Tag Archives: mental health

New Perspective, New Goals

Today marks one month since having open-heart quadruple bypass surgery, also known as CABGx4. And I am still amazed by the fact that a team of surgeons cut me open, fixed my heart, and put me back together.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around it- how that all works, how it’s even possible to do these things.  Every time I think about it, I am reminded of how lucky and blessed I am.  I am humbled and sometimes get emotional as all the different possibilities of the last month play out in my head.  Open heart surgery is the kind of event that brings into focus a new perspective.  At least for me, anyway, it has.  And the long, boring recovery forces you to reevaluate your goals and make new ones. 

The last month has been quite a rollercoaster ride.  It’s been trying, depressing, and boring with seemingly never-ending days.  But it’s also been good in some ways.  I have a new lease on life.  I have been forced to slow down and take inventory of what is important to me.  I’ve made new goals.  And I have already exceeded my own expectations in this first month of recovery.  For example, on the first day of recovery, while still in the hospital, I could barely walk 20 steps.  And I’m still mad at them for making me get out of bed on Day 1.  Fast forward to Day 30: I walked 1.25 miles by myself.  It was at a decent pace, took me 30 minutes to do the loop in my neighborhood.  And I felt pretty good after.  If you had told me on the first day that I’d be able to walk over a mile by myself in one month’s time, I would not have believed you.  Day 1 was overwhelming and nothing seemed possible. 

I still have a couple weeks of restrictions for this first six weeks of recovery.  I’m limited in how much I can pick up; nothing more than a gallon of milk.  My movements are limited; still not supposed to raise my hands above my shoulders or bend over to pick up anything off the floor.  My activities are limited; still not supposed to do any housework or yardwork.  This level of boredom is cruel and depressing.  But I have been testing my limits the last couple weeks as I’ve felt better.  I’m not doing anything that hurts or doesn’t feel right, but I am progressing nicely.  I can load the dishwasher now.  I can feed the dogs now because I’m not uncomfortable bending down to the food container.  I can make my own lunch and do some light cooking.  All these little victories are adding up and creating a self confidence that was absent one month ago.  I’ve come a long way in one month and am doing much better than I imagined. 

I have a group chat on Facebook with my kids.  About two to three weeks ago I messaged them that I was now able to shower by myself without assistance.  A few days after that I shared with them that I had made my own lunch.  Days after that, I made a full dinner with some help from my wife.  The little steps of progress were very pleasing and boosted my morale.  Little goals, little victories.  And those lead to bigger goals and bigger victories.  I’m 54 years old but some of my goals early on in my recovery have been on the level of a four-year-old trying to impress his parents.  “Look, mom, I went potty by myself.”  Or “Look, dad, I put my shoes on by myself.”  I’m having to change my perspective about the goals I make.  And this part is very humbling to me.

Today my goals are to walk at least 5,000 steps per day.  I’ve achieved that a few times in the last couple weeks and this week I have done it five days in row so far.  I also want to walk the 1.25-mile loop in my neighborhood every other day.  Next week I’ll look at doing a little more if I feel like I can.  I don’t want to overdo it, but I don’t want to be stagnant if I’m capable of doing more.  For a long-term goal, there is a 5k coming up in March of next year that some of my kids are involved in that I would like to be part of.  That gives me six months.  I don’t know if I’ll run it or walk it, but I will finish it.  Not related to the heart issue, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to run due to foot issues, including having to get an artificial joint put in my right foot.  Maybe I’ll run that 5k, maybe I’ll only be able to walk it, but I will be there. 

I’m still in some pain, especially in the leg where they harvested the vein to do the grafts on my heart.  I still have problems getting comfortable when I go to sleep and sometimes wake up in excruciating pain because I rolled or moved wrong in my sleep.  A deep cough or hard sneeze feels like someone is trying to open my chest with a crowbar.  And hiccups are horrible.  But I still think the hardest part is the boredom.  I think that will get better in a couple weeks when these initial restrictions go away and the doctor tells me where I am and what I am allowed to do for the next phase of recovery.

