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Saturday, September 3, 2011

Driving . . . Me Mad!

The Valdez Boy is legal now.  To drive, that is.  He aced the test route and impressed the woman with the dreaded checklist.  Evidently, he possesses mad skills.  All of my children are now licensed to operate a motor vehicle on public roadways.  Yet another milestone in the life of a parent.  Yet another worry pulled out from under the pillow (Jimmy's grandma used to say that when the kids are little, all of a mother's worries are beneath her pillow) and thrust into the stark light of day.  A dangling baby tooth yanked loose to free the adult molar fighting to emerge.

Rather Toothsome!
Right about now, I'd rather play tooth fairy again.  Though at the going rate, the GROWING rate, of home tooth extraction and monetary remuneration, maybe I'd be smarter to surrender and pay the auto insurance.  (To all you parents who might feel the compunction to read this aloud to your young children: plug their ears if they believe! Otherwise, steel yourself for the devastation sure to follow the complete ripping away of the curtain between childhood fantasy and  big people reality.  Don't fool yourselves into thinking they actually realize the difference.  Have I not told you the story of how I revealed the true identity of Mr. Santa Claus to Sarah and Zachary many years back?   It was the crumbling of their young chins and quivering bow lips that clued me in.  "Ohhh, they actually thought the big guy in the red suit really delivered those presents marked FROM SANTA!"  The wailing lasted long into the afternoon.  The disapproval from my husband lasted long into the night.  My personal dismay over the entire affair still lingers to this day.  One mustn't assume  -- that whole "ass out of me and you" adage -- that because one intuited at a tender age that Santa and his pals, the Easter Bunny, Cupid, etc. were merely delightful figments of wonderful imagination, that everybody else inherently gets this.  And it matters little if they share your genetic material.)

Excuse me a moment while I retrieve my potted fern from Hank the Wonder Pup's jaws of plant-death.  This is the fourth in need of rescue just this week!

********************************************************

I'm back.  Flustered.  Warm.  And rather ticked.  The danged dog would NOT listen to my stern commands.  When I finally grabbed his collar and led him back inside to his kennel for a time-out session, the fern was upended and my right shoe had collected poopie goo.  Grrrr!

Where was I?  Oh, the whole driving thing.  The girls were less pushy when it came to their licenses.  To be fair, the eldest was forced to wait until she graduated because we felt she simply wasn't ready due to extenuating circumstances.  She was quick to make up for lost time!  Number two in the line-up missed her written permit test by one or two answers -- test-taking anxiety at the root -- and chose to wait a full year before braving the waters again.  She passed and went on to lead a rich driving life running meaningful errands for her mother.

The boy, however, entertained dreams of driving even before he reached his fifteenth birthday.  Though I felt he did not give the manual the attention it deserved beforehand, the kid passed his test with a rainbow of flying colors and spent the next year racking up various and sundry hours behind the old wheel.  Fair weather and stormy weather.  Daylight and night.  Assorted vehicles.  Mom and dad alternating at shotgun.  And not once did he lose sight of the horizon upon which the silvery highway spread out before him: the holy grail of the hot-blooded American teenage boy.  Oil replacing blood.  Gasoline pumping where oxygen once circulated.

As THE day drew closer, the boy started up a chatter concerning car ownership.  HIS car ownership.  Though we allowed him his dalliance with the subject, researching rides online, making queries as to repairs with our mechanic, pricing out insurance and the like, there was never a chance that we'd succumb to the desires of our single-minded son.  But getting him to the point of accepting that fact took a conversation with his big sister's boyfriend, who simply recalled how he had plunked down his dollars for a cheap car and got just what he paid for: at present, he drives nothing, as the junker is permanently in 'the shop.'  He encouraged our new driver to continue to save toward a better vehicle, never once mentioning the relative incongruity of a confident and cocky sixteen year-old having the keys to his own possible death trap.

And that's where we are at present.  Me on the couch, contemplating the future of my youngest child's fledgling career as an operator of a motor vehicle.  Manning whatever car he can finagle his way into courtesy of his parents.  Fighting the urge to text or answer calls.  "Remember, young man," cautioned the DMV employee behind the counter this past Tuesday, "you're driving a car . . . NOT a cell phone!"  Signalling left and right turns on the same local roads on which he learned to follow the laws of traffic.  Bobbing his head to music turned loud enough to thump the speaker but hopefully not strident enough to drown out the siren call of police cars and other emergency vehicles.  Much to his delight, college sister has decided to leave her sporty SUV at home for her baby brother to use until the end of the month.  Oh, joy!

Making It All Official

A Lady With A List
If you find yourself behind him at some point, follow him for just a bit and judge his self-proclaimed prowess.  He has a mild tendency toward leadfootitis, which has more to do with not watching the speedometer than actually hurtling along for the joy of sheer speed itself, but he has a knack for backing out and in that's unparalleled by either of his siblings.  Feel free to shoot me a text, photo or e-mail.

You think I'm kidding?

At least Hank will never drive.  He's much rather chase cars.  And EAT the aforementioned pillow!

Remnants of an Ill-Fated Rescue Attempt: "Alas, poor caladium, I knew it well!"
(Panda was merely a witness and in no way a partner-in-crime.)
   

