pushing me aside to get to the aisle, he weaved down the narrow passageway, trying to avoid those remembered bullets. His shouts splintered the darkness with fear.
I following, hearing a cacophony of complaints: “It’s unseemly, acting like that!” “He’s drunk.” “Grab him! He’s got a gun!” Throughout all of this, the bus driver asked for calm. His plea was met with the command, “Stop the bus! Put him off the bus!”
The young man was at the front now. Panting. His eyes darting right and left. Fear scored his face as he turned back and faced all those people in the dark. “It’s Charlie,” he shouted. “Get down! Charlie!”
I began to sing to him. “Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then oh why can’t I? . . . “
 I sang; the passengers grumbled. And the young soldier? Ever so slowly he relaxed his shoulders. Then he grabbed hold of me and began to cry. I enfolded him in my arms and led him back to his seat. Slowly, as if he were an aged warrior, the youth sat down, then hunched over, his tears spattering the floor. Those around us told him to be quiet. “It’s unseemly,” I heard again.
Suddenly, I’d had enough. I stood up and shouted. I was so angry, I’m really not sure what I said, but something like this: “This man’s shell shocked! He fought in Vietnam and he’s come home with terrifying memories. Cut him some slack. He’s been wounded by the war. He’s having a flashback.”
Some of the women stopped crying. Some men stopped grumbling. But others shouted that both of us should be put off the bus. We’d disturbed their sleep.
The young man sobbed as if his heart were broken in two. Someone from the front yelled, “He’s a coward!” and I yelled back, “Takes one to know one!”
Then I came out with my all the swear words I knew at the time. “Dammit to hell, what’s wrong with you bastards! Don’t you realize this man’s wounded? The war wounded his mind! If he’d lost a leg or an arm, you’d have some empathy. Why not for his mind? Tell me that! Why not?”


By now we were coming into Ames, Iowa, the destination of the young man. Whispering, gossiping about what had happened, the passengers disembarked to find food and use the restrooms. When the bus was empty, the driver helped me lead the wounded soldier off the bus to where his friends waited for him.
I explained what had happened and asked them to get him to someplace where he could sleep. “He needs help,” I said. “Could you take him to see a doctor at the University?” They assured me they’d do all they could for their friend.
I went inside the depot, used the bathroom, and bought a sandwich and some orange juice. By that time most of the other passengers were back on the bus. When I started to board, several shouted to the bus driver, “Don’t let her on! Make her take the next bus!” They complained about how I’d protected “that lunatic,” how I’d shouted at them, how I’d called them cowards.
The bus driver—bless him—asked me to take the seat behind him. “I’ll protect you from them,” he said and winked. And so from Ames to Minneapolis I sat behind the bus driver in the dark of a spring night. He shared with me his own fears from fighting in the Pacific in World War II. I listened as he told me about one of his buddies who’d experienced battle fatigue.
“I wish I could have helped you when you were trying to protect that young man," he said, "but I just wanted to get to Ames. I knew he needed to get out of the confines of this dark bus.”
“You understood,” I said.
“Better than most.”
                                                                        
Photos from Wikipedia.
Sites to visit to read more about shell shock and PTSD are the following:

75 comments:

  1. You had me crying Dee. So many have gone to war, and no one ever comes back the same.

    You take care of yourself, dear lady. Your stories touch us all.

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    1. Dear Arleen,
      It's so true that no one comes back from war unscathed.

      Please know that I take "exquisite" care of myself!

      Peace.

      Delete
  2. I can go from serene to total despair under the right conditions, too. It's very rare anymore, but I would never have thought of it as PTSD because I also knew of men who came back from Vietnam with real, violent, acting out PTSD. You have got me thinking today, lady.

    I am so glad you stood up for him and took care of him! Your instincts told you what to do and what he needed. Yup! A fellow warrior and healer and survivor. So glad to know you. :)

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    1. Dear Rita,
      Like you, I was so surprised by the diagnosis of PTSD. But when I became aware of the symptoms, then I saw that perhaps this is true of me.

      Peacea.

      Delete
  3. Beautiful and very sad. Told only the way you could...with heart.

