His Life was his Fellow Vets, Music
and a Dog Named Bob
The moving wall had been in town for 6 days, scheduled to leave us the following day. We were volunteer 'wall counselors', despite the fact that the wall had been a very emotional, heart wrenching experience for each of us.
It was about 3:30am when a taxi pulled up. A very gaunt, shaking, unkempt vet, with assistance from the driver, settled into a wheelchair. The driver pushed him down the worn path to the wall. On his way out, with tears streaming down his face, he asked if he talk to someone. His story was extremely sad, devastatingly so.
In Nam, he served with the Army's 'Grave Registry' unit, flying out to battle grounds, LZ's, and outposts to pick up bodies, bag them, and make sure they received the respect fallen comrades deserved.
On one such mission he was horrified to discover that the headless body he was about to 'bag' belonged to one of his best hometown friends. The tattoo on the body's arm was that of the 'frat' he and his friends belonged to in school. He lost 'it' right there, never to find 'it' again.
Unable to cope with the horror he experienced and with the VA not yet aware of PTSD and its effects, he had no where to turn. Self medication through drugs and alcohol was a way of life. He had tried suicide 13 times in 23 years. His last attempt, a suicide pact with his girl friend who happened to be a doctor (he was a male nurse), left him unconscious for 3 months. He woke up in a VA hospital, unable to speak and with little control of his motor muscles; the massive drug overdose had damaged his nervous system. Months of intensive therapy brought him to the place where he could speak in a very labored, graveled voice, and walk briefly without a walker.
He lived life as a virtual hermit, having an aide stop by once a week to assist with basic living functions. His only 'friends' were former druggies, and he still indulged in self medication occasionally. He was lonely, angry, disabled, and seeking friendship.
Overt he next 4 years we helped him overcome his drug dependency, took him to the wall in DC, got him active in local veteran groups, allowed him to march (roll!) with the marching unit. We took him to parks, diner, concerts. His life became
one that appeared to full and productive. His circle of friends expanded and he would weep sometimes, saying he didn't deserve such friends.
We located his daughter from his first marriage; he hadn't seen her in over 20 years. She refused to see him, but his ex-wife gave him a picture of her, which he poster sized and hung in his bedroom.
He always volunteered to help other vets, despite his many physical challenges. We asked the local Vietnam memorial board if he could become a volunteer in any capacity. We were told that they were afraid his appearance might not be appropriate. Of course, we never told him the real reason why his services were declined.
Sometimes we would spend 24-36 hours at his home, walking him through an emotional or physical crisis. He loved music, computers, motorcycles, and a black Labrador named Bob, which we gave him as a companion.
To this day we're not sure what finally pushed him over the edge. His 14th attempt at suicide succeeded. However, because of the friendship, genuine concern, and continuous reaching out by fellow vets, the last 4 years of his life were enriched. His own words just weeks prior to his departure were, "I can't remember ever being accepted by so many people."
A good soldier has gone home.
