J
Joe S.
Guest
QUOTE
A Wife's Battle
When Her Soldier Returned From Baghdad, Michelle Turner Picked Up the Burden
of War
By Anne Hull and Dana Priest
Washington Post Staff Writers
Sunday, October 14, 2007; A01
ROMNEY, W.Va.
M ichelle Turner's husband sits in the recliner with the shades drawn. He
washes down his Zoloft with Mountain Dew. On the phone in the other room,
Michelle is pleading with the utility company to keep their power on.
"Can't you tell them I'm a veteran?" asks her husband, Troy, who served as
an Army scout in Baghdad and came back with post-traumatic stress disorder.
"Troy, they don't care," Michelle says, her patience stretched.
The government's sweeping list of promises to make wounded Iraq war veterans
whole, at least financially, has not reached this small house in the hills
of rural West Virginia, where one vehicle has already been repossessed and
the answering machine screens for bill collectors. The Turners have not been
making it on an $860-a-month disability check from the Department of
Veterans Affairs.
After revelations about the poor treatment of outpatient soldiers at Walter
Reed Army Medical Center earlier this year, President Bush appointed a
commission to study the care of the nation's war-wounded. The panel returned
with bold recommendations, including the creation of a national cadre of
caseworkers and a complete overhaul of the military's disability system that
compensates wounded soldiers.
But so far, little has been done to sort out the mess of bureaucracy or put
more money in the hands of newly disabled soldiers who are fending off
evictions and foreclosures.
In the Turner house, that leaves an exhausted wife with chipped nail polish
to hold up the family's collapsing world. "Stand Together," a banner at a
local cafe reminds Michelle. But since Troy came back from Iraq in 2003, the
burden of war is now hers.
Michelle has spent hundreds of hours at the library researching complicated
VA policies and disability regulations. "You need two college degrees to
understand any of it," she says, lacking both. She scavenges information
where she can find it. A psychotic Vietnam vet she met in a VA hospital was
the one who told her that Troy might be eligible for Social Security
benefits.
Meanwhile, there are clothes to wash, meals to cook, kids to get ready for
school and a husband who is placidly medicated or randomly explosive.
Besides PTSD, Michelle suspects that Troy may have a brain injury, which
could explain how a 38-year-old man who used to hunt and fish can lose
himself in a three-day "Scooby-Doo" marathon on the Cartoon Network.
"He can't deal with everyday stresses of living," Michelle says. "He can't
make decisions. He is a worrywart. Fearful. It's like they took Troy and put
him in a different person."
As thousands of war-wounded lug their discharge papers and pill bottles
home, more than a quarter are returning with PTSD and brain trauma.
Compensation for these invisible injuries is more difficult and the social
isolation more profound, especially in rural communities where pastures
outnumber mental health providers. Troy's one-year war has become his wife's
endless one.
His Illness, Her Full-Time Job
The Turners live in a small rental house in the northern tip of West
Virginia, surrounded by enormous blue sky and the dark spine of South Branch
Mountain. There is a VFW tavern in town, but Troy doesn't bother. After one
of his distraught soldier buddies from Iraq got so drunk he wrapped his
motorcycle around a tree, Troy stays away from alcohol. Still, the
techniques he learned to calm his PTSD in Army and VA treatment programs --
tai chi meditation and classical music -- seem like distant remedies in this
county of farm equipment and Ford pickups.
Michelle thinks Troy's anxiety and depression are worsening, and she tells
anyone who will listen -- her pastor, doctors and counselors at VA. His
speech is sometimes soupy from mood stabilizers. The meds give him tremors.
He used to cut the grass and bring home a paycheck, but now he stays inside
like a perpetual patient. His memory is shot, and he relies on Michelle for
everything.
"What is the name of the doctor who looks at knees?" he asks one day.
Michelle takes a breath. "Orthopedic," she says. "Troy, please try."
At 31, her eyes are hollowed by worry and her brown hair is turning gray.
The Turners live 80 miles from the Martinsburg VA Medical Center, where Troy
receives his care, and sometimes they go once a week. The all-day journey
requires a babysitter for the kids -- ages 10 and 11, both from previous
marriages -- and burns $25 worth of precious gas.
"This is the part you don't see on TV," Michelle says.
