Sharpening the Blade

After we watched the segment this morning on our recent robbery, Karl said, "Ok, now where's the one where you call me useless?"

He is referring to the last time we were on the news, two years ago. So I looked up the video for him.

I didn't realize at the time that I was calling Karl useless. I was trying to (not very eloquently) explain what Karl can explain much more eloquently than I. Karl likens his military training and service to a blade being sharpened.

I didn't know anything about blades or sharpening blades before Karl explained these things to me. I assumed, as probably most people with the same knowledge of blades, that you sharpen a blade when it is dull. It then, I suppose, is sharper and better suited to the task at hand.

However, you can, apparently, over-sharpen a sword.

If a blade is ground too thin, it can break. If a blade is sharpened to too fine a point, the edge can roll, making the sword useless.

I am only using the word "useless" to rile Karl. For the past two years, he has teased me about calling him useless on the news. I'm sure he is going to continue to tease me about it for as long as we both shall live. He knows that I meant he, and many others like him, no longer fit easily into our society and he agrees with this assessment. He does not agree that he is useless. Neither do I.

I do agree that he has been sharpened to a point that has weakened his structural integrity.

Being robbed is no good for someone with PTSD. It further sharpens his blade. Every time the dog barks, he has to investigate. Every time he sees something out of the corner of his eye, he stops what he is doing to check it out. His hyper-vigilance has ramped up, even though he and the Sheriff's department both agree this was a crime of opportunity and probably wouldn't have occurred if we were home.

I have been trying to convince Karl that the world is safe. He disagrees. He has seen too much hate. I believe people are generally good. I believe people are doing the best they can. I cannot fathom why someone would take Karl's things but I know there are more people in the world who wouldn't take his things than people who would. I have been trying to convince Karl for over six years that we live in a safe place and he can calm down. I have been telling him he could relax because we don't need him to guard against invisible threats.

I am wondering now if he thinks I lied.

Not only did Karl lose his most sentimental possessions, but now he feels guilty for not being hyper-vigilant enough. So he will sharpen his blade to make himself battle ready and give up a little more of himself for it.

This is the Signature of the Person Who Stole My Husband's History

This is the signature of the person who broke into our garage, stole my husband's bicycle, the only duffle bag of Army issue he had left, a painting my husband made in high school and left a note in Sharpie on our garage door thanking him for his service.

If you are unaware, my husband is an Operation Iraqi Freedom Army infantry veteran with a degenerative Traumatic Brain Injury. We live in Pierce County, Washington. Yesterday we returned home from picking our children up from school to find that someone had gone into our detached garage and stolen things that actually mean something to my husband.

He is often apathetic about life and especially material possessions. He has gotten rid of most of his army gear, only keeping what he wore in his first and second tours in Iraq. One of the uniforms he saved was a prototype - what later became ACUs (Army Combat Uniforms), the uniform the Army uses now. That uniform was an ACU in Desert Camo. It was only issued to my husband's unit. It was not issued to other units. It is rare, but probably not worth a lot of money. It means something to Karl though. It means he belonged to a special group at a special time. It is symbolic of him having been amazing. Now when he cannot remember why he is where he is or where he is going, it is proof that Karl was not just capable, but one of the best.

The other most important thing that was taken is a rainbow painting of Stevie Ray Vaughan. In high school Karl used a projector to trace a picture of Stevie Ray Vaughan onto a canvas. He then painted outside the outlines. I cannot accurately describe it, but the picture was gorgeous and people have offered to buy it from Karl numerous times. It is the only painting we had that Karl made in high school. It was not only gorgeous, but a reminder that Karl was an artist before he was a soldier. He is no longer a soldier, but he is still an artist and it is important for him to remember that despite all he has lost, there are pieces of himself still intact.

The thief then wrote a note on our garage door, thanking Karl for his service... and his possessions. The sheriff's department thinks it was a crime of opportunity and that unless they stumble upon the Stevie Ray Vaughan picture in a homeless camp, they are unlikely to retrieve the goods. I would appreciate it if you could pass this on. Maybe someone will recognize the signature and we can get my husband's Desert Camo ACUs and his Stevie Ray Vaughan picture back in time for Christmas. Most of the stuff was just stuff, but these things mean something.

you're welcome

"The decision on this issue is considered a total grant of the benefit sought on appeal. As such, your pending appeal is now resolved."

