BEYOND IMAGININGS

Veterans Administration Hospitals are beehives of activity. Considering the number of veterans still alive today, including those from WWII, the degree of this activity is understandable.

Vietnam veterans are the largest segment. On any given day, die-hards from the 60’s and 70’s are seen wandering all halls of a VA hospital. Though, upon entering any branch of the military during the Vietnam War era, soldiers were required to shave their heads, as veterans they now ‘sport’ long hair and beards, as depicted during that era by those who were against the war and were pro peace. Their baseball hats and jackets remind us of our military branches and that same time in our history, as these soldiers were proud of their roles. Our country wasn’t. In the past two decades, we have finally accepted and can relate to the multitudes of men and women who fought in that war of wars. The Veterans Administration Hospital is a vestige of hope, answers, and care for all veterans.

They range in age from their 20’s to their 90’s, these men and women who have and will put their lives on the line. They come in their Cadillacs and polo shirts, on their somewhat aged Harley Davidson’s and in worn-out jeans, or in their glorified Hummers and in their somewhat worn military fatigues. They all have stories to tell, many of them nightmarish. A lot of them are silent, sullen, and lost. But they all know where some measure of assistance can be found.

I am not a veteran. My husband is. And I often accompany him on his doctor’s visits to our local VA hospital.

On such a recent visit, I waited in the waiting room while he was being seen. A woman sitting near me decided to start up a conversation with me – a conversation that proceeded to become a complete unburdening for this lady. She stated she had been a CNA (certified nurse’s assistant) in the past; 10 years earlier. She pointed to the personnel in the office and stated that she should be on that side of the counter – not where she was. The reason it ended? Alcoholism. She lost her job 10 years ago. She then produced a large plastic convenience store soda cup 2/3s full of beer from under her jacket. This lady – I will call her Sharon – then began to cry. She hated drinking and wished to stop. The product of mentaly abusive parents, foster homes, and now homeless, she was at the hospital with a friend – a veteran. Just before he had been called in to be seen, he had quite audibly berated Sharon by stating she was stupid, and that she should just keep her mouth shut.

This lady is fighting a different war – one with herself. She is not a veteran of a war, but she is nonetheless a veteran. Her daily focus is on her next bottle of beer, and where to find warmth when the sun goes down. She takes mental, emotional and verbal abuse from those she comes in contact with, because she has learned to accept it. Both her parents and her foster parents continue to live in the area. She had not spoken to any of them out of shame, though her foster parents had told her she could always come back, even after so many years.

Sharon appeared to be neither unkempt nor disheveled, though her scent was of one needing to bathe. Surprisingly, I did not smell beer. On first appearances, she seemed to care for herself. But by looking a bit deeper, I could sense she no longer knew the meaning of self-esteem or self-confidence. There was a thread of pride left, but if something did not happen soon for this woman, that would also break.

At one point, she started to get up looking toward the exit from the waiting room. Then she visibly slumped. After a few seconds, she looked up and said her friend walked out without her, and didn’t once look back. I fully understood. There was no roof over her head this coming night.

Sharon sat quietly for a while. Then she looked ready to leave, like she’d made a decision. She did state she knew of some shelters. But then she said she was going to make some calls.

She looked at that counter again, and repeated that she should be behind it. Sharon started to cry, but she quickly gathered her composure and stood up. She reached out with her hand and I took it. She thanked me for listening. I had been doing just that, making gentle small comments, at times unsure what to say, but never uncomfortable. I gave her my attention totally, for I knew she needed it.

I will probably never know if our conversation affected Sharon enough to make any difference in her life. She did most of the talking. In that short exchange, I saw she had a good heart. But I also became fully aware she had little to no external support whatsoever. And her internal support was threadbare.

She did leave me stating she was going to call her foster parents. I prayed she would. It would be a beginning. During our conversation, I had made one small comment that seemed to affect her more than others.

I stated the belief that “God gives us no more than what He knows we can handle.”

If you think of it, say a prayer for all the Sharons of our world - today and every day...