My wife is an absolute saint for taking care of me.  And even more so for putting up with me.  I am irritable, moody, and hard to deal with sometimes.  It’s been one month since surgery, but it’s been one month plus one day since I quit smoking.  I think I’m handling that fairly well for the most part.  But I also still get a craving for a cigarette once in a while and I can be a real jerk when the craving is getting the best of me.  I quit smoking “cold turkey” once more than 20 years ago and that lasted for six years, so I know I can do it.  I think that if I weren’t so restricted in what I can do currently, I might already be past the hard part of quitting.  I’ll get there. 

One month down.  Many more to go.  I think the hardest part of recovery is now behind me.  The first week and a half of not being able to do most anything for myself was not fun.  I don’t like being completely dependent like I was.  But now I’m feeling pretty good.  I am able to do more than I thought I would at this point in my recovery.  My follow-up appointment with the surgeon was great, everything is as it’s supposed to be.  The scar on my chest looks good.  Everything is healing as it should.  I’ll find out more next week when I see my cardiologist.

Thank you to those who reached out with well-wishes and prayers.  I felt the love.  Thanks for stopping by Story of My Life and being part of my journey.  Good Day, God Bless.

Dave

The Frist 36 Hours

Most of this story is true, I think.  Some of it was hallucinated.  A portion of it had to be told to me because I had no recollection of what was going on during part of it.  Some of it was dreamt and some of it was just there when I would close my eyes, like a video that only I could see playing on my eyelids, all while being wide awake.  None of the first 36 hours or so after I had open-heart surgery was pretty.  For a bit, I didn’t know what was real or what was being made up in my drug-induced imagination.  And I have no idea what all medications I was on at any given time during or following surgery, but I think the combination of all those drugs made my comprehension of current events questionable and my memory of those events a little whacky.  But this is how I think it all happened.

The first thing I remember after surgery was waking up with some kind of endotracheal tube in my mouth running down my throat.  I don’t really remember the tube being removed, but I do remember the pain from the tube being removed.  It hurt my throat.  I also remember darkness and calling out for help.  I remember being scared, but I couldn’t remember why I was there or how I had gotten to where I was.  At that point, so I was told later, I became uncooperative and combative with the nursing staff.  I don’t remember that, but I believe it because I can remember how scared I was.  I do remember accusing the nurse of purposely trying to let me die because she wasn’t helping me.  That’s what I thought anyway.  But of course, she was helping me, I just couldn’t see it.  I remember asking and begging for them to let me see my wife.  My wife was by my side that whole time, holding my hand.  But I couldn’t recognize her and, according to her, I thought she was trying to kill me as well.  All of this was in the first few hours of being moved from surgery to the Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU).

The next little bit of time would not get any better.  I found a new level of pain as the different medicines wore off following surgery.  This is a pain scale that replaces the old 0-10 scale that a doctor would use to ask you to rate your pain.  There is not a cap on this newfound scale, like with the number ten on the old one.  This new pain scale will go as high as you can handle it, and then some.  I honestly can not explain the intensity of the pain, especially when an unexpected cough or sneeze would blindside me.  This pain made it impossible to be comfortable.  It was difficult to sleep, to sit up, or to have a conversation.  Breathing hurt, swallowing hurt, and most other movements brought pain in ways I never before imagined.  I’ve always had a high tolerance for pain, but this was rough.  Thankfully, this new level of previously unexperienced pain only lasted a few days. 

