By Their Actions, Most Americans Don’t Support Veterans, No Matter What Their Car Magnets Say

Polished men and women in uniform are seen all over our country on billboards, TV and magazines.  Photographs of them incites pride in Americans, and have become a symbol of patriotism and service to country.  They truly are the best and brightest.

 

 

 

 

 

We love to see pictures of our service members bright and new.  Just like we love our flag.  We hang it in front of our homes with pride.  We remember to take it down every night at sunset if we do not have a light on our flag.

Then, life becomes a little more hectic, and we leave the flag out one night, without a light on it.  Then one night becomes two. Days become weeks, then months until all that is left is a faded cloth in shreds.  This is exactly how we treat our military and veterans.  We love them when they are polished, with faces full of hope and service.  But when they return damaged, they aren’t shiny like we remember and our interest fades.

The infamous Shock and Awe, did not occur in 2003.  It happened to veterans and their families when they returned from the war and were denied health care, or asked to wait for more than a year to be seen.    There are aspects of veteran’s health care that have been improving in the past decade.  The knowledge and technology exists to treat veterans and  improve lives of those injured or disabled.  Unfortunately, to fund what veterans need requires and act of Congress.  As Senator Tom Coburn of R-Oklahoma, gave us a great example how one senator can stop a bill passed unanimously from the house in the Senate.  Once again blocking funds to help veterans.

I am certain that most Americans do not want veterans to suffer, but it’s happening.    As time passed, the Afghanistan War, Iraq War and the troops they claim to support,  were pushed into the back of their minds.  Things got busy for them.  Maybe they don’t have time to find news about what’s really going on in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Maybe they work more than one job, and only have time to catch their local news.  With such a limit to free news,  they can easily recall more about Kim, Kanyaye and Kim’s ass, than the details of the H.R.5059 Clay Hunt SAV suicide prevention bill that passed the house unanimously, but was blocked by one senator, Tom Coburn R-Oklahoma.  Senator Coburn blocked it because, “.. it duplicated existing Department of Veterans Affairs programs and was not paid for by offsets elsewhere in the budget.”  (Military News.com)

That’s funny, in 2002, 2003 and 2004, while sitting in a Loma Linda Veteran’s Hospitals with a minimum two hour wait for scheduled appointments, the TV’s in the waiting rooms tuned to CNN and Fox mentioned nothing about cost offsets to fund a war.  In fact, their coverage of the ramp-up to both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars had an ESPN sports channel feel to it.  Then, when injured service members came back wanting care for the mental and physical injuries they earned in war, suddenly cost was the problem.  You see, it takes an act of congress to make any changes to VA health care.  Unfortunately, members of congress have constituents and donors to answer to so the information they are lacking to understand the need for funding goes ignored.  Well, ignored until something so horrific hits the news, it seeps between the Kardashian coverage and angers people with “Support our Troops” magnets on their cars.   Of course, the anger is short lived.  So congress can act like it’s going to do something, put a few bandages in place to give the appearance of doing something, until there’s another Kimyaye pregnancy divorce rumor.   Then, while everyone’s eyes are on KimYaye, they can block something veterans need.  Because like this flag, Veterans are great when they’re new and shiny, but eventually they will be left flapping in the wind, shredded and decaying.  Until another war of choice comes up, and just like the owners of this flag will go out and buy a new one to replace it, congress will fund wars that will provide a blank check for shiny new Soldiers, Sailors, Guardsman,  Marines and equipment.  Then funds stop when they need care the most.  Because that is how The United States of America supports its troops.

 I have been in the Veteran’s Heath Care System since 1994. Over the last ten years, I have been hearing veterans health care providers and staff use a phrase that is turning into mantra to ‘soothe’ veterans.  It’s not just one hospital,  I have heard it at three.   I have heard it said so many times, it almost overshadows the chaos and despair lingering in the halls.

“The Veteran’s Health Care System has a very large case load.  By jumping in line like that, you are delaying the care of your brother and sister veterans.  We all need to be very patient.”