One hot morning, they set out for Martinsburg yet again. Troy recently
screened positive for possible traumatic brain injury -- he was exposed to
multiple blasts in Iraq -- and the hospital wants him back for more
comprehensive testing. Troy and Michelle are quiet on the ride into
Martinsburg. A Bible rests on the back seat. The cornfields and emerald
hills spread out from the two-lane highway. Troy's pill box is between them,
along with the silence.
Finally Troy says he thinks his new medication is making him less
aggressive.
Michelle is skeptical. "You don't have an 'off' button anymore," she says.
Troy, in the passenger seat, keeps his eyes on the road. "They broke it off
when I was over there."
He served with the 3rd Infantry Division during the 2003 invasion of Iraq.
Before that, he spent a decade with the National Guard, pulling a tour in
Bosnia. A laconic country boy with a plug of tobacco in his cheek, Troy was
a cavalry scout with the 3rd Battalion, 15th Infantry Regiment that pressed
into Baghdad. His platoon sergeant was decapitated by a rocket-propelled
grenade, and others he knew were obliterated.
Troy's problems started after his tour. While he was on home leave from Fort
Stewart one weekend, Michelle found him sitting on the bed with a bottle of
pills. He said he couldn't go back. Michelle drove him to the Martinsburg VA
hospital, which shipped him to Walter Reed for three weeks of psychiatric
care.
He was sent back to Fort Stewart and returned to duty, a reality he could
not cope with. Twice he tried to commit suicide and was hospitalized at Winn
Army Community Hospital before being medically discharged for PTSD in 2004.
After 13 years in uniform, Troy got nearly the lowest disability rating
possible, a $11,349 severance check and no benefits.
Michelle was dating Troy at the time. She had visited him at Walter Reed.
When he asked if she wanted out of the relationship, she said she would
stick by him as long as he continued to treat her well. They were married on
Valentine's Day in 2005.
For 18 months Troy worked as a truck driver until his symptoms began to
worsen. He imagined he saw Army vehicles on the interstate, causing him to
shake and panic. His family needed the $2,600-a-month salary, so Troy kept
driving and Michelle rode in the truck with him. Finally VA doctors
increased Troy's medication, and he became too zonked to drive.
VA rated Troy's disability level at 50 percent, resulting in $860 a month in
compensation. Like many wounded soldiers, he was clobbered by a fine-print
government regulation known as "concurrent receipt," which prevents double
compensation. That meant before he could receive his VA disability check,
Troy had to pay back the $11,349 he received when he left the Army. For 13
months, VA withheld his check until the Army amount was reimbursed.
The Turners' foothold in working-class America completely slid away when
Michelle -- who has worked as a teacher's aide and an inventory-control
specialist at Wal-Mart -- developed health problems and was forced to quit
her job. Now her full-time job is Troy.
His illness has eroded their marriage, but on the morning they arrive at the
Martinsburg VA hospital, she leads the charge on his behalf. The concrete
behemoth serves 129,000 vets from West Virginia, Maryland, Virginia and
Pennsylvania. It is at once efficient and numbingly bureaucratic.
Michelle and Troy move down the hallways, passing a room near the PTSD
residence where a group of young vets, some tattooed and still muscled from
the desert, are playing a game of ring toss. The cafeteria smells of bleach
and canned peaches.
In the small lobby of the neuropsychological department, Troy leans over the
sign-in clipboard, pen in hand, staring at the sheet. Michelle tells him
what day it is. They sit together on the hard chairs until Troy's name is
called.
With two hours to kill, Michelle wanders into the hallway and runs into a
Vietnam vet she has befriended. A former Marine with ramrod posture, the vet
has PTSD and an encyclopedic knowledge of VA procedures. "Don't take no for
an answer," he tells Michelle. "Huntington [a VA regional office] says you
are his fiduciary, right?"
"They say they need to come out and do a home study," Michelle says.
The vet shakes his head angrily. "Don't let these people get over on you!"
She returns to the waiting room. A flier on the bulletin board catches her
eye: "Coming Soon, Help for Veterans and Families." A door opens, and one of
Troy's doctors asks her to step into his office. When Michelle emerges 15
minutes later, she stands alone in the waiting room, twisting the handle of
her purse. The doctor said Troy is getting worse.
Not knowing where else to go, Michelle heads upstairs to the PTSD offices.
Troy has already done one 45-day stint in the residential program, and
Michelle has been trying to get him in again. She knocks on the door of a
counselor, a big, bald, friendly man who does not wave off the intrusion.
"You think he's violent at this point?" the counselor asks.
