PTSD – HANDS OFF; STAY AWAY!…(PART II)
Last post, I promised we’d discuss my personal reactions to the psychiatric community regarding PTSD. I’ll cite two experiences: one from my childhood; the second from an attempted visit to a regional Veterans’ Hospital.
I’m the first to admit that, in my teens, I began to have emotional problems – a delayed result from a traumatic accident to my feet as a three year old and the experience of subsequent multiple surgeries. My parents sent me to a respected psychiatrist in a neighboring city. The shrink listened an hour to my problems, then asked: “…Have you ever considered it may be your parents who are the real problem?” – and with this advice sent me packing. What’s a confused sixteen year old boy to make of that analysis?
I managed to stumble through my next sixty years without any more advice from the psychiatric profession. That is, until I wrote 3 ACES and began its promotion. My book concerns a Vietnam Veteran with PTSD, and having lived with PTSD for most of my own life, I feel I can consider myself a sort of junior expert. Months ago I visited the general store of a certain Veterans Hospital’s (it shall remain nameless), and there I thought my book would surely be welcome. It was not. The suggestion was politely offered that I might write the hospital staff, sending them a copy of 3 ACES along with my personal particulars and resume. In my application, I tried making it clear that any such visit would be made at my own cost and, further, that I sought no remuneration of any kind. My sincere hope was that I might be able to help some of their PTSD sufferers through conversation or informal discussion. Once again, it was not to be. Nor did I ever receive so much as a phone call or written response to my carefully written and mailed inquiry.
It’s interesting that 3 ACES was written and published before the above visit was attempted. Surprisingly, I think I caught the hospital mood quite well. Here are some excerpts from Chapter 28 (my comments after each selected passage in parens). Dawn Carlisle is visiting the Meyer Clinic in Phoenix, where her lover, Abner, has been hospitalized after his truck has been totaled in a chain collision:
Round-faced, with a carefully trimmed beard and goatee, his oversize horn-rim glasses secured by a sports strap, a stubby man in his sixties entered the exercise room. His sunken eyes, rimmed in red, appeared to be in retreat from a troubled world. He offered Dawn a faint smile and a meaty hand.
“I’m Charles Redhill, the staff psychologist. You’re Sargent Weaver’s friend?”
Dawn rose uncomfortably from her chair to shake his hand.
“Yes. I’m Dawn McManus—”
Dawn resumed her seat. Redhill slumped into a chair on the opposite side of the table, his voice a near-monotone.
“Let me preface my remarks by telling you that I conduct an outpatient clinic for veterans afflicted with PTSD at the Hayden Center here in Phoenix. Sergeant Weaver is welcome to attend any of those sessions, should he so chose—”
“I’ve vaguely heard the term, but what exactly is PTSD?”
“Post traumatic stress disorder. It means that the man in room 611 is not quite the same man you knew. Sergeant Weaver survived a touch over two tours in Vietnam without mishap and three weeks ago in Flagstaff, Arizona, encountered the first major injury he’s ever suffered. That accident has stripped him of his invincibility, his belief that he was somehow immune to the loss of life or limb.”
(Note Redhill’s superior air, as he speaks with Dawn. It’s as though she is someone with inferior rank, a mere child in these weighty matters.) Here is Dawn speaking with staff psychologist Redhill again:
“You’re saying he’s tormented by some wartime experience?”
“Are you familiar with the term ‘flashback?’”
“Yes, but I’m not exactly sure of its meaning.”
“Let’s say it’s an intrusion into a moment of your normal day that is as real as you and I sitting here—except that it is a replay of a prior traumatic event—usually triggered by an unexpected sight, sound, or smell. When it concludes, you may be out of breath, trembling, ringed with sweat.”
Dawn’s face fell. “. . . There might have been several incidents in the truck. I suppose I took them as bad dreams.”
Clasping his hands, Redhill leaned into the table. “Flashbacks can sometimes become physically violent. Did that ever happen?”
Dawn grimaced. “I think once—yes. It did happen.”
“And he hurt you?”
“Oh, no! Abner would never hurt me.”
Redhill settled back in his chair. “I’m not trying to alarm you.”
“Well, I do find this upsetting—”
“Miss McManus, are you aware that he’s been hallucinating—here in his room?”
