The migraines started a few months after I got home, just as I was beginning to feel strong and healthy from a physical standpoint. I couldn’t figure out what was happening or why it was happening. The wounds had mostly healed, the soreness in my back and buttocks had diminished to the point where I was ready to start training again, and suddenly, out of the blue, came crippling headaches like nothing I had experienced before.
Migraines are another of those maladies that are unfairly dismissed as a mere inconvenience, as opposed to the soul-crushing experience they can be. This, I think, is because a lot of people will get a bad headache once in a while and describe it as a “migraine.” I might have been guilty of that in the past; maybe not. I don’t really recall. I do know that the headaches I began experiencing in the fall of 2012 were uniquely debilitating and painful. They would come on without warning, at any time of the day, usually starting as a soreness in the back of my neck before creeping inexorably upward, crawling across the back of my skull and toward the frontal lobe, until it felt as though my entire head was in a vise grip.
I couldn’t think straight.
I couldn’t see straight.
All I could do was retreat to the couch or the bedroom—sometimes with a stop at the bathroom to vomit—and sleep away the day. It was like having the worst hangover in the world, when you’ve done nothing to merit the punishment.
In the beginning, the migraines were random and infrequent, maybe once every week or two. Then they began making more frequent visits: twice a week, three times a week … four or even five times a week. Great, yawning stretches of time during which I could barely function. And other stretches where I felt okay, although not quite myself. It wasn’t long before I was shuttled off to a job that was physically less demanding, working as an instructor for guys on the Training Team. In theory, this would allow me to have more time to commit to the many doctors’ appointments that clogged my schedule. But even the instructor’s job was frequently more than I could handle, especially when combined with training trips. I was lucky to have great bosses, guys who had known me for a long time and who knew that something was seriously wrong. Hell, I’d always been one of the most reliable guys in the squadron. I wasn’t a superstar or anything, but I wasn’t a malcontent or a slacker, either. I didn’t complain. I didn’t get hurt or sick or injured. I just plugged away, day after day.
Now?
I was a mess.
There were days when I’d be stumbling around, one eye closed to guard against the withering effects of sunlight, trying to do my job, and my boss would look at me like I was dying.
“Go home, Cheese. Take care of yourself.”
“I’m sorry, man. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
He would nod compassionately and send me on my way. And for the rest of the day, I’d curl up in a ball while miniature blacksmiths pounded away inside my skull.
Migraines are difficult to properly diagnose and treat, as they can be triggered by a variety of factors, both physiological and psychological. I was convinced at first that my headaches were primarily a delayed consequence of the grenade blast in Afghanistan. And maybe they were. But I also understood the power of post-traumatic stress, the havoc it can wreak on your body as well as your mind, and the danger of pushing it all down inside to someplace where you think it can’t touch you. Except eventually it all boils up to the surface again. It’s a vicious cycle: stress and emotional upheaval will cause a physical symptom like a headache. The headaches then become chronic, and the chronic pain causes deepening depression. And it won’t stop until you figure out a way to deal with all the shit in your life. A traumatic brain injury adds another layer of complication—indeed, in some cases it may even be the very first layer—making the puzzle even more challenging.
A decorated SEAL is not supposed to suffer from depression, because mental health issues are a sign of weakness, right? But that’s just bullshit. The truth is, I’m not the only guy who has struggled with these issues—maybe because of the stress associated with the job, or maybe because of injuries that lead to self-medication, or because of undiagnosed traumatic brain injury. In my case, I think it was a combination of factors, although I still believe that TBI was the dominant factor. I’ve done a lot of research and worked with many doctors and therapists. There is enough evidence out there to support the notion that years of combat duty—with close exposure to thousands of concussive blasts, each door being breached, each Hellfire dropped, serving as stealth concussion, with a price to be paid later—has a cumulative and degenerative effect on the human brain. And the odds of developing symptoms increase if you experience an obvious head injury. I don’t know if I have chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), and I suppose no one will ever know until they do an autopsy after I’m gone, but I do believe that something happened to my brain when that grenade went off, and it changed me.