Sunday, August 28, 2011

The Night Song of the Canary

There are things that I'm most proud of in this world.  And more than a few items which cannot be described using pride in any form.  For instance, I'm modestly proud of spotting this sedate fat bumblebee on my hyacinth bean plant and taking the patient time required to snap his picture before moving on with one of my busy days this past week.  Ain't he a beauty?


Or how about the serendipitous landing of these two joined flutterbyes on the door of the Yukon just as I pulled out of the Hobby Lobby parking lot.  They remained affixed, both to one another AND my car door, all the way to Lowe's: about a mile and a half and breezy all the way!  (Gotta take the camera everywhere.)

CHECK OUT THE DETAIL ON THE EYE!
To unfairly balance the equation and provide a rounded example of my opening statement, there is no pride attached to the moment earlier this evening whereby I remained in the locked and upright position on my couch watching the MTV Video Awards with my two stay-at-home kids (new term: take note) and had my eyeballs and eardrums indecently exposed to a heartwarming half-ballad-half-rockin'-rap-song replete with so many motherf****** references that the network censors could not keep up with them.  Oh!  Sorry!  Identification, please: the 'artist' presently known as L'il Wayne.  He IS definitely a compact man.  As fit as he is, I'm unclear as to why he needs to wear his shorts below his buttocks, thus revealing his bright blue underwear beneath.  And were those platinum-set diamonds on his teeth?  The tattoos and abs I understand.  I don't GET Mr. Wayne at all; my son quite enjoys his music, if I can really use that term.  (Trust me when I say this is more than a generation gap issue: we both adore Adele.)  There are no pictures to attach here.  I think that is for the best.

Now, along the lines of award shows, I'm thinking of a few to mark my own stellar, a-a-nd not-so-stellar, moments this day, this week.  The winner of today's high point came when my husband grinningly referred to me as his canary after taking in my yellow shorts and t-shirt upon my return home from a training session with Hank the Wonder Pup.  That's almost as good as the time he saddled me with the nickname "Show Pony" after watching a rather amusing English judge on one of those reality dancing programs.  That was good for a month or more!

THE CANARY CALLER

COULD HE BE A BLUEBIRD?
In the running for today's low point, it's a three-way race.  You be the judge.  First, arriving late to regular church service after promising to attend Bible study beforehand: I was running behind and adjusted my schedule to arrive EARLY to church rather than LATE to Bible study.  HOW GOOD IS THAT?!  But there was a need to contact my neighbor and this created interaction which ate up minutes.  The Yukon was low on gas and required filling.  I promised my husband coffee from Starbucks (I had NONE) when I thought I was in early status and though the clock shouted out my tardiness I felt I should still deliver the goods.

MY SON IS KNOWN FOR HIS NAP-STYLE SERMON-ATTENTIVENESS!
For those not in the know, I have a reputation for quietly rushing through the back doors of Cross Point at least ten minutes tardy.  Usually closer to twenty.  Never, ever, EVER because I have slept in.  My compulsive need to "get everything done" before heading out the door is the root cause.  I'm the butt of many jokes and references and ribbings, and I deserve it.  We all decided today that if I did happen to show up early or even on time one Sunday morning, than Jesus surely HAD to be coming on that day!

EVEN LATE GALS ARE ALLOWED FREE ZINNIAS!

Second, sneaking in the door a full half-hour late to Hank the Wonder Pup's second Sunday afternoon of training at Sit N' Stay deep in the heart of Christiana, Tennessee country.  Just TRY sneaking in anywhere with Hank.  Just try!  I double-dog DARE YA!  To be fair, I did call ahead.  And I thought the logistics of running a short errand for my dear sweet ma and squeezing in a brief visit with her, complete with her own Starbuck's special order delivery, would not interfere with returning to my home  for a wardrobe change and pup retrieval . . . and dashing at legal speeds to make my 2 o'clock training session.  I simply thought wrong.  Could have happened to anyone.  Just happened to fall on top of me!  Twice in one day.  I sound somewhat awful at this point, eh?

But wait for the third and final runner in this hotly contested race before you make up your minds!  After a time-consuming, energy-sucking month of caring for an energetic and dynamic lab-pup mix AND nursing an ailing old girl through the remaining dog days of her final summer -- not to mention the feeding, ignoring, throwing out, allowing in, petting, brushing and overall general caring for the princely Fabio the Feline -- Gloria's veterinary clinic almost came to an abrupt close for cruelty to animals late this afternoon.  If I'd gotten ahold of handsome Hank, there'd be NO almost.  Fortunately, he was stubborn and my knee was weak.

MY TEEN BOY DOG

NAUSEA-REDUCING PILL FOR PANDA

TWO- TO FOUR-A-DAY MINI-MEALS A DAY WHENEVER
PANDA IS NOT VOMITING: EXPENSIVE SPECIAL FARE, TOO 

THE COVETING OF THY NEIGHBOR'S DOGGIE DISH

A SAFE VANTAGE POINT

SO, I OPENED THIS UNSCREENED KITCHEN WINDOW TO  TAKE PICS OF THE ELUSIVE HUMMINGBIRD WHICH SHOWS UP EACH MORNING.
HOW DOES FABIO KNOW THAT?!!!