Even with all the pain, the tricks my mind were playing were even worse.  Sleep would only last a minute or two at a time.  The dreams were so disturbing I would wake up trying to yell.  I did tell my wife about two of the dreams, the least disturbing of them, but I won’t be discussing any of that content here.  It’s a little scary to me that my mind came up with some of the images in those dreams.  And just as bad were the images while awake, when I would close my eyes for a short rest.  The colors and distorted scenes that were waiting for me with each prolonged blink is what I imagine Hell looks like.  I’ve served in two wars and have a few images that are forever etched in the dark, hidden parts of my mind.  Nothing I saw at war, not even my worst memory of war, can compare to the complete void of humanity that my mind was manufacturing for me to see.  I have no idea how my mind could possibly create such chaos that felt so real and imminent.  The dreams while asleep and the images my mind created while awake were bad.  Now add hallucinations to the tricks my mind was playing.  I have memories of and was also told by my wife later that I kept asking who was walking around me, touching me on my arm.  I kept thinking I was seeing someone walking around in my room.  When I would ask, my wife would point out that we were the only ones in the room, there was no one else there.  I don’t remember what their faces looked like, but I promise I saw people in my room that apparently weren’t real.  And I felt these imaginary people touch my arm multiple times.  I have no rational explanation for anything in this paragraph. 

My Worst War Memory

Somewhere around the second day after surgery, we had to address a minor complication called postoperative ileus.  That means my stomach didn’t “wake up” after surgery.  There was no movement down there.  Because of that, the doctor ordered an NG tube (Nasogastric tube).  Up the nose, down to the stomach.  It was used to drain the contents of my stomach.  This complication cost me two extra days in the CVICU.  I don’t remember the tube being put in.  I remember telling the doctor later that if they pulled it out, they better be sure of it because I would fight anyone that tried to put it back in.  I guess I remembered it being put in at the time, while in the hospital, but I have no memory of it now.  But I remember how miserable I was.  I still had chest tubes from surgery.  I had oxygen going in my nostrils.  I had more IV’s than I could count.  And the icing on the cake of misery was having that tube in my nose.  I was truly hating life for a brief moment.

I think the first 36 hours after surgery were the most miserable, most scared I’ve been in my life.  In my research leading up to having open heart surgery, the thing that worried me the most were the stories of recovery, not the actual surgery.  Recovery is a long process.  There are countless do’s and don’ts.  Restrictions on lifting, restrictions on movements.  Restrictions on food and medicines.  I never imagined that the initial recovery would include the mind tricks I suffered through.  Thank God that went away after a few days.  The memories of those twisted thoughts and images still choke me up, but at least they stopped.  Boredom is the hardest part now.  Days seem to drag on.  I want to do things, but I know I can’t if I want my recovery to go smoothly.  My wife has been amazing.  She’s doing all my chores and hers.  She’s taking care of me even when I’m difficult and unhappy about being unable to do things for myself.  I’m irritable.  I’m a little depressed.  And I haven’t had a cigarette in over two weeks.  My wife is a saint for putting up with me.  She is my reason for wanting to get better and to do better. 

I feel like the hardest part is behind me.  I’m still confused by the first 36 hours.  I’m actually still a little disturbed by the first 36 hours.  I’m sure it was a combination of shock, pain, and medications.  But that still doesn’t make it any less troubling in my mind.  Thank you for suffering through this post with me today.  I believe most of it to be true even if I don’t remember it all.  Good day, God bless.

Dave

10 Years Alive

We all have and celebrate milestones in our lives and the lives of those around us.  Most commonly we recognize birthdays and wedding anniversaries.  I know as some of us get older, we don’t like to celebrate our birthdays like we used to.  But we all have a birthday, so it’s still a regular milestone.  We celebrate the first day of school for a young kindergartener and the last day of school at graduation, and all the first and last days of each school year in between.  It’s not uncommon to have a celebration at a job for an employee that has been with the company for 10, 20, or more years, and especially at retirement.  I know some people that celebrate sobriety, by the day, week, or the year.  Some celebrate and make a big deal for a pet’s birthday or “gotcha” day.  Military service time, years of home ownership, a sports team’s championships, or anything else that is a big deal to someone.  We like to celebrate and remember things that brought us joy.  All of these things and many more are wonderful reasons to celebrate. 

