November 2016 Philadelphia Chapter of Pax Christi U.S.A.

I Met A Guy Today Who …

I met a guy today who said he was having a very bad day. I have seen this soldier many times over the past year, he has improved reasonably well and so I was puzzled at how bad he was feeling. He and I had been working for months on his PTSD and he seemed to be improving.

“Today is the tenth anniversary of the day my young medic died,” he began. “I have to call his parents. They know the call is coming from me and from several others who always remember. They anticipate the call for days ahead with all the anxiety and depression and sadness that surround it. Sometimes I think it’s better not to call, to cause them all that pain, but I can’t fail to call. I can’t fail to remember him.

Americans don’t understand what it’s like for parents to get their last letter, their last phone call, the last photograph, and know that they have had their last conversation with their son or daughter. Almost worse is not knowing when that might be. Then the child is gone and the parents just have our phone calls - once a year. They are appreciative, but we are no substitute.

He was a young kid, always smiling. He didn’t like others being in a bad mood, so he was always trying to cheer up everyone else. He was a medic for fifty men. Every Tuesday morning he would wake us up for our anti malarial pills. He’d make us take them. If we were in a bad mood yelling, ‘get away from me,’ he’d pick a fight. Take off his shirt and start fighting, and then break down laughing and smiling in a comical way. ‘Aha, I got you to laugh,’ he’d say.

He truly believed he was put on this earth to make us happy.

When he died, the trigger guys, the snipers—the ones who are trained to kill the bad guys - went to our commander. With tears in their eyes, they asked the commander ‘We are supposed to die; he is supposed to care for us; how can this happen?’ They loved him so much. Now, I think, he is in heaven trying to make angels happy.”

Without changing pace, and almost as if he were not changing the subject, the soldier began talking about how angry he was with his eighteen-year-old son.

“I am at my wits end with him. I try to correct his behavior. If I get physical, he says I cannot do that because it is child abuse, and he will call the Department of Social Services.” He asks, “If he runs away can I grab him and bring him home? No, because I cannot cause bodily harm or injury to him. When I catch him in a lie, he accuses me of something. Even his friend who witnessed his behavior said to him, ‘Do you ever listen to your parents?’ He is supposed to take medication, but I never know if he is taking it or not.”

“He goes all over town with his friends. We never know exactly where he is.” The soldier has friends throughout the com- munity who he has asked to regularly report his son’s behavior to him. Plus, he put a secret tracking device on his son’s phone so he can keep track of his whereabouts.

This soldier has given me a lot to think about. I see that somehow he has connected emotionally his frustration with the death of his medic to his perceived failure as a parent. He now sees himself as helpless in both situations, and it has united his anger in each. If I were to say that directly to him, that might sound too confrontational and maybe offensive. I can only

imagine his response would be something like, “Well, Doc, how would you feel if your best colleague were killed and now your son will not obey you?”

I decide to ask him how in fact his son is doing in school and whether he has ever been really irresponsible. He acknowledges his son does well in school, does not take drugs, has never committed a crime, has a good peer group, and never goes to “bad areas of the community.” He further adds that his son does well away from him and that he, himself, seems to do better at work away from his son.

It seems obvious to me that this soldier has his PTSD symptoms too overly focused on his son’s behavior. In combination - his hyper alertness, hyper vigilance, worry and preoccupation, guilt, trying to make amends—are all focused on his son, who happens to be not too much younger than his medic.

Trying to reduce the intensity of the emotional focus, I say, “You are working too hard at making your son behave!” His response, “Everyone tells me that.”

“So why not take the advice,” I suggest. He ponders. “Furthermore I have one more suggestion that you may think is a crazy idea.”

“I can handle it,” he says.

“You are a very compassionate, concerned, connected human being who really cares about others. Your son does not see that side of you, nor understand it. I think your relationship with him would benefit by seeing that side of you.

Will you go home and tell your son all that you have told me today about the loss of your young medic, and the impact it has had on you, and how it makes you suffer?”

“Sure, I can do that,” he says, very quickly.

Eager for the next appointment I remain troubled by the lack of reflection in his response. Has he accepted my “crazy” suggestion because he is a “good soldier” following orders? Does he really see the connection between his anger and helplessness in both circumstances? Will his son make the connection? Do they need to understand it or will just presenting a different side of him to his son make a sufficient impact on their relationship?

I don’t know the answer. I do know that war can wreak havoc on parenting.

Ted Beal

Ted Beal, MD, a psychiatrist with the Dept of the Army is also a member of the Georgetown Medical School faculty.