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Just Breathe

 

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.

 

          

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