Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (34 page)

“I promise, Mom. I promise.” Just as I hung up the phone, the sun started to break over the horizon. I went up to the third floor and watched it cast its light across the ocean, thinking about what I had promised.

JOURNAL THERAPY

During the years that I served, the military was accustomed to utilizing two components in the treatment of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), pharmacotherapy and psychotherapy. Being a medical provider, I knew that most of the psychiatrists utilized pharmaceuticals as an adjunct to alleviate some of the more disruptive manifestations of combat stress while concentrating their time with the patient on treating the underlying condition. Although I knew I might benefit from the use of meds, I wasn’t willing to consider taking any type of psychiatric medicine, at least not initially.

Early on I had been given various sedatives in the treatment of my insomnia. Initially the drugs provided some relief, but it didn’t take long before they’d lose their effect, leaving me mentally and physically groggy. I blamed the failure of the sleeping aids as my primary reason for adding alcohol to my nightly routine, so I was uncomfortable with the idea of having another class of drugs enter the mix. If the mainstay of treatment was psychotherapy, why cloud the issue with meds? It might not have been the best approach but it was the only one I was willing to accept. Despite realizing I needed help, I wasn’t willing to
completely
trust my care to another provider or admit to friends and colleagues what I was going through. My mind was made up: no medications, and any care I received was going to be a clandestine operation.

I had heard that one of the psychologists who came to the clinic a couple of days a week wasn’t the typical touchy-feely psych provider, which is exactly what I needed. After casually bumping into him in the hallway, I briefly explained my situation and the embarrassment and shame that accompanied it. He was obviously familiar with requests for anonymity and agreed to meet me in his office under the guise of sharing a lunch break.

Much to my surprise, he never asked me how I felt, which was a huge step toward earning my trust. Instead he concentrated on taking a history of all the events that had happened to me over the last decade—the blasts from RPGs, all the hits I had taken over the years in everything from from parachuting to hand-to-hand combat training—and, of course, an overview of my physical health. It was a comfortable blend of clinical evaluation and informal therapy. We were just starting down the road, but I knew it was time to unlock the passenger door and let someone join me on a hellish ride inside my mind; he would be the first.

My therapy included a series of written homework assignments, which at times added to my anxiety as I concentrated my writing on specific events. The goal was to modify my pattern of thought in order to deal with the shame and guilt I was feeling, yet I was finding it extremely hard to place some of it down on paper. It was easier for me to talk about it in his office than write it down in a journal. Somehow my writing not only made me acknowledge everything I was feeling but also confronted me with the totality of my symptoms, making it impossible for me to deny or diminish them any longer.

When I was able to write, I couldn’t stop until I began to feel paranoid or ashamed. My reactions, thoughts, and feelings were all tied to circumstances related to the special operations community and classified operations. More often than not I’d find myself shredding what I had written. Although I never wrote anything that was the least bit compromising to national security, I felt as if I were being disloyal to the country and community I loved. Just thinking about the situations that drove my actions made me feel as if I were betraying an unspoken code of sacrifice.

One of the things we don’t do in special operations is discuss our work or publicly give an opinion that might stain the community. Sure, there was storytelling, but nothing of importance or remotely detrimental to the history and image of the SEAL Teams. Yet here I was journaling about what some might perceive as a weakness smattered with personal perspectives on everything in the community that caused me consternation. Although we operated as a team, I had been trained to be self-reliant as both a SEAL and a medical provider. I was given the tools to deal with stress, compartmentalizing the pain so I could continue on, but for some reason I couldn’t do it any longer. Writing it all down demonstrated my shortfalls, making me feel inadequate and as if I didn’t belong in the first place.

Maybe that was it; maybe I was great at being neither a SEAL nor a medical provider. Maybe my attempt at balancing two obligations diametrically opposed to one another and never fully committing to either produced inadequacy in the world of the elite. As my writings transcended my assignments, I realized I wasn’t some prodigy. In fact, I was never the best at much of anything. I was just someone who had a strong work ethic and was able to endure times of personal degradation and humiliation to accomplish a goal. It wasn’t talent or aptitude that got me there. It was because I was either too stubborn, foolish, or determined not to give up, and more importantly because someone was always there to help me through it.

The more I wrote, the more I realized everything I achieved was due to the support of others. My mother and brother helped me escape the problems I faced as a young kid. The marines at the battalion helped me make it through the Reconnaissance pipeline. Hell, I never would have stood a chance in BUD/S if it hadn’t been for the support of my boat crew and class, and the SEAL Teams were no different. Each of my teammates always kept me sharp, and when it came time to move on they made sure my transition was a success. Medicine was much the same; half the class studied with me my first year, while four friends kept me from falling apart the second. I had accomplished a lot of things in my life, but none of it was on my own. It was finally starting to register; I wasn’t Superman or the messiah, and there was nothing I could have done differently that would have saved my teammates’ lives. However, just as I was finally learning how to accept it, the past would add a whole new layer of guilt.

PENDING TRANSFER

I was standing at the doctors’ station writing a set of patient orders when my phone began to vibrate with an incoming call. Mark Denny, who I might have only known for a short time, and I had become good friends, so despite having a full waiting room I decided to take the call.

“Hey, Doc, I got a good deal that you might be interested in.” His voice was fragmented from the poor reception I always seemed to have on base.

“I have you broken and unreadable, over,” I answered jokingly as I walked outside, trying to get a better signal.

“No, I’m serious this time,” he answered with his typical laugh.

Although Mark worked at the Pentagon, his position kept him in contact with the navy surgeon general, so I knew whatever he was calling about was either important or an epic practical joke. “I know you’ve been living alone since Korrina moved to San Diego. Some of the programs are starting to grow, so we were wondering if you’d be interested in moving to the Beltway.”

