An aged veteran tries to cope with how people view him.
Do the best thing you can do this Veteran's Day: Thank a Veteran; thank him/her for the sacrifices they have made in order to keep us free.
I do: I live with one. My twin sister, who was in the Air Force. :D
The old man sits there on the bench, staring blankly at nothing in particular. He's just glad to be sitting in the fresh air, on a bench outside the Veteran's Home, where he currently resides. It feels good, the breeze ruffling through his thinning, grey hair, the breeze cooling his fevered cheeks.
Pain courses through the stump that was once his leg. He'd lost it in the war; after all these years later, it still causes him agonizing misery. He squeezes his eyes closed as a way of trying to stop the pain, grips the shafts of his crutches tightly in his gnarled arthritic hands, as the pain slams yet again into his brain.
People stroll by, some laughing, some talking, some listening to music. Some walk by with sad, serious expressions on their faces. None of these people even notice the old soldier sitting on the bench as they stroll by. It's as if he's invisible.
The man grunts as he gets up. Planting his crutch tips firmly on the ground, he labors to a standing position, cursing loudly as the pain in his body becomes worse. He slowly, unsteadily, carefully picks his way across the ground, putting both crutches in front of him before swinging his lower half through in between the crutches.
Tears form in his grey eyes, then spill over his weathered cheeks as he negotiates his way back into the building where he now lives with other people like himself: veterans of the war, veterans with no family, veterans with no place to go home to. He feels lonely, ashamed, abused.
He wishes he could get needed relief from stronger drugs to counteract the pain he's feeling; yet he already knows the answer to that one: the stupid doctors tell him he doesn't need any more drugs; he's already an addict, which is probably the biggest crap of lies he's heard. He knows he is hurting; this is't asking too much.
He's been on Motrin or Tylenol for over twenty years now; it's a wonder he has a stomach (or a liver) left; it no longer works; it doesn't even touch the pain.
He gets frustrated; when he does, he bangs his crutches angrily against the wall, disturbing his neighbors, starts swearing angrily. That's when the nurses come in and give him a shot or threaten him to send him to the psycho floor because he's crazy.
He's not crazy; all he wants is relief from the maddening pain that courses through his body twenty-four hours a day, or relief from the memories that cause him to wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
At times the dreams are so real he feels as though he is back in the war, experiencing the sounds of bombs detonating around him, smelling the odor of death, blood, or smoke, feeling the terror in his beating, thudding heart, feeling the rush of blood coarsing through taut veins and nerves.
No matter what he does, the memories of wartime are always there; nobody understands why he cries, sometimes acts crazed, or why he demands help for his problem, his ongoing post traumatic stress disorder.
The stupid VA people just tell him it's all in his head, he'll be alright. Alright my foot: if he is okay, then why is he still having the nightmares? Why is he still having the crippling pain in his body (in particular, his stump)? Why is he not taken seriously enough?
At the thought of all this, he raises a crutch into the air, slams it against the wall as hard as he can. The crutch handle snaps off. It's broken. Sobbing, the veteran slumps to the ground in a heap, just lies there, crying his heart out. Nobody cares; they'd much rather go about their own lives than to listen to the troubles of a tormented old crippled soldier who only needs help.
Suicide is the only option he feels is reasonable. Life has got to be better than this, he thinks.
This one is a definate keeper and you should have submitted it to your local paper and legionaires group. It says so much of the sacrifice made and still being made. Thank you so much for sharing this with us.
*BRAVA,* Karen, what a powerful story you tell! There's a lump the size of Texas in my throat...well done, thank YOU for remembering! As a Veteran myself, a disabled Veteran, I salute you.
An illustrated developmental history of the American military chemical and biological protective respirator for use against war agents, this work provides photographs of actual respirator specimens and several useful appendices, in addition to its en
