Our National Guardsmen Are Dying of Unresolved Grief

Time Magazine just featured an article called “A Soldier’s Tragedy: He killed his wife, his daughters and himself. What one National Guardsman’s murder-suicide reveals about the plight of weekend warriors.”

Matthew Magdzas joined the Army National Guard in 2005 fresh out of high school and a year later volunteered to go to Iraq. Matthew spent 12 months on the front lines and was described as an “exceptional, safe and responsible” soldier by his commanders. “He was awarded several decorations, including the Combat Action Badge.” Matthew saved the lives of many of his comrades by “neutralizing” the insurgents.

After a 2-week debriefing, he was sent home to his wife and daughter, with no job and a severe case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He did everything he was supposed to do. He sought help from the VA, and received several medications for depression, anxiety and pain. Matthew was placed on suicide watch, but expressed frustration about the care he was getting through the VA. I think it’s important to note that 6,500 veterans kill themselves each year… that’s 18 PER DAY.

He got no relief from his counseling sessions, and I have to say, I don’t know how ANYONE could find relief or comfort from the sessions Matthew described to a friend. “They pretty much sit me in the room, and they make me rehash only the things that happened in the war. I’m having worse nightmares that don’t go away. They’re not helping me get over it. They just listen to my stories and send me out the door.” He was then ordered to Fort Knox, KY for a mental evaluation. Because the psychologist determined Matthew had chronic PTSD, “it would be in the best interest of this soldier and the Army” for Matthew to be discharged. To a combat soldier, that is like being thrown into the trash.

I have zero experience with the military, and even less experience with war combat, but I have experienced PTSD, and am very familiar with death, unrelenting sorrow and despair. I am sure PTSD plays a huge role in veteran suicides. But I believe the VA and General Peter Chiarelli, the Army’s Vice Chief of Staff and top suicide fighter is missing a critical piece of the treatment puzzle: helping our combat veterans grieve! These men and women are trained to kill and to maintain focus even as their buddies are being killed and maimed right next to them. That is more than any human being should have to bear.

I know I’ve said this before but our culture doesn’t like seeing men grieve. I can only imagine that sentiment being amplified by the macho culture of the military. But if we don’t start teaching these men that it is not only okay, but that it is imperative for their recovery and reentry into civilian life to grieve, we will only continue to see more casualties.

I plan on reaching out to General Chiarelli, and encourage other grief specialists to do the same. We have to help our hurting soldiers and their families.

Late Night Light Bulbs

It’s midnight and I am on-call tonight. I have been on-call many nights and my pager never goes off in the middle of the night. Last week I was on-call and at 2:00 AM, my pager actually went off! For those of you who don’t know, I work for my local hospital in the Pastoral Care Department. I am called in to support families who have experienced a tragedy that has left their loved ones on life-support with a grave prognosis. The cause can be anything from a drug overdose to a car wreck, from a pedestrian getting hit by a car to a freak accident, and everything in between.

             

Every shift, I come home with a new set of rules that my child is going to have to abide. In previous posts I have already established the “Helmet Rule.” That is that no one is to do anything, at all, without wearing a helmet. No matter how simple the task. I am wearing my helmet as I type this. Then came the “No Driver’s License Rule,” that pretty much speaks for itself. My son cannot get his driver’s license and will be under 24-hour supervision until he is 35 years old. My son and I were looking at a life without freedom until I came up with this brilliant idea.

What’s my brilliant idea? Wait for it … Full Body Bubble Wrap! Wait - just hear me out before you make a snap judgment. If I put my son in Full Body Bubble Wrap, every part of his body will be protected. No more helmet!

             

So he’ll look like the bundled-against-the-elements kid from “A Christmas Story,” but if I have my way, it will be law and every boy and girl will look like a sausage. If every kid looks as goofy as the next, we will have eliminated teasing. Drugs will no longer be a threat because these bubble wrap suits don’t have pockets. If my son doesn’t have pockets, he can’t carry money. Even if he did have pockets, he couldn’t bend his arm enough to reach into his pocket to get the money, never mind the fact that the drug dealer couldn’t bend his arm enough to get the money out of his pocket to pay the drug cartels.

             

Here’s a side affect I am sure you haven’t even considered: with full body, non-transparent bubble wrap ensembles, teen pregnancy rates would surely plummet! Virtually every parental fear eliminated in one felt swoop. The only way our children could fight is by popping each other’s bubbles. Snap! Pop! “Oh no you didn’t!” Snap, snap!

             

Here’s to a cushier world where our children can grow up free from danger, early parenthood and expensive, ridiculously trendy fashion choices.

Flight of The Fallen Soldier

On my way to Vermont to pick up my final study, I flew on a plane that was bringing one of our fallen soldiers home to his final resting place. I don’t know a lot about the military, so I was surprised when the flight attendant asked all of the passengers to remain seated so that a fellow passenger and soldier could exit the plane first in order to accompany his fallen comrade. Whether I agree with the war or not, I am comforted by the idea that our soldier isn’t just being shipped home, he or she is being respectfully brought home.

The flight was late and making my connection was going to be really tight, but all of that meant nothing. In fact, I felt honored to be on the flight, like I was part of something very important. What, I wasn’t sure, but it felt big. Regardless of anyone’s faith, politics, nationality and even sexual orientation, for a brief moment, we were all in solidarity, proud, honored and humbled. Then I thought of the family waiting for their child to come home for the last time. My heart broke. I prayed for the family, the fallen soldier and his companion and then I prayed that we all would treat every soldier as if he or she were our own child. If every man and woman (yes, every politician) did that, maybe we’d approach things differently.

I’m not one who thinks I have all the answers. I don’t. I have even been guilty of being a bit too Pollyanna on occasion. But I do believe if we all just stopped for one second, shut our pie holes and saw the beauty in each other’s differences, we’d be in a hell of a lot better shape than we are now. Can we just drop the whole idea of needing to be right?  Can we, just for a moment, remember that any person we are against is someone’s child? If we could remember that, there would be no war or dead soldiers who need to be accompanied home. I know it’s idealistic to think a truly peaceful world is possible, but until it is… let’s do our best to take care of each other, love each other, and treat each other with respect.