I’d spent most of my life acting like nothing bothered me. In fact, almost nothing did bother me. Now I lost my temper easily. I had no patience. And my memory! I couldn’t remember a phone number five seconds after it was given to me. I’d forget instructions or miss appointments. Names I’d known well suddenly became elusive. I had trouble with the simplest of mental tasks. I can imagine all of this is scary enough when you’re eighty years old and shuffling toward dementia, but at twenty-eight?
I was confused. I was angry.
Let’s be honest: I was terrified.
There was a lot of shit I’d either left unprocessed or was still trying to process. Like the fact that the raid on which I’d been injured had turned into a public relations nightmare, with the Afghan government claiming that the compound we had bombed had been the site of a wedding, and that civilians, including women and children, were killed in the assault. I wasn’t part of the cleanup effort following the raid, but I did speak to some of the guys who were involved, and they said there was no indication that any women or children were killed. As for a wedding? Well, it was one o’clock in the morning. And who throws grenades out the window during a wedding?
Regardless, some blame was accepted; a formal letter of apology was issued by an American general. When I heard that, I remember thinking, Huh? We’re apologizing for killing a bunch of bad guys? How come no one apologized to me or my buddies? We all got blown up.
We did receive Purple Hearts, which was nice, although a Purple Heart is not something any serviceperson actively seeks for obvious reasons. I also received a commendation from the same American general, thanking me for my service. I found it more amusing than anything else, especially since it had been addressed to Petty Officer Chesney, but the word officer had been scratched out. You could literally see where it had been removed! So instead, the letter was addressed to “Petty Chesney,” which was kind of funny. I’m sure it was just a stamped signature and someone acting on the general’s behalf must have known I was an enlisted man but was unfamiliar with the term petty officer. An army oversight, no doubt.
At the time, I didn’t think any of this was a big deal, but maybe it bothered me more than I realized. Maybe it was one of many factors contributing to an overall decline in mental and physical well-being. I just know that I felt like my life was spinning out of control.
There were other contributing incidents, like the death of Nic Checque, my closest friend on the team. Nic was the one who had pranked me when I’d bolted from jumpmaster school before Operation Neptune Spear, but our friendship went way beyond that kind of good-natured nonsense. We went through BUD/S together, were drafted by the same squadron together, and went on countless missions together. Nic was the closest thing I had to a brother.
He was a hell of a fighter, too, honorable and courageous and skilled. Nic had been transferred to a different squadron to help fill vacancies after the Extortion 17 disaster. On December 8, 2012, Nic was part of a secret mission to rescue an American physician from a heavily guarded compound in eastern Afghanistan. As the first man through the door of a one-room hut where the hostage was being held, Nic was fatally wounded by a Taliban guard, but his actions allowed other team members to complete the mission and bring the American hostage home alive.
For his bravery, Nic posthumously was promoted to the rank of chief; he also received the Navy Cross, the navy’s second-highest award for valor. One of Nic’s teammates, Ed Byers, received the Medal of Honor.
I was home in Virginia when I got the news. It was terrible, but strangely familiar. By now, I was growing accustomed to hearing about the passing of my teammates. I’d been to enough funerals and hugged enough teary-eyed parents and wives and girlfriends. But this was different. Nic wasn’t just another SEAL. He was my best friend.
By the spring of 2013, I was in rough shape. In addition to the headaches and other symptoms, my hair had fallen out again after Nic’s passing. It had been nearly a year since I’d been injured, and I had slowly come to the realization that I’d likely experienced my last deployment. Although I continued to work on the base, primarily as an instructor, a lot of my time was devoted to chasing a diagnosis for my ongoing physical and mental health issues. Frankly, I didn’t care about the diagnosis; I just wanted some relief. But the treatment, such as it was, sometimes seemed worse than the illness it was designed to mitigate.
As was the case with the care and rehabilitation I received following my injury in Afghanistan, I was given access to a number of earnest and talented physicians and therapists and nurses. I also saw a few who seemed disinterested and bored. They could never seem to reach a consensus about what was happening to me. Was it physical? Mental? Both? I can’t fault their effort or their willingness to throw a ton of shit at the wall, hoping something would stick. I had never been a new age kind of guy, but some of the alternative therapies—acupuncture, meditation, stress-relief breathing—seemed to offer temporary but noticeable relief.
