So far in February

 
Susan and I are presently in San Antonio, attending a conference on military medical care during World War I. It wound up having a pertinence that neither of had anticipated, however: one of the speakers was Canadian, and Susan’s family has an unexplained photo of her father in a Canadian army uniform sometime in mid- to late 1930s, and she consulted with the speaker about how to check Canadian military archives to perhaps provide an answer to the mystery.

All the same, ten-hour drive, two and a half days of presentations, bit of sightseeing, then ten hours to get back home. A day to recover, then on Monday, I’m to depart for a week-long class at Fort Bragg, to study a system I don’t entirely understand but (hopefully) will learn well enough to teach it on my return. It’s something to do, anyway.

Earlier this week I saw a counselor at the nearest vet center. Not due to any particular complaint, but primarily because Susan insists I changed while I was overseas last time, and just because I can’t see it doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. At the end of the session, the counselor suggested I file for disability due to PTSD. I kind of stared at him for a couple of seconds, and finally said, “Based on my statement that I’m not exhibiting any of the symptoms, never underwent any precipitating traumatic event, and don’t see any such diagnosis as applying to me?” His response was that 1) I may not be coping as well as I think I am, and 2) if I file, I’ll get a full-scale psychiatric evaluation, which should settle the matter one way or another.

I’m not sure how I feel about the notion. If anything is there, I definitely need to know … but, damn! I loved my overseas service, kept going back for more, am grieving now because it doesn’t appear that I’ll be able to get in just one more tour, would be out there right now if there was any way I could make it happen, and went into some detail about how my three “combat tours” had been just about as UNtraumatic as it was possible for such things to be. Is the counselor, because of his experience, spotting something hidden from me? or is he the proverbial man with a hammer, seeing everything as a nail?

Before I was ready to do so (I thought I still had some time left), I seem to have transitioned into a new phase of my existence, and it isn’t really what I wanted. Where that goes … well, I’m still working on that part of it.