I WAS TIRING at work. I buried myself in projects without breaks, and continually pushed myself. However, my chest pains were different this year. They had started in April — earlier and mild at first, then had got slowly stronger, with no relief. The stomach problems increased and I had worsening wind pains. My doctor was at a loss. I was fit, very fit. I hadn’t been a drinker for many years. I was a social smoker: one a week. I ate well. I was having two medical appointments a month, and the doctor felt that a psychiatrist might be my answer. Again, he gave me three weeks off work; and again I went back the next day.
By late May I was becoming jumpy, and both my breath and bowels were giving me problems. I took a brave step; I dialled the psychiatrist’s number. Now, making an appointment with a shrink is not easy. Ask any vet. I had a referral, a supportive wife, and an obsession that I had no real problems. Oh, and I was a male. However, the guilt and recurring nightmares tipped the balance. My instability gave me some strength, as bizarre as that seems … I made the phone call.
Fortunately, after the first appointment, I found my psychiatrist was a good man who quietly worked around delicate issues. I didn’t lie; I just said I was not bad. What a stupid bloody statement ‘not bad’ is. It’s such a convenient cop-out for men.
Looking back, I’m sure I never consciously bluffed the shrink, but I usually left the bi-monthly session convinced I had shown him I was a competent, capable, and well-adjusted worker with no real troubles. In fact, I was petrified I would break down, pour out my true feelings, and blow my cover. Then where would I be? Mental frig’n ward … stuff that!
It was now late June, and I went to another appointment. I was told I looked old and tired … when pressed, I admitted that sleeping was a problem. He wasn’t surprised; it was common in vets. I finally admitted to having nightmares. I had heard that a good shrink could help. I certainly needed it as, lately, the nightmares were different. They happened nightly now, and were very intense. The GP boot with the foot inside it had disappeared, replaced by a terrifying scenario that was always the same. The gang — Booster, Blou and company, and all those familiar faces — would be in a plane, like the photographic slide I have. Every face was stark or tired. We were in the Caribou aircraft shortly after taking off from Nui Dat on our return via Saigon to Australia. There would be some frivolity after a time, even a little excitement, and a touch of joy, just like the memory of the real thing. Soon we would touch down, and Vietnam would be behind us.
Then, without warning, the plane would roll, spin, dive, and hurtle towards the ground. I would wake up screaming, just on impact. I was too afraid to go back to sleep. Together, the shrink and I discussed the nightmare. I would break into a sweat as I retold it. He would nod, encourage me, and ask how I felt. Slowly, he helped me to realise that the nightmare was a crude attempt by my muddled mind to interpret what it was like to come back home … which we hadn’t. It was as simple as that. In that brief time away, both Australia and we had changed markedly. Sadly for us at the time, politically active people in Australia turned on the soldiers. After their tour of duty, returning Vietnam veterans were a catalyst for the many social and political upheavals of that era.
Now I was having monthly visits. The psychiatrist enabled me to sift through the fog and see what it was I was actually dreaming. It helped. It didn’t go away, but I would wake up saying to myself, ‘It’s OK, Baz, it’s OK … they’re OK!’ Or something.
Then, as if to finally break me as August approached, for the first time I dreamed about an incident that had really happened in the jungle. It was something I had always tried to shut out if it tried to intrude in the form of a flashback. It had to do the shooting of the old VC woman. I think she’d been badly wounded. She had walked into our position in the jungle. Bang … shit. Then she was being carried to the Bell helicopter. The badly wounded woman would abuse me, and spit out vile accusations that seemed to ring true. Her comments about my arrogance and prejudices were very accurate. Finally, she would shame me in a way that would destroy my last vestige of self-respect. I would wake up swamped with depression and hopelessness — a hopelessness that could only be satisfied by my own death or suicide. I hadn’t contemplated the latter, but there were times when I wondered what future there was for me.
I was curious about the old woman’s recovery. Had she survived? What did it do to her life, her attitude toward us, to me? Did she have family? … At times, my mind would haunt me, until finally the incident manifested itself in the nightmare that centred on the VC woman’s abuse and taunts. Every utterance of the woman in the nightmare was a damning condemnation of Australia’s part in the war. Her argument had more logic than the political line trumpeted by our leaders. Sometimes I relived scenes from the demonstrations I had witnessed years earlier. My mind seemed unstable and irrational. The scenes were warped and unreal, but her ranting appeared to be the absolute truth. For the first time, I was frightened that my subconscious was no longer something I could deny and keep under control — it was starting to control me. It emerged only when I was asleep, when my guard was down. I didn’t tell my psychiatrist about that one … no bloody way.
No matter how strong these signals were, I was obsessed with the notion that nothing would stop me from working. Stupidity, pride, guilt, and shame all worked together to make me gradually work myself into the ground rather than confront my own demons. My doctor was concerned for my health, and offered me an extended sick leave. I thanked him but refused to take it. At work, I was admired for my enthusiasm and output.