Michelle dodges the question. "He's not getting any counseling," she says,
leaning against the door.
The counselor explains that all 50 beds in the program are full and the
waiting list is 25 deep. "I apologize for not being able to get him in right
away," he says.
Michelle's voice breaks. "I know you are doing the best you can," she says.
"Anymore, he's just ashamed. I wish I had a video camera set up to show the
people at the VA: This is what an average day looks like."
She goes back for Troy, who has finished his tests. He is yawning and tired.
He tells Michelle how hard he tried, and she smiles and touches his arm.
They go upstairs to make an appointment with Troy's psychiatrist. The clerk
tells Michelle that unfortunately the doctor is on leave for the next month.
The first available slot is five weeks out, at 8:30 a.m.
"Is there anything later than 8:30?" Michelle asks, politely. "We have a
three-hour drive."
Nine o'clock is the best they can do. The appointment is for 20 minutes.
The last stop of the afternoon is the travel reimbursement office on the
first floor. The government has promised to care for its wounded, but the
proof is often in cramped places such as this, where disabled veterans stand
in line to get their mileage reimbursed. The VA mileage rate has not changed
since 1977. While a federal worker gets 48.5 cents per mile, a disabled
veteran is still paid 11 cents a mile.
Michelle steps to one window and gets a receipt for $14.52. At the next
window, $6 in government "deductibles" are taken out, bringing the grand
total to $8.52.
On the way home, Michelle pulls into a Flying J truck stop, pumping gas in
the hot breeze, watching the numbers spin higher.
'Ain't a Scratch on Me'
Money became so desperate this spring that Michelle contacted Operation
Homefront, a national organization that gives emergency assistance to
deployed service members and the returning wounded. In a sign of the
deepening financial crisis faced by many back from war, Operation Homefront
has provided $2 million in bailout funds to 4,300 families so far in 2007,
double last year's caseload.
The Turners received $4,500 to cover three months of late car payments, rent
and various other bills, and a grocery card for food. Troy was angry and
embarrassed, but Michelle told him they had no other choice. The $860 VA
disability check barely covers expenses.
Michelle has been pushing to have VA reevaluate Troy in hopes of getting his
disability rating raised and his compensation increased. He can't drive, he
can't work, he can barely function without her. A Black Hawk model set is
next to his recliner, a therapeutic hobby made impossible by the shaking in
his left arm.
The house is small, and the blare of Nickelodeon from the TV chokes the day.
"I am at the end of my rope," Michelle says. But at least now she has the
help of an assistant officer with the West Virginia Division of Veterans
Affairs in a little office in Moorefield, about 30 miles from Romney. The
officer submits the right paperwork to have Troy reevaluated.
Doctors find that his condition has worsened and that his PTSD is "chronic
and severe." Michelle gets copies of the medical records and sits down with
them on her living room floor. Wearing an Army T-shirt that says "Got
Freedom?" she begins reading. The documents are a gold mine of information
that validate what she has said all along. But instead of feeling
exonerated, she feels sickened.
He has nightmares frequently, two to three times a week, in which he sees
himself back in Iraq . . . and Baghdad. He sees himself fighting, sees dead
bodies, parts of bodies, blood rushing from bodies. In the dreams he smells
blood and burnt flesh and he hears bullets passing over his head. He is
fearful and scared and wakes up in cold sweats. Flashbacks are also
frequent, 2 or 3 times a week, triggered by helicopters passing over, burn
flesh smell, barbecue, current Iraq news and sometimes seeing military
vehicles brings flashbacks.
Michelle goes page by page. Troy is in his recliner holding the remote
control. From time to time she looks up at him, then her eyes go back to the
records.
He has a lot of guilt feelings that he could not save his sergeant.
She comes to a page that lists Troy's problems.
Hearing loss.
Tremors.
Obesity.
PTSD.
Depressive disorder.
Michelle calls out to Troy. "They are saying your memory is extremely low,"
she says. "And here's another thing. 'Hearing loss. Exposure to artillery
and machine gun fire.' "
VA concludes that Troy's worsening condition merits an increase of his
disability rating to 70 percent, raising his monthly check to $1,352 a
month. According to VA, he doesn't meet the criteria for 100 percent because
his impairment is not "persistent," with "persistent delusions" or a
"persistent danger of hurting himself or others." He is still able to
perform his own hygiene.