I have a milestone to share.  I’m celebrating 10 years of not dying.  It sounds weird to say it that way since I’ve successfully not died every single day since I was born more than 54 years ago.  I guess every day above ground is a milestone for each of us to celebrate.  But a decade ago it wasn’t certain that I would maintain that streak.  I could have, and probably should have, died one night.  Some of my memories from that timeframe are clear as a bell in my mind and other parts of it are a foggy haze that doesn’t seem real.  It seems more like a dream that never really happened.  But it did.

On August 2, 2015, I attempted suicide and failed.  I won’t go into all the details here, but I will share a link to the blog I posted in February 2016, where I talked about that night and what was going on.  It’s surreal to look back at it, to re-read that blog post.  I refer to that timeframe in my life as “the lowest point of my life” when speaking about it in conversation.  It was also my darkest time.  And my loneliest, my scariest, and most uncertain time in my life.  I hadn’t expected to survive, so I had no plan, no idea what I was going to do after I came to and had to face my family and friends and myself.  It took almost 6 months to get to the point where I wasn’t pissed off for failing.  And even then, it was a long road to get to where I would be out of danger from my own mind. 

Battlefield

I’ve always been open about my journey when it comes to surviving my suicide attempt.  The reason I do that is because it helps others.  I’m not embarrassed by it.  I was for a short time after it happened, but not anymore.  I’ve shared about going to war and my military experiences that may have contributed to my mindset of wanting to die.  I’ve shared raw, unfiltered emotions on Story of My Life because I feel that it’s important to tell it like it is when it comes to life and death.  And I’ve also shared the part of my journey of recovering from it all.  Honestly, it’s a lifelong recovery and I stay on top of it.

As I look back over the last 10 years, I feel blessed far beyond what I deserve.  To be where I am right now is mind boggling compared to where I was the night law enforcement officers found me unresponsive in 2015.  Early on after my failed attempt, there were times when I took one step forward just to be shoved two or three steps back.  There were times when I couldn’t even take a step forward and would still be pushed back.  The first six months were very discouraging and my dark thoughts would sometimes try to take over.  It was a frustrating time of fighting with myself. 

But in 2016, I had finally found a treatment/counseling plan that worked for me.  It was still a rough time, but it looked like it would finally start going in the right direction.  It was going to be a lot of work, and I was the only one that could do it.  No one else could do it for me.  Sure, there were plenty of people there for me, but the work would be my sole responsibility.  I was the only one that could be accountable for moving forward and getting better.  I experienced both setbacks and accomplishments during that year.  I had a troubling situation at one point that almost put me back into a similar low point that I was still trying to recover from.  And that situation came at a time when everything was seemingly going well.  In retrospect, I think I might have been expecting something bad to happen since things were going well at the time and then I let it blow up worse than it really was.  I wrote a little about this in 2016.  I’ll share the link below if anyone is interested. 

Suicidal Anonymous

2017 was better.  2018 was good.  By 2019, I felt like I had achieved my new normal and I was very satisfied with it.  I would never be the same as before 2015, but I was happy.  Even after I got back to my new normal, which was good, I still initiated counseling sessions once in a while.  As recently as last year I was in counseling 2-3 times a month.  Not because anything bad happened or I was going back to a dark place.  But because I know I need it occasionally to stay on top of my mental health.  And ‘occasionally’ is much better than the nearly every week for a whole year I was going in 2016.  Everything needs maintenance, not just your car or house or tools.  You need maintenance.  And I do, too.

If you need help with thoughts of suicide, please reach out.  There are so many places and organizations that will help you find the right help.  There are also individuals that can help you; family, friends, coworkers.  I know how hard it is to ask for help, I promise you, I know.  It might be the hardest thing you ever do, but do it.  The second hardest thing will be finding the right help.  It took months for me to find the right combination of medication and therapy.  I wanted to give up after the first time “help” failed.  The truth is, mental health help is not one size fits all.  There are different styles of counseling, different medications, different specializations for doctors and therapists.  Sometimes it takes a while to get it all correct for each individual.   I think that’s a reason so many people don’t continue with it when they truly need it.  Please be patient.  Keep going back and eventually, you will find what fits you.

