Holes are a metaphor for a fall through the bridge that lands a returning veteran in a more serious predicament from which recovery is difficult and sometimes impossible. Holes represent divorce, infidelity, suicidal/ homicidal thoughts and behaviors, complete isolation, prison, serious mental health issues and homelessness. ”Jim,” a 22year-old veteran with mental health issues, was crossing the bridge when he got into an argument with a stranger who was harassing him. He reverted back to the protective mode of a warrior and shot off a gun. No one got hurt, but ”Jim” fell into a hole called prison and now faces several years behind bars with no help for his Combat Stress, PTSD and possible TBI. His mom had to give up her job because of all her stress and is now living “hand to mouth,” unable to find an advocate for her son.
So my job is to help service members/veterans and their families across the bridge, as well as try to help those who have fallen through the cracks and holes in their bridges, and it feels like time is running out. The calls we get for help, support and care are increasing. The numbers of homeless, incarcerated, suicidal (or dead) vets, and alienated families, are increasing. The desperate haunted voices are increasing. The number of “heroes” and their families on the bridges without the “supply sergeant” or the leaders they need to get across is increasing. What we must avoid is more encounters like the ones I’ve had with World War II veterans, with Vietnam veterans, and with Gulf War veterans who ask with tears streaming down their faces, “Where were you when I came home?”
33
COURAGE TO HEAL
The Story of Army National Guard Sergeant Michael Mills and Suki Mills
“The therapist was the one who finally parked me in front of that mirror, locked the brakes on my wheelchair and said, ‘The sooner you deal with it, the sooner you’ll accept it.’ I couldn’t believe what I saw. Where was my left ear? My left eye was distorted. My mouth was wrong. How was Suki ever going to want me looking like this?”
When Sergeant Michael Mills volunteered to be the A driver on the convoy of HETTs on the mission in mid-June, he had no idea it was a decision that would change his life forever. The Heavy Equipment Transport Truck, one of the largest Army transportation vehicles, is built to haul 80 tons. Michael had no guarantees that the mission would be hazard-free no matter how huge the trucks were. In fact he had a clear understanding that, “The first thing you learn when you get to Iraq is that nothing is based on theory and the only one you can trust is yourself.”
One job of the A driver was to look for anything the enemy could use for a distraction or hiding place for an IED or sniper. “We had twelve checkpoints to pass, each manned by either the ISP (Iraqi Security Police) or ING (Iraqi National Guard). Theoretically, we should have felt fairly confident, since both groups were trained by US Military Personnel and were placed there for our safety.”
On June 14, 2005, the convoy left Forward Operating Base Spiecher outside Tikrit for FOB Warrior. The trip was uneventful. Once they got there the soldiers loaded up their HETTs with vehicles and started the trip back to FOB Spiecher. The convoy was only ten minutes away from FOB Warrior and just past the first checkpoint when Michael noticed the hole in the road filled with debris and wires. “All of the training I had gone through suddenly came flooding back as if I was on autopilot. I grabbed the radio: ‘Truck … IED my side’ I heard ‘Repeat.’ ‘Truck… IED…’” The bomb went off before he finished the second call out. “The taste of the dirt and gunpowder are something I’ll never forget. It is still unclear if I jumped from the truck or was blown from it, not that it really matters in the end.” The blast had pierced the fuel tanks located under the front seats, so as he jettisoned from the truck Michael was sprayed with diesel fuel which then ignited. “I don’t remember if the pain I felt was from the fire or from the impact when I landed on my left side.”
The fall was so hard that Michael broke four of five bones in his left foot, tore up his left hip socket and dislocated his left shoulder. “The only thought I had was making sure my driver was OK. I got up and turned to look at the truck, and it was as if someone had placed a mirror there. I could see myself on fire. I fell back to the ground and began to rip off the body armor, which included about 500 M16 rounds. If it hadn’t been for the body armor, the burns to my left side would have been much worse.” When the rounds from his armor started to go off, a medic laid on top of him to protect him from the blast. “When all was secure, she began the necessary first aid to keep me alive. She saved my life.” The medic had to cut off what remained of his uniform, start an IV to begin pain control and provide necessary fluids to prevent dehydration. She then covered his burn wounds with gauze and poured a saline solution over them to help retain moisture.
“The gun trucks that traveled with us formed a circle around the convoy because it was unclear yet if the rounds we heard were from my body armor or from a sniper. Once it was clear that there was no sniper or enemy to worry about, they called for medevac and were told it would be two hours out.” The convoy commander turned the convoy around and raced back to FOB Warrior with the wounded soldiers.
If you had asked Michael Mills what he saw himself doing three years before his “Alive Day,” he might have said driving trucks for the Army. “I was an Army Brat. I always knew I would end up doing something in the military. I finished high school in Mountain Home, Idaho, which is where we settled after my dad retired in 1981. I joined the Army in 1985 and spent three years in Alaska.” When Mike met Suki in Alaska, she made it clear that she didn’t want to raise a family if it meant uprooting them every few years to move, and so he began his National Guard career.