From Michelle's point of view, Troy can hold a toothbrush, but he can't hold
a job. "Even at 70 percent, you can't raise a family," she says. She has a
year to appeal the rating.
But there is good news: The VA hospital in Martinsburg finds a bed for Troy
in the PTSD residential rehab program.
Michelle is relieved. Troy will get help and she will get a respite. Troy
packs his small suitcase with resignation. He doesn't want to go. During the
intake session in Martinsburg, he is withdrawn and sullen. When the doctor
asks if he has been having suicidal thoughts, he says yes. The news punches
Michelle in the gut.
Troy is allowed to come home on weekends, so Michelle makes the four-hour
round trip to pick him up on the first Friday night. On Sunday, he refuses
to go back. He says he has been through it before. Michelle pleads with him
to get in the truck but he won't, and he loses his spot in the program.
Troy returns to his recliner. VA tells Michelle that a contract counselor
who visits rural counties will be in touch to schedule time with Troy. Two
weeks later, Troy has his first appointment. Whatever is discussed in the
60-minute session causes him to cry the next day.
The Turners decide to pack up and leave their $475-a-month rental house for
a $450-a-month mobile home in Moorefield to save money and be near Troy's
mother for help. They are strained beyond belief. Still, there are moments
of gallows humor. "I have PTSD, what's your excuse?" Troy kids Michelle.
"I have a husband with PTSD," she says.
Before they leave, someone from Hampshire County's Heritage Days parade
calls to see if Troy wants to ride on the veterans float. Troy declines.
It's not just the crowds.
"Other people got wounded, and all I got was a mental thing," he says.
Michelle raises an eyebrow. "It's still an injury."
"I think about that doctor down there," Troy says, referring to a
psychologist at Fort Stewart who suggested he was faking it. "Plus, the fact
that guys are missing arms and have bullet holes and everything else. Ain't
a scratch on me."
To remember who Troy used to be, Michelle keeps a photo of him hidden in her
camera case. In the picture he is smiling and eager, ruggedly at home in his
Army fatigues. Now she looks at the man in the recliner. "It's people like
you that made our country," Michelle says. She goes back to filling out
forms, and Troy goes back to Nickelodeon.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/10/13/AR2007101301426.html?nav=hcmodule
END QUOTE
A Wife's Battle
When Her Soldier Returned From Baghdad, Michelle Turner Picked Up the Burden
of War
By Anne Hull and Dana Priest
Washington Post Staff Writers
Sunday, October 14, 2007; A01
ROMNEY, W.Va.
M ichelle Turner's husband sits in the recliner with the shades drawn. He
washes down his Zoloft with Mountain Dew. On the phone in the other room,
Michelle is pleading with the utility company to keep their power on.
"Can't you tell them I'm a veteran?" asks her husband, Troy, who served as
an Army scout in Baghdad and came back with post-traumatic stress disorder.
"Troy, they don't care," Michelle says, her patience stretched.
The government's sweeping list of promises to make wounded Iraq war veterans
whole, at least financially, has not reached this small house in the hills
of rural West Virginia, where one vehicle has already been repossessed and
the answering machine screens for bill collectors. The Turners have not been
making it on an $860-a-month disability check from the Department of
Veterans Affairs.
After revelations about the poor treatment of outpatient soldiers at Walter
Reed Army Medical Center earlier this year, President Bush appointed a
commission to study the care of the nation's war-wounded. The panel returned
with bold recommendations, including the creation of a national cadre of
caseworkers and a complete overhaul of the military's disability system that
compensates wounded soldiers.
But so far, little has been done to sort out the mess of bureaucracy or put
more money in the hands of newly disabled soldiers who are fending off
evictions and foreclosures.
In the Turner house, that leaves an exhausted wife with chipped nail polish
to hold up the family's collapsing world. "Stand Together," a banner at a
local cafe reminds Michelle. But since Troy came back from Iraq in 2003, the
burden of war is now hers.
Michelle has spent hundreds of hours at the library researching complicated
VA policies and disability regulations. "You need two college degrees to
understand any of it," she says, lacking both. She scavenges information
where she can find it. A psychotic Vietnam vet she met in a VA hospital was
the one who told her that Troy might be eligible for Social Security
benefits.
Meanwhile, there are clothes to wash, meals to cook, kids to get ready for
school and a husband who is placidly medicated or randomly explosive.
