By
Bernard Haagensen
I.
Outside of
the window, a person could see a northern section of Charleston’s south side.
Up on the fourth floor, our vantage point held a spectacular view of an area
most tourists would never get to see, or have reason to go to.
Inside that
same window, a doctor was calmly finger-combing his straw-colored hair. His
shoes were well worn and appeared to be very comfortable. During our sessions,
he often wore striped long sleeve shirts, cuff links, and a tack on his tie.
There was never any jewelry around his neck or on his hands.
Across the
room’s perimeter sat a large, handsome black man. A faded military hat was
settled tightly over his brow, allowing the brim to shadow his eyes and nose.
Loose and broken threads appeared on most of the hat’s seams. Staff Sergeant
chevrons were pinned over a ’60s peace sign medallion. White sweat stains
surrounded the hat’s hemline. Both of his hands clutched a clear plastic bag
filled with pill bottles. He would often shake the bag, as if to make sure
there was something still in it. When confronted, he would describe a new
hallucination or an old, but vivid, dream sequence.
This man’s
bearing indicated he was unable to enjoy the spectacular panorama visible
through the hospital’s huge Plexiglas window. While the other two of us were
trading comments, about the skyline, he just slumped in his chair.
II.
At bi-weekly
intervals, our very small group would gather in one of two different rooms.
This room had windows; the other one did not. Every now and then, seeming
stragglers – always wearing new shoes – would attend these sessions. They all
had the ability to nod and smile, and we would never see them again.
I often wondered why my attendance was required here. Did it have anything to do my recent loss of a civil service position? Could it be my talent for getting thrown out of major chain stores? I always had enough money in my pocket! Could it be my drinking? Everybody drank!
III.
Before every session the
doctor, who always dressed so neatly, would find his tiny band of former heroes
roaming an interior hallway or standing in a nearby corner space. As he
approached, his eyes always got there first. His glance was hazel green and
piercing.
Once
corralled, our small troupe would form a very loose knit pecking order and the
good doctor would provide a direction. The two of us would tag along behind him
like ducks paddling after their mother. What a sight we were: “Follow me! I’m
the infantry!”
Observing
this motley trio, a lesser fool might comment that the use of a cattle prod
could be of some merit. A more learned fool would remind himself that these men
were proven combat soldiers during their youth. To use any kind of force
against them might turn their dream sequences into sudden and fateful reality.
IV.
The good
doctor was acutely aware of this. His chosen field dealt with the many awkward
situations these types of personalities could find themselves in, especially
Viet-Nam-era veterans who had been ‘out to pasture’ for more than 30 years! The
Iraq-era soldier was just entering the Veteran Administration system, but for
any veteran, anxiety is equal in principle.
Anxiety was at the core
of our many dysfunctions. Anxiety would actually rule our behavior without
informing the brain’s “better sense” region. The Iraq-era soldiers were
probably experiencing the same, despite the 30-year gap between wars. For us, cases
of “severe” anxiety develop, which in turn, lead to depressions of enormous
proportion.
The doctor knew
this, we didn’t; the Iraq-era vets might not, either. We just wondered why it
was so hard to keep a job! Maybe they will, too.
V.
As for the doctor,
this was his chosen field, his place in society where he thought he could do
the most good. This was his chosen arena, a place where he could be himself,
inside his own area of discovery and expertise.
His ultimate
purpose was to counsel the psyche of human beings who had once been thoroughly
trained, to act without “thinking,” those believing their way of “thinking” to
be the norm. Yet these circumstances were not outside the good doctor’s realm
as a behavior psychologist. His genuine caring and deep interest as
practitioner to us “thinkers” was truly evidenced by his accepting the paltry
government salary the Veterans Administration relinquished to such educated
professionals.
VI.
During the 1960s and 70s
these “thinkers” were unleashed upon the general public by the thousands. One
could find these types of people in prisons, jails, halfway houses, or pushing
shopping carts down sidewalks in any city of the U.S.A. The Department of
Defense had disowned these “thinkers” when time limitations on veterans’ benefits
demanded.
Some
“thinkers” actually tried to fit into their past environs, only to become
nomadic and eventually desperate, succumbing to life’s natural and manmade
catastrophes. Others found themselves in hospital wards, such as this, many years
after a homecoming that did not go so well.
VII.
Surveying
the room again, I begin to hic-up. The situation is the same. There are still
three of us, the good doctor at the helm, a wall directly behind me, (hic-up) and the pill-bottle-bag-shaker between us (hic-up).
Such attentive students we are (hic-up): one with his head (hic-up)
in the clouds, and the other with clouds (hic-up) in his head!
Suddenly the spectacular view vanished! Everything I see out of the window is turning darker! I close my eyes. When my eyes open, I realize I am leaning, both hands grasping the window’s interior sill. My eyes are swelling and wet. All I see are poles, wires, antennas, and cement buildings, all stacked in front of a brackish gray sky. The beauty has disappeared!
Firm hands rhythmically
pat my upper back.
“Take a deep breath,” a
man’s voice gently whispers. “Breathe, just breathe…it’ll be alright…welcome
home.”
Bernard Haagensen
is a Viet-Nam-era veteran. He was born in western New York State and now
resides in South Carolina’s low country.