Have you ever been shot?

I overheard part of a conversation between two men at the pharmacy today. The older of the two asked, “Have you ever been shot?” Before I could hear the other man’s answer, I flashed back to a moment from my college days…

As the events unfolded in slow motion, reality seemed to emulate a Hollywood movie. The sounds of the city faded away as I watched the opening of the tinted passenger side window of a slow rolling vehicle. A young man leaned out of the window, appearing like some post-modern mythological creature, half-man, half-Oldsmobile. Two glints of light appeared as the street light gleamed off the young man’s half crooked smile and the barrel of his gun.

As I saw the recoil of the gun, I had one thought – “I’m gonna die today.”

I was startled by the sound. It wasn’t so much of a BANG as it was a pfft. The slow motion dissolved as the car peeled away. The sounds of West Philadelphia rushed back into my ears, along with the cackling laughter of the young man. A sharp, searing pain struck my right hand, as a wet warmth spread down the back of my hand, between my fingers, and off my finger tips. My heart began racing so hard I could hear the sound of blood whooshing in my ears.

Shocked, standing and staring at no place in particular, I began to take stock of the situation. I looked around to see if there were any more slow rolling cars.

None.

I panned the sidewalks on both sides of the street looking for witnesses.

None.

I looked down toward my feet, taking notice of my text books splayed along the sidewalk, curious about the odd splatter pattern on their covers. Rather than the maroon stains of blood I expected to see, the splatter was… pink? I raised my right hand in front of my face. Instead of an entry wound, I saw a giant welt on the back of my hand, and it, too, was covered in pink.

I wasn’t gonna die today. Panic turned into hysteria. Unable to process anything mentally or emotionally anymore, I plopped down onto the sidewalk, half-laughing, half-crying. This naïve Minnesota boy, already witness to two drive-by shootings in his brief tenure in West Philadelphia, had “survived” a paintball shooting.

… I quickly returned to the present as the pharmacist at the register beckoned me forward. I can’t say, “Yes, I’ve been shot.” But I’ve briefly experienced the fear of it. Those brief moments etched an unconscious skittishness that’s lasted 20 years.

It saddens and angers me that soldiers need to be sent into harms way during one tour of duty, let alone the six or seven tours that today’s soldiers experience. While my brief scare lingers with me to this day, its rough edges were quickly rubbed away, minimizing its damage to my psyche. However, the rough edges of fear, borne by a life lived under hypervigilance in a combat environment, don’t  rub away so quickly or easily.

It’s been 46 years since my father served his country in Vietnam. The Fourth of July remains a difficult holiday for him because the smell of the powder and the boom of the fireworks instantly transport him back to 1966. When I was in high school, I could never sneak into the house after curfew. Despite the hearing loss my father suffered as a tank commander, the turning of my key in the deadbolt lock would wake him from the deepest sleep because it sounded too much like the bolt-action of a rifle. I remember watching my father walk out of the movie theater during Forrest Gump and wondering what was going on. He later told me that he purposely avoided movies with realistic war scenes, but was caught off-guard because he hadn’t heard about these scenes in Forrest Gump. Decades after experiencing the trauma of war, my father’s controlled emotions turned raw by unexpected sights, sounds, and smells. While he learned many ways to cope, I don’t think he’ll ever truly heal his psychological wounds.

People in the military make tremendous sacrifices for their county. Much of it we see; lives and limbs lost, and families left behind. But there is another sacrifice, a hidden sacrifice, that they make and carry with them. A soldier is asked by his country to sacrifice a piece of his humanity in order to kill another human being, if necessary, to defend his country, his platoon, himself.

I am very fortunate. I have never been in combat. I had a momentary scare and was able to easily move on in my life. While my experience pales in comparison to what my father and many of our veterans faced, and continue to face, it has given my a greater sense of empathy.

Removing the causes of fear will help their psyches heal, but we owe it to the people who’ve lived under these conditions a lifetime of care to help minimize their impacts later in life, to heal the wounds that we can’t easily see. That’s why I was happy to hear a report from NPR this afternoon detailing the VA’s new approach to dealing with PTSD.

But we, as a country, need a new approach to this as well. In the vast arrays of “interests” in Washington, PTSD is considered a veteran’s issue. It needs to become a national issue. To that end, please consider supporting an organization like IAVA – Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America.