Besides PTSD, Michelle suspects that Troy may have a brain injury, which
could explain how a 38-year-old man who used to hunt and fish can lose
himself in a three-day "Scooby-Doo" marathon on the Cartoon Network.
"He can't deal with everyday stresses of living," Michelle says. "He can't
make decisions. He is a worrywart. Fearful. It's like they took Troy and put
him in a different person."
As thousands of war-wounded lug their discharge papers and pill bottles
home, more than a quarter are returning with PTSD and brain trauma.
Compensation for these invisible injuries is more difficult and the social
isolation more profound, especially in rural communities where pastures
outnumber mental health providers. Troy's one-year war has become his wife's
endless one.
His Illness, Her Full-Time Job
The Turners live in a small rental house in the northern tip of West
Virginia, surrounded by enormous blue sky and the dark spine of South Branch
Mountain. There is a VFW tavern in town, but Troy doesn't bother. After one
of his distraught soldier buddies from Iraq got so drunk he wrapped his
motorcycle around a tree, Troy stays away from alcohol. Still, the
techniques he learned to calm his PTSD in Army and VA treatment programs --
tai chi meditation and classical music -- seem like distant remedies in this
county of farm equipment and Ford pickups.
Michelle thinks Troy's anxiety and depression are worsening, and she tells
anyone who will listen -- her pastor, doctors and counselors at VA. His
speech is sometimes soupy from mood stabilizers. The meds give him tremors.
He used to cut the grass and bring home a paycheck, but now he stays inside
like a perpetual patient. His memory is shot, and he relies on Michelle for
everything.
"What is the name of the doctor who looks at knees?" he asks one day.
Michelle takes a breath. "Orthopedic," she says. "Troy, please try."
At 31, her eyes are hollowed by worry and her brown hair is turning gray.
The Turners live 80 miles from the Martinsburg VA Medical Center, where Troy
receives his care, and sometimes they go once a week. The all-day journey
requires a babysitter for the kids -- ages 10 and 11, both from previous
marriages -- and burns $25 worth of precious gas.
"This is the part you don't see on TV," Michelle says.
One hot morning, they set out for Martinsburg yet again. Troy recently
screened positive for possible traumatic brain injury -- he was exposed to
multiple blasts in Iraq -- and the hospital wants him back for more
comprehensive testing. Troy and Michelle are quiet on the ride into
Martinsburg. A Bible rests on the back seat. The cornfields and emerald
hills spread out from the two-lane highway. Troy's pill box is between them,
along with the silence.
Finally Troy says he thinks his new medication is making him less
aggressive.
Michelle is skeptical. "You don't have an 'off' button anymore," she says.
Troy, in the passenger seat, keeps his eyes on the road. "They broke it off
when I was over there."
He served with the 3rd Infantry Division during the 2003 invasion of Iraq.
Before that, he spent a decade with the National Guard, pulling a tour in
Bosnia. A laconic country boy with a plug of tobacco in his cheek, Troy was
a cavalry scout with the 3rd Battalion, 15th Infantry Regiment that pressed
into Baghdad. His platoon sergeant was decapitated by a rocket-propelled
grenade, and others he knew were obliterated.
Troy's problems started after his tour. While he was on home leave from Fort
Stewart one weekend, Michelle found him sitting on the bed with a bottle of
pills. He said he couldn't go back. Michelle drove him to the Martinsburg VA
hospital, which shipped him to Walter Reed for three weeks of psychiatric
care.
He was sent back to Fort Stewart and returned to duty, a reality he could
not cope with. Twice he tried to commit suicide and was hospitalized at Winn
Army Community Hospital before being medically discharged for PTSD in 2004.
After 13 years in uniform, Troy got nearly the lowest disability rating
possible, a $11,349 severance check and no benefits.
Michelle was dating Troy at the time. She had visited him at Walter Reed.
When he asked if she wanted out of the relationship, she said she would
stick by him as long as he continued to treat her well. They were married on
Valentine's Day in 2005.
For 18 months Troy worked as a truck driver until his symptoms began to
worsen. He imagined he saw Army vehicles on the interstate, causing him to
shake and panic. His family needed the $2,600-a-month salary, so Troy kept
driving and Michelle rode in the truck with him. Finally VA doctors
increased Troy's medication, and he became too zonked to drive.