OUR AGED CANINE: SHE PREFERS TO SIT AND PANT IN
THE GRASS MOST OF THE TIME.

HANK WANTED TO TAKE THIS SWEET LITTLE THING HOME FROM HIS VISIT TO THE FARMER'S MARKET THIS PAST SATURDAY!
He blatantly tore down one of my only two sunflowers even as I ordered him to cease and desist in my sternest voice, with the most insistent and forceful of NO's ever to be uttered in a suburban back yard, and then dashed around and around the lawn, under the low wide branches of the red bud, and practically through my legs . . . with the fat seed-laden flower head in his slobbery puppy mouth!  Never once did he heed my commands, calls, warnings, threats, or even the appearance of the leash.  My PMS'ing brain had no heart for humor.  No head for understanding his breed and age.  No!  I was ticked with this mutt for his wanton destruction of my mini-eco-environment for the winged seed fanciers who flit in and out of my life.

THE ONE PLANT I BLAMED HANK FOR PULLING BUT TURNED OUT
TO BE MY HUSBAND, WHO CAN'T DISCERN A TOMATO PLANT FROM
A WEED AND DIDN'T THINK TO ASK ME FIRST!!!
I'D BEEN WAITING FOR THE FRUITS TO RIPEN!
Eventually, I huffed back inside, defeated, irritated, and my eldest child took her turn at rounding up the little dogie.  She was successful.  Hank was unceremoniously led to his kennel and held there without attention and praise for the time it took me to drive to and from Starbucks with my treat receipt.  Upon my return, Hank and I made up and moved on with out lives.  Without grudges.  Without the letting of blood or loss of canine life with subsequent creative stews and stir-fries.  Tomorrow, I will harvest the remaining seeds from the flower and scatter them near the bird feeder.  Hank lives to see another day.
Which means another Sunday training session followed by a wrestling match with his new friend, Rosie the Radiant, who is the first female dog to ever "present" herself to my teen pup, and thus is the first female dog to receive Hank's neutered "amorous attentions."  Oh, it makes a mother so proud!

"HE'S A TRAMP, BUT I LOVE HIM.  BREAKS A NEW HEART,
EVERY DAY-Y-Y-Y . . ."
Someone out there got something worse they'd like to share with the class?

Friday, August 26, 2011

Remember Me?

GUESS WHO?
Hi.  It is I -- the blogger me.  Remember me?  Gloria.  Gloria is my name.  And yours?  Nice to make your reacquaintance (dictionary says this isn't a word, but it's MY blog . . . I say it is).  Lately, my blog has been treated more like an abandoned East Coast beach house in the path of Hurricane Irene.  But summer life is still kicking it's feet to a fast and furious beat which could possibly match the winds and gust of aforementioned super storm.

But I miss you all.  You readers of my self-expression on the good and the bad days.  You readers who choose to leave behind a few of your own words in reaction.  AND those who like to paddle softly behind the scenes, riding in the wake so as not to leave any trace of your presence.  I'm sweet on each and every one of you.

The Mona Lisa smile of a happy, if lately infrequent, blogger.
Instead of pounding the rather warm AM pavement with Hank the Wonder Pup, I'm perched on one of these lovely kitchen stools that my mother-in-law so gorgeously reupholstered for me, scanning Facebook and waiting for the Benadryl (well, diphenhydramine, the generic cousin) to kick in and soothe my irritated skin.  It's quite sad, really, because it appears that this dog lover harbors a part-time allergy to her handsome hound friend of recent acquisition.  Though I've blamed my full-time sinus headaches and congestion of these past months on the worse-than-usual allergy season here in Middle Tennessee, I'm beginning to wonder if the dander-laced straight white hairs liberally adhering to the bottom of our dining set chairs and kitchen rugs could be the culprits.  Mucinex-D and Allegra are staples in my pharmacological arsenal: never have I ingested more antihistamines and decongestants!  On this fabulous Friday, after a round of 6:30AM canine cuddling incited tiny welts and a furious round of topical itching, it was incumbent upon me to add the Benadryl -- with a coffee chaser to counter the drowsiness that often hits me within an hour.  But I label the possible allergy to Hank as part-time due to the random nature of these bouts of contact dermatitis.  This development will NOT derail my ownership.  Fear not!  I'll shoot myself up with whatever concoction will keep me level in order to maintain my relationship with my life-affirming retriever-mix.

Multiple allergens in this picture.
Having said that, it appears the walk may be on.  I'll be back.  Until then, a fond and friendly fare thee well.

NATURE SHOT:  A sunflower sprung from the bird feeder discards
pays it forward to a handsome male Goldfinch.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Moving Out and In

What a series of momentous days we've had in the Valdez household!  The entire summer seems a busy blur, with me too fatigued and overwhelmed, though often happily so, to chronicle events in the manner befitting a decent blogger.  Sorry, folks.  So, does that make me INdecent?

It's our second night in Chattanooga.  We're on Eastern time here.  That would make it midnight thirty as opposed to eleven thirty.  Oh, joy of all joys!  Things don't go well for me when I log in too many post-midnight evenings.  (Is that an oxymoron?)