“Who’s
we
, and what kind of programs are
we
talking about?” I asked, suspicious about how much of a good deal this might not be.

“Spec ops programs,” he said before his voice was drowned out by a pair of F-18s flying overhead.

I couldn’t make out everything he said, but what I did hear sounded interesting. In spite of the progress I’d been making with my psych appointments I’d wanted a change in scenery, and there was more than enough support at NNMC, the National Naval Medical Center, to handle anything a sailor might need.

“Mark,” I yelled into the phone, “I’d like to hear more. How about I call you later tonight. I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying, and I’ve got patients stacking up.”

“Sure, call my cell.”

*   *   *

I called Mark on my drive home, and he told me they were looking for someone who would be able to provide both medical and administrative support to a gamut of programs supporting the special operations community. Over a series of conversations my name kept coming up, and after speaking to the DSG (deputy surgeon general), he agreed that I’d be a perfect fit. Normally the navy doesn’t allow someone to transfer with less than two years on station, but since the detailing shop would be receiving the request from the DSG’s office, exceptions could always be made. I told Mark to pencil me in, but there was still one more person I had to speak with before they could cut me orders.

*   *   *

The time difference made it ideal for calling the West Coast. Korrina would be ending her workday and on her way home for the weekend. She’d just come off a hard week treating a flood of illnesses and injuries related to Hell Week, but Mark needed an answer by Monday. I thought about waiting a couple of days before bringing this up, but with Korrina the only thing worse than bad news is bad news delivered late. After everything we’d been through, she wasn’t going to be happy to hear that I was considering returning to SOF no matter how long I waited. We talked for over an hour, and after I explained to her that this position was more of a desk job managing operational functions than a deploying billet, she reluctantly agreed. I’d begin planning my move to D.C. in the coming month.

22

A CROSS TO BEAR

The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.

—N
ORMAN
S
CHWARZKOPF

I sat down behind my desk and listened to the voice messages while the computer came to life. I was off to a late start after working the evening shift the night before and had a flood of e-mail and voice messages to sort through before I could grab a patient chart and get to work. The messages were pretty standard: routine updates from the nursing staff, corpsmen, and other departments and, of course, one hypochondriacal patient asking about his test results. The final message was from TJ, my old friend and colleague. He and Mark Denny were in town and wanted to pay me a visit. Great news, but a little surprising; I had just seen them both of them a couple of months earlier when I was at the Pentagon for a conference.

As I wrote down the details about the meeting, I received a phone call from a medical administrator I knew from my early days as an officer. We caught up briefly, and he jumped right in.

“Mark, I thought I’d give you a heads-up about a meeting later today in Admiral Cullison’s office about you. Do you know anything about it?” I let him know I had a good idea what was going on, and it wasn’t anything to worry about. I also thanked him for the call.

“Well,” I told myself out loud as I put down the receiver, “it seems TJ and Mark aren’t just stopping by while they’re in town for business.” Turns out
I
was the business they were in town for, and our meeting was just a courtesy call. I was certain they wanted to talk to my chain of command about a particular battle that happened a few years earlier outside of Firebase Shkin. When we returned home from the deployment, I’d received word that some of the senior brass were looking into awards packages, meaning medals for the troops. Like anyone else in the special operations community I welcomed the idea of the group being recognized, but the idea of receiving personal acknowledgment when others made the ultimate sacrifice didn’t feel right to me.

*   *   *

TJ and Mark and I had agreed to meet at a corner coffee shop in Old Towne Portsmouth later that day. We ordered coffee and set up camp at a table in the corner of the room. TJ’s big frame barely fit into the small chair that seemed to be intended more for décor than utility, making him look like a dad trying to have tea with his five-year-old daughter. We jabbed back and forth with a few wisecracks about our idiosyncrasies, and it felt like old times. There was no use avoiding the reason for the meeting, though, so when the opportunity presented itself Mark began.

“Doc, I know how sensitive this subject is with you, but we need to let you know you’re in for an award,” he said, then paused long enough that TJ finished his thought.

“Mark, you’re going to receive the Navy Cross.”

Suddenly I felt as if I’d been punched in the gut. I guess I always knew there was a possibility of receiving an award for Khand Pass, but I never imagined it’d be the nation’s second-highest award. I took a moment to gather my composure and carefully craft my words.

“You’re two of very few that actually know what happened out there.” I paused for a deep breath before going on. “I treated a lot of men, and lost some close friends and allies. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about them … they’re the heroes, not me.”

“I understand what you’re feeling, Mark, but—” TJ politely tried to interject, but I kept on talking.

“I didn’t do anything that anyone else on the team wouldn’t have done if they were in my shoes, and to be honest I couldn’t have done it without them. I just don’t see how I can accept that award.”

Both men fell silent and looked at one another before TJ answered. “Doc, we thought you might feel this way, so we’d like for you to talk with a friend who understands how you’re feeling.”

I liked TJ and Mark, but their proposal didn’t sit well with me. Would I have to go in front of some admiral and explain myself? Well, if that’s what it took, then so be it. Besides, I shouldn’t be asking someone else to carry the water for me.

“Doc,” Mark said in his naturally friendly voice, “come on up for the day and share a drink at Kitty’s with some of the boys.”

Their plan was starting to unfold. They’d probably asked some of my old teammates pulling the mandatory administrative tour in the Beltway to speak to me. Instead of looking forward to seeing them, though, I began to dread the idea. We’d each had a lot to deal with since then, and I certainly didn’t want to put any more weight on any of their shoulders. I sat quietly thinking about it as TJ explained how they were to meet with my admiral because, despite it being a medical command, he was still my commanding officer and needed to know about this.