You're not in my club. No matter how compassionate or understanding or eager you are, you are not in my club. You might even have a family member who was in the military, but it doesn't mean you have any scope of understanding of what my club is.
I am hesitant to write this, because I want civilians to feel comfortable with veterans and their family members. I want civilians to want to understand. I don't want to alienate anyone.... but I am angry. I am worn down and furious.
I know that asking "what can we do to help?" is meant to be a helpful question, but the truth is, I don't know. I don't know how you can help. Stop the hero worship. Recognize that veterans and their families are people. Stop saying "Happy Memorial Day." Learn a veteran's story. However, remember that you are not in my club.
You do not get to joke with me if you are my waitress and my six year old tells you her daddy has a brain injury. You do not get to say "He seems really nice. Are you sure he has a brain injury?" You do not get to tell me that watching veterans eat for free one day a year at select restaurants at select locations off a special menu makes you want to join the military. You are not in my club.
The people in my club get to say "oh brain," and laugh, with Karl and I when he forgets something silly. They get to mock me for forgetting things by asking if I have TBI too. They get to ask, without hesitation, what my husband's ratings are and what they are for. They get to joke about free food one day a year at select restaurants at select locations off a special menu making all their sacrifices worth it.
I know that people who aren't in my club ask "what's his disability?" to be helpful.... but it doesn't come off as helpful, it comes off like the organizations who only want a veteran in a wheelchair to show up at their events. It comes off like they don't think my husband is disabled enough.
I am so frustrated because I feel like what I personally want for civilians is a difficult task. I want them to recognize that veterans are people. I also don't want them to define disabled veterans by their disabilities alone. I also want them to recognize that they aren't in my club and they don't get to make fun of my husband or fucking wheelchairs. I want people to want to hear our stories... really hear them. And understand them. And understand that free food one day a year is like trick-or-treating. It is Halloween for servicemembers. They put on their costumes - their hats or shirts or uniforms - and they go door to door asking for goodies. Just like children on Halloween, they endure comments about their costumes, their wars, their visible and invisible wounds.
I look at them and I know, I'm not in their club. I wore an old PT Army shirt of my husband's today. I was even mistakenly thanked for my service. I am not in their club though. I will never be. I won't go to war. I won't be drafted or volunteer. I won't know what it's like not to shower for forty days or do push ups until I vomit or drive a Stryker or an MRAP or a Humvee. I won't be locked down by fire in a stranger's home. I won't drive over an IED. I won't watch dust rise off everything around me. I won't smoke a cigar with another veteran who was there and laugh about someone reenlisting under fire. I am not in their club... and I guess what I want from civilians is what I strive to give the veterans in my life - respect, humanity, the benefit of the doubt, compassion, understanding, and recognition that I won't ever be in their club and that's okay, for me and for them.
It is okay not to be in my club. I'm sure there are many clubs you're a part of that I'm not - college or sports loyalties, church affiliations, chronic illnesses, dead family members, addictions, hobbies - and that's okay. I get that I am not part of your Subaru enthusiasm group. It doesn't make me better or worse, it just means I don't get your inside Subaru jokes and I probably won't try to tell you anything about my piddly knowledge of Subarus. We all have clubs. This club, the disabled veteran community I belong to because of my husband, is not a glamorous club. It's just my life.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
conversations with kids
There are words I never thought I'd have to find that I use often. There are words I say to my children, metaphors I make up as I go along, to explain to a six year old and a nine year old what it's like to have a brain injury.
It's nice in some ways that they will grow up with this knowledge. It's nice that they have some patience for their father and some understanding that he wasn't always this way. It's sad though that our eldest, who was just shy of two when Karl came back from his second tour of Iraq, and our daughter, who was born just over ten months after Karl came home, will never know Karl as he was before.
"He used to be quick," I told my eldest today, while they and I were out having some just-the-two-of-us-time, "he used to remember things better than most people... like you."
"I can not imagine that," they responded, with an incredulous laugh in their voice.
