Today marks the 10th anniversary of the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF).
Today I was talking on the phone with a man who is buying a car from us. He mentioned his 14 year old daughter and I countered with my seven and four year old children.
"You have kids that young?"
"Yeah."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Oh, I just assumed you were older than that," he said despite my youthful voice, "because your husband is a veteran."
I get that a lot. People assume that all disabled veterans are old men. They are stooped and withered. They limp. They have seen things most people in this country will never see and they have high blood pressure, but they are not all old.
My husband, not yet 30, has spent almost 8% of his life in combat. He spent 20% of his life in the Army. The longer he lives, the smaller those percentages become, but those years define his life.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
You're not crazy
Next month a book called Outside the Wire is being released. I wrote a piece in that book. I'm pretty proud of it, not least because I am the only non-veteran in the book. I'm thrilled, in some small way, to be giving voice to caregivers of veterans.
As the release draws near, I've been thinking about how far we've come since I wrote the essay appearing in that book. It seems to me we're doing a lot better now, for a variety of reasons. One reason is my kids are getting older and, at four and seven, no longer need as much close supervision as they did when they were two and five. So if my husband leaves the kids in the bathtub, it is normal, not dangerous. Another reason is that we receive a caregiver stipend and social security disability now, which takes a lot of pressure off financially. So if my husband spends too much money on things we don't need, we still have money for necessities. Another reason is that sometimes it even seems like my husband might actually be doing better.
I struggle with that. I wonder if my husband will ever be able to function normally. After all, he presents well. Several people have asked me what exactly is his disability. Days will go by when he seems really rather normal, even to me, even though we spend 20 of every 24 hours together. I start to question myself, could he work? Could he get a normal job? Could I? Could I let him take care of the home stuff while I earn a living? He has remembered to get the kids to school on time, take his vitamins, and do the dishes, all in the same morning. That's surely a good sign.
Then he will pick up a cup we've had for years and ask where we got it.
It is these moments that define us. The ones where my jaw opens and I do not cry. I do not cry. Crying will not help. I just have to help him get back on track. You do not cry when you are helping someone who is lost find their way back. You remain calm, because it is possible to find the path again. Panic will only lead to more panic. I have to be the one to normalize this.
"You brought me that cup last night when you got me water."
"No. Our cups don't have designs on them."
"Yes, they do. Come on, let's look at them."
Now we are walking to the kitchen from our bedroom. The strange cup has been left on the windowsill. The pattern on the pink and purple cups is just etching on plastic. It is only visible in the right light. I am justifying this for him. We pull the other cups of the four cup set out of the dishwasher and he stares at one of them, turning it around in his hands as if he does not know what it is. After a moment, I take the cup from him and put it back in the dishwasher. It is on the dry cycle. We walk back to the bedroom.
"How long have we had those cups?"
"A few years."
"I wash those cups. You can feel the pattern."
"You're not crazy."
"No?" He looks at me incredulously. I know he cannot understand how he has not felt a raised pattern on four cups in two years of washing them. He is the only one who washes dishes. He is an artist. He notices things. I understand though.
"You are just oblivious. You pay attention to other things. You're not going crazy."
He isn't going crazy. He does not notice the pattern on the cups because he is looking for home invaders. As he stands at the sink washing dishes, I am sure he would notice the slightest movement on the neighbor's roof through the kitchen window. He would notice someone in the yard. He would protect us from the worst case scenario. He is too busy protecting us to notice a bit of shiny raised plastic.
We really haven't come that far. He is not any better. I am better. I have learned how to cope. I have learned how to patiently walk my husband through the maze of his mind. His mind is still a maze though. He is not getting better. I am just used to it.
As the release draws near, I've been thinking about how far we've come since I wrote the essay appearing in that book. It seems to me we're doing a lot better now, for a variety of reasons. One reason is my kids are getting older and, at four and seven, no longer need as much close supervision as they did when they were two and five. So if my husband leaves the kids in the bathtub, it is normal, not dangerous. Another reason is that we receive a caregiver stipend and social security disability now, which takes a lot of pressure off financially. So if my husband spends too much money on things we don't need, we still have money for necessities. Another reason is that sometimes it even seems like my husband might actually be doing better.
I struggle with that. I wonder if my husband will ever be able to function normally. After all, he presents well. Several people have asked me what exactly is his disability. Days will go by when he seems really rather normal, even to me, even though we spend 20 of every 24 hours together. I start to question myself, could he work? Could he get a normal job? Could I? Could I let him take care of the home stuff while I earn a living? He has remembered to get the kids to school on time, take his vitamins, and do the dishes, all in the same morning. That's surely a good sign.
Then he will pick up a cup we've had for years and ask where we got it.
It is these moments that define us. The ones where my jaw opens and I do not cry. I do not cry. Crying will not help. I just have to help him get back on track. You do not cry when you are helping someone who is lost find their way back. You remain calm, because it is possible to find the path again. Panic will only lead to more panic. I have to be the one to normalize this.
"You brought me that cup last night when you got me water."
"No. Our cups don't have designs on them."
"Yes, they do. Come on, let's look at them."
Now we are walking to the kitchen from our bedroom. The strange cup has been left on the windowsill. The pattern on the pink and purple cups is just etching on plastic. It is only visible in the right light. I am justifying this for him. We pull the other cups of the four cup set out of the dishwasher and he stares at one of them, turning it around in his hands as if he does not know what it is. After a moment, I take the cup from him and put it back in the dishwasher. It is on the dry cycle. We walk back to the bedroom.