It should not be a veteran’s problem the Veteran’s Administration is understaffed and under financed.  But the citizens of the United States make it a veteran’s problem.

As a patient who has put aside her fear of wasting a doctor’s  time in the emergency department or waited patiently in a specialty clinic waiting room for cancellations and no-shows,  I do not wish anyone else’s care to be delayed.  I do question the statement used to ‘calm’ veteran’s down by playing on their guilt.   I know we are supposed to be nice and share, but since when has good manners trumped health?   It is a well know fact that those who fight in combat, fight for their fellow warrior.  A veteran will fight, but if you tell them that that speaking up on their own behalf may hurt a fellow warrior, well that’s like shooting fish in a barrel.  The only thing that may stop a warrior from fighting, is if it will endanger the well being of another veteran.  It’s quite brilliant.  I’d like to shake the hand of the douchebag that came up with that gem, and punch them in the face.

Asking someone to wait in an overcrowded system seems like  a perfectly reasonable request, but not if someone’s  life or well being depends on it.  In fact, many after-combat problems like amputations or infections could be prevented with early intervention.   Is it the VA staff?  No.  I have met many who work in VA facilities that want to provide veterans with the best possible care, but often have to justify funds spent on an individual if it’s not something obvious like a heart attack.  And after making requests and being denied the resources to help a veteran, eventually the goal becomes to just keep the veteran alive until the resources are available.  Does that sound okay to you?  Allow me to rephrase that:  Would that be acceptable for your son or daughter, brother or sister, mother or father?

Americans do not support their troops no matter what their car magnets or Facebook statuses say.   The truth is, we’ll shop while you’re at war, and when you come back, we’ll ask you to wait for medical care.  Am I over reacting?   We did allow Congress to leave for winter break without financing programs veterans and service members desperately need.  If anything, I’m under-reacting.

Over the last ten years,  many Veteran’s Health Care providers have been asking veterans to wait for health care.  It’s nothing new.  Veterans have been fighting for benefits and care my entire forty-four years on this planet.  When I entered the VA health care system in 1994, it wasn’t about asking for treatment, it’s about solving the riddle of your own health to figure out how to ask the right questions to get the correct treatment.

I had to learn to set aside my fear of wasting someone’s time in n emergency department, or crash a specialty clinic like a college class and  wait patiently in a waiting room to take the spot of  a no-show or cancellation.  You know, veterans can be seen in Veteran Hospital Emergency Departments is they need to wait months for care.  It takes patience, but I have done it on many occasions and in at least one case, it has saved my life.   Veteran’s must not be guilt-ed into waiting for care they need.  If we really ‘support the troops’, why is the burden of sacrifice on veterans alone? The answer: Because on election day, they got in their car with a yellow ribbon magnet and flag sticker on their bumpers, drove past their polling place to get home in time to vote for their favorite contestant on American Idol.    I think this flag is a great representation of how by actions, the citizens of the United States really  feel about service members, veterans and their families.

Photo by Karen Vasquez taken from her car in Orange, California on Christmas Eve, 2014.
























Am J Public Health. 2007 December; 97(12): 2132–2142.

WAR & Military Mental Health

The US Psychiatric Response in the 20th Century

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2089086/

“Herbert X. Spegal,  one of the first psychiatrists to observe soldiers suffering from war neurosis in Tunisia, was convinced that soldiers were not primarily motivated by hatred for the enemy or the ideals of liberty and democracy, but by the bonds with their buddies and regard for their officers.”

 

He Told Us To Go Shopping, Now The Bill Is Due 

By Andrew J. Bacevich

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Washington Post

Protecting The Kingdom At All Costs

 

We all have fears.  Most people have a fear of things that will eat them.  Some may be afraid of heights.  I have a fear that walks a fine line between a little weird, and crazy.

 One of my biggest fears is having to disrobe for a medical exam between waxing,  mistaken for Sasquatch and forced into a life of captivity as a subject of scientific research.  But my greatest fear, is being without underwear.