Most pharmaceutical therapies were, at best, ineffective. Hey, I was a complicated case, and I don’t want to suggest that medication can’t help, or hasn’t helped, a lot of people who have a similar constellation of symptoms. But for me, the endless pushing of pills became dispiriting, exhausting, debilitating. I tried every type of migraine medication you can imagine. A few helped, at least for a little while. Most did not. They all had terrible side effects. Some would knock me out; others would make me jittery or anxious or sick to my stomach. Virtually all of them induced a sense of brain fog that made it hard to function. It sucked. But I guess, for a lot of people, it beats the skull-crushing pain of a migraine.
Even worse were the psychiatric meds prescribed to alleviate the symptoms of PTSD: the anxiety and depression and moodiness. I hated those! Made me feel like I was someone else. Not better, not happier, not in less pain. Just … different.
I would never suggest I was mistreated in any way. To their credit, every hospital and treatment team approached my case from an interdisciplinary angle; they never suggested the symptoms were “all in my head” (even though they were, if you know what I mean). They did their best. It just didn’t help very much.
You know what did help? Stopping by the kennel to play with Cairo. I know that probably sounds crazy, but it’s the absolute truth. Cairo was eight years old by this point, and while he had clearly lost a step (or two), he remained one of the smartest and most reliable dogs in the program. Some dogs lose interest or experience a change in temperament, or they suffer so badly from the effects of old age or injury that they can’t do the job any longer. Despite nearly getting killed in the line of duty and serving his country for more than five years, this had not happened to Cairo. By this point in his life, he required little maintenance to keep up to date on his training. He had been around the block so many times, and seen so much, that you could plug him into almost any scenario and get outstanding results.
For that reason, Cairo’s retirement was continually pushed back. But it wasn’t the only reason. I heard from more than one person that Cairo might never be allowed to leave the base because of the fame that had come with taking part in Operation Neptune Spear. Now, on the one hand, I sort of understood this. Naval Special Warfare is a highly secretive organization; there is a code of silence and selflessness that comes with serving as a Navy SEAL. The bin Laden mission was the most notable operation in the history of Naval Special Warfare, and the last thing anyone wanted was for the famous Cairo to be paraded around as some sort of spectacle—you know, appearing on talk shows or whatever.
On the other hand … who cares? It’s not like Cairo was going to give up any intel about the mission.
I think the navy was just concerned about too much attention being placed on Cairo, which in turn would lead to questions about the mission and the organization in general, as opposed to letting it retreat into the shadows to eventually take its rightful place in history. The easiest way to deal with this concern was to let Cairo work as long as possible and then live out his final days at the kennel, which would not have been as horrible as it probably sounds. As the elder statesman of the kennel, he was not required to work as much as the primary dogs, but he was well cared for. He was such a good-hearted dog that even guys who were not handlers loved spending time with him, so he never lacked for companionship.
Still, I couldn’t help but think that he had earned a better life—an opportunity to chill at home with Dad, eating steak a couple of times a week, running loose in the yard or at the beach, watching television, sleeping wherever the hell he wanted to sleep. Cairo had served his country honorably. He had saved my life and the lives of others. I didn’t know how many years he had left—Malinois generally have a life expectancy of twelve to fifteen years, but obviously Cairo had experienced far more stress than a typical dog. Regardless, it seemed only right that he get a chance to have a few happy and relaxing years. Hell, thoroughbred horses win a few big races and are rewarded with years, if not decades, of sex and food and sleep. Not a bad retirement. Cairo had been an integral part of the biggest mission in SEAL history. Didn’t he deserve … something?
I felt like he needed me, and I sure as hell needed him. As it became increasingly apparent that neither one of us was ever again going to set foot in a combat zone, I found myself drawn to Cairo even more than I had been in the past. I’d stop by the kennel two or three times a week, sometimes every day, just to give him a few treats or talk with him, to scratch his belly and play fetch. Sometimes I’d bring him to the office and let him hang out with me. He wasn’t technically my dog—he was still a spare dog, eligible for work—but since most of his time was devoted to lounging around the kennel or doing light training, no one said anything about my frequent visits. Eventually, we all knew he’d be coming home with me. It was only a matter of time. Or so I hoped. In the meantime, I settled for visitation rights. I didn’t get to take him home at night, but sometimes I would pick him up and drive to the beach, where there was room to run and play. He seemed to like that. I did, too.