"Well, it's like his brain is a car - it still gets from one place to another.... it just doesn't go as fast. His brain used to go really fast. That's called processing speed. That's one of the things they tested. His memory is bad too, you know that though."
"Yeah, he can't remember anything. I can't imagine not being able to remember where I'm going if I'm walking somewhere."
"Right!" I said, "Imagine your brain works fast and you remember things as well as you do now, because you remember things better than some people, right?"
This lead off on a tangent about things they remembered from when they were 3, but we circled back around when I told them to imagine being 24 and suddenly not being able to remember simple things anymore.
"I can not imagine that," they said for the second time.
We talked about how brains are weird and how things people remember are weird. They remember telling me about a dream they had when they were barely three. They remember the first time we saw our first house, when they were three and a half. They remember a watering can we had when they turned six.
"Daddy remembers things from when he was a kid still," I tell them, "he just can't make new memories very easily."
Apparently they know he remembers his childhood because he recently told them about breaking his nose when he was a kid and they were grossed out. They also know more about blast wave induced TBIs than most adults they encounter. They also think the science of learning how brains are impacted by blasts or by force ("like football," they say and I know they listen to me rant) is fascinating.
They also know, thanks to our conversation today, what IED means.
"People can make bombs at home with materials they buy at the store, and that's the kind Daddy ran over."
"I wouldn't make a bomb," they say.
Me neither, I think, but then I think about war and safety and come up with a few scenarios where I actually would place IEDs around my house to protect my family. I wouldn't have thought of any of this before Karl. I would have seen black and white and thought bombs were bad. Sometimes now, because of Karl, I think about how scared or angry someone must have been to put a bomb in the street, and I thank my lucky stars that I have never been in a time or place so terrifying.
It's nice in some ways that they will grow up with this knowledge. It's nice that they have some patience for their father and some understanding that he wasn't always this way. It's sad though that our eldest, who was just shy of two when Karl came back from his second tour of Iraq, and our daughter, who was born just over ten months after Karl came home, will never know Karl as he was before.
"He used to be quick," I told my eldest today, while they and I were out having some just-the-two-of-us-time, "he used to remember things better than most people... like you."
"I can not imagine that," they responded, with an incredulous laugh in their voice.
"Well, it's like his brain is a car - it still gets from one place to another.... it just doesn't go as fast. His brain used to go really fast. That's called processing speed. That's one of the things they tested. His memory is bad too, you know that though."
"Yeah, he can't remember anything. I can't imagine not being able to remember where I'm going if I'm walking somewhere."
"Right!" I said, "Imagine your brain works fast and you remember things as well as you do now, because you remember things better than some people, right?"
This lead off on a tangent about things they remembered from when they were 3, but we circled back around when I told them to imagine being 24 and suddenly not being able to remember simple things anymore.
"I can not imagine that," they said for the second time.
We talked about how brains are weird and how things people remember are weird. They remember telling me about a dream they had when they were barely three. They remember the first time we saw our first house, when they were three and a half. They remember a watering can we had when they turned six.
"Daddy remembers things from when he was a kid still," I tell them, "he just can't make new memories very easily."
Apparently they know he remembers his childhood because he recently told them about breaking his nose when he was a kid and they were grossed out. They also know more about blast wave induced TBIs than most adults they encounter. They also think the science of learning how brains are impacted by blasts or by force ("like football," they say and I know they listen to me rant) is fascinating.
They also know, thanks to our conversation today, what IED means.
"People can make bombs at home with materials they buy at the store, and that's the kind Daddy ran over."
"I wouldn't make a bomb," they say.
Me neither, I think, but then I think about war and safety and come up with a few scenarios where I actually would place IEDs around my house to protect my family. I wouldn't have thought of any of this before Karl. I would have seen black and white and thought bombs were bad. Sometimes now, because of Karl, I think about how scared or angry someone must have been to put a bomb in the street, and I thank my lucky stars that I have never been in a time or place so terrifying.
Monday, November 3, 2014
fighting
"...and you're never getting divorced," our six year old proclaimed from the backseat.
She is too young to remember a time we talked about divorce, so I ask why we would get divorced.
"Because you fight a lot."