For as long as I can remember, I have never worn anything without my underwear, even pajamas.  First, it was  my diaper under my feet-ey pajamas.  Next, K-Mart underwear, because we couldn’t afford Underoos. and finally, underwear and an over-sized T-shirt.   Look, I may not always wear pajamas, but when I do,  I always wear my underwear beneath them.  

This may sound like the beginning of a story where I talk about how I was traumatized, or have a repressed memory  manifesting itself as a compulsion  to protect my private parts, but no, this is not the case.  And before you go all Freudian on me, I can say with great certainty after 16 years of therapy, if I had been violated in some way, it would have come out, and luckily this is not the case.  Nope. I just have an unrealistic fear of going commando.

Is that really such a bad thing?  I think not.

When I was growing up, I saw actors on soap operas wearing sheets like a beach towel, and I wondered, “Why are they talking about how much they love swimming.  I love swimming too, but this is ridiculous. Maybe if you’d shut up about it, someone will bring a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to that fancy tree house of yours, just like like Mrs. Lancaster did. ”  (Hey, didn’t everyone have a friend with a pool?)

Eventually, I learned that people in soap operas were not having a post-poolside conversation in a fancy tree house, but had just finished playing another type of Marco Polo.  Now, years later before, during, and after I play ‘Marco Polo’ ,   I leave my underwear on until the very last second, and once they’re off, I know exactly where they are.  Or at least which direction to look.   Maybe that’s TMI, but we all saw Kim Kardashian’s naked, oil-basted, photo-shopped ass last week, so if anything, I’m being modest.  (You’re welcome!)  After sex, I may stick around to bask in the after glow, but only after I have put on my undies.  If  I can’t find my underwear, and I’m not at home where I can pull a new pair out of the dresser drawer, I will search the place with the passion of a cleaning meth addict. (Without all that itching) I will turn on lights, lift sheets and flip mattresses if that’s what it takes to find them.   Maybe to \ you, underwear just may be just a poly-cotton  blended piece of clothing, but to me, my britches are The Knight of my Lady Parts, and defend The Kingdom with honor.  (Yes, I did just refer to my vagina as, The Kingdom.)

In 1998,  I left for work one  day and  woke up to find my mom was there from Arizona, my dad was there from Northern California, my grandparents were there from Westminster and my ex-husband looked a few years older, and he lived with me so I had no idea why he looked  so tired.  I might have felt like Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz if it weren’t for the stabbing headache from a skull fracture with  subdural hematoma and a few broken ribs.  I had been in a coma for three days, (I was time traveling.  Suck on that, Doctor Who!) and if my husband had not been home to perform CPR on me in a pool of my own blood, I’d most likely be dead.  I had heard of comas, but I thought they only happened to people in soap operas.  Once I realized I was in a hospital gown, I immediately took inventory on my underwear and found a catheter, and it freaked me out a little bit, but I had such a headache, I was unable to do anything about it, and for a few days, The Kingdom remained unguarded

It took me months to recover.  My mother-in-law came out from Wyoming.  She and  my mom were both there to help as long as they could, but eventually it was up to my ex-husband to change the dressing on my head.  It was very hard for me to reach my wound, because I had been in bed for so long recovering, my body atrophied a bit,  and there were broken ribs, and the scleroderma, didn’t help either.

Then came the day when my underwear saved The Kingdom from invaders.  After a head injury most patients need sleep, and I was no exception.  My head wound had almost completely healed closed.  It had about an eighth of an  inch left to be closed completely.  I had most of my mental faculties back, but I still tired easily and needed naps.  One afternoon, I was awakened by movement on my arms.   It felt like tiny little hairs barely touching my skin.    I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom mirror, took off my shirt and saw ants scrambling from their marching  formation across my body,  up my neck and into my hair.  I looked in my underwear, and there were no ants.  The Kingdom had been defended from foreign invaders.  I wondered why ants were headed for my hair, then I pulled the bandage aside, and in the white puss were ants,.  Zombie ants harvesting bits of my brain to bring back to their colony of ravenous, zombie-baby ants baring tiny, zombie-ant teeth anxiously awaiting my delicious brain tissue.  I had always thought that if I were to be eaten by a creature, I thought I would be delicious, but knowing I’m delicious did not calm me down.   There was no time to even scream,  because I jumped into the shower, got rid of all the ants I could from my body, got dressed, and got into my car , which in retrospect was not the wisest choice, and drove forty-five minutes from Oceanside to La Jolla, to my local Veteran’s hospital ER to get those ants  out of my head.

