Thanksgiving 2020- Drive On

November is a month with two holidays. One celebrates those who served in the military, the sacrifices they made and the service they rendered to their country. The other allows each of us to give thanks for our lives and loved ones. On most years, the two holidays are separated by twenty days and a totally different range of emotions.

But this is 2020…

…and 2020 is different.

This week, on one of my daily walks with my dogs, I heard the introduction to a song by Johnny Cash. The name of the song is, “Drive On” and it tells the story of a Vietnam veteran and how he learned to absorb what was going on around him and keep pushing forward. At the other end of the spectrum is the John Prine song, “Sam Stone”. Sam Stone faced the same things that Cash’s veteran faced, but his situation ended with a totally different outcome:

           Sam Stone was alone when he popped his last balloon’

           Climbing walls while sitting in a chair.

           Well, he played his last request, while the room smelled just like death,

           With an overdose hovering in the air… 

In 1966, two important things happened in my life. On November 8 of that year, I turned twenty-one- in Vietnam. That was the second important thing. Like the guy in the picture above, I was a Grunt Corpsman- a combat medic serving with the Marines. Like everyone else that was ever in combat, I was often scared, always alert, and soaking up the continuous stress of caring for the wounded or having to comfort them while they died. It was not a fun job, and, like Cash’s G. I. and like Sam Stone, the experience carved memories deep into my being- memories that often raise their heads when least expected.

For years after returning from Vietnam, I thought I was one of the lucky and really tough guys. I never took to drugs, never contemplated suicide and sometimes even made fun of people with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, thinking they were weak. Then, on a trip to Washington, D. C., I visited the Wall for the first time. I stood there before that stark, black reminder of the deaths of nearly 59,000 Americans (and millions of Vietnamese). I felt a flood of sadness rush over me and I began sobbing like a baby for those souls who paid a price far greater than anything I had ever done- the price of missing out on a full and productive life. It was then that I also felt ashamed for having felt so “tough” and for mocking those who had succumbed to PTSD. It was a lesson in humility that I have carried with me ever since. It was there that I surrendered the myth of my superiority and put on the mantle of my humanity.

Most people who have been in combat seldom share their experiences with folks that have not shared those experiences. Why? Because you can’t share context. You can’t expect someone who has never been in the shit to know what it is like to be groveling in your fighting hole with your hands over your head to protect yourself from incoming mortars or rockets, or to be talking with a dude one minute and putting what’s left of the same dude’s body into a body bag twenty minutes later.

So, if you’re lucky, you do what Cash’s G. I. did- you put it under your hat and “Drive On”, because, as the song says, “my children love me, but they don’t understand.”

So, you keep it to yourself, and live with it for the rest of your life.

2020 has given us a disaster that, to date, has killed over four times the number of Americans that died in Vietnam, and the military doctors, nurses and corpsmen of that war have been replaced by civilian caregivers in this one. In some ways, there are discernable differences between the caregivers of today and those of us who served in Vietnam. For one thing, we knew exactly what to expect. We knew Marines were going to die, and we were mobilized to deal with the situation. Today’s crisis came upon us swiftly and unexpectedly and overwhelmed a group of caregivers who were totally unprepared for what was about to befall them.

But were they really so unprepared? I would offer that the professionals, although not trained in the traumas of military combat, have shown to be more than up to the task- rendering care to over twelve million people who have contacted the disease, and most especially- helping the 255,000+ that have died and their families- make it to the other side with dignity.

We owe all these caregivers, and when I say caregivers, I don’t just mean doctors and nurses and respiratory therapists. I mean ALL those rendering care, from the Environmental Services staff to the Food Services Staff to the First responders, to the staff working in Nursing Homes and extended care facilities. We owe all these people our deepest gratitude and appreciation.

They, like Cash’s G. I., Sam Stone and myself will carry the weight of 2020 with them for the rest of their lives.

So, if you know a caregiver, call them up and thank them. You can thank them in other ways, too. Wear a mask. Keep social distance. Don’t go out needlessly.

Staying home this year may assure that you will be here next year.

I am attaching the links to the two songs I mentioned. Listen to them and think about them.

Take them to heart.

Happy Thanksgiving.