Our official college student is safely ensconced (have you noticed this is a fave word pairing for me?) in her dorm/apartment tonight.  However, momma can't vouch for her happiness.  She's experiencing the freshman jitters: manifesting as an intense dislike for Chattanooga in general (too ghetto, she curtly explains) and a sure sense that she is NOT college material and will fail miserably.  Fortunately, her parents are of the opinion that Miss Sarah will adapt more quickly than she realizes and will blow the socks off her GPA.  That slate is wiped clean and the clock is re-set: high school is a thing of the past. We've had all of the myriad college-talks imaginable and THEN some.  This entire process has been necessary and beneficial for all of us, parents and youth alike.

The road trip ran smoothly.  Less than two hours as a mini-caravan headed down I-24 on a warm humid day.  The cavernous confines of the Yukon housed the multiple bags and boxes containing the bones of her new life away from home.  I sure hope the new MacBook she bought with her graduation money doesn't try to hitch a ride back to Murfreesboro without her!



We rubbed elbows -- and knees and boxes -- with hundreds of other incoming freshman.  We witnessed the meeting of new acquaintances, making several ourselves with other harried and hurried parents in various states of doubt and excitement.  Kids with friends already made texted their plans to meet after the unloading, stair climbing, hilly street walking and performing of countless sundry tasks necessary on moving-in day.   I'm confident that we ALL met our excercise quota yesterday afternoon!

Signing in for her room key.

Sarah's roommate's dad: a police officer -- sergeant, no less!


Sharing a chip in between our chores.  Sweet!


Our moving man: he's HIRED!

Sarah hissed at me to STOP as I snapped off this shot.


Meanwhile, at the hotel -- the affordable and rest-worthy Day's Inn, always booked, just off the highway and on the inside edge of downtown, two blocks from a spacious and trendy Starbucks,  hop-skip-and-a-jump from the UTC campus -- I rated the vanity mirror as unsettling and upsetting.  You know how some places have 'skinny' mirrors?  Self-explanatory.  THIS establishment, while possessing excellent air conditioning, installed mirrors which reflect a shorter, squatter, fatter 'you.'  Who needs that during stressful travel?  No pictures of that, thank you very much!  My camera is much more flattering. 

**Well, this entry must be considered UNDER CONSTRUCTION as the hotel signal is on the fritz.  Sorry for the poor quality but I'm posting nonetheless.  Good night.  I'm off to fall asleep with "Words With Friends."

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Healing Our Broken Heroes


    *The following is a college research paper written by a friend, Madyson Darcy, on a very timely subject: that of PTSD in our post-war soldiers returning home -- past and present.  Part of the assignment includes publication in a public forum.  Hence, it has earned a spot as a post in my blog.  Feel free to leave any commentary.
______________________________

