I have told you many times about being a Daddy's girl. I was and am. I loved him with every fiber of who I was. Which is why it was hard to watch him suffer. His PTSD was combat induced and he showed signs shortly after returning from Vietnam. "Combat fatigue" was the name used at the time. It wasn't until the Gulf War was in full force that the term PTSD was bandied about. By then, my parents' marriage had been destroyed. I was 18 and living in Oyster Bay, New York. I was horribly homesick and every phone call had me ready to quit my job. Finally, I reached the point where I said "I have to go home." My family was falling apart and being so far away was killing me.
For twenty years, I was my daddy's lifeline. I wish I could tell you the number of times he was ready to end his own life. And the phone calls! Oh dear gods, the phone calls! I can replay each one of them, word for word. For me, it's my Hell. Every time, I was able to either talk him down or get help to him in time. He thanked me profusely. The last time was the exception. He had called to tell me he loved me and to say goodbye. I was in Felton, Pennsylvania and Dad was in Palo Alto, CA. How in hell was I gonna stop my hero from doing this? I called 911 in York, PA, who put me in touch with 911 in Harrisburg, PA, who called San Fran, CA's 911, who put me through to the Palo Alto 911 who connected me with the Palo Alto VA police station. Every one of these operators stayed on the line with me as they tracked him down. They got him safely into the hospital and the first call I got was from a nurse named Jaime who told me to take a shot of whiskey and get some sleep, she had this. The next morning, Dad called to ask why I wouldn't let him die? I decided then and there that I was selfish, but as long as I drew breath, I'd always save him.
It took some time, but he thanked me for making that call. However...I watched him suffer. I could hear it in his voice via the phone calls. When I lived with him, I saw it first hand. My dad had become an alcoholic and no one was trying to help him. His brother is an even bigger alcoholic and enjoyed having someone to drink with. Everyone else thought it was just Dad's way. My dad used to enjoy a beer or two every now and then. Mixed drinks on New Year's Eve. However, it was nothing like what he was doing before he died. His demons were full-blown and he was losing the battle. At this point, he said some very hurtful things to me and after sitting and crying, I began to question the decisions I'd made. Why did I save him? He obviously didn't want to live, yet I kept fighting for him. I felt as if I was the only one fighting for him most days, however, he wouldn't have given up on me so I sure as hell wasn't going to give up on him. I do remember saying the words "My life would be so much easier if he weren't here!" (I live with this every single day!)
Every time he called, my heart would race. His doctors were the first ones to tell me that I had secondary PTSD. I'd lived with dad and his terrors. I'd been his "partner" through this hell on Earth he experienced. I'd sat in on his counseling sessions. I'd held his hands when he cried. I could close my eyes and follow him into the jungles of Vietnam. My nightmares were riddled with gun shots and death. The nightmares are less now. I don't relive them like I used to. But let me tell you, my Women's Studies class at UWO one semester was about the Laotians who assisted our troops in Vietnam. I spent more sick days that semester than I ever had before. I couldn't sit through the film footage. I would sit in class and cry.
At that point, I was still a Psych major with an intent on serving our veterans. I was hell-bent on saving our returning warriors, one at a time, if I needed to. I had to take a step back. My anxiety was through the roof. My depression was worse than ever. My PTSD was rearing it's ugly head. I was losing control of my life. So, I had to admit I just couldn't. As much as I want to save them all, I can't. I do know that my heart will belong to a veteran long after it has stopped beating. My lessons in this journey with Dad have taught me many things and loving a veteran is my destiny.
Again, I say the words, "Father, forgive me...I did my best, but unfortunately, my best wasn't good enough, my love wasn't strong enough, and my will was not great enough. But it doesn't mean that you weren't loved with all that I am."
It took some time, but he thanked me for making that call. However...I watched him suffer. I could hear it in his voice via the phone calls. When I lived with him, I saw it first hand. My dad had become an alcoholic and no one was trying to help him. His brother is an even bigger alcoholic and enjoyed having someone to drink with. Everyone else thought it was just Dad's way. My dad used to enjoy a beer or two every now and then. Mixed drinks on New Year's Eve. However, it was nothing like what he was doing before he died. His demons were full-blown and he was losing the battle. At this point, he said some very hurtful things to me and after sitting and crying, I began to question the decisions I'd made. Why did I save him? He obviously didn't want to live, yet I kept fighting for him. I felt as if I was the only one fighting for him most days, however, he wouldn't have given up on me so I sure as hell wasn't going to give up on him. I do remember saying the words "My life would be so much easier if he weren't here!" (I live with this every single day!)
Every time he called, my heart would race. His doctors were the first ones to tell me that I had secondary PTSD. I'd lived with dad and his terrors. I'd been his "partner" through this hell on Earth he experienced. I'd sat in on his counseling sessions. I'd held his hands when he cried. I could close my eyes and follow him into the jungles of Vietnam. My nightmares were riddled with gun shots and death. The nightmares are less now. I don't relive them like I used to. But let me tell you, my Women's Studies class at UWO one semester was about the Laotians who assisted our troops in Vietnam. I spent more sick days that semester than I ever had before. I couldn't sit through the film footage. I would sit in class and cry.
At that point, I was still a Psych major with an intent on serving our veterans. I was hell-bent on saving our returning warriors, one at a time, if I needed to. I had to take a step back. My anxiety was through the roof. My depression was worse than ever. My PTSD was rearing it's ugly head. I was losing control of my life. So, I had to admit I just couldn't. As much as I want to save them all, I can't. I do know that my heart will belong to a veteran long after it has stopped beating. My lessons in this journey with Dad have taught me many things and loving a veteran is my destiny.
Again, I say the words, "Father, forgive me...I did my best, but unfortunately, my best wasn't good enough, my love wasn't strong enough, and my will was not great enough. But it doesn't mean that you weren't loved with all that I am."
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