If those aren't the sweetest words in the English language, they are second only to my husband saying, "You did it. It is because of you we have this money."

I know I did it. I'm the one who sent the VA memory journals of everything my, then 28 year old, husband forgot for a month. I'm the one who wrote out the reasons for our appeal and then asked Karl to sign it. I'm the one who dragged him to meet with Texas Veteran Commission representatives and harassed him into calling to check on the status of our appeal. I'm the one who kept track of every appeal deadline.

"The decision on this issue is considered a total grant of the benefit sought on appeal. As such, your pending appeal is now resolved."

I was once told by a mean girl that I was doing it wrong. According to her, it is people like me that drive up the VA backlog. According to her, we were never going to get the ratings we sought because my husband's TBI and PTSD ratings were combined. I have been told by nice girls that I should just accept the rating and file later, for an increase. I have even been told by someone who works for the amazing Wounded Warrior Project that I was doing it wrong. He worked on claims for a living and he didn't believe my appeal would ever be granted. I would have better luck, he said, if I accepted that we would never see retro pay. I would be better off waiting and filing for an increase later.

If I was a better person, I wouldn't feel quite so smug, but I do. I feel smug and righteous.

"The decision on this issue is considered a total grant of the benefit sought on appeal. As such, your pending appeal is now resolved."

There is no one right way. I know this. We all have to fight our own battles in our own way. My way worked. My husband was finally, five years after he filed his first claim with the VA, deemed totally and permanently disabled.

My pending appeal is resolved.

I am done.

We have a life-changing amount of money. We have moved into a different income bracket. We will never be on food stamps again. Our children qualify for VA insurance. I am calling on Monday to switch my children to ChampVA instead of Medicaid. I am so tired of the looks we get for having Medicaid. No more. Our children will get a stipend for college. Hell, I'll get a stipend for college! On Monday I'll be calling colleges for myself because some colleges waive all tuition and fees for spouses of permanently and totally disabled veterans. I cannot wait to go back to college, probably next fall.

Our lives have changed. I have been climbing and climbing and I have reached the summit. I can relax now. I am done. I am relieved. I have been heard and Karl has been acknowledged.

More importantly, Karl is acknowledging me. My husband, for whom words are so difficult, has thanked me repeatedly in the past 48 hours for fighting for him and for us.

I am so thankful to have finally been victorious so I can say, "you're welcome."

falling and winning

Sometimes when you are pushing and pushing against a barricade, it disappears. Then you fall because all of your momentum is propelling you forward.

Tonight I checked our bank account to see if Karl's Christmas presents had been debited from our account yet. Our balance was way too high. Our balance was absurdly high. I scrolled down to verify that what I was seeing was our balance. It was.

This morning we received an absurdly high retro payment from the VA. We received three years worth of a higher payment.

I am sitting on the ground, bewildered at my fall, looking back were the obstacle was.

I am regrouping.

Is it enough that Karl be labeled unemployable? Or do his ratings need to accurately reflect his impairments?

If I decide to stop fighting..... can I? I want to. I want to say, "this is enough," and stop fighting the VA. I want to relax into financial security and let the VA label him however they want... but that isn't what I have been fighting for, nor is it fair. I have been fighting for Karl to receive adequate compensation from the VA, but more importantly, accurate recognition.

Karl went to buy me a bottle of champagne. My fight is not over but it looks like we will win... expect, you know, even winning and getting the recognition Karl deserves from the VA will never ever restore him to who he was. We won't ever really win.

Things I like about Karl

He is always warm when I am cold
and he lets me put my cold hands in his armpits
or my cold feet between his legs
and he lets me sap his warmth until he is cold too and I am maybe lukewarm.

I like that he will say a word
that he knows
will make me stop what I am doing
and break into song.
Literally.
I serenade him a lot with classics from the 80s.

I like that he does not whistle
anymore
around me,
because whistling grates on my eardrums.

I like that he whistles when I am not around
and that he has found a way to compromise his wants with my needs.

I like that he wants this place to be better than it is
because that's what he was fighting for:
a better place.

I like that words mean nothing to him
and he will not care
that I am writing him a love poem
because he would rather
I put my cold hands
on his belly
to tell him I love him.

He says that I am wrong.
He would rather have poetry
than cold hands,
but I know
he will let me put my cold hands on him anyway.