“Sir, may I have permission to speak honestly?
Frankly, I don’t want to be here. My wife said get help or she’s leaving. She’s said it many times since I came home from combat. This time, she means it.”
The Soldier spoke as if yelling, drenched in anger.
“Frankly, I don’t want to be here. Everybody knows Behavioral Health is on the third floor. It’s embarrassing to push the third-floor button. This is the last place I’d like to be.”
He wants nothing from me right now, I thought, so I remained silent. In spite of irritability, he was a handsome 29 year old Soldier with blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, prominent cheekbones with a muscular build carried on a strikingly military six-foot frame.
His honesty was refreshing. Something about him, not easily described, made him likeable.
“SGT, you look physically fit. Tell me about your mental and spiritual fitness.”
“Too easy. My mental fitness is bad. Ican’t concentrate, and I don’t have a memory.
What you mean by spiritual fitness is not clear to me. If you mean, do I go to church, the answer is no. If you mean, do I believe in God, the answer is no. I believe in a higher power or some great force.”
“Does your ‘higher power or some great force‘ have a higher headquarters?”
How often do you and your higher power communicate with each other? Do you believe you have a personal relationship with your higher power? Do you feel a robust and protective attachment to your higher power?
“I’m confused. I came up here because my wife thinks I have PTSD. Are you a preacher or a chaplain? I thought you were a doctor. Who are you? No provider ever asked me these questions. Once I say I have a higher power, it ends all discussion about religion.”
Neither one of us spoke. Then the Sergeant quickly visually scanned my office, and then he scanned me.
“You remind me of my grandmother.”
Were you close to your grandmother?
“Very close. My grandmother raised me. No one ever loved me like my grandmother.?”
Tears filled his eyes. Ashamed of his feelings, he turned away from me, hiding his feelings.
For a long time, we sat in silence, barely moving.
“She passed away while I was in Afghanistan. The Red Cross notified my command. They tried to reach me, but I was in a remote area. By the time they reached me, the funeral was over. I never said goodbye.”
He was crying so hard that his whole body was shaking. Finally, he was trying to say goodbye to the only person who ever really loved him.
Through eyes reddened by crying, he was staring at me. “My grandmother was the only other person who ever talked to me about a loving God. I know she is in Heaven.”
Trying to nervously clear his mind, he stared at the wall behind my desk. “I see the Legion of Merit hanging on your wall. Were you ever in the Army?”
I nodded yes, and quietly said, “Twenty-four years. I served mostly in the Army Reserve Medical Corps as a psychiatrist.”
“If you are not a chaplain, why do you talk about religion?”
Smiling, I said, “I’m not interested in religion. I’m interested in relationships. In particular, I’m interested in meaningful relationships called attachments, the kind you have with your grandmother. I don’t know of anything more important than our relationships.”
After a long pause, he said, “Sir, I’d like to apologize for the way I acted when I first came in here today. I’d like to return but I’m going on TDY (Temporary Duty) but when I get back here, can I see you again?”
“Thanks for the apology, but it is not necessary. You were honest. I respect honesty.
Sure, I will see you when you return from TDY. I want to give you my book, PTSD and Me, Healing Injured Minds. I hope you will find time to read it. You have my cell phone number; call me when I can help, and I look forward to seeing you again.
Your grandmother could have been my co-author because her love and spirit would welcome you back into a secure attachment with your loving God. He answers her prayers for you. She reminds me of my mother, who was also a prayer warrior.”
“Relationships are vital, but I hadn’t thought of them like that before today. Yes, I’ll read your book and get back to you. Thank you, Sir.”
Respectfully, even reverently, he took the book. His large, muscular hands held it gently and without speaking, he stared at it. He reminded me of someone seeing an old photograph for the first time in years, vaguely remembering having seen it before, but studying it with intensity.
Finally, he gave me his hand to shake. With both my arms, I embraced this brave, physically strong young Soldier with warmth and profound respect.
Surely, the Lord was in this encounter and in this embrace, richly blessing the hugged and the hugger.
Thank God for loving Grandmothers.
Much of this column was taken from my book, PTSD Survival Manual, the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
Robert S. Brown, MD, PHD a retired Psychiatrist, Col (Ret) U.S. Army Medical Corps devoted the last decade of his career to treating soldiers at Fort Lee redeploying from combat. He was a Clinical Professor of Psychiatry and Professor of Education at UVA. His renowned Mental Health course taught the value of exercise for a sound mind.