I try to explain that if we're fighting, Karl and I are okay, but I'm not sure it makes sense if you're six.
I do not try to explain that if Karl and I are teasing each other about divorce, it means we're fine. I often get calls on our home line asking for Karl. When I ask if I can help instead, they ask if I'm his wife.... "Today!" I say or "So far!"
We don't joke as much about divorce as we did in the early years, before I asked for a divorce, before we went to marriage counseling. We joke more about it than we did then though. It's hard to laugh about divorce when you're trying to figure out who gets the house.
I can't tell my daughter we'll never get divorced... because who knows? Life is hard. Marriage is hard. I don't think Karl and I will get divorced, because we've seen the road map back from a bad situation. We know that when it feels like we have nothing left to give each other, there is more. There is more hope. There is more love. There is more to our marriage than the bad days. There is more to our marriage than fighting.... even if it doesn't seem that way to the six year old in the back seat.
I wondered if I should feel guilty about it - my daughter thinking that we fight a lot. Maybe she'll marry someone she doesn't love and respect as much as her daddy and I love and respect each other because she's scared to fight all the time. Maybe she'll grow up and marry someone who throws cheese (although, to be fair, I only did it once and she was way too young to remember). Maybe she'll avoid relationships for fear that she'll end up like her father and I. I don't think so though.
Neither of my kids (six and nine) has ever gotten to the stage where they say "gross" or turn away when Karl and I kiss. And we kiss a lot. We make out on the couch in the living room. We walk around naked in front of each other. We take turns caring for each other when one of us is sick. I make sure Karl always has microwavable food on hand because he no longer uses the stove. Karl picks up my prescriptions from the pharmacy.
I think as a six year old, my daughter sees my exasperation with Karl and takes my love for him for granted. She doesn't hear other couples fight and she doesn't hear about other couples fighting. As she grows up and sees more couples, I think she'll have a better understanding of Karl and I as a couple. Yes, we fight a lot. But we also love a lot... maybe even more than we fight.
She is too young to remember a time we talked about divorce, so I ask why we would get divorced.
"Because you fight a lot."
I try to explain that if we're fighting, Karl and I are okay, but I'm not sure it makes sense if you're six.
I do not try to explain that if Karl and I are teasing each other about divorce, it means we're fine. I often get calls on our home line asking for Karl. When I ask if I can help instead, they ask if I'm his wife.... "Today!" I say or "So far!"
We don't joke as much about divorce as we did in the early years, before I asked for a divorce, before we went to marriage counseling. We joke more about it than we did then though. It's hard to laugh about divorce when you're trying to figure out who gets the house.
I can't tell my daughter we'll never get divorced... because who knows? Life is hard. Marriage is hard. I don't think Karl and I will get divorced, because we've seen the road map back from a bad situation. We know that when it feels like we have nothing left to give each other, there is more. There is more hope. There is more love. There is more to our marriage than the bad days. There is more to our marriage than fighting.... even if it doesn't seem that way to the six year old in the back seat.
I wondered if I should feel guilty about it - my daughter thinking that we fight a lot. Maybe she'll marry someone she doesn't love and respect as much as her daddy and I love and respect each other because she's scared to fight all the time. Maybe she'll grow up and marry someone who throws cheese (although, to be fair, I only did it once and she was way too young to remember). Maybe she'll avoid relationships for fear that she'll end up like her father and I. I don't think so though.
Neither of my kids (six and nine) has ever gotten to the stage where they say "gross" or turn away when Karl and I kiss. And we kiss a lot. We make out on the couch in the living room. We walk around naked in front of each other. We take turns caring for each other when one of us is sick. I make sure Karl always has microwavable food on hand because he no longer uses the stove. Karl picks up my prescriptions from the pharmacy.
I think as a six year old, my daughter sees my exasperation with Karl and takes my love for him for granted. She doesn't hear other couples fight and she doesn't hear about other couples fighting. As she grows up and sees more couples, I think she'll have a better understanding of Karl and I as a couple. Yes, we fight a lot. But we also love a lot... maybe even more than we fight.
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