You might find yourself in a position to help someone dealing with suicidal thoughts, either because they asked you for help or you noticed something off and asked them if you could help.  Here’s some important things to know, especially if you have never had any training on the subject.  First, you can NOT solve their problems.  But you can be there for them to vent, cry, share their story.  And, most importantly, you can help them in the right direction to get professional help.  Second, no matter what the reason is for someone feeling like they want to kill themselves, that IS a valid reason because it’s their reason.  It might not even make sense to you.  But if someone tells you they are sad because their goldfish died and now they want to die too, that is THEIR valid reason and it needs to be treated as such.  The truth is, by the time most people get to that point, their “reason” was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.  There were likely many things leading up to the total distress they feel about a goldfish.  Your job is simply to get them to a professional that can work through all that with them.  All you have to do is get them to the next level of help, and by doing so, you are helping them the greatest.  Look at this way.  If I have a heart attack, my wife isn’t going to call a heart surgeon to make an appointment for me.  She would call 9-1-1 to come and take me to the emergency room where they are fully equipped to deal with a heart attack while it is happening.  Then, if needed, I would be referred to a heart surgeon.  You can’t fix, cure, or solve their problems.  Just get them to a higher level of help.  Be the 9-1-1 if you’re called upon.  Don’t shy away from someone who is suicidal because you don’t know what to do.  I just told you what to do.  Do it. 

Probably around half of my 130 posts on Story of My Life talk about or reference my journey after my failed suicide attempt in one way or another.  Even ten years after the event, it’s still hard to write about, but it needs to be done.  Preparing this post, which included going through a bunch of older posts, brought its share of tears to my eyes.  It’s hard to relive that part of my life.  I am now completely drained emotionally.  But I feel like this story needs to be told.  It’s part of my ongoing, life-long road of bettering my mental health and helping others.  And it’s my 10-year milestone of not dying.  I never dreamed I would be where I am now ten years ago.

I hope you found something helpful here today.  If you need help, reach out.  If you can help, do so.  Thank you for visiting Story of My Life.  Good day, God bless.

Dave

Finally!!!!

I’ve written many times over the years about my struggles with the Department of Veterans Affairs.  Finally, one of my ongoing battles with the VA is coming to an end.  I’ve waited more than six years to get my foot fixed and it was operated on yesterday.  Better late than never I suppose.  But that was more than six years of extra pain to deal with.  Fighting with the VA about what you’ve earned and deserve can, and usually is, an exhausting undertaking. 

In 2013, I was in the belly of a plane loading bags for our trip to Ft Hood for pre-deployment training prior to heading to Afghanistan.  We were tossing bags to each other as they come up the conveyor ramp.  Toss, catch, turn, toss, turn, catch repeat.  As I went to catch one of the duffle bags, it hit my chest, slipped through my arms, and slammed my foot.  The Kevlar helmet that was packed in the top of the bag crushed my toe.  Turns out it wasn’t broken, but it was definitely not well.  It’s been swollen ever since.

After arriving at Ft Hood, “Doc” sent me to get it looked at.  X-rays showed it was not broken, but had in fact exacerbated an issue that I didn’t even know I had.  My foot had good days and bad days after the injury.  Sometimes it was bearable and sometimes it was excruciating.  And without a doubt, having to favor that foot created other issues.  Like when I injured my hip getting out of a helicopter and rocky ground. Now I was having to favor my right foot and left hip.  It was bad enough that the doctor at my little base wanted to send me to Germany for treatment then home.  I declined.  I wanted to finish what I started with my fellow Soldiers that we began the previous year.  But if I had taken the doctor’s advice, I wouldn’t have had to wait six years to get my foot fixed.  But I don’t regret my decision.

