We both laughed while he gave me directions to the supply building. A few minutes later I turned in two 9mm clips with all of the bullets. However, I kept my KA-BAR bayonet. I just didn’t want to be unarmed, even here on this relatively secure base. Although my fear was misguided and irrational, something would not allow me to let go of my hypervigilance. I couldn’t help but anxiously think about an intel officer at Abu Ghraib telling me that there was a $25,000 bounty on my head from Al Zarqawi and that I and the other colonels on post were on Al Zarqawi’s most wanted list. I never bothered to check “the list” and verify it myself, because I didn’t see the point. If my specific name wasn’t actually on the list, would that mean I wasn’t threatened? No, I’d never assume that. And if my name was on the actual list of most wanted, I didn’t see how I would be helped by having that image seared into my mind. I was cautioned to be damn careful and watch my back at all times, no matter where I was—and I did. Each night before I went to bed, I placed my bayonet on the nightstand right next to my bed.
After I ate lunch, I decided to walk over to the food court and visit the Starbucks. Seeing the Starbucks was more of a welcome sight than most people could imagine. I’m a coffee lover who’s always walking around with a Starbucks cup in my hand back home, but this time that green-and-white sign meant much more to me than that I would soon get a cup of hot coffee. It was a symbol that said, “Yes, Larry, you really did survive Abu Ghraib and you’re back in civilization.” It confirmed to me that I was one step closer to going home. Sitting in the Starbucks sipping that warm cup of coffee, I had time to reflect on the difficult night. Why did you have that nightmare last night? I asked myself. It was like my psyche, my superego was sitting next to me at Starbucks talking to me, playing the role of therapist. A voice told me, “Larry, perhaps your nightmares are a metaphorical struggle between good and evil. It is actually a good sign. Son, if you did not have nightmares, given the horror of what you saw, you would have normalized these horrible events. Welcome your nightmares, Larry. This is how your soul is telling you that the horror of war is against a decent man’s morality.”
I took a long time to finish that cup of coffee, thinking through the nightmares and what they meant about how I was handling my experience at Abu Ghraib. I never had that nightmare again. Three years have passed since I returned home and I no longer fear going to sleep.
I stayed at Camp Doha for more than a week waiting to get a seat on a flight home. I was able to power down by getting some sleep in spite of the constant bang of the tin doors. I stopped jumping at the sound, but I often lay there wondering what genius designed the place with doors loud enough to be mistaken for mortars. At the base, I would go to see movies, one of my favorite pastimes, and I called my wife every day. Eventually, along with four hundred other soldiers, I boarded a chartered DC-10 en route to the States. We stopped in Germany, Italy, Nova Scotia, and finally landed at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport’s military air terminal. We all cheered as the plane touched down on U.S. soil, some cried, and we all congratulated one another. There was an Army chaplain on board who came on the microphone and said a prayer for the soldiers we lost along the way and asked the Lord to keep them safe. I spent the night at a local hotel in Columbia, Maryland, then boarded a United Airlines plane on to Honolulu two days later.
My wife, Janet, had finally closed on our brand-new home and moved out of the hotel, along with our three-year-old granddaughter, Judy. A rare feat for me was that I slept almost uninterrupted for every leg of my fifteen-hour journey home from the Baltimore airport. Even though I could now get to sleep without nightmares, the inner turmoil that once made its way into my dreams would return in different ways I had not yet envisioned. My arrival at Honolulu International Airport was met with great joy. Being back in the arms of my soul mate of thirty years would always heal and calm me. Along with Janet, my granddaughter, son, and close friends, there were members of my command at the airport to great me. It was a wonderful homecoming.
Settling in quickly at our new home, I slept peacefully in our waterbed. I soon called my mother in New Orleans to tell her I was home safe, but I was dismayed to learn that her health was continuing to fail. Within a matter of days Janet and I were on a plane headed for New Orleans to spend perhaps my last Thanksgiving with my eighty-one-year-old mother. We arrived in New Orleans about three days before Thanksgiving 2004. When my mother saw me, she hugged me as though she knew her time had come, that perhaps it would be the last Thanksgiving with her only son and youngest of six children. I busied myself with chores around the house, enjoying the richness of my Creole culture and spending as much time with my mother as possible. It was indeed a joyous time.
