Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (32 page)

20

ADRIFT

“There is no peace,” says the Lord, “for the wicked.”

—I
SAIAH
48:22

I kept my sanity by bouncing back and forth to Central Command. At first it was my only means of finding peace, but later it satisfied a different need. The whirlwind of adrenaline, anger, and fear related to combat had become a drug, and I was addicted. As a SEAL medic in combat, I was required to control my emotions during periods of extreme danger and immediately assess the situation and react within my limitations in the face of death. To me it was the greatest test of strength and fortitude for the noblest of causes, protecting the lives of others, and the operational tempo was more than accommodating. There were never enough men to cover all the missions and even fewer special operations medics. On occasion, I would come across a savvy officer who could keep his eyes on both the battlefield requirements and the mental health of his medic. They’d do what they thought necessary to ensure I was fine and send me to the psychiatrist for an evaluation, but the psych department never had a chance.

The pre- and post-deployment questionnaires were all based on the member’s own desire to open up to the provider about the symptoms he or she was having. It was a good step in the right direction, but the small series of questions wasn’t nearly enough to expose anyone’s difficulties, especially if the person’s intent was to hide them. Then came the battery of written tests.
Come on now
, I’d think, laughing to myself.
Like I haven’t seen these before.
I was a medical provider, too, so I was familiar with the many psychological testing procedures being utilized at the time, especially the particular one they used. On a few occasions we’d have an interview session, but that wasn’t anything new either. I knew exactly how everything operated. Hell, I was the guy that sent his patients to the experts for evaluation when the care fell outside of my expertise, and when they’d return from their appointment I’d get a call from the doc to discuss their treatment plans. I certainly didn’t have the knowledge they had on the diagnosis and treatment of mental conditions, but none of them had ever been under fire. That made it easy for me. Each time I’d walk in for an evaluation, I felt as if I were about to be taught how operate a semi truck by someone who didn’t even have a driver’s license. It didn’t matter if he had built the truck from the ground up and knew every part of it like the back of his hand. The fact was he’d never driven it, and the only way he could experience what it was like to slide sideways on an icy road was to either drive the damn thing or jump into the passenger seat, and I wasn’t about to unlock the door.

As a young man in New Mexico, I watched recovering addicts receive treatment by other addicts because they were the only ones who could spot their bullshit and call them out on it. It took “street cred” to reach them; even then it was dependent on whether they were willing to receive the message being sent by the counselor. However, the one thing they had to do whether they believed in treatment or not was to come off the drugs—but how was the military going to manage that? We were fighting a two-front war, and there was no way to slow things down even if that’s what the commander wanted. The die was cast; we were in it for the long haul, and that meant my need to be in the action and my ability to find relief were safe. At least I thought they were.

*   *   *

“Doc,” TJ said as he walked into my office.

“TJ, what are you doing here?” I politely asked. TJ was an old friend that I’d first met years earlier when my SEAL platoon landed on the USS
Saratoga
in the middle of the Red Sea. The aircraft carrier was our home for a few months while we readied ourselves for the First Gulf War. TJ was a small-boat captain who had seen combat a few years earlier when Special Operations Command was tasked with protecting U.S. oil tankers against Iranian mine and gunboat attacks. His experiences in Special Warfare as a Mark III boat captain and later as an intelligence officer eventually led to a position managing security issues at the Pentagon, so it wasn’t a real surprise to see him walking through the door.

“You have a minute? Can we talk privately?” His voice sounded serious.

“Sure. Let’s use the boss’s office,” I said as I stood and walked him to the empty office.

“Whatcha got, TJ?” I asked as we both sat.

“Doc, turns out that some equipment is missing. No one suspects you or any members of the team, but there’s going to be an investigation, which means you’re going to have to stay put for a while.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I sat and thought for several seconds. “Is there anything I can do to speed things along? How long should this take?” I asked.

“Just answer any questions by the investigator when he gets to you, and in the meantime just stay put.” He went on to explain that it might take months and that he’d already spoken to my superiors and explained why I needed to stay put.

I thought about what he said, and the idea of being trapped made me feel apprehensive, angry, and jealous of everyone around me. I couldn’t believe it; even the yeoman who checked people into the command could go downrange. The one thing I wanted to do the most, deploy to the battlefield, was stripped away from me. On the outside I nodded, smiled, and carried on smartly, but on the inside my anger was building, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to control it. I was unsure what the future held, so I went home and spoke with the one person in my life that mattered the most.

“I’ve got great news,” Korrina said with an ear-to-ear smile and an aura of happiness I hadn’t seen in years.

“Well, tell me, I could use some good news right now,” I replied as a smile erupted on my face, her joy contagious.

“I got offered the job as the PA at BUD/S!” she said, almost jumping out of her skin. “At first I wasn’t going to take it, but then I thought about all the time you spend away and I thought it might work out better for us. At least for now, right?” She watched as I absorbed the news.

I was devastated but managed to muster up a smile. I had put her through hell over the last few years, and now was my time to put her first. “Derrick and Sara are out there, you know,” I said stumbling to find something to say.

“Yep, we’ve got a lot of friends there,” she answered, slightly confused.

“That is good news.” I paused, trying to think what to say next. “When do you ship out?”

“I’d leave in a couple of months for a school, then check in at Coronado after that.”

“How many years are your orders going to be for?” I asked, trying to calm my voice as my heart thumped in my throat.

“The navy says three years, but I can leave at two if you can’t get orders out there. If you
do
get orders there, I can extend,” she said calmly. She could read me like a book and was trying to keep the anxiety at a minimum.

“Wow, you’ve thought of everything,” I said as I rubbed my eyes, still absorbing the news.