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    1. Dear Stephanie,
      Yes, very sad. I've always wondered--ever since that bus pulled away from Ames, Iowa--what happened to that young soldier. And I so worry about all the ones in the last twelve years who have returned to their country after so many deployments.

      Peace.

      Delete
  4. Dee, this story brings tears to my eyes, for the harshness of our fellow man who lacks understanding and reacts in fear and anger so easily when a perceived threat is felt and, for the angel that you were (and still are!) to that poor young man on the bus that night! Every time you open your heart to us and share your life experiences, we discover an even more amazing soul than we thought we already knew. Your heart is HUGE! You did not need confinement to a convent way of life to discover your calling and your truth! You are a remarkable woman. What a blessing it is for you to be sharing yourself with those of us who have been fortunate enough to happen on your path! I loved the idea of you pulling out every swear word you knew to get your point across! Oh, how we all love you for everything you are!

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    1. Dear Desiree,
      Yes, every swear word I knew!!! A real paucity of words really.

      It's seems to be human nature to strike out at the unknown, especially when it seems to threaten us. The bus was dark and crowded. And he stood up, looming in the dark and then weaving--as if he were drunk--down the aisle and all the time shouting. No wonder they were afraid. But, oh, if only they'd listened to what he was saying. It was, so obviously, shell shock.

      Peace.

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  5. I was crying, too, Dee--& you were so brave to comfort him & to confront the other passengers. I guess bravery means doing what HAS to be done, regardless of your fear. You are such a caring person, my friend!

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    1. Dear Fran,
      Yes, it had to be done. He was so wounded by the war. Wounded to the core of his being.

      Peace.

      Delete
  6. Thank you so much for helping him, Dee. I took care of a WWII vet who complained that a slamming door sounded like bombs going off. He fought in Italy and after so many years, still suffered from PTSD, as do I.

    Love,
    Janie

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    1. Dear Janie,
      And thank you for helping the WWII vet. The doctors called this syndrome "shell shock" in WWI and "battle fatigue" in WWII and PTSD in Vietnam. But no matter what we call it, the symptoms are devastating.

      Peace.

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  7. Dee having lived with a man with PTSD this post was touching to say the least. You described the feeling exactly. I remember waiting the fireworks display and chatting with friends. All of a sudden the show started and my ex threw me on the ground and covered me with his body while he yelled at me to stay down.. It was horrifying. His mind was elsewhere, while his body was trapped in the present. I wish people would understand these soldiers suffer not just physical wounds but emotional and mental wounds as well!

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    1. Dear Melynda,
      I just finished watching the news about the soldier who killed sixteen Afghan children, women, and men. I think that he was on his 4th deployment and he's had a brain injury from a car bombing on the road.

      I'm afraid that we are going to have even more suicides and spousal and child abuse in the years ahead as the soliders come home and try to adjust to a society that mostly wasn't touched by the ten years of this war. I know this sounds pessimistic, but I find myself thinking mostly dark thoughts about all of this.

      Peace.

      Delete
  8. I too worry about all the soldiers coming from from Iraq and Afghanistan wounded in ways that don't show. Your response back then was instinctual; there are some souls who know that the human condition is shared by everyone. You are one of those souls. I hope that the young man was able to find peace. Thank you for sharing this, Dee. It is a parable for today's broken world.

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    1. Dear DJan,
      I, too, hope he found peace. And I,too,like you, feel that we are living in a broken world. During World War II, those of us on the home front felt that we had a real stake in the war. We had food shortages and weren't able to buy many goods. We plotted the advances in the Pacific and in the European Theater on a map. We knew what was happening.

      All that changed with Vietnam and now Iraq and Afghanistan. The war has hardly touched my life. Who it has touched are all these young men and women who may be scarred for life.

      Peace.

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  9. Wonderful to read but must admit I was in tears.

    Thanks for sharing this Dee.
    So many deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan so many families torn apart.

    Yvonne.

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    1. Dear Yvonne,
      Yes, so many families torn apart. So many lives broken.

      Peace.

      Delete
  10. I wish I could know you personally; you are the bravest woman I have ever come across. I am all caught up with your post and I hope you will soon be able to tell of a less troubled time.

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    1. Dear Friko,
      Thank you, but when I read your blog and Rita's and so many others, I know that I am surrounded by brave women.