“Oh, my God! We were just talking, and he did ask me if I heard other voices. How serious is this?”
“I consult with a psychiatrist here in Phoenix. We’ve decided to start him on Trazodone. That should alleviate the problem.”
(And here I have to wonder…there seems to be a great move by the treatment boys to all sorts of powerful drug therapy. In addition to mood stabilizers like Trazodone and Lithium, antidepressants like Sertraline and Paroxetine are used, along with Benzodiazeprine, a sleep promoter. And, of all things, MDMA – a pure form of ecstasy – is being tried out by various practitioners! Of course, gentle reader, what would this scene be without a little cat and mouse game going on between Redhill and Dawn?…) Dawn speaking again:
“Miss Kiley and I were talking about having him discharged into my care. I’d even started looking for a suitable apartment—”
“I don’t see why that isn’t possible. In fact it would probably be the best of several options. I’m simply preparing you.”
“Preparing me . . . for what?”
“The war in Vietnam was very different from prior wars. It was a guerrilla war fought in the midst of a hostile populace. Danger lurked behind every leaf, every smile. And when your tour of duty ended, you boarded an airplane and were home in forty-eight hours. No time to slowly talk out your feelings aboard a ship, no period of mustering out . . . you were rudely set down in your own backyard. The clash of cultures, the violation of morés you had just indulged in as a soldier—you thought all that would be dismissed once you got home. Instead of cheering crowds and parades, you were cursed as a ‘druggie,’ a ‘baby-killer!’ Your neighbors indulged in racial slurs, spit on you, then shunned you. The escape was often drugs, alcohol—”
“Abner did have a drinking problem when he returned from overseas. And, you’re right—he did have trouble finding himself.”
Redhill settled back in his chair. “Did Sergeant Weaver ever attempt to discuss certain events of the war with you?”
“Oh, he’d get supertouchy if I tried to get to the heart of his stories. He’d begin some sordid story of the Old West and brutalize me with it until I was ready to climb out of the cab.”
Redhill smiled. “He was trying to make you feel his pain.”
“Well, it worked . . .”
“Now you feel distanced . . . shut out, the denial of his affection— I should make it clear that the syndrome we call PTSD is not confined to war veterans. It may apply equally to victims of natural disasters, severe accidents, rape, or any violent event. An unstable nurturing environment in the early years may well exacerbate the condition.”
Dawn cast a pained glance at Redhill. “Are you speaking directly to me now?”
“Was your childhood traumatic?”
Sidetracking Redhill’s question, without quite knowing why, she reeled off what little she’d learned of Abner’s childhood. “His father ran off, his mother died early. There was conflict with his sister, and the grandfather seemed more interested in his Bible than raising Abner.”
“You see, Miss McManus, this was going to erupt sooner or later regardless of your actions. Something happened in Vietnam the sarge is concealing . . . something he’s doing everything possible to avoid facing. And you may hold the key to unlocking his admission of what really happened.”
Dawn dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Mr. Redhill,how in god’s name do you think I could possibly do that?”
“By offering him a willing ear, consolation, and a secure and restful place to go to. Then helping him decide on a plan for the future.”
“But I’ve already tried listening—”
There’s a difference now. You’re going to need even more patience as a listener. He may erupt in irrational demands—the process may become very vocal.”
Dawn stiffened, meeting Redhill’s gaze. “I came out here with the idea of helping Abner anyway I could—and Mr. Redhill, I’m going to see it through. Now will you leave me alone? I need to think things out.”
Redhill rose, and left Dawn alone in the exercise room.
* * *
To Redhill’s credit, he is stressing listening as a therapy. I happen to agree. I conducted quite a few interviews with Vietnam recon men, as well as a few Rangers and Seals in order to write 3 ACES. One such interview sticks in my mind: just our conversation and allowing the interviewee to go on for several hours – while I did nothing but listen – seemed to be mightily theapeutic. In fact, the man thanked me and said it was as beneficial as a session with his doctor at the Veterans’ Hospital. Sorry, pysychiatrists! I’m nothing but an ordinary guy with a lot of sympathy for anyone with the guts to get out there and fight for our country. Even a blind pig can find a fallen apple in the orchard once in a while…