My mother was a night owl like both Janet and me. We enjoyed spending late nights in the French Quarter and bringing my mother home a hot cup of French café au lait and beignets, wonderful French doughnuts, from the legendary Café Du Monde. On this particular night, my mother and I were up late by ourselves, laughing, as she told stories about her youth on a farm in Opelousas and Simmesport, Louisiana. We were enjoying our time together when suddenly she became quiet for a moment. Her expression changed and she said, “Son, I know the Lord has sent the angels for me. I spend more time in the hospital than I spend out of the hospital. I only wanted to live long enough to see you one last time before I go, son.” She was looking at me as if this was the moment she had held out for, the time she wanted to just be with me and look into my eyes. Somehow I was able to hold back my tears, but she knew what I was feeling. Realizing my pain and sorrow, she shifted the conversation back to her youth in rural Louisiana, Cajun zydeco music, and how she would dance up a storm as a teenager. We laughed some more, long and hard, then we finished our café au lait and beignets. Reluctantly, but so grateful for the time with her, I went to bed at about 2 a.m.
The morning before Thanksgiving, I loaded my mother in the car and drove her to one of her thrice-weekly kidney dialysis appointments. They had been a consistent burden for her for many years. As I started the car, she placed her left hand on my right arm and said, “Son, I need to talk with you about something. I need your help with it because your sisters will listen to you about this.”
“Yes, Ma dear,” I said. “What is it, sugar?”
“Son, I don’t want to do this any longer. It’s my time to go be with your sister Betty, Daddy, and my mother.”
I knew what she meant, and I wasn’t going to disagree with her. “Ma dear, of course, darling, how can I help you with this?” I asked.
Holding on to my arm, she responded by saying, “I need your blessing to just let go. Is that okay, son?”
I struggled to hold back my tears, but I told her what I really felt in my heart. “Ma dear, you’ve lived a long, good life, and if you know that it is your time to move on and be with the good Lord, then that is okay by me. And it will be okay for all of my sisters. Sugar, when you’re ready to let go and go to be with my sister Betty, just let go. It’s okay.” My sister Betty died at age fifty-two, due to complications from lupus. My mother, like all parents, felt that no parent should have to outlive one of their children. Perhaps my mother welcomed death so that she could be with her daughter again.
She said, “Thank you, son,” and I confirmed that she still wanted to go to the kidney dialysis center today. She did, but along the way we stopped for a café au lait. The next day was a joyous Thanksgiving celebration. My entire family came by my home in New Orleans on Thanksgiving. That night Janet and I went out dancing to zydeco music, and we of course brought my mother back a café au lait and some French doughnuts. My mother laughed with me and told me stories about my Creole ancestors I had not heard before. Again, we stayed up talking together until about 2 a.m. Through this process I was slowly starting to heal. Being with my wife, my mother, and all of my family in the place of my birth was calming for me.
However, our joy was short-lived. The next morning my sister woke my mother up for dialysis. Somethin
g was not right. My mother’s speech was slurred and her thoughts were kind of disorganized. She had had a massive stroke in the night while asleep. We took her for what would be her last and final visit at Touro Infirmary in New Orleans. Janet and I stayed in New Orleans until Christmas Day and flew back to Honolulu on Christmas night 2004. My mother remained in the hospital and died two days after our plane landed in Honolulu.
Death always has a way of finding a soldier. Death does not stop, nor will life events slow because a soldier is deployed for fifteen months. I was not prepared for this level of loss less than a month after my return from Iraq.
The rest of December and the remaining holiday season of 2004 flew by with a looming sense of loss and sorrow, while at the same time I struggled to recover from my Abu Ghraib emotional scars. On one Saturday morning in late January, the haunting, the residual effects of the war, found its way to my soul again. It was like most Saturday mornings for Janet and me. We stayed up late on Friday after our granddaughter went to bed and we would rise late on Saturdays. On this one Saturday morning, something was amiss for me. I can’t tell you to this day what was at the core of my discomfort on that morning.