It was obvious she’d given this some serious thought and planned out how to make it work. Korrina loved the warm San Diego sun; it invigorated her, and the opportunity to return filled her with joy. Plus, in California she’d be back with some of our closest friends, whose support she could really use right now, and the kids would be much happier spending their summers on the warm beaches of California than in the humid climate of Virginia. The only thing she didn’t account for was the news I’d heard earlier that day, and I wasn’t going to tell her, at least not yet. For years she’d put her life on the back burner for mine, and the shoe was now on the other foot. I had no choice but to support her, so I packed my emotions into another box, and we planned how we’d both make it work.

SAN DIEGO

Several weeks later Korrina left for California. Departures are common for a military family, but they never come easy and this one was particularly hard on me. Korrina was more than my fiancée. She was my best friend and confidant and the one person who brought organization to the chaos of the colors encircling me. Years earlier we had our first good-bye. She was leaving for officer indoctrination, and I was heading off to the war. The night before was one of the hardest experiences in our lives. We both lay awake in bed trying to console one another with promises of commitment, but deep down each of us wondered if the relationship would endure the distance or if that night was the beginning to our end. As difficult as that night was, it felt like a parting of sweet sorrow compared to what I was going through, but I wasn’t about to let her experience that anguish again. She was happy, and I wanted her to stay that way, so I did what I could to relieve any worries she might have about how I’d fare without her.

We’d had more than our fair share of depressing “last nights” together, so I took her for a relaxing dinner at one of her favorite restaurants and joked about all the things we’d be able to do with the time away from each other. I told her I planned to watch every single basketball game during March Madness, and she told me her TV would never leave the Lifetime Channel. Her excitement about what lay ahead made me feel alive, but more importantly it kept her unaware of what was actually brewing inside of me. The next day we laughed as I wrestled with her oversized suitcase and placed it in the backseat of her Jeep, but as she drove away I felt a dark emptiness well up. I knew the separation would be good for her, and good for our relationship. The distance and time apart didn’t concern either of us. We’d already proven we could weather those storms. The question was, could I stay afloat long enough to enjoy our next reunion?

*   *   *

Work was becoming increasingly more difficult. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say I was becoming increasingly more difficult at work. I still hadn’t received approval to deploy, and without Korrina to help alleviate my frustration I began to feel I was more of a hindrance than a help to the community. Being stuck in the stateside garrison opened me up to a whole world I never knew before. I went from working with hardened and experienced warriors to being around a mixture of sailors and highly skilled specialists who instead worked in support of the operators overseas. All of them were extremely competent, and the majority were humble professionals who accepted their position as backside support but relished any opportunity to deploy forward supporting men who wore a Trident or Beret. Many of them had experienced the intensity of a firefight or understood the extremes of sustained combat, and those who had never discussed it, but there were always the vocal few, the men who had never been on the receiving end of a rifle but chattered as if they’d stormed the beaches at Normandy. At first I ignored their stories of glory, but they eventually crawled under my skin. I wondered if they understood how ridiculous they sounded, but then again maybe it was just me. I had changed, and there was no use denying it. Despite witnessing great acts of valor on the battlefield, I found no glory in war. I relived the battles over and over again, and all I remembered was fighting for my teammates. No longer did I view fighting terrorism as some philosophical doctrine. It was simply a dirty job that needed to get done, at least until we brought those responsible to justice. I wasn’t comfortable in my role at the garrison, and it was apparent that it was time for me to leave the fast-paced world of special operations and return to medicine.

Korrina was settled in out west, and I hoped to join her there. The navy kept me in Virginia for the short term, though, so instead of moving across country I transferred across town. I received orders to Naval Medical Center Portsmouth and transferred with little fanfare, making it easier on me, as I was still having difficulty dealing with tumultuous situations outside of combat. I remembered being an extremely gregarious individual but had become far more reserved due to constant exposure to battle. The quietness of an empty home made me much more withdrawn. I tried throwing myself into my new job but found the relatively calm tempo of the medical clinic monotonous. However, the simplistic routine was helping me deal with my memory and concentration problems, as did working with a smaller crew. At the clinic I found enjoyment by working with young doctors and with corpsmen who’d returned from their time with the marines. I befriended a former corpsman turned nurse who was married to one of the most dedicated corpsman chiefs in the navy, and she and I swapped sea stories between work assignments. At home it was a different story. Once again I started to self-medicate with sleep medications and alcohol, trying to find ways to sleep past the ghosts that visited me throughout the night. Luckily I was able to change my work shift to the afternoon versus the early morning, which happened to be the only time I was able to sleep.

*   *   *

The days were manageable, but the nights would tear at my soul, especially on major holidays or the anniversaries of battles. Nothing compared to the agony I’d feel on the eve of a child’s birthday—the child of a fallen teammate. On those days misery would rush over me like a raging river, nearly drowning me in guilt. I knew the difficulties Chief ’s wife faced rearing their youngest son without his father, but knowing Chief had sacrificed his life with his children so I could be with mine made those birthdays almost too much to bear. I wished I could ignore them or pretend the whole thing never happened, but the kids deserved more, and so did I. Those moments were the only way to keep their memories alive.

*   *   *

“Hello.” Brooke’s distinctive voice came through the receiver.

Despite caller ID she always seemed a bit surprised to hear my voice, probably because many months would often pass between calls.

Children of military parents sometimes struggle with adjustment issues, especially when Mom or Dad deploys frequently. Even short trips can lead to an uncomfortable period of reacclimation as the parent tries to adjust to the family’s schedule. The parent has to relearn bedtime routines and catch up with housekeeping needs and financial matters, and just when things start to get into a groove, off they go again.