            This is a difficult interview for Vietnam War veteran, Larry Eubanks, who has agreed to dredge up and relive horrific moments that are forever etched in his memory.  While it is hard to hear, it must be even harder to express.  His eyes flash in a face deeply cut with lines left behind by age and troubled times.  The effects of war – fighting, death, chaos – have plagued his troubled mind for years. He recalls his combat experience,  “…we couldn’t distinguish who the enemy were…frontal attacks, inside wire compound…sneak attacks, snipers, mortars, rockets, land mines, sneaky stuff  (Eubanks, 2011).”
 He went on to describe his inability to complete a second tour, “I was having nightmares, and they couldn’t have that…I was waking up screaming, that gives away your location.” He explained how he began to develop what they now call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD, although during Vietnam it was referred to as Combat Fatigue, “I became more flaky…depression, agitation, more upset than situations were…crowds made me uncomfortable…loud noises bothered me…” For Larry, PTSD would last for years without proper treatment, leading to a troubled life filled with run-ins with the law, institutionalization, relationship problems, and a long list of medications.  Returning to civilian life continues to be a complicated, frightening and an uncertain time for thousands of men and women just like Larry who are arriving home after serving in war.  But with today’s advances in the mental health field, providing good restorative mental health care to these combat-weary warriors can diminish years of mental suffering, crime and domestic tribulations.
 Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
The complications associated with PTSD are unsettling and disruptive in the lives of people who are caught in the tumultuous ocean of emotions, such as anxiety and fear. This storm of difficulties is triggered by a traumatic event in which the person was exposed to a near death experience; serious injury or threat of both to either themselves or others and their response to these situations was extreme fear, helplessness, or horror. Often recurring intrusions in their lives is evident by interfering thoughts, frequent images of the event, dreams, nightmares, and even the feeling of reliving the moment of terror with episodes of flashbacks (American Psychiatric Association, 1994). There are also triggers that will ignite the distress such as movies, loud sounds, or reminders that represent the traumatic event.
 When these emotions and associated symptoms become overwhelming to those experiencing them, they will begin to withdraw in order to reduce the stimulus that is causing the discomfort. Some combat personnel will not discuss the event causing them the pain, they will avoid activities, and people that have too close an association with the disturbance, such as their own combat brothers. The withdrawal becomes so complete that the person will begin to exhibit diminished emotions and the inability to connect in a loving way with those around them. In addition, they will begin to have an empty regard for the future and any plans to prosper, marry, have children or experience a full long life (Center for Substance Abuse Treatment, 1993).
As a result of these signs, symptoms and triggers, soldiers are thrust into an unmanageable life, in addition to at least two of the following symptoms: trouble falling and staying asleep, irritability or angry outbursts, problems concentrating, hyper vigilance, and a hypersensitive startle response to loud noises or sounds (Center for Substance Abuse Treatment, 1993). In order for there to be a diagnosis in the true sense of the word, these symptoms would persist for more than one month and become a problem in the person’s social, professional and/or personal life.
An interview with Rob, a Scout Sniper who served two tours in Iraq, yielded a story which exemplifies the details of PTSD’s numerous symptoms and effects almost to a tee. When asked how PTSD had affected his life, Rob recalls, “Well prior to developing PTSD... I had many accomplishments in the Marine Corps: I was promoted to corporal, was high shooter in my class, and was given a certificate of accommodation for my action in Iraq. I was also given a meritorious mast for action in Kuwait prior to Iraq. I completed numerous schools, graduated top of my class in nearly all of them, and I was a scout sniper team leader. After Iraq I pretty much fell apart I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t care about being a Marine anymore (Ziarnick, 2011). ” He went on to describe the symptoms which slowly eroded his mere existence. “I began having nightmares, night sweats, paranoia, anger issues, extreme irritability, and I carried a firearm everywhere I went…I was paranoid. I didn’t feel safe.” He also spoke of having deep depression, suicidal thoughts, and intense guilt and shame over what he saw in Iraq. He stated, “I avoided most people. I tried to avoid even my closest of friends -- even guys I fought with in Iraq.”
Subsequently a person needs to be diagnosed with PTSD by a professional such as a psychiatrist, psychologist or other qualified mental health clinician. The suffering soldier would sit down with the qualified professional who will collect an extensive history, and inventory the existing signs and symptoms. This information is gathered into a report and cross-referenced with the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Edition, or DSM-IV (American Psychiatric Association, 1994). This book contains thorough diagnostic criteria for nearly 300 mental illnesses and is the accepted medical standard for ‘official’ psychiatric diagnosis.
Broken Heroes
War has left its wounded behind on the battle field for decades upon decades, but a new battlefield is strewn with bereaved infantry, medics and other battle weary souls. The wounds of war are far reaching and often times not evident to those of us who have never been to war. Walking among us in the supermarket, gas station, library or other public forums, are the men and women who carry the images, sounds and smells of war that we will never truly know or experience. Their minds and hearts carry the lesions of war’s aftermath; a sense of danger, a heightened sense of fear, death, anxiety and the ever watchful eye looking for the enemy that wishes to take the very breath they fought to keep so they could return home.
Back at home, soldiers are returning in droves and have not been prepared for the ramifications of war.  In Fort Carson, CO., PTSD rates have risen 4,000 percent since 2002 (Edge, The Wounded Platoon, 2010). In addition, research and coverage on media outlets indicate that nearly 30 percent of men and women returning from war are experiencing PTSD, traumatic brain injury and suicidal ideation (Victor Montgomery III, 2009). A spike in criminal behavior, violent crimes, substance abuse, domestic violence, and suicides has prompted people to take notice. A recent report by Frontline called, “The Wounded Platoon,” followed the homecoming of a platoon of soldiers from Fort Carson, Colorado (Edge, The Wounded Platoon, 2010). The documentary found that a majority of those returning are so troubled by the residue of war that they have difficulty fitting back into society and end up unemployed, isolated, or worse, in prison. Reporter Christopher Buchanan takes an investigative glance at a group of forty-two Army soldiers who fought side by side in Iraq for two tours and found an astonishing trend was taking place in nearly all of these men’s lives: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Buchanan realized, as he sat interviewing one of the platoon’s men, Kenneth Eastridge, that soldiers are wholly unprepared to reenter civilian life and the number of complications associated with PTSD is rising. Eastridge had been sentenced to 10 years in prison for his part in a murder of a fellow soldier upon return from Iraq and after being diagnosed with PTSD (Buchanan, 2010). Buchanan recognized that Eastridge was only one of the many examples of what happens as a result of untreated combat stress; he decided to see if the other men Eastridge fought with had similar experiences.
Buchanan’s searched netted him all but two of the men from this platoon; unfortunately, those two soldiers died in Iraq.  What he found was an astonishing array of stories from men who tried to piece their lives back together on their own, while suffering from anxiety, depression, nightmares, fear and anger. Some self-medicated with alcohol and drugs, while others isolated themselves by taking jobs which require long stints of time away from home, such as positions which follow pipelines or railroads.  Some of these men do not have homes of their own: they are staying with family or friends and cannot find employment. Still others are suicidal.
Nearly seventeen military veterans in the United States will succeed in committing suicide everyday (Victor Montgomery III, 2009). One soldier, Ryan “Doc” Krebbs, spoke of his suicide attempt after his return to civilian life, recounting his feelings of worthlessness, comparing the notion, “I was a medic over there. I had an important job. And then when I got here, life just seemed pointless, and it seemed like I was just a burden to anybody that I was important to, so I just said, ‘fuck it’ (Buchanan, 2010).” His wife was able to get him to the hospital in time to save his life. Since the attempt, he has vowed to never again attempt suicide as he recalls the pain left in the wake of the suicide of another member of his platoon -- a fellow medic and one of the deceased Buchanan was unable to find. 
