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Standing with Those on the Edge
As a Washington Capitals season
ticket holder I've come to cherish the moment
at each game when fans are asked to salute
guest soldiers, many of whom are being treated
at nearby Walter Reed Army Hospital. To a
person, everyone rises to their feet and gives
our guests an extended standing ovation. It's
an amazing feeling to be among 15,000 people
expressing such love and respect. But when the
applause gives way to life's daily drudgeries,
I wonder what happens to those brave soldiers,
especially those in need of mental health
support? Are we asked to stand up then?
This weekend, The New York Times ran
two articles on the mental health of our troops
serving in Iraq. One, "Army
Is Worried by Rising Stress of Return
Tours," detailed how each tour of duty
significantly raises the odds that a soldier
will return home with "anxiety, depression or
acute stress." The second piece, "After
War, Love Can Be a Battlefield," told of 19
couples who attended a weekend retreat called
"Strong Bonds," to learn how to deal with the
enormous stress placed on marriages and
families when soldiers return home.
What is our bond to our troops when
the applause dies down, when men and women in
uniform find themselves sitting alone in their
dark living room or around an empty kitchen
table, when the demons of trauma will not
relent, when there seems to be no one they can
talk with? After we ship someone overseas for a
tour of duty, what does it mean for us to have
"strong bonds" with them when they come home?
Mental health is still a taboo subject
in our society, though our ability to talk
about it openly has improved dramatically in my
lifetime. I remember as a kid, watching my mom
help to create "Hammond House," a halfway home
for mental health patients who had been
"de-institutionalized" by New York State during
the 1970s. Hammond House was located just a
handful of blocks from my own home. What my mom
and others did was pretty remarkable.
I
also remember seeing the slim white envelopes
among the mail on our dining room table, with
the austere black lettering in the upper
left-hand corner: "Saratoga County Mental
Health Committee." Among his many commitments,
my dad served on this committee at a time when
mental health issues were often considered
shameful to talk about in public.
I still recall vividly the college
psychiatrist at Skidmore College, Dr.
Mastrianni, approaching me after a speech I'd
given, to ask if I would consider working at
the county's Mental Health Crisis Center. I
quickly said yes, and it was an experience that
would help direct my life. My role was to help
patients during the many hours when no doctor
was to be seen. I remember going home after
12-hour shifts and sitting on the floor in my
room hoping to decompress and sort out what I
had seen and experienced. I was only 19 or 20
years old. I remember once having to help tie
down to her bed a struggling patient; she was
someone I had walked to elementary school with,
someone I had known for years.
What I came to know from my time at
the crisis center was how close to the edge so
many people live; how someone can seem to be
doing relatively okay one day, and then the
next they are pushed too far, beyond what they
can handle at the moment. Together with other
experiences, my time at the Crisis Center left
an indelible mark upon my heart: we must be our
brother's keeper.
A visiting rabbi at my temple recently
asked some of us when we had felt God's
presence, or at least some semblance of genuine
spirituality. I've felt it many times, but one
is when we Caps fans stand-up together in a
show of support of our troops. In my row alone,
I suspect there are widely divergent views on
the war; but in that single moment, when we all
stand, there is something incredibly beautiful
that occurs, something that seems larger than
any of us. We are together.
I keep thinking of the people I met at
the Crisis Center, people who desperately
wanted to get back up on their feet; I think as
well about the people my parents sought to
support in my home town, and how they were
willing to stand up for them. Now, when our
troops return from a war many people do not
want, what will we do? I wish we could find a
way to stand up for our troops – not merely by
giving out medals, or through recognition at
sporting events, or with periodic retreats
about how to save one's marriage. We need to
stand with individuals who need our ongoing
support so that they can get back up on their
feet.