I sat in my favorite leather chair upstairs and wore my favorite comfortable pajamas while I watched a movie on HBO. For Larry James, that should be a damn good morning. But something wasn’t right deep inside me. I could hear Janet and my three-year-old granddaughter, Judy, downstairs having so much fun. Like most three-year-olds my granddaughter insisted on making her own cereal that morning, slowly pouring milk into the bowl with the cereal. I could hear Janet praising her for doing such a good job, not spilling a drop on the floor. Then Janet grabbed the morning newspaper on the front porch, some coffee for me, and walked up the stairs with our Judy. On the very last step of the stairs, Judy stumbled. Milk and cornflakes went flying on the carpet, the walls, and everywhere. Within the blink of an eye, a demon was unleashed in me that I had not ever seen before. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU, JUDY? ARE YOU STUPID?” I yelled at the top of my voice. “GODDAMN IT, I’M SO TIRED OF THIS SHIT! SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND CLEAN UP THIS CRAP!”
Neither Janet nor Judy had ever seen me rage like this before. This was totally unlike me. My world went into slow motion as my three-year-old granddaughter became afraid of me. I saw it in her eyes. She screamed, cried, and begged for forgiveness as loud as her lungs would allow. I yelled again, “SHUT UP, GODDAMN IT!” I grabbed her by the right arm as I yelled louder and louder. I was out of control.
Thankfully, Janet gently placed her right hand on my left arm and whispered softly, “Larry, it’s gonna be okay. Now, just settle down. I’ll clean this mess up. Why don’t you go in the bedroom and relax? I’ll take care of this.” She picked up little Judy and hugged her. As I walked away, I turned and looked at my wife. Her eyes told me that she wondered if her once calm, gentle, fun-loving husband would ever be the same. For the first time, it was not only clear to me, but to Janet as well, that I was not well and not that same man who left for Abu Ghraib. As usual, the gentle touch of my wife served as my elixir. I calmed down. Janet kept Judy quiet and away from me for a couple of hours. Later in the day, Janet asked, “What was that all about this morning?” I shrugged my shoulders, walked away to the upstairs bathroom, locked the door, and cried my eyes out, thinking about the terrified, hurt look on that innocent child’s face as I was screaming at her like a madman. I got down on my knees and asked God to help me. I begged for his forgiveness. Part of the problem was that I didn’t know the full answer as to why I had unleashed such anger and rage at my three-year-old granddaughter the way I did. She was a child and didn’t deserve it. Or perhaps I was now able to see that I had become emotionally impaired like so many other veterans. I had heard of veterans tearing their houses apart in an unstoppable rage after returning from Iraq, but even as a psychologist I never really understood what prompted such outbursts. Was I just like them?
No! I said to myself, I’m better and stronger than them, and plus, I’m a psychologist. This PTSD stuff can’t happen to me. I gathered myself, went downstairs, and hugged my granddaughter and told her I was sorry. Almost within an instant she smiled and asked me if we were going to go to the beach. Children are so wonderfully forgiving.
Over time, either in person or by phone I would have several conversations with an old friend and senior psychologist from Walter Reed, Dr. Hal Wain. Talking with Hal was always enlightening but it was also healing for me. He helped me work through many of these issues and he never made me feel as though I were mentally ill. He framed what I was going through as a perfectly normal response to abnormal events. I shared my experience at the Starbucks in Kuwait with Dr. Wain. Hal, in his usual brilliant way, helped me to realize that it was the classic psyche struggle.
“Larry, your psyche has figured out a way to reframe the nightmares for you in a healthy way,” he said. “Don’t run from this, Larry. Embrace it.”