I wouldn’t recommend it, but I can say with great certainty  that if you walk in to any ER and start screaming, “Get these ants out of my head!”, you will get immediate attention.  In most cases,  that would result in  restraints and a psychiatric evaluation.  Lucky for me, the bandage on my head added credibility to my story.    I was examined, and I  found out my wound had become infected.  We had just cleaned and changed bandage that morning, and the doctor told me the ooze was only a few hours old, and the ants were harvesting the pus, not feasting on my brain.  I do worry that one day, zombie ants will come back for the rest of me.

My husband came straight from work at Camp Pendelton,  and brought with him a shipmate  to take my car home.    To say  he was upset with me because I drove myself to La Jolla, was an understatement, but by the time he got there he was either over it or had swallowed his feelings to get through one more medical complication during our first year of marriage. I remember that he was a cool cucumber when he got there.  After that, I don’t remember much.  My wound was scrubbed and debreeded of tissue and bandaged.  They tried to give me a bandage cap to wear over my head, and of course my dumb-ass refused, because we had a wedding to go to the following week and I didn’t want to look like a head-injury survivor, you know because I’m that kind of stupid.   So, they bandaged it with more tape and gauze, and sent us on our way.  I don’t remember much else, because after having my head scrubbed with what I believed to be steel wool, I got a nice shot of morphine for the ride home.

Sixteen years later, I continue to enjoy my full recovery.    But if I was already ‘enthusiastic’ about always wearing underwear, I became even more so because you know, ants.  (in case you forgot)  And so, the saga continues…  

Having scleroderma, means that invasive tests are routine to monitor  progression.   The following year, I was due for an upper endoscopy.  In the  pre-operating room, I was handed a gown and told to remove all of my clothing, even underwear.  I remember thinking, “Yeah, I’m just going to ignore the part about my underwear.”

They were working on my mouth.  Why would they possibly need me to be completely naked?  Maybe they take this who sterile environment thing too seriously.  I’ve had them before, but I couldn’t remember if I had left my underwear on during prior procedures, and my compulsion guided me to the right path: Keeping my  chonies where they need to be, protecting my private parts from ants.  And I got away with it.

Fast forward to Superbowl Sunday, February 1, 2004. A young and upcoming artist named Beyonce, sung our National Anthem.  Kid Rock was wearing a lovely American Flag poncho, desecrating the American Flag. And Janet Jackson had just scarred the corneas of children around the world because they saw her star-shaped nipple for 1/16 of a second, but I had bigger concerns.  I was eight month pregnant, and someone had the nerve to interrupt me while eating a chicken pot-pie.   I was in the hospital, with blood pressure so high, I was blind in one eye.  My had  doctor come in to my room and with exciting news:  We could not wait until the following morning, that baby had to come out now.  Blood work had determined the rate of my organ failure due to my very high blood pressure had become critical.

So I looked at him with my one good eye and said, “Okay, let’s do this.  But I did just eat a chicken pot pie, is there any way we can make it so it doesn’t come back up?”

Even on an empty stomach, I hurl coming out of anesthesia.

He replied, “Don’t worry, we have drugs for that.”

And that was the day I learned to ask for nausea medication before every procedure, and I never threw up after surgery again.  THE END.

