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 this 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 slipping into a darker place each time they left to do any number of fun things, leaving me behind in 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, 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; he 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 hindsight, 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 smallish 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, 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 livestock at auction. They consisted of shot records, performing 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 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. The number one reason was college for some it was a way to attend, and some others, to utilize 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 that peeked 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 facility was in Jacksonville, FL about 3 hours north for me, and the hotel was one where all local recruiters sent their potential enlistees. We quickly found each other and banded together for games of football and ultimate Frisbee. My hernia had heeled nicely and I was working and playing again, so this physical activity was more than welcomed. While bonding with my newfound group of brothers, the typical conversations of “why” would arise, and the answers were all the same as before. Since I was the MEPS veteran they all wanted to pick my brain as well. The ones who knew they were shipping off the next month were excited and terrified all together. Not of going to war, but of the uncertainty the new change was sure to bring.

We were all shuttled in together bright and early the next morning and grouped with all the other new enlistees that didn’t stay with us the night before. Most began the long process of moving station to station, but I was finished with that business. I was just there to again strictly to meet with a career advisor. Only this time I would be selecting a new career as an Aircraft Electrical and Environmental Systems Apprentice!

The contract was signed, but there wouldn’t be an opening until July of the following year. Instead of being quickly hurried off to basic training, I was sworn into the Delayed Enlistment Program. This is almost like the military version of a promise ring. I signed a contract, and took an oath of sorts, but there was no penalty if it was broken on my behalf outside of I’d have to pick another job. It did somewhat land me right in Josh’s shirt pocket however. He would randomly contact me to errands with him, or tell the tale of MEPS to other potential enlistees at a monthly meeting he derived.

It was July 8^th 2001 when I was dropped off at the recruiter’s office for the last time. The day had finally come. I was once again bound for Jacksonville and an overnight stay at the same hotel, but the MEPS processing was over. Instead I had a one way airline ticket to San Antonio, TX.

The flight felt unusually long. I can typically fall asleep around takeoff until the flight attendants wake me for landing, but the butterflies in my stomach wouldn’t allow it this time. No need to visit baggage claim after landing either. I was told to pack light, and Uncle Sam would supply me what mattered.

There was a long corridor with signs directing incoming Air Force Basic Trainee’s into a small holding area full of hard wooden benches reminiscent of vintage church pews. There was a Military Training Instructor (MTI) there to receive us and give further direction. Really it was just “SIT DOWN AND READ THE LITTLE BROWN BOOK!” MTI are what other branches refer to as Drill Sergeants, and the little brown book was the Air Force Instruction (AFI) about enlisted force structure. We all sat there looking through this 4 inch by 4 inch square book of maybe 60 pages, but I doubt many people actually read a word. Even if they did it’s doubtful they would understand it. I actually tried, but without a fluent understanding of the acronyms, or titles/ranks listed, it was much like transcribed baby gibberish. This was all short lived because the busses soon arrived and ferried us on to the only place we would know over the next 6 weeks.

It was all a blur from the time we stepped off the bus, until we were tucked into our bunks for the night. There was a lot of standing in line while MTIs would bark and yell directions that seemed to never be done correctly, or fast enough. We were all outside, and although the sun had set, there was enough artificial lighting to get a proper tan. We were all divided into our Training Flights, marched off to our dormitories, and ushered straight to bed. Shortly after the lights went out the sniffles came on. Out of the 60 people in my flight, at least 25 were crying themselves to sleep that night.

No sooner had the peace of darkness, and escape of sleep allowed me to relax, the bugle would belt out the sharp notes of Reveille and all the lights and yelling were quick to resume. This vicious cycle was stuck on infinite repeat for the next 6 weeks.

Time flew by, and the challenges were all overcome as they arose. Soon we would graduate. Practicing pass and review became a daily chore in preparation of our parade. The day was a grand one too. There was a fly over by a B-1 Lancer, and the stands were packed with proud loved ones cheering on their accomplished Airmen.

It’s 28 Aug 2001. 2 days away from my 24^th birthday. Basic Training was now a thing of the past, and we had all moved on to Technical School. Mine was at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, TX.  Basic Training taught us what we needed to know about the Air Force and military in general, but Tech School is where we would learn to do the jobs we signed up to do. Until assigned a class start date, we would be used as cheap labor as a “Details Crew”. This would normally go 2-6 weeks depending. My class date wasn’t until the first part of October, so I was on the later end of that number.