Although I was still stuck in a cycle of medication and hospital visits and migraines and depression—all while trying to hold down my job as an instructor—spending time with Cairo proved to be the best therapy anyone could have ordered. It’s very difficult to convey what he meant to me. I had a Doberman named Sterling at home who was a gentle and loveable fellow, and I was in the process of adopting a Malinois puppy. But Cairo was special. We’d been through some extraordinary times together; and like any handler, I did not think of him merely as a dog. There were times at home when I would find myself sifting through memorabilia, photos of old buddies, some long departed, and I’d break down crying. That wasn’t me. I’d never been that way. I’d think back to BUD/S, and how I was the guy who never let anything bother him. I was the guy laughing at the insanity of it all while other guys were crying and quitting.
And now?
Other guys had left the navy and were doing their jobs, raising families, going to school, starting businesses—multitasking like crazy—and I was having trouble functioning. I’d look at some of these guys—my friends!—and think, That guy was me. We were the same. Why can’t I get my shit together?
Something was very wrong … and I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
But Cairo helped. Sometimes, after a crying jag or a panic attack or a migraine, I’d stop by the kennel to see him, and instantly a sense of calm would overtake me. And it seemed like the same thing would happen to Cairo.
“Yeah, buddy. Dad is here. I’ll get you home—promise. Just be patient.”
Whenever someone leaves his job as an operator and takes a different role within Naval Special Warfare, he can naturally begin to lose touch with his teammates. Life goes on, as they say. I was stuck in Virginia, working as an instructor, spinning from one doctor’s office or hospital to another, while most of my buddies were still on the treadmill of training and deployment. I missed them, and I missed my old job, but there was nothing I could do about it. There was no way I could go on deployment while suffering from chronic migraines; I might have gotten someone killed.
Life didn’t suck completely, thanks mainly to a young woman named Natalie Kelley. She was working as a server at a coffee shop in town. She was friendly and pretty, with a persistent smile and a disarming manner. I liked her right away, but I’m not exactly the aggressive or confident type when it comes to meeting women, so things moved kind of slowly at first. Natalie’s roommate dated one of my friends at the time, so we got to know each other, and I think people put in a good word for me, since Natalie was a bit wary of dating navy guys. She’d moved to Virginia from Orlando and had heard a lot of stories from friends and acquaintances who had lived in the area for a while. But I got lucky. She thought my shyness was cute, rather than creepy, and eventually she approached me.
“Hey, Will. Would you want to go out sometime?”
“You mean, like, on a date or something?”
She laughed.
“Yeah … or something.”
I shrugged, smiled. “Sure. That would be great.”
Natalie came along at a point when I was about as low as I could be, and she didn’t run the other way. Instead, Natalie became my partner; together, we navigated the turbulent waters of mental health care and rehabilitation and eventually medical retirement from the navy. She understood my attachment to Cairo (even though she did not know of his background or that he had any role on the bin Laden mission; only that he had been my dog), and not only fell in love with him but helped me bring him home. I had a lot of good days when Natalie and I first got together, but I had a lot of bad days, too. And she hung in there for me.
In the late fall of 2013, I got word that Cairo was soon going to be retired. It seemed overdue. He’d served long enough. Cairo was eight and a half years old, and his most recent deployment had been cut short because he was suffering from debilitating periodontal disease. No dog is perfect, and while Cairo came close, his one genetic weakness, revealed only after he’d been on the job for a while, was bad teeth. By the time he was retired, seven of his original teeth had been pulled or broken, and he suffered from chronic halitosis—or, should I say, everyone around him suffered.
As a side note; it’s long been rumored that combat assault dogs are sometimes fitted with titanium teeth, either to replace teeth that have fallen out, or even prophylactically. The truth is, any crown or implant will be weaker and less effective than the original tooth, so the idea of ripping out a dog’s perfectly healthy teeth and outfitting him with a new grill is just ridiculous, even though it would surely give the dog a truly badass appearance. As for replacing bad teeth with titanium implants, well, I heard that it happened with some dogs, but I never saw it with any of the dogs in our unit. It sure didn’t happen with Cairo. He finished his career with a few broken teeth and several holes where teeth used to be.