      As to what coming in the next few weeks--some will be a little sad and some will be very sad. Mostly they will be about people I've met whose lives have been hard. And maybe there'll be a posting about when I decided to throw in the towel.

      Peace.

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    2. I find it hard to believe you ever "threw in the towel"!

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  11. This beautifully told story brought tears to my eyes, Dee. Trauma leaves its mark. How caring and brave of you to help that young man and stand up to those people on the bus.
    And the attitudes of some of the other passengers was so chilling.

    I saw my brother have flashbacks after his return from Vietnam and healing took a very long time. What was especially difficult was the judgments too many people made about young men who served in Vietnam. My brother was called a "murderer" and worse by people who had sought deferments or weren't eligible for the draft -- in other words, people who had never had to put their lives in danger for their country -- whether in a "popular" or unpopular war. I think a lot of people today don't want to know or deal with the horrific physical and emotional injuries our returning troops have suffered in the most recent wars.

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    1. Dear Kathy,
      I so agree with you. I saw first-hand the way returning veterans were treated between 1969 and 1971 when I was at the University. Their treatment led me to protesting the war.

      Despite articles about PTSD, many people still don't seem to understand the "emotional injuries" endured by the returning troops. And the horrific physical injuries cause many to wince and turn away.

      I can't begin to imagine. I really can't. What coming home is like for these men and women.

      Peace.

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  12. Dee--I read this post just after watching an NPR report of the soldier who just the other night killed all those people in their sleep in Afghanistan. The 'expert' newspaper writer kept saying the government was trying hard to figure out why this happened. The implication was that it was all a mystery. Balderdash. War kills. It kills bodies, it kills souls, it kills minds. Four deployments. All in combat. Unspeakable. I have been reading your posts and I am awed by your character and your persistence in trying to understand and respond morally to the troubled world in which we live. Thank you for sharing all this with us, Dee. ;o)

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    1. Dear Mike,
      I responded to your comment, but somehow it got placed before the one to Sherrey. Hope you can find it below.

      Peace.

      Delete
  13. Dee, you have told your story and that of the young man you so lovingly protected with great heart and compassion. Too quickly many judge by the physical, outward appearance and forget that there are internal injuries and scars which leave people like your young soldier more severely damaged than any amputation.

    Currently, I'm helping my husband assist his brother and his wife as they struggle with the brother's Parkinson's with Lewy body dementia. Few people know about this form of dementia, second most common to Alzheimer's. Jim is so afraid of the dark, shadows, loudness -- it's almost as if he has PTSD. Strange environments, removed from his norm set him off with almost violent repercussions, agressive and combative behavior, and a strength we've never seen before.

    What we have learned quickly is to bring calm into the room, to gently touch him, to quiet everything down, and yes, music doth calm the savage beast in all of us.

    Thank you for reminding all of us that every one has some kind of injury or scar that we may not be able to see.

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    1. Dear Sherrey,
      Thank you for reading this posting and finding that it speaks to what is now happening in your life. I do think that all of us are wounded in some way. That's why we need to be like Moses before the burning bush. We need to take off our sandals before the holiness and grace of one another.

      Peace.

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  14. Dear Mike,
    Like you, I watched television news tonight and just shook my head at the reporter who was saying that no one knows what happened and at the same time he's telling us about four deployments and brain injury from a land mine.

    Thank you for your kind words. And I wanted you to know that spring is coming here with its the squish, squish you wrote about in your latest posting. I, too, have seen no pussy willows!

    Peace.

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  15. Dearest Dee,
    Tears across the miles here too. Your actions were so right on so many levels and so misunderstood by many. The people who mattered - the returned soldier and the bus driver did understand.
    Your commitment to justice makes you such a brave soldier in much more important battles than those that involve guns, bombs and death.
    My heart hurts for the families of those who do not come home, but it hurts at least as much for those who come home changed with perhaps no visible sign of the terrible damage they have suffered.
    Gratitude and hugs from Oz.

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    1. Dear EC,
      You've expressed so well my own pain in all this--for the families whose sons and daughters die there in Afghanistan and in Iraq and for those whose sons and daughters come back wounded--in whatever way--and are misunderstood by those of us on the homefront. So much suicide among those who have returned.

      Peace.