The hardest part in this battle with the VA had been getting them to acknowledge that my injury was service-connected.  Even with medical documents from the hospital at Ft Hood, the VA was denying that my injury was service-connected.  It wasn’t until 2018 that the VA sent me a letter saying (and I’m paraphrasing) “Oops, my bad, your foot is our problem.”  That’s what I’ve been telling you for years!  With the documentation I had, it really should have been an open and shut case.  But, being a reservist, sometimes we get swept under the rug.  And the Army didn’t do me any favors.  As we were out-processed at Ft Hood after coming back from Afghanistan, we were told that unless it’s a life-threatening injury we would be passed on to the VA.  I was examined before leaving Ft Hood and the doctor told me what needed to be done. He wrote it down.  It was in my records.  But the Army didn’t want to do it and the VA denied that it was their problem to fix.

Eventually I wasn’t able to get around like I used to.  Couldn’t run.  Couldn’t pass the Army physical fitness test.  I was eventually medically retired, which turned out to be a good thing.  But all the physical issues and poor self-image I developed from my physical decline only added to the downward spiral I was going through in life.  That led to a failed suicide attempt and being diagnosed with PTSD, major depression, and all the wonderful things that go along with that.  The deterioration of my body played a big role in my mental health.  The Army not fixing me and VA denying me made it feel like an insufferable weight.  I hit rock bottom.  Thankfully I failed and am still here today.

Yesterday, the doctor cut open my big toe, shaved some bone, took some bone out, sewed me back up.  Not only is my foot fixed and on its way to recovery to where I can hopefully fully function again, the VA hooked me up with a civilian doctor.  Turns out the Covid problem shut down all non-life-threatening surgeries being done by the VA when I started this process.  My VA pediatrist asked me if I would like them to see if a civilian doctor would do it.  For those of you that have dealt with military or VA doctors I don’t need to tell you how fast I jumped at that option.  I know I painted that last sentence with a wide brush, but there are more bad doctors than good ones at the VA so it’s easy to lump them all in the same group of being subpar. 

I’m off for at least the next three weeks from work.  I’ve been saving my vacation and sick leave for this.  I can’t drive until after my second follow-up appointment when the doctor will remove my stitches.  I’ll just be sitting on the couch eating snacks if you need me.  I have 150 channels or so on cable, a couple streaming sources, and more DVDs than anyone should own in 2020.  Who wants to bet I can’t find anything to watch?  LOL.  I’m getting around well on my crutches.  Last time I was on crutches they were made of wood.  I guess I’m old now.  The surgery shoe is not comfortable, but I have to leave it on until the stitches come out.  I’ll be sleeping on the couch because I don’t want to climb the stairs to the bedrooms for a few days. 

I want to thank my daughter for babysitting me yesterday, getting me to and from surgery, picking up my meds, making me lunch.  My girlfriend is also taking care of me and spoiling me.  I’ll be back to doing a few easy things around the house in a few days.  But I’m taking advantage of this downtime for the time being.  I will rest my body and let it heal.

Healing is important.  And it’s all tied together, both physical and mental.  I had to learn that a few years ago the hard way.  And I do much better now in my understanding that you must take care of both.  Each has its own time table which can be frustrating because physical and mental injuries can’t always heal at the same pace but they can have a huge impact on each other.  Take care of yourselves.  Take time to let yourself heal when needed.  And go easy on yourself when it seems overwhelming.

Thanks for stopping by today.  Good day, God Bless.

Dave

Lessons Learned

When I was a young teenager, probably 13 or 14 years old, I had a dog that was a master at climbing the fence and escaping the back yard to roam the neighborhood. Eventually, my dad installed an electric fence kit to the top of the back-yard fence in hopes of curbing the dog’s desire to be free and explore. It should have only taken one jolt from the fence, maybe two, for the dog to no longer try to escape. That beagle sure could climb a fence. I’ve seen dogs that could jump a fence, but that was the only dog I ever saw that could climb one that way.