VA rated Troy's disability level at 50 percent, resulting in $860 a month in
compensation. Like many wounded soldiers, he was clobbered by a fine-print
government regulation known as "concurrent receipt," which prevents double
compensation. That meant before he could receive his VA disability check,
Troy had to pay back the $11,349 he received when he left the Army. For 13
months, VA withheld his check until the Army amount was reimbursed.
The Turners' foothold in working-class America completely slid away when
Michelle -- who has worked as a teacher's aide and an inventory-control
specialist at Wal-Mart -- developed health problems and was forced to quit
her job. Now her full-time job is Troy.
His illness has eroded their marriage, but on the morning they arrive at the
Martinsburg VA hospital, she leads the charge on his behalf. The concrete
behemoth serves 129,000 vets from West Virginia, Maryland, Virginia and
Pennsylvania. It is at once efficient and numbingly bureaucratic.
Michelle and Troy move down the hallways, passing a room near the PTSD
residence where a group of young vets, some tattooed and still muscled from
the desert, are playing a game of ring toss. The cafeteria smells of bleach
and canned peaches.
In the small lobby of the neuropsychological department, Troy leans over the
sign-in clipboard, pen in hand, staring at the sheet. Michelle tells him
what day it is. They sit together on the hard chairs until Troy's name is
called.
With two hours to kill, Michelle wanders into the hallway and runs into a
Vietnam vet she has befriended. A former Marine with ramrod posture, the vet
has PTSD and an encyclopedic knowledge of VA procedures. "Don't take no for
an answer," he tells Michelle. "Huntington [a VA regional office] says you
are his fiduciary, right?"
"They say they need to come out and do a home study," Michelle says.
The vet shakes his head angrily. "Don't let these people get over on you!"
She returns to the waiting room. A flier on the bulletin board catches her
eye: "Coming Soon, Help for Veterans and Families." A door opens, and one of
Troy's doctors asks her to step into his office. When Michelle emerges 15
minutes later, she stands alone in the waiting room, twisting the handle of
her purse. The doctor said Troy is getting worse.
Not knowing where else to go, Michelle heads upstairs to the PTSD offices.
Troy has already done one 45-day stint in the residential program, and
Michelle has been trying to get him in again. She knocks on the door of a
counselor, a big, bald, friendly man who does not wave off the intrusion.
"You think he's violent at this point?" the counselor asks.
Michelle dodges the question. "He's not getting any counseling," she says,
leaning against the door.
The counselor explains that all 50 beds in the program are full and the
waiting list is 25 deep. "I apologize for not being able to get him in right
away," he says.
Michelle's voice breaks. "I know you are doing the best you can," she says.
"Anymore, he's just ashamed. I wish I had a video camera set up to show the
people at the VA: This is what an average day looks like."
She goes back for Troy, who has finished his tests. He is yawning and tired.
He tells Michelle how hard he tried, and she smiles and touches his arm.
They go upstairs to make an appointment with Troy's psychiatrist. The clerk
tells Michelle that unfortunately the doctor is on leave for the next month.
The first available slot is five weeks out, at 8:30 a.m.
"Is there anything later than 8:30?" Michelle asks, politely. "We have a
three-hour drive."
Nine o'clock is the best they can do. The appointment is for 20 minutes.
The last stop of the afternoon is the travel reimbursement office on the
first floor. The government has promised to care for its wounded, but the
proof is often in cramped places such as this, where disabled veterans stand
in line to get their mileage reimbursed. The VA mileage rate has not changed
since 1977. While a federal worker gets 48.5 cents per mile, a disabled
veteran is still paid 11 cents a mile.
Michelle steps to one window and gets a receipt for $14.52. At the next
window, $6 in government "deductibles" are taken out, bringing the grand
total to $8.52.
On the way home, Michelle pulls into a Flying J truck stop, pumping gas in
the hot breeze, watching the numbers spin higher.
'Ain't a Scratch on Me'
Money became so desperate this spring that Michelle contacted Operation
Homefront, a national organization that gives emergency assistance to
deployed service members and the returning wounded. In a sign of the
deepening financial crisis faced by many back from war, Operation Homefront
has provided $2 million in bailout funds to 4,300 families so far in 2007,
double last year's caseload.
The Turners received $4,500 to cover three months of late car payments, rent
and various other bills, and a grocery card for food. Troy was angry and
embarrassed, but Michelle told him they had no other choice. The $860 VA
disability check barely covers expenses.
