The Messenger of Death

The phone rang.
My wife answered.
It was Earl.
Frank Johnson was dead.
He had shot himself.

I never thought Frank would kill himself.
It seemed every time Earl called
it was bad news about another dead vet

When would the VA realize
what they had done to their patients?

I felt numb about the whole thing.
It seemed everyone I use knew
at the stress clinic was dead or dying.

It had gotten to the point
where I knew more guys
who had died after the war
than during the war
and I had been a medic.
Peace was hell.

Not everyone had killed themselves.
George died from AIDS.
Ron from throat cancer,
Pat from liver failure,
Larry from lung cancer,
Bob fell down the stairs
and broke his neck,
Mike choked on his own vomit,
Max overdosed on booze,
Phil died after too much medication
and somebody else died from hepatitis
and yeah Joe died from prostrate cancer
and Rich had a heart attack
plus... they all had PTSD.

“The Messenger of Death.” called again
a few weeks later.
God who was dead know.

Earl said Rich had killed himself.
I had just talked to Rich not long ago.
Rich was talking about moving to Hawaii
to live with one of his kids.

Rich had been down
since his group leader had retired.
The group had been disbanded
and nothing had been offered in its place.
He had felt abandoned and pissed off.
Rich was found by police dead in his car
parked inside his closed garage.

Couldn’t anyone understand the changes
at that damn stress clinic had caused
a storm of emotional chaos.
There seemed nothing veterans could do.
The VA didn’t listen to us
or care about our opinions.

There was a memorial for Frank at the VA Chapel.
I wasn’t going to go
but found myself standing outside the chapel.

Inside were a few veterans
and some staff members from the Stress Clinic.
I could feel the anger swelling up inside.
The chaplain motioned for me to come in
and join the service.
I debated but went in anyway.

I sat in the corner and listened
as people said nice things about Frank
and wondered why people didn’t tell Frank
those things while he was alive.
I wondered if the Stress Clinic staff
really knew  what had been going on in Frank’s life
or had they just heard what they had wanted
so as to maintain their professional boundaries.

I couldn’t take it anymore
and stood up and shouted
I was angry Frank was dead
and that the system
which was suppose to help
had let Frank down.
Just like it had let down Rich
and many others.

Damn it Frank and Rich were dead because
they were made to feel people didn’t care about them
or their problems any longer.
A place where they had felt safe
and could come and share their feelings
and get some help was destroyed.
In the name of what?
Who the hell knew or cared.

I walked out,
and went to see my doctor
but didn’t tell her what had happened.
I said things were okay
and got some more Prozac.
It was easier that way.
The doctor would likely defend the system
or make me feel I was suffering
from some sort of distorted thinking
that needed to be reframed.

It was easier
just to get in
and get out
and go home.

Some type of therapy
I thought to myself
as I drove along the back streets
of the city
to my little home
in the suburb.

Veterans felt recent changes at the Stress Clinic
had not been in their best interests.
Myself and other veterans
couldn’t convince the clinic staff of that fact.
The staff always stayed on the course.
Any changes made
were in the patients best interest.

I found it strange
that people who had no idea
about how the veterans felt
or knew what worked best for them
could tell the veterans
how they were suppose to feel
and what should be working for them.
While something that had worked
was terminated with extreme prejudice.

The staff was always trying to reinvent the wheel
for the care of stress patients.
They were always looking for that elusive cure.
They had trouble accepting
the chronic nature of the disorder
more than the veterans did themselves.

The staff didn’t want to admit
they would be dealing with the veterans
for the rest of their lives
like all stress patients
from all the previous wars
and all future wars.

The stress clinic veterans
wanted to be treated as a homogenous group.
It went against the staff’s
sacred psychiatric guidelines.

The VA would make themselves look
as good as possible
and then throw the blame
back onto the veterans.
It was always someone else's fault.
The VA was always the responsible caring entity.
While the veteran, spouse or family member
was always mistaken or presumed to be troublemakers.

I was angry enough to write letters
but by the end of the day
my desire to speak out
had been squashed by a stack of letters
from the VA I had received over the years
which were full of bullshit and double talk.
I was feeling that old familiar
“it don’t mean nothin.”

The veterans were all going to die anyway
so who cared.

I had come to the Stress Clinic
in the ten years ago.
It was the last act of a desperate man.
Nothing in the private sector
had been of any help.
I had gotten about as low
as any person could get.

The stress clinic had accepted me
and understood what I was talking about.
The clinic didn’t have that strict authoritarian feeling
so many other similar places displayed to patients.
A veteran could feel relaxed and safe.
It was set apart from the main hospital
so a guy didn’t have to put up with a lot of crap
which was important in the treatment
of the stress veteran.

The safe atmosphere had been torpetored
with the advent of a new head of Psych.
Veterans blamed the new director
for most of what was wrong with the stress clinic.
The man was a poster boy
for the complete bureaucratic asshole.

Under the new director’s regime
support groups
which had been in place for years 
were eliminated
along with changes in the clinic’s family like atmosphere.
The place had become sterile, cold and impersonal.
It was just like visiting the morgue.

It must have been hard to work for the VA
if a person had compassion.
I imagined workers were in fear
of their jobs and careers
if they rocked the boat.

After receiving awards,
the former clinic director
was relieved of duty.
The director had started the program
and had been treating stress veterans
for more than 20 years.

He was an authority in the field of stress treatment
but for some unknown reason
his program was a threat
to the established mental health routine of the VA.
Apparently treating patients like human beings
and not just as clients or patients was against the VA rules.
The funny thing was the former director got results,
better results than what might be expected.

I was consumed by anger
over the way the Minneapolis VA hospital
had in effect re-traumatized veterans
in the stress clinic in it own unique way. 
Damn the VA.
Damn War.
I hated being a veteran.

A few months later
we returned from the YMCA
when the phone rang.
my wife answered. 
“Honey, its Earl!”

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