I was at the VA the other day, waiting to give lab work. I took my book, "Unless" by Carol Shields thinking I would sit in the lab and read while I waited. There was a handsome old guy sitting in front of me, his walker between us. He apologized for it being "in the way" but I poo-poo'd him and told him I'd stand watch while he was at the needle. We shared a smile before I dove into my book. An old married couple sat next to me.
She, in my ear: He's a Vietnam vet.
Me: (nod silently, return to my book)
She: A victim of Agent Orange.
Me: God bless him.
She: Are you a war veteran?
What I forgot was that veterans need to be heard. Above all else, they just want to be listened to, to somehow know that their plight is not in vain. It doesn't seem to matter who listens, so long as someone does.
I put my book down and gave her my full attention. She, the wife, wearing cammies and a ball cap that read: I'M A VIETNAM VETERAN'S WIFE, said, "He gave it (the ball cap) to me. After 20 years he finally figured I'd earned it." To this day, she said, "I don't touch him to wake him up. I stand at the bedroom doorway and call out his name until he comes out of his nightmare." He always has nightmares.
"And look at him. He's like a death-camp survivor. But they aren't doing anything for him. They hear "agent orange" and roll their eyes. No one wants to be part of it."
Amazingly, he had been discharged without any sort of disability rating and in all these years has never known to ask for a review of his case. He's merely dealt with crappy medical care and gone on. But his wife was with him now, doing his barking for him. He'd grown too weak to fight his own fight. I told them of the DAV and of the NCOA, organizations that changed my life. "Surely if they can help someone like me, they ought to be able to make a difference for you." It's moments like this that I feel particularly guilty for the veteran's priviledges I've received.
They went on and the handsome old guy had retrieved his walker and went on his way, too, while I still waited to pee. It took a good hour for me to fill that fucking cup. WHY? WHY? WHY??
Then I went for breakfast, having fasted for bloodwork. I took my book to the cafeteria and read three chapters with my coffee and croissant. I decided this was the place to spend the day reading, as I knew if I went home I'd find distractions. So I got a coffee refill and on my way back to my table I walked by the handsome old guy.
"My appointment was at nine a.m.," he said. I glanced at the clock, it was already 9:30. "My doctor won't be in until one thirty."
He was understandably angry. I sat with him, and listened to his rant. Turns out, he's a diabetic, too. We shared horror stories of dealing with crappy quality and under-educated physicians at that very facility. I told him what fixed it for me and how pleased I have been ever since.
Then we talked about our lives. He was former Air Force, spent four years on active duty that changed his life forever. "I was just never able to stay in one place after that. I had to always be doing something." So he took up greyhounds, raised the fast breed for the races, and traveled the circuit. When his business partner came to him in a world of trouble, they sold everything and he started over in horses.
"I volunteered to clean out stalls just to get close to them."
And that's how he learned, one step at a time, from the very bottom up.
He taught me about weights and tatoos and birth marks and cowlicks - every horse has at least two - how cats are welcome around any stable but dogs not so much. Still, most handlers he knew had Jack Russells. "They're the best. Good company, smart, fast and nip the horse's heels when they don't want to get in the trailer."
"There's not a greater joy in the world," he said, "than seeing your horse come down the last stretch toward the finish line."
His was Two Dot Slough in last weekend's ninth race at Churchill Downs. I told him I'd look for it, but I didn't. I got to pulling weeds and forgot all about the races, for all that he stayed on my mind. Like the old couple in the lab earlier that morning, he had a story to be heard. His was about inadequate physician training - particularly for the care of diabetes - and his love affair with thoroughbreds. And like the couple before him, he said his wife did all his talking for him. "This doctor I'm seeing doesn't like it that when he asks me a question she's the one who answers, but she's the one who has a handle on all my medicines and such." Then with a grin he said, "I guess I better at least find out where she's got it all written down in case something happens to her."
When I was diagnosed with diabetes 17 years ago, I was told to go home and live a quiet life and wait to die by 30. Everyone who knows me knows that's exactly what I did not do. But when I survived my 30th birthday, I figured I might stand a chance of surviving anything. This handsome old guy in his walker gives me inspiration to reach for old age. Who knows what might happen? I might even take a liking to horses.
