I will not say it's a happy day; many no longer have their loved ones with them, some have loved ones serving now in very dangerous places, many have come home wounded, either physically, or in ways we cannot see. Thank you to all of you who are serving, have members in the three branches serving currently, or have served yourself.
Today is a day for honoring and remembrance. I don't agree with our military, but I will not and never have politicized people's selfless act of serving their country. The men and women in uniform go where they are ordered.
Right now, our nation is in a very sobering position. My father served in Korea. He was stationed in Puerto Rico as a Navy x-ray tech. Throughout his life, he never talked about what he saw. He rehabilitated a lot of men and he also prepared men's bodies for burial at home, packing them in shipping crates. He performed many autopsies. The cost of war is terrible. I'm glad he's not here today with the possibility of another Korean War looming over us, this time with nukes. He'd be so sad, angry, and concerned over our current president's rhetoric towards North Korea.
Contact the Veterans Crisis Line:
1-800-273-8255, press 1 (text 838255) or Confidential Veterans Chat with a counselor.
Today is a day for honoring and remembrance. I don't agree with our military, but I will not and never have politicized people's selfless act of serving their country. The men and women in uniform go where they are ordered.
Right now, our nation is in a very sobering position. My father served in Korea. He was stationed in Puerto Rico as a Navy x-ray tech. Throughout his life, he never talked about what he saw. He rehabilitated a lot of men and he also prepared men's bodies for burial at home, packing them in shipping crates. He performed many autopsies. The cost of war is terrible. I'm glad he's not here today with the possibility of another Korean War looming over us, this time with nukes. He'd be so sad, angry, and concerned over our current president's rhetoric towards North Korea.
My brother, Greg, also served in the Navy as well as my sister, Rebecca. I don't have any of their service photos to share, unfortunately.
Greg was raped by other men while serving. He became an alcoholic to deal with PTSS(d) and depression. Drinking lead to tuberculosis in October of 1998. It took my brother's life. He is buried in Woods National Cemetery, here in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
If you or a loved one are suffering from PTSS(d), there is help available.
1-800-273-8255, press 1 (text 838255) or Confidential Veterans Chat with a counselor.
You can find out more information about PTSS(d) at The National Center for PTSD.
After his death, I wrote a series of poems for my graduate school portfolio. This is one.
Death stares back at him from a bloodstained phlemgy ventilator
and his eyes are like two slick oil pools
amidst the hiss of the oxygen machine
that pumps life into his tuberculosis ridden body.
He is a wild caged animal riddled with piss-stinking fear,
trapped by I.V. lines, oxygen lines, heart monitors,
and chest tubes to keep his lung from collapsing,
and outside children dressed as ghosts, goblins, and witches
are trick or treating on this dreary All Hallow's Eve.
He claws at the sterile white hospital sheets,
grasping for his father's hand to pull him back into humanity,
tears dripping from the corners of his eyes
like sugar water dripping through clear tubes into his shrunken veins.
I tell him that when he is better we will play cribbage together,
and meanwhile my father is on the phone talking to his ex-wife,
and making funeral arrangements,
teetering on the brink of indecision --
"should he be resusticated," the doctors ask him again and again
each day as his son slips further away from the living.
"Should he be cremated or buried," my father asks my mother.
My father decides on cremation.
They are arranging for his funeral while he is still with us,
and my father is trying not to cry, to be a man, to be the head of the family
the way all good little boys from the depression era
were taught by their mothers,
but he can't wind up so many loose ends into
a neat ball of string and brown paper wrapping.
He can't bind up all the memories of his son
and toss them into the trash to be recycled.
He can't forget December 27, 1954,
the day his son was born
in a renovated castle in San Juan,
or 1974 when his son graduated high school
and enlisted in the navy to conquer the world,
and so many holidays spent with the family.
He can't help but ask why he hasn't said it earlier,
why he hasn't said, "I love you, son."
All Hallow's Eve
for my my father
Death stares back at him from a bloodstained phlemgy ventilator
and his eyes are like two slick oil pools
amidst the hiss of the oxygen machine
that pumps life into his tuberculosis ridden body.
He is a wild caged animal riddled with piss-stinking fear,
trapped by I.V. lines, oxygen lines, heart monitors,
and chest tubes to keep his lung from collapsing,
and outside children dressed as ghosts, goblins, and witches
are trick or treating on this dreary All Hallow's Eve.
He claws at the sterile white hospital sheets,
grasping for his father's hand to pull him back into humanity,
tears dripping from the corners of his eyes
like sugar water dripping through clear tubes into his shrunken veins.
I tell him that when he is better we will play cribbage together,
and meanwhile my father is on the phone talking to his ex-wife,
and making funeral arrangements,
teetering on the brink of indecision --
"should he be resusticated," the doctors ask him again and again
each day as his son slips further away from the living.
"Should he be cremated or buried," my father asks my mother.
My father decides on cremation.
They are arranging for his funeral while he is still with us,
and my father is trying not to cry, to be a man, to be the head of the family
the way all good little boys from the depression era
were taught by their mothers,
but he can't wind up so many loose ends into
a neat ball of string and brown paper wrapping.
He can't bind up all the memories of his son
and toss them into the trash to be recycled.
He can't forget December 27, 1954,
the day his son was born
in a renovated castle in San Juan,
or 1974 when his son graduated high school
and enlisted in the navy to conquer the world,
and so many holidays spent with the family.
He can't help but ask why he hasn't said it earlier,
why he hasn't said, "I love you, son."
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