Rather than waiting for the wheels of military bureaucracy to finish grinding, I made it clear that I still wanted to take Cairo home as soon as he was officially retired.
“He’s my dog,” I explained. “Always will be. He belongs with me.”
I didn’t expect any pushback. Now that I was stationed in Virginia and no longer subject to deployments, what logical reason could there be to deny my request? It was still possible that Cairo might not be released from the kennel at all, given his fame and stature, but I’d heard that was unlikely. The navy actually did want Cairo to have a good home. And what better home than mine? It all seemed so obvious … so logical.
But I didn’t get a response right away. Instead, I kept visiting Cairo, with greater frequency and for longer periods of time. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to take him home. It was the right thing to do—for both of us. I figured I would just have to play the waiting game and that eventually everything would be resolved.
It wasn’t quite that simple.
One afternoon while I was visiting the kennel, I found out that I wasn’t the only member of the Cairo fan club.
“You have some competition,” I was told.
“What are you talking about?”
“There are a couple of other guys who want to take him home.”
I did not respond well to this news. Cairo was a terrific dog, and I could see him having a strong impact on anyone who worked with him on deployment—or even at the kennel, for that matter. But I was Cairo’s first handler and had been through two long deployments with him, as well as years of training. He had saved my life by nearly sacrificing his. I had held him in my arms as he nearly bled to death on the battlefield. We were profoundly connected.
I needed him now, and he needed me. It was as simple as that.
Except, of course, that it wasn’t.
I formally applied to be Cairo’s permanent caretaker. This was a process that, true to all things in the military, involved reams of paperwork. I put together my application and then I sat around and waited. As the weeks and months went by, I became frustrated. I was still dealing with chronic pain and migraines. I was unhappy with work and missed my friends. I felt like Cairo would ease some of that pain. I visited him several times a week. After a while, I started to get these crazy thoughts. I’d sit there at the kennel and talk to Cairo, and the stuff that came out was … well, not exactly rational.
“You know what, buddy? I’m just gonna take you out of here. Screw ’em. We’ll run off somewhere and hide. Just me and you.”
This was pure fantasy, but it became, for a while, one of the persistent thoughts in my head. I’m not just taking about a daydream, either. I made plans.
Needless to say, this would not have worked out well for anyone. Not for me, not for the navy, and not for Cairo. And I never would have gone through with it. But it’s an indication of my emotional state at the time that I even thought about it.
A few months after I submitted the paperwork, there was movement. The guys who ran the dog program were charged with conducting interviews of each person who had applied to adopt Cairo (there were three of us, I believe). The interview wasn’t exactly rigorous, a lot of basic questions to ensure that Cairo would be cared for in a safe and appropriate manner.
Q: Where will he sleep?
A: With me.
Q: What will he eat?
A: Mostly steak, but whatever he wants.
Q: What are you going to do with him?
A: Well, pretty much everything. It’s not like I got a lot else going on.
Q: Why do you want him?
A: Because I love him. He’s my dog.
There were other questions, none of which were hard for me to answer. They opted not to do a home visit, but I figured that didn’t mean much because some of them were friends of mine and had been to my house in the past, anyway. Frankly, I didn’t know whether they would look favorably on the fact that Natalie and I already had two dogs living with us. I hoped that it was a good sign. I had friends who worked at the kennel; most of them knew me and liked me. But I’m sure there were also a couple of guys who did not like me. Assigning Cairo a permanent home in his old age should not have been a popularity contest, but that’s life, I guess. I just hoped that I had enough votes in my favor.
The interview lasted about thirty to forty-five minutes and was conducted by someone I considered to be a friend. But he did not tip his hand at all. Instead, he was polite but formal, which was fine. He had a job to do. I respected his position. I also felt like he had my back. When it was over, we stood and shook hands.
“How long before you make a decision?” I asked.
He smiled, shook his head. “You know the navy, Will. Things don’t move quickly.”
