The Price of War

by Milt Lum, staff writer

He awoke to a cloudless sky and sunshine bathing his front lawn with a golden glow. The smell of fresh mown grass wafted through the open window on a soft breeze. It was May 30th, traditionally when the nearby lakes had thawed completely and the summer season began. Those halcyon days when he would get out his fishing gear and canoe and go looking for walleye and northerns were long gone. They disappeared fifteen years ago when a rocket-propelled grenade smashed through the windshield of the Humvee where he was riding shotgun killing the driver.

He showered and went downstairs to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and sizzling bacon and the welcoming patter of clawed feet on the wooden steps. Jojo, his service dog, greeted him with a nuzzle and brushed against his leg awaiting the familiar pat between the ears. His wife turned to him and gave him a peck on his cheek as he took his customary place at the table in the breakfast nook.

“Are you up for sunny side eggs with a couple strips of bacon?” she asked.

“Sounds good,” he replied aware of that wariness in her voice.

Memorial Day in their small home town in the northern midwest had become a somber affair since the young men returned home in caskets from the war in Afghanistan. He had survived that mission, but others, for whom he was responsible, did not. Efforts to resolve that guilt manifested itself in so many self-destructive behaviors that his wife dreaded this day.

They had met while stationed in Alaska. She was speeding back to her quarters on Eielson Air Force Base, and he gave her a ticket. They dated, served their tours, married and settled back in the small town in the upper midwest where their families resided. Jobs were few, but both managed to find steady employment using their veteran benefits. He decided to supplement his meager retirement plan by becoming a weekend warrior in the state’s National Guard. His weekend drill was just an hour away, and his two weeks of annual training was in state. He was six years from getting his twenty-year letter when they were activated and deployed. He was the senior enlisted for his platoon. He returned intact from their first deployment, relieved that their turn had come and gone. As the conflict droned on into its tenth year, he was one year short of twenty when they were activated once more. He was one week from the end of this tour when he was injured.

He sustained severe concussive injuries and numerous shrapnel wounds, and was in a coma for three months. He was lucky to be alive when he was air-evacuated to Germany, and then to Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. His wife was at his bedside when he awoke. but he was not the same man that left her. His face was scarred, his left eye blinded, and his six-foot frame wavered like a twig in a breeze whenever he tried to stand. He had lost his hearing in both ears. Upon discharge from the hospital, he was assigned to the barracks on campus to rehabilitate. She went home.

He gradually regained his balance and strength in his legs, regained part of his hearing and learned to navigate with one eye. The severe headaches were difficult to control even as numerous MRI’s showed no significant pathology. Opiates were successful in ameliorating pain, but did little for his nightmares and sleepless nights. Sometimes the vertigo came without warning and resolved as quickly. Other times it persisted leaving him incapacitated for minutes, or, at worse, days. After two years he was discharged home with a 100% disability rating with follow-up care at the nearest veteran’s hospital, a three hour’s drive from his home.

Being home for the first time since he left four years ago was like being a toddler learning to navigate through a strange world. Though he had mastered the tasks of self-care, he no longer possessed the skills which made him employable. It took almost a year to adjust to being home. Throughout this period he was emotionally labile, feeling useless and a burden to his family and friends. Fatigue and depression brought him to the brink of suicide. His wife, taught to recognize the signs, intervened in time. Their relationship hovered on the brink as she was exhausted and he was frustrated.

The VA suggested a therapy dog, and Jojo became part of the family. He and Jojo bonded well. He took walks with Jojo and regained control of his life. His wife no longer hovered, and felt free to seek new employment opportunities. They went to counseling and renewed commitments to each other.

Memorial days’ tributes to the town’s fallen sons were painful. He refused invitations to participate in the ceremonies. Instead he chose to walk on the paved bike path that meandered through the woods near his home. With Jojo at his side, he felt safe. He sat on his favorite bench where he listened to the river that flowed alongside the path. There he meditated on the words related to him by his fellow vets: ’cause the river don’t talk, the river don’t care, where you’ve been, what you’ve done or why it is you’re standin’ there. It just rolls on by, whisperin’ to your soul. It’s gonna be alright, the river just knows.*

He knows he’ll never be the same. He knows they will never have the dreams they made. He knows he wants to live. He has learned to love again. He wants to forgive himself, and to forget, but he doesn’t know if he can. This is the price of war.

* Song written by Sam Tate, Annie Tate, and Dave Berg; performed by Rodney Atkinson his 2009 album It's America.