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 “The Vietnam War continues to define my family. It makes little difference now, what role we played (husband, wife, child); the war experience has left its mark. September 1984 ~ Recently separated, I was working hard to focus on my new career as a corporate trainer and as “mom” to my two children, who were then twelve and ten years old. That fall, I launched the company’s first Leadership Development class. All seats were filled but one. I began promptly at 8 AM, as promised. About 8:15 AM I heard the distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson being parked just outside the window. This late comer, who came swaggering into class, would have to sit directly in front of me. Hard as I tried to keep cadence, I found myself distracted by his presence. His long hair, tattoos, and a ring of keys heavy enough to pull him to one side, was foreign to me. Who was this strange guy and why was he in my class? For whatever reason, at that moment, our individual journeys through life became intertwined for the next twenty years. I was impressed by his confidence, his ability to handle pressure, his technical ingenuity, his intense work ethic and the admiration he had, of all who knew him. He seemed gentle and tough. I discovered he had been working at the company since 1971, since his tour of duty in Vietnam. I didn’t know at the time that he had dropped out of High School in ‘69’ to enlist in the Navy. Nonetheless, he had a thirst for practical knowledge, was innovative, and seemed passionate about life. As we developed our mutual respect for one another, we found that we were both coming out of failing marriages. Over time, our friendship became love, and we were married in 1986. I knew little about Vietnam Veterans. I had been a new mother, working my way through college when he was serving in Nam, but it wasn’t long before I recognized what a powerful role it would play in our lives. He moved fast, accomplished a lot in every twenty four hours, never wasting a minute. For the next year and a half, he designed and together we built, a beautiful house for the four of us. I always questioned why he could never relax, go on vacation, or just plain "chill out." It wasn’t in his genes I concluded. What I didn’t know was that there was a storm brewing inside. He was running fast to stay out in front of it. But slowly, the pain of the past was catching up with him. One night, about two years into our relationship, he sat straight up in bed. In the dark of the night, he was stone still for a few moments, then he began to tremble out of control. My efforts to shake him awake proved to be disastrous. He felt attacked and reacted to protect himself. I was shocked that he would hurt me. I quickly learned not to intervene. He was drinking more, losing the charming sparkle in his eyes, and he began to spiral into a world of depression and alcohol. One day near the end of the Gulf War, I found him in a fetal position near our bedroom dresser. He asked for my help to get him to a hospital. From October through to the following January, he was in rehab. I visited often, but he wanted to be left alone to do it for himself. And, he did. The new year brought him a new beginning, but true to form it quickly became all about work. His obsession soon became mine. We both lost ourselves in our world of work and knew no other. One night he was so tired that he fell asleep next to me on the couch. This intimacy is common for most couples, but for us it was unique. I will remember it forever. His head dropped into my lap, and he curled up like a child snuggling closer to me than usual. I stroked his hair and was pleased that he seemed to finally trust, let go, and leave himself vulnerable to relaxation. He was startled when he woke up to know that he had dropped his guard. We built our house on his parents' land. They owned fifty acres of beautiful woodland property and had a house just down the hill. Life seemed to be stabilizing for us, even through the death of his mother in 1996, but it didn’t last for long. Almost a year later, on a warm Sunday in August, I was cutting his hair in the kitchen. The windows and doors were wide open. It was late afternoon, and we were getting ourselves ready for the coming week of work. Without warning, a rifle blast broke through the stillness of the afternoon. We both knew something was terribly wrong. We raced down the hill and found his father, still alive, lying in a pool of blood. His father, depressed about his wife’s death and about being alone, had used his hunting rifle to end his personal pain. My husband then went into survival mode, almost like he was in combat. He told me to hold his dad while he went to find the gun, call 911, and generally "take command." As I held his father’s gaping intestines, he asked me to let him go. I begged him to hold on until my husband could say good-bye. He managed somehow to do it. I’m not sure if it was my husband’s inability to endure one more loss, or if it was the sum total of all his losses, but the sound of the gun marked the beginning of the death of our relationship together. For the next four years, he secretly drank more and more, leaving a trail of beer cans down our dirt road on the way home from work each day. Somewhere along the way, he began to rekindle his relationship with his first wife, his high school sweetheart, whom he had married while he was in Vietnam. I had no knowledge of this contact. I thought the sadness I observed and tried so hard to help, was purely depression. In 2000, I finally got a job that I had been pursuing for five years, to create and lead a learning and development function with a highly successful growth company. I soon was on a fast track and loving it, but each day I came home to a deteriorating situation. For over a year, he spoke little, touched seldom, and medicated himself heavily. On September 4th, 2001 the first anniversary of my new job, I came home to an empty house. His computer was opened on the dining room table to a copy of an email to his former wife expressing his joy that they would be together from that evening forward. Our twenty years ended as strangely as it began. He said no good-byes, didn’t look back, and left me with the feeling that it meant ‘nothin’… He’s a good man. I know he did what he had to do. Perhaps it was the need to "go home" to a time before Nam. I can only guess. But whatever the reason, I was emotionally and physically exhausted trying to keep it together. Seven days later, in the midst of my own battle to survive, the world came apart. I barely remember it. September 4th, and then September 11th, that year brought so much pain. I am somewhat at peace with it now, but I have to know what happened that year in Nam, and have to understand how it strangled the life out of our family. At the end of the day, it does mean something… something so powerful that it continues to shape our lives even today. I am dedicating my time these days to the Veterans Education Project, helping families find support to successfully transition from military to civilian lives. That work brought me into the lives of the following families, whose personal struggles and victories have helped me to understand and heal. Life goes on..." |
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