I laughed. “Copy that.”
A few days went by. Nothing. A week. Two weeks. A month.
Almost every day, I stopped by the kennel to see Cairo and to hand-feed him or play with him. He was approaching nine years old, and although he still looked lean and fit, he did seem to be slowing down a bit. He wasn’t quite as eager to run around or play. His mood was fine; he just seemed to be a little more laid-back. I presumed he was just starting to feel his age. It was no surprise. Once in a while, I’d chat up my friends at the kennel, ask them if they had heard anything about the adoption process. The answer was always the same.
“Nothing yet. Sorry.”
I tried not to make a pest of myself. For one thing, I didn’t want my nagging to have a negative impact on the process. Second, this was life in the military—everything moved at a glacial pace. Chances are, whatever decision was being made, it was happening at a level (or two) above my buddies at the kennel. I’m sure everyone wanted what was best for Cairo, but there were political factors in play, and the possibility that common sense and compassion might not win out caused me some sleepless nights. A dozen years earlier, when I’d first enlisted, almost everything rolled off my back. That’s how I made it through BUD/S. But whether I wanted to admit it or not, I had changed, and not necessarily for the better. Multiple deployments, injuries, brain trauma, migraines, PTSD, depression—all of these had conspired to create a guy who was more anxious and short-tempered and generally less happy than the kid who had graduated as a member of BUD/S Class 246. I hated to admit any of this, but it was the inescapable truth.
There was no way I would ever get my old job back, but I wanted my life back. I wanted my personality back. Cairo was a part of that deal.
Finally, one afternoon in April 2014, I got a phone call at work. It was my friend from the kennel, the same guy who had conducted the interview.
“Hey, Cheese … the orders came through.”
“For Cairo?”
He laughed. “Yeah, why else would I be calling?”
I paused for a moment to let it sink in. I have never been the most emotional guy, but at that moment, holding the phone, I could barely catch my breath.
“He’s mine?”
“Sure looks that way. You just have to come by and finish the paperwork.”
“On my way,” I said. Then I dropped the office phone, grabbed my cell, and typed out a quick text to Natalie. My hands were shaking as I fumbled over the keypad.
He’s coming home!
I checked out of work early, drove straight to the kennel, and began filling out the required forms. Not surprisingly, there was a lot of paperwork. You can’t requisition a new stapler in the navy without filling out a book. Adopting the most famous military working dog in history? Well, that takes some time.
Not that I cared. I ran through every page as efficiently as possible, signed all the forms, promised to do everything that was required (no breeding, no giving him away, no parading him around as some sort of trophy … and a dozen other stipulations that weren’t even on my radar). Among the most interesting of these was an agreement to change Cairo’s name. That’s right. Apparently, the navy was so concerned about Cairo’s fame, and the attention he might receive in the public realm, that the paperwork accompanying his release referred to him by a pseudonym:
Carlos.
I sympathized with the navy’s sensitivity in this regard, and obviously I was no stranger to the SEAL’s commitment to secrecy and faceless, nameless service. Still … Cairo’s name had already been made public; he had met the president, for God’s sake! The idea of changing his name now seemed like overkill. But I went along for the ride. I would have agreed to almost anything to get him home. The fact is, my buddies and I did refer to him as both Carlos and Cairo for a while, but after a few months, Carlos slipped away, and only Cairo remained.
Once the paperwork was completed, I walked out of the office and into the kennel, where Cairo sat quietly in his cage. As usual, he stood up and began wagging his tail. He let out a soft “Woof!” which was just his way of saying hello. Cairo was accustomed to my visits by now, so he knew the drill. He’d be let out for a while and we’d play together, maybe go for a walk or have something to eat.
I took a seat on the ground as he trotted into my arms. Then I hooked up his harness and led him to the parking lot. As we walked out of the kennel for the last time, I couldn’t help but smile.
“No more metal box for you.”
I threw open the door to my truck. Cairo jumped into the passenger side of the cab and curled up contentedly. I turned the key. As the engine rumbled, I reached over and gave him a scratch behind the ears.
“One stop on the way home.”
Cairo pushed his head against my hand and growled warmly.
“Steak for dinner,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind.”