Stigma
“The government is awesome at getting men ready for war, but they can’t get them back to civilian life and a humble heart,” –Junior enlisted Marine, Post Iraq (Hoge, 2010).” When building an army to fight a war, it has become essential to steel the minds and bodies of those that will step into battle in an effort to keep the front lines strong and ensure victory. Unfortunately, the government is ill equipped to deal with or understand the issues that are being faced by returning warriors. When these men become ill, overseas and at home, they are often times discouraged from seeking help. The idea behind talking about having PTSD is taboo, “The stigma from some leadership is that you just shut your mouth and keep on going”, Jim Naughten, platoon leader for the Third Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 506th Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division  (Buchanan, 2010). When this idea is so pervasive inside the ranks, it can make it difficult for anyone to want to seek help because of the fear of being labeled a “pussy,” or “coward” , thoughts that are so engrained in their minds, they override any common sense or desire to get help (Buchanan, 2010).
In a book called “Healing the Suicidal Veteran” a therapist named Victor Montgomery III. M. C, who works with suicidal veterans, has identified numerous times with men who have a macho mentality that has driven them to the edge of destruction and only with coaxing and trust does he talk them through the wall of silence. He states to a suicidal marine, “Listen to me, buddy; I understand how difficult it is for you to ask for help. Many combat warriors have thick skin and a tough constitution. You are a seasoned warrior and have learned in combat to suck it up and stuff your feelings (Victor Montgomery III, 2009).” He goes on to talk him through his fear of speaking up and allowing the Veterans Administration services to assist him in reducing his symptoms.
Vets helping vets is a good start, as the encouraging words of Vietnam veteran Larry Eubank exemplifies this motto, “…there’s a lot of other vets over there at the VA hospital check um out go to the VA play games with them go to the wise guys [who]--
are sorting stuff out, rather than something to duck. Its mental illness, there’s a stigma associated with it, [a] special stigma with vets, false pride you don’t ever want to admit you fell apart in battle, it’s hard to face, seeing other vets who go to group, the other guys are doing it they look normal to, I will go with them and hang out. It was interesting then the first groups and counseling I attended I was just there to listen I got emotional I realized I got baggage (Eubanks, 2011).” Knowing that other veterans have similar feelings can be the initial step to getting these warriors the help they need.
If these soldiers rely on feelings and pride alone to push them through the pain, fear, and anxiety, there is little chance for survival. It is only with the help of the military, civilian treatment facilities, other veterans and Veterans Administration programs that these soldiers will be able to step outside the confines of military toughness. Only then will they realize that the courage it takes to seek help is nearly as important to muster as the courage required for fighting in a war. 
 Healing
Growing concern over the mental state that some soldiers are in following their return from war has left the mental health system and military personnel with a tough job on their hands. The question then is, how do they prepare ahead for the possibility of PTSD, diagnosing those who have PTSD and treating the already suffering veterans of many past and present wars? In an effort to deal with these dilemmas professionals have joined forces and created treatment options, support groups and even an in-patient treatment facility to help these wounded warriors cope with their mental anguish. Treatments vary according to the individual’s needs however; exposure therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization Reprogramming or EMDR, group and animal therapies, along with medication are all commonly used to alleviate suffering.
In Pueblo, Colorado an in-patient treatment facility called Havens Behavioral War Hero Hospital at St. Mary Corwin opened its doors to veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan who have run into problems within their daily lives due to the effects of PTSD. Travis Waters, a Psychiatric Physicians Assistant who is employed at the facility recently retired from the military after 20 years of service in the Air Force and found himself drawn to the aid of these fellow men and women suffering from PTSD (Waters, 2011). He spent his last 7 years as a Captain serving medical needs of fellow service men and women. When asked what prompted him to work with soldiers with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he expressed the sadness of seeing men and women who worked in his medical unit, returning from Iraq with PTSD symptoms. He added, “…the medical unit saw the people that were injured and they saw people’s faces mortared, it wasn’t the front line but they still got exposed to it (Waters, 2011).” So when the opportunity came, he stepped in to work at the only in-patient PTSD treatment facility in the nation.
            His main responsibility at Haven is providing for the medical needs of patients. He stated, “The hospital currently serves twenty-three patients; five are women and most suffer from PTSD, although there are some with Traumatic Brain Injury or TBI, anti-social issues, psychosis, mood disorder, schizophrenia and behavior issues.” He said that many of the patients suffer from nightmares, which are treated with sleep aides such as; Mini Press at 1 to 12 mg depending on the severity. Other symptoms include agitation, anxiety, nervousness, and sensitivity to loud noises.
When asked what treatment was like at the hospital and how many hours they spend in treatment, he stated, “They spend 20 to 30 hours a week on different group therapies and individuals therapies.” He mentioned the main treatments used are Cognitive Behavior Therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization Reprogramming, and In vivo Exposure Therapy. These types of treatments are done by asking the sufferer to relive a traumatic event over and over in their mind, until they become desensitized to its jarring effects or they can see past the pain and live through the memory more calmly. Each person is also asked to spend time writing about events that present him or her with the most difficulty in dealing with memories, they then are asked to share this with the group and in individual therapy. One truly unique aspect of treatment is the “therapy dog program” which provides dogs for many of the men and women suffering with PTSD and the like. Travis stated, “I have seen the guys do really well with it, it tempers their anger. The dog is a queue; it gives them the idea to take care of ‘dog’ and calm down.”
            Generally these soldiers are referred by their command or by their mental health facility at their base or host station. Although acute patients only stay for one to two weeks, with the average length of stay being 28 days. It can be extended further if they uncover issues that need additional work. Mr. Waters pointed out that some patients do try to avoid returning to their units because they know they will be shipped out again or face separation from their units. If separation occurs, the men and women are put through what is called the Warrior Transition Unit; where they will receive job training work-shops, debriefing and are discharge however the military sees fit (Buchanan, 2010). This type of separation is extremely hard for someone who has spent the last 2-3 years learning how to be a soldier and now have to realize they will never do this again.
            A sad point Mr. Waters brought out in the interview, was that these men and women are often exemplary soldiers prior to trauma, when they are diagnosed, treated and sent back they are often times separated from service without benefits because their symptoms had created disruptive behavior. The defense department does not want to provide provisions for these broken warriors, nor do they want to admit they were partly to blame for their being broken.
There are also support groups offered by local Veterans organizations along with help from the more than 153 Veterans Administration Centers or VA Centers located around the United States, which connect those with PTSD symptoms with counselors and doctors who then may prescribe medication to reduce anxiety and help with sleep (Buchanan, 2010). Veterans Suicide Hotlines are teaming up with Psychiatrists, Psychologists, and other mental health providers to assure that these heroes do not fall through the cracks.
Hope
The transition from a war zone to a domestic life can be a confusing contradiction for some returning heroes (Hoge, 2010). The days of adrenaline rushes, near death experiences, loud bombs, gunfire, and constant stress are now over, although reminding the body can be a difficult task. If these military warriors can be given the approval to ask for help, which will diminish the shame they feel for thinking they are not strong enough, they can get the care they need and have a more suiting welcome home. With help from caring professionals, an alert military transition unit and a more willing role of self-recognition; suffering can be reduced with treatment and we can heal our broken heroes. 