Michelle has been pushing to have VA reevaluate Troy in hopes of getting his
disability rating raised and his compensation increased. He can't drive, he
can't work, he can barely function without her. A Black Hawk model set is
next to his recliner, a therapeutic hobby made impossible by the shaking in
his left arm.
The house is small, and the blare of Nickelodeon from the TV chokes the day.
"I am at the end of my rope," Michelle says. But at least now she has the
help of an assistant officer with the West Virginia Division of Veterans
Affairs in a little office in Moorefield, about 30 miles from Romney. The
officer submits the right paperwork to have Troy reevaluated.
Doctors find that his condition has worsened and that his PTSD is "chronic
and severe." Michelle gets copies of the medical records and sits down with
them on her living room floor. Wearing an Army T-shirt that says "Got
Freedom?" she begins reading. The documents are a gold mine of information
that validate what she has said all along. But instead of feeling
exonerated, she feels sickened.
He has nightmares frequently, two to three times a week, in which he sees
himself back in Iraq . . . and Baghdad. He sees himself fighting, sees dead
bodies, parts of bodies, blood rushing from bodies. In the dreams he smells
blood and burnt flesh and he hears bullets passing over his head. He is
fearful and scared and wakes up in cold sweats. Flashbacks are also
frequent, 2 or 3 times a week, triggered by helicopters passing over, burn
flesh smell, barbecue, current Iraq news and sometimes seeing military
vehicles brings flashbacks.
Michelle goes page by page. Troy is in his recliner holding the remote
control. From time to time she looks up at him, then her eyes go back to the
records.
He has a lot of guilt feelings that he could not save his sergeant.
She comes to a page that lists Troy's problems.
Hearing loss.
Tremors.
Obesity.
PTSD.
Depressive disorder.
Michelle calls out to Troy. "They are saying your memory is extremely low,"
she says. "And here's another thing. 'Hearing loss. Exposure to artillery
and machine gun fire.' "
VA concludes that Troy's worsening condition merits an increase of his
disability rating to 70 percent, raising his monthly check to $1,352 a
month. According to VA, he doesn't meet the criteria for 100 percent because
his impairment is not "persistent," with "persistent delusions" or a
"persistent danger of hurting himself or others." He is still able to
perform his own hygiene.
From Michelle's point of view, Troy can hold a toothbrush, but he can't hold
a job. "Even at 70 percent, you can't raise a family," she says. She has a
year to appeal the rating.
But there is good news: The VA hospital in Martinsburg finds a bed for Troy
in the PTSD residential rehab program.
Michelle is relieved. Troy will get help and she will get a respite. Troy
packs his small suitcase with resignation. He doesn't want to go. During the
intake session in Martinsburg, he is withdrawn and sullen. When the doctor
asks if he has been having suicidal thoughts, he says yes. The news punches
Michelle in the gut.
Troy is allowed to come home on weekends, so Michelle makes the four-hour
round trip to pick him up on the first Friday night. On Sunday, he refuses
to go back. He says he has been through it before. Michelle pleads with him
to get in the truck but he won't, and he loses his spot in the program.
Troy returns to his recliner. VA tells Michelle that a contract counselor
who visits rural counties will be in touch to schedule time with Troy. Two
weeks later, Troy has his first appointment. Whatever is discussed in the
60-minute session causes him to cry the next day.
The Turners decide to pack up and leave their $475-a-month rental house for
a $450-a-month mobile home in Moorefield to save money and be near Troy's
mother for help. They are strained beyond belief. Still, there are moments
of gallows humor. "I have PTSD, what's your excuse?" Troy kids Michelle.
"I have a husband with PTSD," she says.
Before they leave, someone from Hampshire County's Heritage Days parade
calls to see if Troy wants to ride on the veterans float. Troy declines.
It's not just the crowds.
"Other people got wounded, and all I got was a mental thing," he says.
Michelle raises an eyebrow. "It's still an injury."
"I think about that doctor down there," Troy says, referring to a
psychologist at Fort Stewart who suggested he was faking it. "Plus, the fact
that guys are missing arms and have bullet holes and everything else. Ain't
a scratch on me."
To remember who Troy used to be, Michelle keeps a photo of him hidden in her
camera case. In the picture he is smiling and eager, ruggedly at home in his
Army fatigues. Now she looks at the man in the recliner. "It's people like
you that made our country," Michelle says. She goes back to filling out
forms, and Troy goes back to Nickelodeon.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/10/13/AR2007101301426.html?nav=hcmodule
END QUOTE