My dad is dead.
My dad is dead.
My dad is dead.
Oh how it hurts to say those words. I am a grown woman with two children and I still feel like a lost little girl when I say those words.
My dad was a Vietnam veteran, the gruesome images he saw in that war affected his soul-just as it did many others. Our Vietnam veterans were treated horribly when they returned home from war. Not only did they have to figure out how to cope with the mental and physical injuries they received while deployed, they had to endure the hatred of the country that sent them there in the first place. There was no Wounded Warrior Project, Help for our Heroes, or Homes for Our Troops in the late sixties and early seventies. There was no Welcome Home Soldiers and Patriot Guard Riders to greet our troops as they came back to the states. No banners and no ticker tape parades. It was a different era, an era where our country lost sight of who we sent to war because they were more concerned with the politics of why they were sent.[bctt tweet="The gruesome images he saw in that war affected his soul-just as it did many others. "]
My dad proudly served our country as a Marine. They say “once a Marine always a Marine” so if there is a way to be a Marine in Heaven; he has probably figured it out. He served on the USS Providence and was a door gunner on a helicopter during the Vietnam War. I am embarrassed to say I do not know much about his time in service, but like many other Vietnam Veterans, he did not discuss it. I knew he was a Marine and once or twice in my life he pulled out his heavy green foot locker and let us look through it. Once, he actually let us try on the uniforms. As children we had no idea of the sacrifice and pain that was attached to those uniforms. I can see him sitting in the background watching us, silently smoking a cigarette and I wonder what thoughts were spinning through his mind at that time? Was he there in the room with us or was he back in the jungle of Vietnam? I am not a doctor or psychologist and I cannot even begin to diagnose any type of mental illness or injury, but I believe with all of my heart my dad suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I did not have an easy childhood; not only did my dad struggle with untreated PTSD, but he was also an alcoholic. Unfortunately, alcoholism is often used to self-medicate the symptoms of PTSD. He did not have a steady job most of the time and as a result, we were very poor. My mom worked hard, but you cannot support a family of five on the salary a secretary earns. She is also Caregiver for my sister who was diagnosed with epilepsy as a little girl. Due to the brain damage caused by excessive Grand Mal seizures, my sister will require a Caregiver for the rest of her life. My mother has amazing strength and courage, she has an unshakeable faith in God that has allowed her to find joy in life and she is a wonderful example to me. She has a fascinating story of her own to tell.
I can remember moving from house to house when I was younger because we could not afford to pay rent. We had cars that barely ran; one even caught on fire when my mom went out to warm it up before church one Sunday morning. The winter of my 4th grade year, we had to take cold baths because the hot water heater required propane and we did not have the money to get the propane tank filled. We would try to heat up water on the stove, but it is hard to heat up enough water to take a bath. When you do get the water warm enough that your teeth are not chattering, you rush through the bath to try and finish washing before the water gets cold again-apparently that method was not working so well for me. One day at school, my teacher spoke to the whole class on cleanliness. She said we all needed to go home that night and take a bath because there was one student in class who smelled bad. I was mortified! I do not know for sure that she was talking about me, but I believe she was. I made sure to go home that night and suffer through a frigid bath taking great care to make sure my body and hair were squeaky clean. To this day I cannot stand being cold; it is a constant source of friction between Tommy and myself.[bctt tweet="I was ashamed of being poor, of my dad’s drinking and of the fact that my sister was different from everyone else."]
I wanted nothing more during those years than to be “normal”. I would look at my friends who had, in my eyes, perfect families. Would it be so hard for my dad to at least be a functional alcoholic? I wanted the dad who went to work every day and the mom who stayed at home with nothing more to do than care for her family. I wanted a sister who would talk for hours about boys and pick on our little brother with me. I wanted my family to have enough money for a telephone and cable and new clothes on the first day of school. I tried to hide it, but I felt very isolated and alone most of the time. I was ashamed of being poor, of my dad’s drinking and of the fact that my sister was different from everyone else. Even when I was hanging out with my friends, I felt like it was just a matter of time before they realized I was an imposter and not worthy to be one of them. I am not proud of the feelings of insecurity and inadequacy I had as a young girl, but those feelings helped shape me into the woman I am today.
By the time my dad died, our relationship had greatly improved. We still had our arguments, but that is normal considering I inherited my strong opinions and stubbornness from him. I can say without hesitation I loved him dearly and miss him every day. He never won his battle with the bottle or PTSD and they, along with the effects of Agent Orange, led him to an early grave; but he left behind a legacy in his children and grandchildren that would make any man proud.