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Avoidance Thoughts

I thought I'd pop in on my blog while avoiding my domestic responsibilities: namely a much-needed trip to Wally World (a.k.a. Wal-Mart).  It's a zoo.  A cavernous air-conditioned cage where prunes and Pringles mingle with maxi pads and mouthwash in complete harmony . . . save for the shoppers.

Panda, the elderly matron of our canine pack, has made her way, oh so carefully on those rickety arthritic joints of hers, up the stairs and found a resting spot close to me here in the study.  I've snapped off a few shots of her graying visage for those not-too-distant future days when she's gone and we're down to Hank, Fabio the Cat, and occasional visits from Abby the Grandpup.  Today is an especially relaxing and happy day for her as the Hankster is presently recuperating from a triple-threat surgery this afternoon at our vet clinic; he doesn't return home until tomorrow.  His rear dewclaws, that one baby canine which refused to budge when the adult tooth emerged, AND his yet-to-be-exercised (except on his doggy bed) manhood will NOT be returning with him.  Ouch!  Poor sweet baby.

There was a rather exciting and unexpected development courtesy of my Facebook instant message feature: my cousin IM'd me to ask one question and it led to a discussion of our individual blogs.  THAT may lead to a promising joint-venture down the road.  I'll keep you posted.  Meanwhile, she's sending me a little package!  I love me some good snail mail.  Wheeee!

(In the middle of it all, I'm inserting eight random pictures of the precious subjects and summer events of my 2011 life.  Enjoy.)








I discovered I have a talent for undressing.  My iPhone, that is.  The other day, Hank was acting the fool and had to be directed to his man cave for a cooling down session (you might call it a kennel).  In the process of escorting him, my iPhone was launched from my waist clip and landed in the dogs' water dish.  Well, I slammed that kennel door shut in a flash, lunged for the submerged technological lifeline, and moved with an efficiency and speed I've not hitherto witnessed in myself.  You've never seen a girl undress an iPhone so quickly!  Perhaps you've never seen an iPhone undressed.  Period.  But an Otter Box, the type of protective cover I use, is a rather cumbersome prophylactic consisting of a hard endo-skeleton which envelops the phone, clipping securely into place at several key points, and a flexible rubbery outer shell which fits snugly over the other piece.  It takes some doing, especially with my newly arthritic finger tips, to get the thing off my petite Girlfriend.  Possible water damage and replacement costs, however, are superb motivators.  Not to mention a nasty surge of adrenaline.
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Well, the above post never made it online before I was forced by time and circumstance to run the aisles of Wal-Mart.  Hank has returned home.  He can't seem to stop licking his suture on his hind leg where his dew claws were unceremoniously nipped off.  Actually, it's not a suture but a staple.  And as the paperwork stated without delicacy of verbiage, he was also castrated.  That emerging male dangle is depleted . . . left to hang behind him like a deflated hair-balloon.  I know.  Sounds rather crass.  But I'm not trying for that.  For some odd reason, I felt a mother's pride when it became apparent that my once helpless male pup was crossing the threshold into his adulthood with all of the promise of becoming a proud sire.  Now, he has been deprived of that right to at least practice carrying on his bloodline on anything but his new forest-green doggy bed (which is a handsome color-contrast against his white fur).  Yes, yes, it was necessary.  Can't have anymore homeless pups in the world.  Don't need the extra aggressiveness and territorial-marking that often follows on the heels of masculine maturity.  Intellectually, it all makes perfect and sound sense.  Emotionally, I'm glad he can't think into things the way his owner does.

