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“Thank you,” he says over and over again as we guide him out of the house.
This right here is why we do what we do. There’s nothing that feels as good as knowing that you’ve helped someone. Saved a life.
An hour later and the operation is over. The chief pats me on the back as he walks by. Pride swells in my chest. I desperately needed a successful operation. Back at the station, I get the piece of paper that Lexi gave me and make the call.
The support group meets every Wednesday. I plan on being there.
We go on two more calls none of which is as serious as the fire. In the evening, Lucas and some of the guys invite me to go with them for a beer in a bar across the street. I’m happy to. There’s nowhere else I need to be. The bar is called First and is co-owned by two burly men, all former firefighters. Luca introduces me to both, who are behind the counter. Jim is the silver-haired one with a ready smile while Marcus is more serious but no less friendly. The walls are decorated with portraits of former firefighters and high above the bar is a collection of firefighter helmets. We all sit along the counter and order a variety of beers.
“Are you from LA?” someone asks, and conversation flows from there as I tell them about myself and they do the same.
It’s nice to relax and chat. My mind constantly goes to Lexi. I was surprised when she brought me the details of the therapist. I never expected to see her again after she witnesses one of my episodes. She’s a brave woman. And smart. She did her research and came up with the name of what is wrong with me. It’s touching and embarrassing at the same time.
***
I’m optimistic that afternoon as I park my car in the hospital parking lot and make my way to the entrance. At the reception, I’m directed to the clinic on the second floor. I opt to use the stairs. Any excuse to put in some exercise though I don’t need it after my run that morning.
On the second floor, I follow voices down the hallway to a conference-sized room. I stop at the door and peer in. There are about fifteen people in the room, seated in chairs arranged in a semi-circle. A man in formal attire breaks away from the group and comes to me.
“Welcome,” he says. “My name is Robert Glass.”
His gaze is unwavering and, in his eyes, I see something I’ve only seen in other soldiers. Understanding. Any anxiety I feel dissipates. I’ll get help here. I feel it in my bones.
“I’m Ace Parker,” I tell him.
He nods. “Come on in, we’re about to get started.”
Everyone waves and says hello, and someone pats an empty seat next to them. It’s as if they were waiting for me because the session begins immediately. I feel as if I’ve come home as I listen to people telling their stories.
“I want to go back to war,” one man says. “At least there’s something for me to do there. I belong.”
I know exactly what he means. As difficult as it is in a warzone, you know what you’re expected to do. Back in civilian life, every day it feels like you’re navigating foreign waters. We’re used to getting instructions. Out here, there are none. You’re all alone. This is something that would not make sense to non-soldiers. You want to come home but when you get home, you want to go back to Afghanistan.
“I’m a burden to the most important people in my life. My wife and kids.” His voice breaks and he buries his head in his hands. The man next to him pats his shoulder. A collective sigh goes up.
As I listen to the stories, it hits me that my situation is not so bad. Yes, I’m struggling at work, but the guys are supportive and most of them have reached out to me at some point to offer their support.
As for children, a pang goes through me. I’d hate to be a burden to my family. I can’t help but wonder how it would feel like to have a child or two. My mind inadvertently goes to Luna. Maybe one day I’ll have a little girl like her.
The session goes on for an hour. When it’s my turn to speak, I introduce myself as a wounded soldier and briefly tell him about my episodes at work. I speak in a factual tone but afterward, I feel as if I’ve shed a few pounds in emotional baggage.
It’s four when it’s over and I make an impromptu decision to go to The Alma. I’m feeling celebratory after the session. I choose The Alma so I can tell Lexi thank you. I whistle as I drive. I can’t remember the last time I whistled. I feel happy simply for the simple fact of being alive. Okay. I’m also looking forward to seeing Lexi.