"How long have we had those cups?"
"A few years."
"I wash those cups. You can feel the pattern."
"You're not crazy."
"No?" He looks at me incredulously. I know he cannot understand how he has not felt a raised pattern on four cups in two years of washing them. He is the only one who washes dishes. He is an artist. He notices things. I understand though.
"You are just oblivious. You pay attention to other things. You're not going crazy."
He isn't going crazy. He does not notice the pattern on the cups because he is looking for home invaders. As he stands at the sink washing dishes, I am sure he would notice the slightest movement on the neighbor's roof through the kitchen window. He would notice someone in the yard. He would protect us from the worst case scenario. He is too busy protecting us to notice a bit of shiny raised plastic.
We really haven't come that far. He is not any better. I am better. I have learned how to cope. I have learned how to patiently walk my husband through the maze of his mind. His mind is still a maze though. He is not getting better. I am just used to it.
Friday, March 15, 2013
thank you
Our house in Texas is under contract and we have no reason to think it won't sell, as planned, in just under three weeks.
As we plan our move back to Washington state, I cannot help comparing where we are now with where we were when we left Washington last.
In November 2008, we moved to Texas, which was home... where we both grew up.
I am glad we moved back to Texas, even though we have decided it is not where we want to live any longer. I think I needed everything here to help me on this journey to where we are now. Maybe someday I will make a map. I can very clearly recall all of our pit stops, detours, and missed exits. When I hear another woman say "he is such a child," about her husband, I see the art on my therapist's walls and feel the tears on my cheeks.
"I can't actually treat him like a child. What am I supposed to do?"
My therapist, being both a good therapist and a source of frustration, gave me no answers. I had to find my own, like every caregiver. The answer for me then was that sometimes I should treat my husband like a child, which is not the same thing as treating him like an idiot. I treat my children with respect and patience (for a reasonable amount of time, then I treat them to some yelling), which are good ways to interact with anyone regardless of age or brain agility.
As we make our final arrangements, shutting off utilities, forwarding our mail, planning our route, I remember with black humor that when we moved back to Texas I didn't yet know I needed support groups. I didn't yet know my husband had a brain injury. Being home allowed me to find support systems and resources. Texas provided a safe place for me to learn what my life was going to be like and how I could handle it. Now I am stronger and I am capable of building more networks in Washington. I could not have stayed there without coming home to face the depth of what brain injury means for us and to recover from that.
I could not have learned about Karl's injuries and how to move on without the Vet Center in Austin, which provides a monthly support group for the families of disabled veterans. In practice, that group has always been several Vietnam Veterans' wives and me. Because their children are grown, they were able to offer invaluable insight into what would, and would not, impact my children as they grew up. They were my first support group, showing me that veterans are family.
I also had a great support group at Heroes Night Out in Cedar Park through Hearts of Valor. They provided a lot of comic relief and gave me a chance to pass on some of my own insights. I had a therapist at Hope for Heroes, through the Samaritan Center in Austin. She gave me the space I needed to complain about how unfair it all was and to cry. As we plan our move, I am reaching out to other veterans' wives who live where we will be living, because I know what I need to be successful.
As we plan our move back to Washington state, I cannot help comparing where we are now with where we were when we left Washington last.
In November 2008, we moved to Texas, which was home... where we both grew up.
I am glad we moved back to Texas, even though we have decided it is not where we want to live any longer. I think I needed everything here to help me on this journey to where we are now. Maybe someday I will make a map. I can very clearly recall all of our pit stops, detours, and missed exits. When I hear another woman say "he is such a child," about her husband, I see the art on my therapist's walls and feel the tears on my cheeks.
"I can't actually treat him like a child. What am I supposed to do?"
My therapist, being both a good therapist and a source of frustration, gave me no answers. I had to find my own, like every caregiver. The answer for me then was that sometimes I should treat my husband like a child, which is not the same thing as treating him like an idiot. I treat my children with respect and patience (for a reasonable amount of time, then I treat them to some yelling), which are good ways to interact with anyone regardless of age or brain agility.
As we make our final arrangements, shutting off utilities, forwarding our mail, planning our route, I remember with black humor that when we moved back to Texas I didn't yet know I needed support groups. I didn't yet know my husband had a brain injury. Being home allowed me to find support systems and resources. Texas provided a safe place for me to learn what my life was going to be like and how I could handle it. Now I am stronger and I am capable of building more networks in Washington. I could not have stayed there without coming home to face the depth of what brain injury means for us and to recover from that.
I could not have learned about Karl's injuries and how to move on without the Vet Center in Austin, which provides a monthly support group for the families of disabled veterans. In practice, that group has always been several Vietnam Veterans' wives and me. Because their children are grown, they were able to offer invaluable insight into what would, and would not, impact my children as they grew up. They were my first support group, showing me that veterans are family.
I also had a great support group at Heroes Night Out in Cedar Park through Hearts of Valor. They provided a lot of comic relief and gave me a chance to pass on some of my own insights. I had a therapist at Hope for Heroes, through the Samaritan Center in Austin. She gave me the space I needed to complain about how unfair it all was and to cry. As we plan our move, I am reaching out to other veterans' wives who live where we will be living, because I know what I need to be successful.
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