My husband and mother had just left an hour before this lovely news, back home to Murrieta. The plan was for my  husband was going to come back to stay with me in the hospital overnight, and my mom would be back in time for the birthing in the morning.  We lived forty-five miles from the the hospital in San Diego.  So while my mom and husband sped back to the hospital, I was prepped for surgery.  I was given a gown and told to remove all my clothing and of course, I left my underwear on.  If there was ever a time I needed The Kingdom protected, this was it.  They were cutting the baby out of my abdomen anyway. ( In retrospect, wearing underwear while giving birth does sound a little odd, but at the time, it sounded pretty sane to me,)  I was transferred to a wheelchair and spent some time outside the OR watching nurses and doctors work quickly, but calmly.  Premature delivery was common at Mary Birch Hospital, and at thirty-two weeks, I was considered full term.   I was placed on a gurney and wheeled into the OR.

This was my first time in an operating room while being wide awake.  The bright lights of the operating room seemed to emit cold air against its deceptively bright white, foreboding walls .  I caught a glimpse of the table, just before it was covered.  The steel  made me think of a deep sink in the galley of my first ship.  The smooth surface  looked more like it was made for a giant cooking pot, not a human.  Just like the counter next to the deep sink, the sides of the operating table beveled a little.  On the ship it helped keep water from falling to the floor.  How clever.

I was placed on the operating table.  My vitals signs were taken, my IV was hung and I was ready for my epidural.  I sat up, the back of my gown was opened and I heard the doctor behind me ask, “Why are you wearing underwear?”

“Because it’s comfortable? ‘

A nurse walked up to me, held out her hand as if she were collecting my chewing gum like my fourth-grade teacher, and said, “You’re not getting that epidural if you don’t hand me that underwear.”

And like a kid spitting out her gum, I removed my underwear.  I got back into position and felt the cold of the antiseptic at the base of my spine, a small pinch and then nothing else.  My first epidural was a piece of cake, but I was forced to go commando.  I felt weird and exposed although I was covered in sheets.  A partition  was set up, it didn’t cover my face, but I felt like I was in a tent.  I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was in a blanket fort at my grandmothers, which  helped until I felt those blue sheets they use in surgery, over my belly.  Then  I heard one of the nurses say, “Doctor, he’s here.”

My husband and mom were greeted at the hospital’s main entrance by a nurse who quickly let my husband to where he was to scrub in.  Now I understood why the operating room in this hospital was on the first floor, near the NICU.

As soon as my husband was in the room next to me, I could sense the scalpel slicing my belly.  At first, I marveled over just the possibility that a human being could open up another human being’s  abdomen, and pull out another human being.  Then I began to feel my insides being stretched and rearranged.  It wasn’t painful, but my head moved with every not-so-gentle push and pull.  My partition was blue, and I wondered if looked like a swimmer, treading water being  attacked by a great white shark beneath the still blue water.    

Just when I thought it would never end, a giant lizard with the most beautiful face I had ever seen, was held up by the delivery doctor.  The lizard looked at me and said, “I got this mom.  You get some rest.  I’ll take from here.”  as he appeared to point his index finger and wink at me.  

My husband left to be with him while I was busy having my body put back together, and fondly remembering the hallucination I just had.   I could feel my organs going back in and wondered if this was what a car feels like when its cam shaft is replaced.  The doctors rushed to put my insides back together, before my blood pressure went any higher.   I felt like I was inside out.  Even after being closed up,  I could still feel the cold air of the sterile ER inside my body. I was transferred to a gurney and was wheeled to the recovery room.   On our way, I got to see my little guy in his incubator as we crossed paths, and paused for a quick hello. 

Once I was stable enough, they let my mom and my aunt into the recovery room.  They stayed with me, as I lay there shivering from the inside out.  Mercifully, the shivering stopped and as soon as I had the strength, I lifted the sheet and examined my dressing.  My abdomen looked like it had been stuffed into a gauze corset, and I was wearing underwear.  Operating room underwear, but it was still underwear.  I sighed contently,.  My son was healthy and The  Kingdom  was once again, safe and protected. 

 

 

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