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  16. Another profoundly touching post showing us your courage and deep humanity, Dee. So many young men and women have been damaged by conflict in ways not immediately obvious to the eye and thus frightening or threatening to the ignorant. I'm glad for that young soldier's sake that he had your compassion and selflessness to accompany him on that terrifying journey.

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    1. Dear Perpetua,
      Yes, Perpetua, I too am glad that I was there for that young soldier. Lives touch and then go separate ways. I'll never know what happened for him and to him. I could only wish him Godspeed.

      Peace.

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  17. I always return to read everyone's comments and your responses to each, Dee. It's always enlightening and gives me great pleasure to hear how others view things and express themselves. You have wonderful followers, Dee, but that is hardly surprising considering they are here for you.

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    1. Dear Desiree,
      What a dear you are. I so agree with you that I have "wonderful followers." I am blessed in so many ways.

      Peace.

      Delete
  18. This post has brought tears to my eyes and wrenched my heart. What a great gift to us you are, Dee. My eldest son was in the military when the Iraq War started. He was stationed in Fort Lewis as a chaplain's assistant in the hospital. Fortunately for him his enlistment time was up shortly after troops were deployed. But for me I feel tied to every soldier that goes that but for the grace of God my son could have been a casualty. Fort Lewis was in the news in the UK two nights ago as having been where many of the soldiers who have committed savage atrocities have been. I believe these soldiers are being abused by their own governments. Governments believe that they can do the impossible with their soldiers and that it can be done on the cheap. But the price will have to be paid and the payment will be tragic.

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    1. Dear Broad,
      What you have written needs to be printed in newspapers everywhere. Here, too, there was much news about Fort Lewis. What is so despicable is that it would seem doctors there have not diagnosed PTSD because of medical costs. We send these young women and men off to war and then niggle at medical costs. We say we honor them but really we seem only to use them.

      Peace.

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  19. What a compelling yet painful read. Hopefully today with so much press on PTSD there is more understand that not all war wounds are visable. Sadly, we have so far to go yet.
    How wonderful that you stepped up for that young man. We see so many like him in the vast army of homeless today.

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    1. Dear Arkansas Patti,
      We do have a long way to go. If the news is to be believed, some army doctors are not diagnosing PTSD because of medical costs. I also mention this in the response to the comment above yours. This makes me angry. Somehow something has to change.

      Peace.

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  20. As I read this through a few times, digesting all you have written, I remain amazed at the courage you have had throughout your life, Dee, and how each time you have stepped forward, you have been in a traumatic situation, your own battlefields of life. We most often think of PTSD as an injury of war, but, it is so much more; little children who see violence all around them, earthquakes and plane crashes. Yes, as others and you have said, we still send men and women back into combat. In a time where brain research has been so exciting as we understand the mind more and more, we seem to have made little progress.

    We used to live close to a big airport. O'Hare. Sometimes cargo planes or military jets would come through, loud and low, late at night. We had a neighbor who would awake and tear under the bed. His wife would gently coax him out. He was back in Viet Nam.

    What really surprised me was in a prairie one afternoon. I was taking a writing class at a community college in an adult education course. The college has a restored prairie. It had rained the night before. We were given x amount of time to walk around, quietly, gather our thoughts, then write about them. One by one, we read our written words about the peacefulness, the sway of the breeze, etc. Then, one man, hands shaking, read that he'd been walking in fear, waiting for the ambush, the fire fight, the helicopters. He was back in Viet Nam.

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    1. Dear Penny,
      Your two stories of Vietnam veterans with PTSD touched me deeply. Thank you for sharing them. To be walking in a soggy field and have it all come back. For that man, danger must lurk nearly everywhere.

      Peace.

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  21. Dee, This remembrance made me weep as I read it. The story is powerful, and although the one you recollect is over 40 years old, it could be today! My heart sinks when I think about the thousands of men and women who are going to come home from Iraq and Afghanistan with deep emotional scars and debilitating symptoms of PTSD. And your powerful instinct to protect and comfort quite simply overwhelms me, too. You have a power in you that is extraordinary. That you have symptoms of PTSD and some emotional scars of your own doesn't surprise me. What surprises me is your ability to make such amazing use of your intuition to support others and your perseverance goes way beyond what most people are willing to commit to. Thank you for writing this today. For some time I've been thinking about looking into what organizations are working with the emotionally wounded soldiers from our current wars, and I think today's the day I get serious about that. I'll let you know what I find out. Your compassion is a force no one can deny! Debra

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    1. Dear Debra,
      Please do let me know what you find out. I haven't done any volunteer work since Meniere's began in 2006. It's about time to both talk the talk and walk the walk.

