Introduction

My name is Richard Wark, and I am the Safety Coordinator, a guide, and one of the founding members of the Heroes on the Water North West Chapter. To fully understand this writing, there are a few things you should know.

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental health condition triggered by a terrifying event. The person suffering from PTSD may have been the victim of this event, or simply a witness. Although people have no doubt been suffering from this disorder since the beginning of time, it wasn’t until the American Psychiatric Association wrote the third edition Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in 1980 that PTSD was considered a sickness or disability.

Traumatic brain injury (TBI) is typically a physical injury caused by a sharp blow or jolt to the head, and are often related to PTSD due both to the terrifying event leading up to the injury, and because PTSD is often viewed as a physiological injury to the brain. Anyone may suffer from these disabilities, but they most often belong to the men and women of our armed forces, police officers, firefighters, and emergency medical technicians.

Last but not least, I am a disabled veteran who honorably separated from the Air Force after 13 years active duty service. I do not suffer from a TBI, nor PTSD, but hold a very special place in my heart for those that do.

It was June of 2000. I was a young 22 year old convalescing on my mother’s couch after an inguinal hernia repair. There had been a motorcycle accident a month prior leaving me with this nasty groin tear. The surgery was soon to be the least of my worries though. At 22, and not in college, I was no longer blanketed by my mother’s health insurance. To add insult to injury, my chosen profession at the time was to be a server and bartender. This was the most fun a young adult could have in the area while still earning a substantial amount of money. I lived on Florida’s Space Coast, so tourist and snowbirds were in no short supply. The problem here was the lack of benefits. Namely medical at his moment. We all made enough money to carry our own plans, but that’s not nearly as much fun as spending in night clubs, trips, and hotel stays! This was soon to bite me in the ass, while at the same time carving a tremendous fjord trumped only by the Rongku Glacier of Mt Everest too steep for escape.

I’d found the proverbial rock and hard place we’ve all been warned of. While my freshly repaired body weighted mom’s couch as if it could float away in my absence, the medical debt began to accumulate. It was small at first. Maybe $150 for the initial family practice consult. Then there was a referral to the general surgeon. After that the hundreds became thousands, became tens of thousands. Unfortunately there were no gratuitous customers visiting her small two bedroom apartment which had become my prison. Even if there had been, the recovery instructions were to lift no more than a gallon of milk for a minimum of six weeks. What an impressive spectacle I must have been…

There were lots of friends who would break the monotony of pain killers and television with their visits. They would tell stories from their daily adventures, and I could vividly picture it since these were things we often did together. Although the company was always welcomed, I was steadily slipping into a darker place each time they left to do any number of fun things leaving me behind assuming the role of living room furniture. The majority of these friends earned their living in the hospitality industry hustle just like myself. We had all met in the restaurants, and bars where we shared a common thirst for tips and good times. Except for one.

Ryan was in the Air Force, and was assigned to Patrick Air Force Base in the Security Forces Squadron. For those of you not versed in military speak, he was an Air Force police officer. Ryan would frequently surf and fish within this circle of friends, and occasionally ventured into Orlando’s night life when his schedule would allow. It wasn’t that he was uptight, he just happened to be the only one with a “real job”.

This was the first time I had been removed from the hustle and flow of daily life. The steady combined flow of party friends coupled with Ryan’s visits really allowed me to look in from the outside. As much as I enjoyed the fast easy money associated with serving, there was something to be said for Ryan’s comparative way of living. I didn’t know what it was, but it looked right. He dressed nice, was in great physical shape, drove a late model sports car, and all of his sporting gear from fishing rods to surfboards were always a step above the rest. Maybe there was something to this Air Force thing after all.

For whatever reason, asking Ryan in depth about what he really did, or how he truly felt about being a Staff Sargent (E-5) in the Air Force didn’t feel right. This was incredibly silly in hind sight, because we were pretty good friends. At the time though, I just absorbed all the details to paint my own picture. Soon I could drive to the recruiter’s office on my own.

You will forever remember your recruiter if you went the distance. I’ve had people tell me they couldn’t recall certain details like the recruiter’s name, or rank. Maybe they were telling the truth, but I immediately wrote that off as a display of chauvinism. Too many people can recall minute details from “their” recruiting office to buy into the macho garbage of “I’m too cool to remember such things”. Mine was Senior Airman Josh Harbin. He was a tall quasi chubby guy (chubby for the military anyhow) with dark red almost brown hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat round with big puffy cheeks and small’ish teeth. His appearance always reminded me of a 230lb four year old. He was a quirky guy, and his Air Force Specialty was Dental Hygienist. You don’t simply enlist as a recruiter. It’s a special duty assignment that must be applied for later in your career, and only occupied for a short tour. Other branches do things a bit different, but in the Air Force it takes an intelligent person with the right drive to fit the bill.

During our initial meeting, Josh was concerned by my hernia repair, the amount of time since taking the Armed Service Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test, and what this medical debt might do to my credit if not reeled in. Once over the age of 21 he had to run a credit report on potential enlistees. Bad credit equals no Air Force career. Neither of us wanted me to accumulate any further medical debt, so he devised a plan to do this all on Uncle Sam’s dime. If he could get me into the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS), they would conduct a physical entrance exam. First thing’s first. The ASVAB.

Timing was critical. We couldn’t move too fast otherwise I’d blow the physical. However if things took too long my credit could be negatively effected. Josh might have looked like a big child, but he was smart and good at playing this game. Two weeks after our initial meeting and I was in a quiet testing room for the first time in over 4 years. Nothing about the ASVAB was overly difficult, but it still felt like a test. A month later the results were in. 96 out of a possible 99! I was in there like swimwear! Off to the first of several trips to MEPS. This was not the norm for most new recruits. Usually your first trip to MEPS is your only one. They move you through the process, and right out the door to Basic Training. Not me though… Not this time.

We were herded from station to station much like live stock at auction. They consisted of shot records, preforming various physical activities depending on branch of service and section desired, medical physicals, and then to career advisors to help pick jobs. This was also the first time I interacted with my peers also enlisting. Their stories of “why” were things like; fresh out of high school with no other ambitions, wanting to provide for a young family, needing escape from a troubled past, and the number one reason was college. Some as a way to attend, and some utilizing programs to consume student loans. The least common although it did come up was for the military experience or heritage passed down through generations.

Surprisingly I made it through all the physical challenges! Even Josh’s plan for an Air Force doctor to clear my hernia repair was as simple as an awkwardly placed hand, turn of the head, and forced cough. It’s in to see the career advisor! I had aced the test, and all physical challenges, so I knew he would be generous with offers. I wasn’t expecting what came next though.

Four three ringed binders not less than five inches thick. These contained laminated sheets with job names, descriptions, and proper Air Force Specialty Codes. The career advisor and I thumbed through these books discussing jobs for a solid two hours. During our time, I compiled a short list of jobs as they would peek my interests. Just when he began to apply pressure for a final decision, I took my list and walked out. He was irate! “This isn’t how the process works! I wasn’t about to jump both feet into a job strictly based on his advice and a basic description, but this was Josh’s grand plan all along.

A few weeks later and it was back to MEPS, but once again this wouldn’t be the big day. It was early November, and this time we stayed in a hotel overnight. The closest MEPS was in Jacksonville, FL about 3 hours north for me. The hotel was one all local recruiters sent their new enlistees. We soon banded together for games of football and ultimate Frisbee. The hernia had heeled nicely and I was working and playing again. While bonding with my newfound group of brothers, the typical conversations of “why” would arise, and the answers were all the same as before.