“I always knew my unit would be activated, even though they told us we wouldn’t be because we were not at full strength. So when the stand-by call was made on Easter Sunday, April 2004, it didn’t surprise me.” After a training period in May, the unit reported to Fort Dix, New Jersey. Six more months of training and they deployed, arriving in Iraq on January 6, 2005. After spending ten days in Kuwait, they moved north to Iraq and settled in to what was to be their new home. “We lived at FOB Spiecher just outside of Tikirit, Iraq. I passed my 20 years of service in the military over there, and even though I was ineligible for a bonus, I re-enlisted for three more.”
Back home in Alaska, Suki was one of the leaders for the unit’s Family Readiness Group (FRG). She adopted a philosophy that she couldn’t control what happened over in Iraq, and that worrying about what she couldn’t control would only drain the strength she needed. If, and only if, something should happen, then she would deal with it. “The night I got the call we had gone to my parents so the kids could eat their “Happy Meals.” I didn’t recognize the number when my cell phone rang, but as an FRG Leader you answer any number because it could be a family member in need. The connection was bad at first and I still didn’t know who I was speaking with. They hung up and called back. It was a Colonel from the battalion and I wasn’t bothered at first because I work with his wife in the FRG. I went numb when he said they were on their way to see me, the Colonel, the Battalion CSM and the Chaplin. In training we were told that if the soldier is injured the family gets a phone call; if the soldier is killed they get a visit.”
The Colonel assured her that Michael was very much alive but badly injured. Suki gave them directions to her parents and waited. “Mom and Dad had a lot of questions, but all I could tell them was that Michael was alive. Aaron and Kenzie, our children, sat so quietly, I forgot they were there. When the officers arrived they told us Michael had broken his pelvis and ankle, dislocated his shoulder, and had severe burns on the left side of his body and face. My mind went blank. My baby was burned. I wanted to throw up. I felt so helpless. He was alone and hurt and I wasn’t there to take care of him. I thought,’ Perhaps this isn’t real; it’s a test, yes, a test. The Army is testing my skills as an FRG Leader to see how I handle tragic news.‘”
Michael was at the Langstuhl Medical Center in Germany, and at first Suki was told she h
ad to be prepared to fly there to be with him. “I didn’t have a passport, and unless they planned on putting me to sleep for the trip, I didn’t think I would be able to handle a plane ride of that length, not to mention the anxiety I would endure anticipating what I was going to find when I got there. There was way too much information to think through everything. I needed to stop and take a deep breath. Plus I’ve been so into my own head, I haven’t asked my children how they felt. They were both sitting there in shock. We tried to be as honest as we could without creating a great deal of fear, but the kids knew their daddy was badly injured.”
When she got home, there was a message waiting from the Department of Defense. Now she would meet Michael at Brooke Medical Center in Texas. They had all the information she needed to contact the doctor who was with Michael. She was told how to get her orders so the Army would pay for her flight, and how to get money to live on while she was there. “It was getting late and I wanted to go to bed, but I couldn’t. I had to wait for the doctor to call from Germany.”
The next day was filled with phone calls, visitors and decisions. Suki and Michael’s children could have been put on orders and gone with their mother, but Suki didn’t think that would be a good idea. “I didn’t know the set-up. They would miss school, and I needed to concentrate on Michael and not worry about them. So I needed to figure out who would take care of them and who would take care of our puppy, Rex. I needed to find someone to care for our plants and watch the house. I almost couldn’t deal with all the decisions. At times I felt like I was losing it, but I needed to stay calm for the kids.”
Suki’s mother took charge of caring for their daughter, Kenzie, but their son, Aaron, had gone into a protective mode. “He was Michael’s shadow. He wore his old uniforms including the boots, even though they were too big. His room was covered with military insignia and posters, and I remember being shocked when I went in that night because he’d taken everything down and put it into a box. I sat him down and tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t respond. I didn’t think he had slept at all the night before.”
Eventually Suki was able to comfort both her children. Kenzie and Aaron would spend the summer with their grandparents, then stay with friends for the school year. The friends would even care for the puppy. Now all Suki had to do was get to her husband.
Michael was flown to Brooks Army Medical Center, where he would spend the next three months, the first three weeks of it in the ICU. “I don’t remember most of my time in the hospital,” he recalls, “and from what I am told, I guess I’m glad. I think part of the reason for not remembering is that some of what I went through was so painful both physically and emotionally, it was a way to cope. I do remember the anger I had because I was back in the States and my soldiers were still over in Iraq. I was just angry at myself for not seeing the IED sooner and getting injured. I didn’t blame anyone but myself.”
Although Michael doesn’t remember his nightmares or panic attacks from that time, Suki does: “One night Michael was yelling at a sergeant to park the trucks in a certain area. He was trying to get out of bed and just about got over the bed rail. He wouldn’t listen to me so I ran out to the desk for help.” The medical staff calmed him down, but he revealed the mental stress of what he had been through again and again. “The worst episode was when Michael had wound vacs on both hands but thought he had been stabbed by a knife and wanted it out of the back of his hand. I played along and pretended like I took it out. He kept insisting it was still in there. I kept telling him I took it out. He looked at me with such blank eyes. I will never forget that look or what he said next. ‘You don’t fu**ing understand.’ He yelled it at me. I knew he didn’t mean it, but that didn’t make it hurt at the moment any less. All I could do was walk out of the room.”