He was right. Slowly, over time, I began to return to normal, or so I thought. I busied myself again with teaching, getting back to doing research, and seeing patients. The symptoms of our nation’s new PTSD was in many cases, like mine, very subtle and unlike the old Vietnam veteran stereotypes. Many of us did not disappear from society or turn to alcohol or drugs like the PTSD vet of earlier eras. Janet was the first to see the subtleties of my condition. One evening I was walking downstairs at our home with a cup of coffee in my right hand. Our downstairs is flat with level carpet. Suddenly the coffee cup fell from my hand. A few days later, a bowl of cereal just fell out of my hands. This became common and would occur at least once or twice a week. Whatever I had in my hands would just fall to the floor.
While I was struggling with the lack of muscle coordination in my hands, I started to have trouble with tripping while walking on a level, flat surface without any obstructions. I would be walking down the hallway at my department and I would stumble or trip. The problem would also occur at home. One day Janet and I were loading up in our car, and I went back in the house to get a cup of coffee. While walking across the living room, I stumbled and the coffee cup hit the wall and carpet. Janet came to my rescue, never complaining or patronizing. Again her patience had a curative effect on me.
We loaded in the car and needed to stop by my office on our way to downtown Honolulu for a meeting. By the time we arrived at my office it was after hours and I had left my keys and wallet at home. This was a significant event for Janet. Even though I tried to downplay it, she knew it was a sign of something terribly wrong with her husband. In our thirty years together, I had neither misplaced my keys nor ever lost my wallet. That just wasn’t something I ever did. She said, “No problem, sugar, we can just go back home and get your keys.” Forty-five minutes later we arrived back at our home, but for a long while I couldn’t find my keys or my wallet. On the drive back downtown, Janet spoke up.
“Sugar, I’m really worried about you. You can’t find your keys, your wallet, and you’re stumbling and falling all the time. Larry, what’s going on? You’re yelling and screaming at Judy in a way like I’ve never seen you yell at anybody. I think you ought to go and see our doctor.” Her voice trembled with worry and fear for me as she continued. “You look like shit and you can’t walk around the block once without taking a nap. You used to be able to run four miles a day, do 150 push-ups and 300 crunches without taking a break. Now you’re fatigued all the time. You need to see our doctor because I’m really worried about you.”
I promised her that when I went in to work on Monday I would schedule an appointment with our physician. I never did.
I think I meant to follow through with what I promised Janet, but my worsening symptoms only made me more fearful of admitting to someone else that I had a problem. I got up early on Monday morning as usual for my four-mile run, but I couldn’t finish the run. I was so fatigued after fifteen minutes of running that I had to just stop and walk. Somehow I never found time to go and see my physician. I thought I’d just tighten
up my bootstraps and soldier through it, whatever it was. The level of fatigue I was experiencing was like carrying an extra fifty-pound backpack around all day long. I didn’t care. I just drove on. Larry, there’re soldiers coming back from Iraq with one leg who run marathons, I told myself. Don’t be a pussy, Larry. Just soldier through this. Hang on. It will get better.
Either my staff at Tripler Army Medical Center was very patient with me or I was damn good at bluffing my way right through my mental confusion and cognitive lapses. I had worked with many of my staff members for years, but for some strange reason I would lose their names right in the middle of conversations. It was like my mental hard disk drive was crashing. Sometimes it would work and other times it didn’t. Novel information from patients I had very little difficulty handling. But trying to recall old information was troubling, as when I was having a conversation with Dr. Jim Kamona, who had been a psychologist at Tripler for years. Jim came in my office one morning to seek my advice about a research project. Right in the middle of our conversation, I couldn’t recall his name nor could I figure out what in the hell we were talking about. Within an instant, my brain was engulfed in a mental fog. It was as though he had called me at 3 a.m. and asked me to say my Social Security number backwards. I didn’t panic; I just smiled a lot, nodded my head often, and after about fifteen minutes or so, it all came back to me. That became my strategy when I found myself lost in the wilderness like that, and I think most of the time the other person didn’t catch on. They didn’t know, but I was terrified! I thought I was losing my mind.
Janet saw this more and more at home, first by me losing my wallet and keys ten times the first week I was back home. She would just remain calm, never showing her frustration, and wait until the fog lifted. I was horrified by the episodes and scared, for the first time in many years, that the once articulate senior Army psychologist would be lost forever.
Fixing Hell Page 20