Thursday, September 25, 1975

"No! Stop! No! Oh, God, no!"

Al's impassioned screams jolted me awake. I squinted through the darkness to see his body thrashing about. I jumped from my cot and was instantly at his side.

I grabbed his hand and began to speak reassurances in a quiet, even tone, though my insides were being wrenched as violently as Al was tossing in the bed. His nightmares had been increasing in intensity and frequency. The psychiatrist assured me that it was a good sign, that it meant he was dealing with the trauma at some level, but it still tore my heart out to see Al in such torment.

Marlene, one of the night shift nurses, poked her head in the door, alerted by Al's screams. She turned the light on, noted his thrashing, and took a post on the other side of the bed. She clamped down on his right arm so he wouldn't yank the IV needles from his hand; with her other hand, she flicked the call button.

"Page Dr. Matthews," she told the young nurse who appeared in the doorway.

"Dr. Matthews?" I asked. "Why are you calling him?"

"Lieutenant Calavicci's memories will be fresher when he wakes. An impromptu session with Dr. Matthews can help him come to terms with what happened to him in Vietnam."

What Marlene said made sense, but I still got angry. "Isn't it enough that he's reliving it now? It tortures him when he's asleep, and now you want it to continue when he's awake?" I looked down at Al's face. Pain was etched into every line.

She was right, of course. The dreams would keep on torturing Al unless he acknowledged the pain of what he'd been through. That wouldn't be easy for him. He'd never really opened up to me about how much he'd been hurt by his mother's abandonment when he was six, or about his father's and sister's deaths. It was easier for Al to bury what bothered him.

I started to apologize to Marlene, but she gave me a small smile which rendered it unnecessary. We both refocused our attention on Al, whose agitated movements had gradually slowed. At Marlene's urging, I gently placed a hand on either side of Al's face and began to speak in a soothing voice.

"Al? Al, babe, wake up. You're home, Al. Come back to me, honey, I'm right here."

I heard the door open to admit Dr. Matthews.

"Al, it's Beth. Everything's okay, love, you're not in Vietnam, you're here with me."

The nurse and psychiatrist conferred in a corner as I tried to draw Al from the nightmare. Al startled me when his eyes abruptly flew open; they were glazed over with panic in the split second before he recognized me.

"Beth. Beth, thank God, it's you." He blew out a large breath and wiped the sweat from his face.

"You were in Vietnam again, weren't you?" I pressed.

Al looked embarrassed. He closed his eyes and nodded.

"Oh, Al, it's nothing to be ashamed of, honey. They must have put you through hell." I ran my hand through his damp hair.

"Indeed," said Dr. Matthews. He signaled to Marlene to raise Al's bed to a sitting position.

Al glared suspiciously at the psychiatrist as he was moved. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I just want to talk with you, Lieutenant," Dr. Matthews said.

"What, because of a nightmare?" Al scoffed. His laugh sounded hollow and unconvincing.

"Is that really all it is?" Dr. Matthews challenged him. He looked pointedly at Al's wrists and the now bloodstained bandages; Al's violent tossing had ruptured the fragile scar tissue underneath. "Your physical wounds haven't healed yet. What makes you think your emotional wounds have?"

Al looked out the window and mumbled something unintelligible to me, even though I was right next to him.

"I couldn't hear you, Lieutenant," Dr. Matthews said. "What did you say?"

Al fixed intent dark eyes on the psychiatrist. "I said I'm not crazy," he enunciated.

"And no one's accusing you of that, Lieutenant," Dr. Matthews said.

"The hell they're not," Al flared, gesturing at the medical staff. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

My stomach twisted into a knot at his words. I should have known he would react in exactly this way to a psychiatrist, and I was sure that his scheduled sessions had gone off just as hostilely. To admit he needed help was tantamount to admitting a personal weakness, and Al would probably rather sacrifice a limb than talk to a shrink. I only hoped that the doctor had enough insight to realize the fear for his own sanity that prompted Al to resent the implications of therapy.

Dr. Matthews spoke very clearly and patiently. "I am here because you have just returned from an extremely traumatic situation. You may not realize—or may not want to realize—but your internment has affected you. If you don't deal with the wounds the POW camp has inflicted on your psyche now, they'll never heal properly. It's just like your ribs. You're having surgery to correct them because those wounds were ignored."

Al thoughtfully ran a hand down his side, feeling the uneven and twisted bones. I hoped the parallel to a physical injury would break through his resistance. I had to admit a degree of thankfulness that the doctor had phrased things the way he had.

Dr. Matthews continued, "Untreated psychological wounds have repercussions just as severe. And," he paused until Al met his eyes, "they often affect those around you as well as yourself."

Al angrily opened his mouth in protest. "I . . ."

He stopped and looked up at me for a long second, then reached for my hand and gently squeezed it. Perhaps he was searching for reassurance—but for me or for him? Maybe it was for both of us. I returned his gaze with compassion and concern. He took a deep breath and returned his attention to the doctor. No one knew better than I did how hard the next words he spoke were for him.

"All right," he sighed. "I'll cooperate with you, Doctor."