I was curious about the electric fence. I tapped it with my finger. Nothing. I touched it for a second. Still nothing. I decided to grab hold of it. Not the brightest thing I ever did in my life, but still not even close the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I was “shocked” to learn that the fence worked when I grasped it fully in my hand. It was slightly painful, but a life lesson that I still remember to this day. I won’t be testing anymore electric fences. No need, I satisfied my curiosity and fully understand how they work.

Most of the things we learn in life are directly related to the decisions we make, whether those be good decisions or bad ones. Ever since my children were little, I liked letting them make their own decisions about things when they could. When my two oldest were in pre-school, I would let them choose what to wear each day. Living in Florida, they usually chose shorts and short-sleeve shirts. One morning I told them a cold front was coming through and they should take a jacket. Neither wanted to take a jacket, so I took them to school with only what they had picked out to wear.

By noon that day, the temperature had dropped to a “frigid” 40 degrees. When I picked them up from pre-school, I heard one teacher comment that I should check the weather and dress them accordingly because my children were cold. Really? They weren’t going to die from hypothermia in 40-degree weather on the walk from the classroom to my car. I promise. And they both learned a valuable lesson that day, that sometimes, dad knows what he’s talking about. On the flip-side, on a trip to Colorado in January years ago with the kids, I made sure they had more than enough warm clothes. The trick is to know when to let them decide and when to plan for them. I don’t care what that one teacher thought, I was teaching my young children by giving them all the information available and letting them make the final decision. I think using that philosophy has more than paid off with them.

But what about the times when a decision is made without any idea of what all could possibly happen? And what if a decision is made with the best of intentions, but it turns out to be a disaster? That’s a great ethical question that has been debated for centuries. I don’t have the answer to it, in case you were wondering. During an army reserve weekend years ago, a fellow Service Member found a puppy. There was no collar with identification on the dog. And after asking around, he believed it to be a stray or an abandoned pet. He went to the store and bought a dog bowl, some dog food, and a leash. He was going to give the puppy a home. Since it was a couple hours before quitting time, he put the puppy in the bed of his truck with food and water, and put a collar and leash on the dog and tied it to the inside of the bed of his truck. The puppy climbed up on the wheel well and hanged himself trying to get out of the truck. The man’s intentions were pure gold, but the outcome was tragic.

In 2007, I decided to go back in to military service in the army reserves. I wanted to serve my country again and take care of Soldiers as a chaplain assistant. Although my life does not reflect it now, it was a matter I prayed about and truly believed it was something God wanted me to do, so, I rejoined. I still believe that. I volunteered to go Iraq in 2007. Then, I volunteered to go Afghanistan in 2013. My intentions were admirable, but the outcome of my decision cost me my mental health, my physical health, my marriage, relationships, a business, my favorite job I ever had, and who knows what else. I basically lost Me, the Me I used to know, the Me I used to be. I lost my identity. I had even lost my will to live at one point.

There have been times when I would figuratively touch the electric fence just to see what would happened. There were times when I learned from my decisions like my young children did from theirs, in learning that sometimes we should heed the advice or warnings of others. And there was a time when I was like the puppy, trying to escape, even though I didn’t know it would kill me.

All the decisions I’ve made in my life make me who I am today. Same goes for you, too, by the way. I’m grateful and lucky that to have survived some of my decisions. And even knowing what I know today, I would still rejoin the military and serve again. There are definitely some things I would do differently, but I know for certain I made the right decision to rejoin the army reserves. I don’t understand some of the consequences I’ve had to endure since I believe that decision was made with the best of intentions. And I don’t care to debate it or dig into the philosophical principles of whether or not it was the right decision based on the outcome. I’m moving forward with life.

Thank you for reading Story of My Life this week. Good day, God bless.

Dave

Other related posts you might like:

The Irony of Life

Suicide Intervention

The Storm