I was sitting in the admitting office of the Jesse Brown VA Medical Center, waiting to set up an appointment for a physical. I had made the mistake of coming down on a Monday, which is the busiest day at the hospital. Thursdays and Fridays are best. There are generally no lines at the end of the week and you can be in and out in 20 minutes.
The reason I was at the VA was that I had given up my health insurance a while earlier. My wife and I are both self-employed and our incomes have taken a serious hit over the past year and a half. Along with the rest of America, we are feeling the effects of The Great Meltdown. We had to cut expenses somewhere and decided this was a good option. As a combat veteran, who was exposed to Agent Orange, I'm entitled to VA health care. After all, I risked my life, limbs and sanity in Vietnam (where, I believe, the USA won the Silver Medal,) why not take advantage of any perks the government might offer?
A veterans' hospital is a strange place. Like the late, great James Brown sang, This is a man's world. The only women in sight were nurses, doctors, and clerical workers. The patients are almost completely male, which makes sense when you consider that the armed forces, especially the combat forces, are predominantly male, too.
If a VA hospital is a man's world, it is a damaged man's world.
It is where soldiers who were injured in the service of their country come for treatment. One of the reasons they come to the VA is that most health insurance plans have a devilish stricture known as "a pre-existing condition." I'm sure I don't have to explain this asinine clause to any of my readers, but a pre-existing condition is enough to exclude most wounded veterans from traditional health care insurance. Many of them have no choice but to turn to the VA.
As I mentioned, the hospital was crowded that Monday. I couldn't help but notice that a surprising number of people waiting for treatment were maimed. I'm talking about amputees, double amputees, men with limps, men with walkers and canes, blind men, disfigured men, and a few who appeared to be insane: men who talked to themselves, made wild gestures, or drooled.
As I was sitting in the waiting area, a man in a wheelchair rolled up next to me. He was an elderly black man with a blanket covering his legs.
"How you doing, brother?" he asked me.
It was a question that veterans understand on many levels. It wasn't simply a conversational ploy. It was an existential question about the state of your universe - your mental, physical, and social well being. The old man was asking if I was eating well, getting enough sleep, making ends meet, having nightmares, or suffering from any of the horrors associated with war.
"I'm doing fine," I answered.
"Where was you at?"
"Vietnam."
"I was in Korea."
"That must have been tough."
"It was, brother. I never been so cold in my life. Lost all the toes on my right foot. Had a hole in my boot."
"Damn."
"I understand 'Nam was hot."
"Yeah, real hot. Rained a lot, too."
"I'd take hot over cold anytime."
"I would, too."
"You can hide from hot but you can't hide from cold."
"You've got a good point there."
"I live with my daughter. She always keep the thermostat too low. I tell her, 'Turn up the heat,' but she say it's gonna raise our electric bill. I tell her, 'Fuck the damn electric bill, it's too cold in here.' Man, I hate the cold."
A few moments later they called the old man's name and he rolled away to meet his appointment.
As I looked around the spacious waiting room, I noticed that it was a truly diverse place, blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians, young men, old men, middle-aged men, all in the same boat. I saw a white man pushing a black man in a wheelchair. I saw black men drinking coffee and chatting amiably with white men. I saw young men, probably Iraq veterans, companiably exchanging war stories with men three times their age. I heard raucous laughter, saw handshakes and high fives. I saw men comparing old wounds and scars. I saw a mixed race group rush over to help an elderly man who had fallen.
I saw joy, humor, and dignity among men, who by all rights, should have been in states of regret, sorrow and despair. I reflected on the fact that if it's true that the military is the least segregated institution in America, then a VA hospital proves that shared experience and shared adversity can often trump hatred and intolerance. That was the good thing about a veteran. It made you part of something that seemed pure, somehow divorced from much of the ugliness that pervades out society.
Despite the bitter cold of that March morning, I had a warm feeling when I left the VA hospital. I felt that I had somehow reconnected to the great and generous soul of humankind. But it was a long walk to my car and the cold started getting to me. I buttoned up my coat and put on my hat. Damn, I hate the cold.