      Peace.

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  22. I am a first time visitor here and I am so moved by the soldier's plight, and your bravery and caring attitude. Bravo for you. I hope he found peace at home.

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    1. Dear Shelly,
      Thank you for stopping by and commenting. When I went to your blog, I, too, was moved by the plight of Johnny Joe and Clay.

      Peace.

      Delete
  23. what i find particularly fascinating are people's reactions. here you are, this peace-loving hippie girl and you are protecting this victim, this soldier, from anonymous faces in the dark who do not want to be disturbed. when i talk against the occupations in the middle east, i regularly engage people who say they support the troops. it's sad, really, their attempt at logic. i tell them i support the troops, too. and we go back and forth over what that means. no one wins in war, certainly not the soldiers. only the people at the very top win, like always. but don't wake anyone up to tell them.

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    1. Dear Ed,
      I do know so well that we can use the same words--like "support the troops"--and mean something quite different. It's as if, those who protest a war truly are unpatriotic. And yet, what is patriotism? Another word in dispute.

      Peace.

      Delete
  24. Dee,
    This is such a beautiful post! Tears are streaming down my face. I'm so glad you stood up for that man.

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    1. Dear Elisa,
      Thank you for those kind words. I, too, am glad that I was there for the young soldier who was so alone in that bus.

      Peace.

      Delete
  25. Oh wow...I have tears pouring from my eyes. What a sad place for him to be. My dad also fought in Vietnam. I wasn't born until after his return. His mind was terribly wounded from the war. I do not have a father because of his alcoholism that he had post-vietnam. He died when I was 8 and I only have 3 memories of him before that. My grandpa says that he was a good man, he just couldn't stop drinking. This story is incredible. Thank you for sharing!! ( I also suffer from PTSD as you describe in the beginning). Similarities. Thank you..

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    1. Dear MaggieMae,
      I'm sorry to learn that your dad came back from Vietnam so wounded and that you have only three memories of him. I hope that your grandpa can share other good memories with you so that your father is not lost to time.

      Peace.

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  26. There are many who suffer from PTSD and it is widely misunderstood. I am very glad the young man in the story had you to lean on for understanding and kindness.
    My hubby returned from Vietnam with this and although I got him in to sit the examination to prove his illness, the VA still hasn't recognised it in him..I understand it also after coming out of a violent almost thirty year marriage.
    Thank you for sharing.

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    1. Dear Crystal Mary,
      I'm so sorry to hear about your husband. The military and its doctors, I think, often want to save money at the expense of men and women who have fought bravely for their country. It is a disgrace.

      Peace.

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  27. Dee, this was the most moving (for lack of a better word) passage I have read in a very long time. I had to stop for a minute to compose myself before I could finish reading. Call it 'divine intervention', karma, or whatever, but this young man if he has survived over these years is probably still singing your praise!
    This topic of PTSD has come up recently here at home. Since a car accident ten years ago, my husband has not been the same and is very easily jarred into a panic state. This condition is probably much more prevalent than we realize.

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    1. Dear Jim,
      How difficult your husband must find so many things. I wonder how he can go to a movie because the sound is so loud now. And just walking on the sidewalk by a heavily traveled highway in which trucks whiz by. He must be exhausted much of the time. I am sending your way the white light of healing.

      Peace.

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  28. Hi Dee, I saw your comment about Julianna of Norwich on Friko's blog and had to check you out. Nice blog. Dianne (skin cancer survivor)

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    1. Dear Dianne,
      Thank you so much for sharing that you are a skin cancer survivor.

      Peace.

      Delete
  29. Dee, this is the most incredible piece of writing: so very moving. Thank you so much, for what you did, and for writing about it.

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    1. Dear Kate,
      Whenever you compliment me on my writing, I sort of sit here at the computer and glow! Your writing always stuns me with its acuity and the way it gathers in what at first might seem disparate pieces of somewhat arcane knowledge. And then you weave all this together into a delightful and insightful and interesting whole.

