Group Therapy Adventures

 Group Therapy Adventures  

A person can look around McGuire Veterans Hospital and feel depressed about the paraplegics, amputees or the men talking to themselves, angry at the voices in their heads, or the doctors with the thousand yard stare, overwhelmed at what they have seen on their rounds, and some of them maybe as bad off as soldiers who have actually seen combat.  Occasionally you see a smile, and that smile is contagious. These surroundings can make you wonder:  Is death paying the ultimate price for freedom, or is death really living the rest of your life with a handicap? 

Today the V-A mental health group went to a Chinese buffet which was a lot better than the overdone turkey and stuffing they served in the cafeteria yesterday. At the buffet, the ex-soldiers filled their plates up and then went back for seconds. 

I sat with a man whose name I forget, and we talked a little about our situations. I listened not wanting to step out of bounds.

This nameless person told me that he does not talk to his ex-wife anymore, and he has not seen his kids in years. He was wearing a hat that one of the doctors said made him look like Santana. I wish I could remember his name, because the last thing I want to call him is “Santana.” 

“I had a triple bypass, and they only held me in for a week” he added with a touch of pride in his voice. I was impressed.

“I quit smoking and drinking. That is why they let me out so soon.” 

To add to the conversation, I said, “I smoke.”  

To give more evidence to his good health status, he continued, “I use to do water aerobics. It was great. There was, like thirty-five women to only four men.”

“That’s a good deal.” I spoke. 

While Santana was eating his fruit, a man sat down beside him. He looked at me as if I might be familiar. We had a conversation yesterday. 

“I think the waitress is attractive,” he said in a soft voice.

“You should ask for her phone number.” I whispered back because she was cleaning the booth behind us. 

Santana raised his head and said, “You know, I don’t think you should do that, because this is a veterans’ occasions, but you can come back later.” 

The man with the new crush turned his head around and said something to the server which we could not hear. He then turned around to face me. 

“I told her she looks attractive,” he said, and we both giggled like schoolchildren. I was thinking that since she was Hispanic, did she even know what he was saying?

When lunch was over most of the ex-soldiers were outside the restaurant smoking. My lighter stopped working so I bummed a light from another Army soldier named William. He had a used cigar that he had kept in his pocket. William lit his cigar again after he lit my cigarette. 

“What branch were you in?” He asked.

“The army,” I answered.

“I was in the army too,” he said with a little surprise in his voice. 

“What was your job, you know, your MOS?” I asked.

He replied. 

“What was yours?” William asked me. 

“19 Delta Cavalry Scout.” 

“Like recon?” He asked. 

“Yeah, but in Iraq and Afghanistan, the cavalry does traffic control points.” 

“Where did you go, Iraq or Afghanistan?” William asked.

“I did not go to either. I was stationed at Fort Irwin which is in the Mojave Desert.” 

I usually regret telling people I did not go to war. Most people do not understand how you could have gone crazy without going to war. William did not say much, but finally he asked, “So what happened?” 

“Well, I have some schizophrenia and depression…”

“I have that too,” he added with vacant eyes, “depression and schizophrenia.” 

“I had some problems with depression earlier. There were times when I was younger when there were extended periods of sadness.” 

Without any emotion, he said, “Yeah, I had that too.”

Our conversation was interrupted when we were told it was time to leave. Everyone loaded back into the vans. There were three vans and a sedan full of doctors. We drove off and after a few miles, set foot on the hospital grounds again. 

As everyone unloaded from the vans, I spoke to a man sitting beside me. He was listening to Modest Mouse on his iPod, or so he had said earlier in the day. He had also told me that he was a Vietnam Veteran, and he lived in housing on the hospital grounds. Since he looked experienced, I asked him,

“Do we have to go back to our meeting room, or can we just go?”

“You can go anywhere you want,” he answered.

I left, got in the car with my mom who was there to pick me up, and went home. No one had made judgments about my situation. No one looked at me in an odd way when I used the word schizophrenia. Being around the ex-soldiers today reminded me of my basic training at Fort Knox. There, we all came from diverse backgrounds but slowly and steadily we became one unified force. Today I was with ex-soldiers who were all from different moments in time, different wars, and even various levels of society, each one of us living with a handicap but defying death one more time.