As with many soldiers dealing with PTSD, Michael’s emotions were right at the edge. He would tear up when someone sent him a get-well card, and that was hard for Suki because he seemed so vulnerable and fragile. “He was always saying he was sorry for screwing up our lives. Then there were times he wouldn’t say anything at all. I know he’d been through hell, but if I didn’t get him to open up, I was afraid I’d lose him.”
It didn’t matter what anyone said, not the nurses or doctors, not his family or even the person Michael trusted the most, Suki. “I was pretty convincing in the denial area and never really brought attention to the fact that something was bothering me, but Suki knew better.”
“There was no way I was going to tolerate him feeling sorry for himself and playing the martyr. He was badly wounded but I was not going to give up until he realized it wasn’t his fault.” Suki talked to one of the mental health therapists and clued him in on what was happening. Once Michael started talking to the therapist and then gradually trusting him, he began to open up. “The therapist’s demeanor was one of serenity and comfort, and maybe that’s why I felt I could be more honest with what I was feeling. It was hard at first because of my belief that I’m a leader. I’m supposed to be strong for my soldiers and my family. I’m used to dealing with issues on my own. Yet I slowly began to realize that these issues were bigger and stronger than anything I’d dealt with before, and that opening up, talking about it and taking medication didn’t mean I was weak or could no longer be a leader. I was a victim but I had a choice. I could sit back and allow the memories to destroy me and my family, or I could fight back.” Michael chose not to feel powerless, and although it wasn’t easy, it was worth it.
Michael hadn’t yet screwed up the courage to look in the mirror. “Each day I would look away as we passed by the hallway mirror on the way back into my room. I had a physical therapist, Dawn, who knew just how far to push you and then go one more inch without you knowing it. She had a positive attitude and always seemed to find the sunshine. Suki used to call her "the other woman" because I’d brighten up when she was around. Dawn was the one who finally parked me in front of that mirror, locked the brakes on my wheelchair and said,’ The sooner you deal with it, the sooner you’ll accept it.’” She walked out of the room. Eventually Michael had to look up and see his reflection. “I couldn’t believe what I saw. Where was my left ear? My left eye was distorted. My mouth was wrong. How was Suki ever going to want me looking like this?” When Dawn came back in the two of them talked about the experience. “She told me how she watched Suki looking at me day after day with no hesitation. She only had the deepest love a wife could have for her husband.”
Suki was always there. “The longer I was at Brooke, the more I was able to become Michael’s advocate. I learned to refuse to back down if something didn’t seem right.” When Suki discovered an ulcer the size of a half dollar on her husband’s heel, because of his cast, she stood toe to toe with a doctor when the new cast was put on and there was no area cut away to relieve the pressure where the ulcer was. “I made sure I completely understood who, what, where and why.” She took on the Orthopedics Dept. at BAMC. “The burns complicated the healing of his shoulder, and it formed into one solid mass of bone. At the time we had no clear idea what was happening.
“When I would ask for an Orthopedic Doctor to come and explain it to us, no one would show up, and then the hospital staff would say they explained it to Michael at 5 a.m.” Suki was not satisfied with that explanation and demanded to see someone else in charge. ”I'm not sure that person was walking the same way as when he came in,” Michael recalls. “Then the doctor made the mistake of talking down to her as if to convince her that he had been there at 5 a.m. That didn’t go over real well.”
Once Michael was discharged from the hospital, he still had months of rehabilitation ahead of him. “Michael joined me in the apartment where I was staying at the guest house near the hospital. It was scary because all the daily care the nurses had been doing, suddenly I had to do.” That meant a bath, dressing change and special lotions applied to his burn injuries each day. “It was a two- to three-hour process. I remember being so worried that I would do something wrong, li
ke not clean an area well enough and it would get infected.”
“We settled into a routine that required me to go from where we were living in the guest house to have rehab at the hospital. Then my mother-in-law called one day in October to tell us she had cancer. With my rehab far from over, we knew we couldn’t move back home just yet. I wasn’t even sure they would let me go on convalescent leave. Suki was beside herself. She was torn between being with her mom and being with me. We both needed her.”
They applied for early convalescent leave before Michael was considered medically ready to leave Brooke. That meant getting special permission from the head of Outpatient Therapy, Michael’s burn doctor, the unit commander, and finding a hand therapist in their area so he could continue therapy at home. Just in time, they were allowed thirty days of leave to go home for the Thanksgiving holidays in November, and then again in December.
At the end of February, Suki was called to come home since her mother was dying. “I stayed home after my mom passed away to be with my dad. We made arrangements for Michael’s sister, Brenda, to meet him down there and be his caregiver in my absence. That was so hard not to go back to Texas with him, but he was getting more independent and the wound care was a fourth of what it used to be. It was my dad now that needed me. After 50 years together with my mom he was lost. I am the only girl out of five children, and although dad never came right out and said it. We all knew I was the one he wanted to stay with him.”
Hidden Battles on Unseen Fronts Page 21