      So when you tell me that this posting is an "incredible piece of writing," you make my day.

      Peace.

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  30. I all too often get heartsick thinking about all the wounded soldiers. The Powers That Be send them off to war, with nary a care about their return, how they will survive in a world where madness seems to reign. What a terrible thing we do and all in the name of greed. remember the slogan, "What if they gave a war and nobody came?" I wish that we could do more to prevent this ongoing state of war we seem to be in. They are attempting to close every avenue for dissent. I'm very concerned for this country.

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    1. Dear Teresa, Like you, I find myself extremely concerned for my country. We seem to have lost the belief that we can help one another become true to ourselves.

      Peace.

      Delete
  31. I wonder how he turned out, poor thing. War is horrible and so are ignorant people. The soldier was blessed to have you help him. Thanks for stopping by my blog to cheer me up. I am still not well, but much better than before. Samson and Soldier are doing better too.

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    1. Dear Inger, I am so glad to learn that you and Samson and Soldier are doing better. It's been such a long time. I suspect you are absolutely exhausted and will need much more time to get your strength and vitality back. I'll be there to read whenever you have the energy to post. Peace.

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  32. such a moving post..full of all swings of emotions...you write well.
    i am your newest follower...pls follow back if you can.
    We pray for our soldiers every single night.

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    1. Hello, thank you for stopping by. Tomorrow I'll visit your blog also. I'm sure that everyone in the military and their families appreciate your prayers. Peace.

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  33. Hi, Dee.

    I found your post via Kate Shrewsday, and I have to say that it is remarkable. I admire your bravery in helping a man that nobody else understood.

    Best wishes,

    Casey

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    1. Dear Casey, My closest friend in college was name Casey so I have a deep fondness for your name. Thank you for you best wishes. And thank you also for searching out my blog. Peace.

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  34. I love the way you're never afraid to protect someone when they need to be protected. This was gripping.

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    1. Dear Emily, Thank you for your kind words. And I love the way you share stories with us about your delightful children. Peace.

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  35. So utterly and devastatingly beautiful. I wonder what became of that soldier. I wonder what would happen if the same thing happened today. Americans seem to have more reverence and respect for our soldiers today. However, Americans seem to have much less tolerance for being ruffled or inconvenienced today.
    I too balked when I was diagnosed with PTSD, thinking of the veterans I used to see curled up in the shelter of the war memorial in downtown Cleveland at night. It felt almost disrespectful to them to think I had the same disorder when I'd been through nothing compared to them.
    Viktor Frankl, survivor of the Holocaust, pointed out something though. He said our capacity for suffering is like a vessel. Even if our vessel is small, when it is full, it is full. It's important to keep one's own problems in perspective, of course, but it's also fair to acknowledge your own suffering and needs, I think.

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    1. Dear Brigid, . . . thank you for stopping by and for telling me about what Viktor Frankl said. Many years ago I read his survivor book from the concentration camps and was awed by his wisdom. Your remembering that he said "our capacity for suffering is like a vessel" helps me accept my own diagnosis of PTSD.

      It's only been in the last three years that I've been able to acknowledge my own needs. My blog has helped me accept the negative things that happened to me in childhood. To accept and forgive and understand.

      Peace.

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  36. It's been a while since I've been here, and I've really missed your wonderful stories. I hope I get to read the book one of these days. You have such a gift for showing us humanity at our best and worst - often at the same time.

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    1. Dear Deb, . . . so glad to see a comment from you. The fact that it's been a while shows me just how busy you've been. And thank you for your kind words. Perhaps one day this all will be gathered into a book. We'll see.

      Peace.

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  37. I appreciate how kind you were to that young soldier.

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  38. This story, and the one before it, with the young man being beaten at the laundromat, hit me in the gut as tales of violence and hatred always do. I am astonished that the riders on the bus had so little compassion for the broken man who had given so much, supposedly to preserve their freedom. I wonder whether he survived, or whether like so many of our wounded soldiers, he died an early death, bewildered, in pain, and perhaps misunderstood and unloved. May there be healing for him, wherever he is today, and for you as well.

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