Though this entry lacks finesse and cohesiveness, or maybe a theme, I'll post it.  My free drink coupon at Starbucks is burning a hole in my purse.  My cute new haircut requires the benefit of a quick color.  Much needed rain has drenched the yard.  And I've got to pack for an overnight with a good friend who is ready to celebrate turning 40 in quiet and friend-oriented fashion.  I'm hoping for a deep-tissue massage.  I feel the need to melt like butter.



 

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Recipe for The Perfect Thunderstorm

**After much trial and error, I've hit upon the right combination of ingredients, activity and timing.  Considering the house-shaking power and inches of water which rained down from the heavens like so many angry and sorrowful tears within the past hour, I know I'm right. 

INGREDIENTS FOR A SUCCESSFUL RAIN DANCE:

-One iPhone loaded with several decades worth of Michael Jackson songs
-One sweaty, hungry Reluctant Suburbanite who promised a friend she'd water her plants
-A horde of threatening clouds off to the east which surreptitiously observes said house frau
-A two-week dry spell in the midst of a heat epidemic
-Several failed attempts to lure 'scattered showers' in with laborious timed sprinkler placements
-Sunscreen SPF 30+

DIRECTIONS FOR MIXING:

1: Choose to listen to aforementioned MJ tunes, beginning with "Shake Your Body Down" which he did with The Jacksons, and ending with "Heal The World".  Somewhere in the middle, include "Scream" with Janet Jackson and "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' ".  (Do NOT decide upon multiple NPR podcast selections of "This American Life" or "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me . . . " as these dry choices appear to dispell any and all rain clouds.  Why the world's biggest, and most disturbed, pop star does the trick, I can't tell you, except that his music seems to fit a variety of situations.)

2: Fill a watering can several times, placing the hose on various thirsty tall grasses and crape myrtle trees between fillings, and lug the heavy can to every single cotton-picking potted flower and tomato in your neighbor's front and back yard.  Empty and repeat.  And repeat.  And did I mention repeat?

3: Remind yourself that it's okay if your sunscreen is melting off your face in the 95-degree plus humidity afternoon because you can apply it for a fourth time if need be.  Further, embrace the pleasure you feel deep, deep, DEEP down, in knowing you are keeping alive these various and sundry flowers, vegetables and young trees which impart so much enjoyment to your busy and stressed-out friend who's presently on a week's vacation with ANOTHER friend . . . in sunny beachy Florida, while you are discovering creative ways to remain cool in the midst of multiple heat advisories.  And remember you might could be a touch irritable because you neglected to eat an actual meal and the clock was hitting 1PM when you headed out.

4: Even as the clouds gather in number, darkness, strength, and promise, do NOT -- and this is most important -- do NOT stop this laborious watering process.  Stopping now, with only the cucumber and tomatoes to go, will only ensure that this giant wall of water vapor restlessly situated on the horizon will move around you and every parched parcel of real estate in your section of town!

5: Oh, my gosh!  Turn OFF that danged sprinkler still arcing back and forth in your back yard.  It's been running for over an HOUR.  You forgot it because you decided to post yet another blog entry about that spellbindingly gorgeous and loveable Hank the Wonder Pup (even though your readers most likely tired of his antics about a month ago).

6: Don't think about rain, even as a gusty breeze stirs tired leaves and yard debris, and layers of ominous nimbus begin to creep ever closer overhead.  Calmly turn off your friend's hose and hang it up.  Admire your handiwork, pausing to snap a picture of the handsome cantaloupe you've kept alive another day for your pal (who DID invite you to celebrate her 40th birthday with a few other select friends in less than a week).  Send this cool view of said melon (even if you do say so yourself) to your relaxed and tanned friend, assuring her that her garden babies are sated and saturated.  Then, walk, don't run, home to check on the puppy you left out of his kennel but loose in your kitchen in your haste to complete your responsibilities.  If you run, this may relay the wrong signal to the approaching storm and, thus, divert its flow.

7: Trash your idea for a blog entry on the deceptive practices of local news channels and their weathermen/women as almost horizontal winds deliver the biggest, fattest, happiest, sassiest rainfall you've seen in a coon's age.  Embrace terms such as '30% chance' and 'possible hit-or-miss storms' and even those 'scattered showers' you've tried to seduce with no apparent success before now. 

8: Share your success.  Rejoice in the reality of NO WATERING tomorrow.  Ponder why the elder dog despises storms and hides indoors from them but the Wonder Pup rushes out to sit and observe the skies even as the drops begin to pelt his pelt.

9: Don't get too cocky; Mother Nature is listening.

10: Oh, and Google 'coon's age' as you've always wondered as per the origins of that particular term.