| Page 2 of 3 < > |
Soldier Finds Comfort at Dark Journey's End
|
TOOLBOX
   Resize
COMMENT
 Discussion Policy
 CLOSE
Comments that include profanity or personal attacks or other inappropriate comments or material will be removed from the site. Additionally, entries that are unsigned or contain "signatures" by someone other than the actual author will be removed. Finally, we will take steps to block users who violate any of our posting standards, terms of use or privacy policies or any other policies governing this site. Please review the full rules governing commentaries and discussions. You are fully responsible for the content that you post.
Who's Blogging  |
When she at last got to see a counselor, they agreed that she should be admitted.
Blackwood shared Ward 3D East with 26 men and three other women; mixed-gender wards are common in VA psychiatric units. There was no exercise equipment. No outdoor courtyard. No treatment either, other than prescription medication. The linoleum corridor was 39 paces long, and Blackwood walked it many times a day.
"There's nothing to do all day. Nothing," Blackwood whispered to a visitor. "And there's no air."
Every day the patients met for announcements. At one meeting, a staff member scolded them: "Did you all take showers today? The smell on the floor is not good. Take a shower. Keep yourself clean."
Pacing the floor, a man sang: "It's not a va-ca-tion! It's med-i-ca-tion!"
Another patient lifted his pant leg to show Blackwood the knife he hid in his sock. One day she took a poll. Of the 17 patients in attendance, seven had been to war, 16 to jail. Everyone except her.
The Iraq war vets found one another quickly on Ward 3D East. An ashen young man in gray socks popped into the visitors room where Blackwood was sitting one evening. He told her that his best friend had died in Iraq. "He took the gun, put it in his mouth and fired," he said without emotion. "Blew his brains out." He held his friend's head until he was dead. He showed Blackwood how, cradling his hands just so.
The next day, a Marine veteran burst into the visitors room. He wore a red Marine Corps T-shirt. His tan combat boots flopped open, shoelaces removed. "I'm goin' crazy in here," he said, as he chomped furiously on nicotine gum.
Blackwood and the Marine bantered in abbreviations.
"One fifty-fives!" he laughed.
"Incoming!" she laughed back.
"Allah Akbar!" he shouted.