11 Sep 2001 started out like every day of the last 2 weeks. My 2 roommates and I would wake to our own alarm clocks, shower in our own room, eat breakfast in the cafeteria, and make our way to morning formation where roll would be taken. Life in Tech School was far more relaxed than Basic Training. We could even come and go from the base so long as we made curfew, and missed no appointments or class. Those of us over 21 were even allowed to drink again! After morning formation, our detail crew of about 20 people were asked to go move furniture in one of the school buildings that typically held the Finance and Telecommunications courses. Tech School was kind of foreign to us, because there were lots of active duty people around that were a part of “the real Air Force”, and those people were always chatting with us and keeping us abreast on current events. We didn’t have cable or internet in our dorms, plus we had been removed from civilization throughout Basic Training, so most of us were out of touch. Suddenly one of those “real Air Force” people came tearing into our room and told us to come watch what was happening on live TV. A plane had just crashed into the one of the World Trade Towers! As we’re watching in disbelief, another plane struck the second tower…

A chill suddenly came over me. Everyone in that rom knew this was no longer a coincidence. Moving furniture was suddenly less of a priority. The detail crew was already in motion to set up personnel checks at all entry points of our building. What came next shocked us all. Sirens began to ring out on base as if there were bombers enroute, and intercom voices directing people to take cover anywhere they could. The formations of students marching to and from class became frantic stampeding mobs. People were being injured as they fell and were trampled by the masses scurrying for cover. What was happening? None of us had signed up for this. We just wanted to pay for college, or provide health insurance for our families.

For the first time that any of the “real Air Force” people could remember, all facilities were under Threat Condition Delta. This is the most sever of the Threat Conditions, and required us to employ stringent security measures. No students were allowed off base. No military uniforms cold be worn off base by anyone. People would have to bring a change of clothes to and from work. All vehicles coming on base were searched. There was only one unlocked door to each building that was guarded 24 hours a day, and there were 100% military I.D. checks to get in. Talks immediately started about our training being accelerated, because war was ominously looming, but not yet declared, but this was still all a threat and speculation.

October was finally here, and I was no longer guarding empty stairwells for 10 hours a day just to make sure nobody was sneaking in the back doors to plant bombs in our student dorms. I was finally learning the job I enlisted to do. This was roughly 2 weeks after President Bush declared war on terror on Sep 20^th. The rumors were still buzzing about how we might accelerate our education to put more bodies in the field in preparation for war. There was even a period of roughly 14 days where I had to attend class 12 hours a day with no days off. We were never told if this was to test the waters, or maybe the acceleration was implemented and then cancelled for reasons unknown to the masses. Either way, training remained a Mon-Fri 0700-1500 obligation for the remainder of our enrolment.

By early November the Threat Condition had deceased to Charlie. This was still quite sever, but we gained our off base freedoms once again, and were even allowed to fly home for a week at Christmas time. There were still 100% vehicle inspections, and I.D. checks to enter any building however.

It was February 2002 now. I was nearing my graduation day, and was given an assignment to Cannon Air Force Base near Clovis, NM. I had many mixed feelings over this. Cannon was an F-16 base which was exciting as hell to a young testosterone driven man. This was the equivalent of working on flying Indy Cars that also had big guns, bombs, and missiles! On the flip side, it was likely my fast track to the fight. And did I mention Clovis, NM. After living there for a year I began to refer to New Mexico as a third world state.  I soon found it was almost better to be deployed.

My intuition was correct. I arrived at Cannon 25 Mar 2002. I was quickly given my Career Development Course, which is more or less a continuation of Technical School to be accomplished while conducting On the Job training. The average Airman graduates to the Journeyman skill level after 12 months of beginning their Career Development Course. I was there in 9. The 522 Fighter Squadron I was attached to was essentially the world’s emergency responders. Kind of like a DOD 911 call. They pushed me to finish ahead of schedule because we knew that call was coming. No more than a month after I advanced my skill level, and I would get my first taste of war.

The F-16s I maintained were specialized in destroying surface to air missile (SAM) sites to ensure safe air ways for bombers, helicopters, and other large slow cargo aircraft. This was done by flying across the desert under 500 feet of elevation and wait for the SAM sites to lock on to them. Then using electro countermeasure pods attached under the jet’s belly, it would scramble the SAM site radar while acquiring its exact location, and fire a missile into it.

We were needed in Ballad Air Base to secure safe passage for cargo. For other close ground support aircraft. What we learned about war in basic training was useless, but here I was in the real deal. Mortar, small arms, and rocket attacks seemed constant. After a few weeks I became complacent even staying in my bunk with body armor laid over my chest and head when attacks would happen during periods of rest instead of scrambling to the nearest bunker. Between launching jets loaded with missiles, then recovering them as they returned empty of their payload, I would assist in loading the dead and injured onto larger aircraft bound for Germany, then back to the United States. I did this knowing it’s what I had technically enlisted to do, but never thought would happen. I just wanted the stability of Ryan’s life style.

Fast forward several years, multiple deployments, and a two year stent in the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC), and I was finally able to leave Cannon Air Force Base. It was now October 2008, and my new assignment was McChord Air Force Base near Lakewood, WA. My new weapons platform was the C-17 Globemaster. I welcomed the change as the fast pace of working on fighters, and carrying out Special Operations missions was taking its toll physically and mentally. I had only ever seen the C-17 as it ferried parts and people in and out of combat zones. Being on the other side would be a whole new chapter in my life.

By the middle of 2009 I had long earned the skill level of Craftsman, and was considered a technical expert in my line of work. Because of this, the short amount of time I had spent on this jet didn’t stop them from sending me back to war. Going with this jet was far easier, but gave me an appreciation for what goes on behind the immediate fight that had before gone unseen. Instead of sending machines of destruction to do their worst, I was sending supplies, food, and thousands upon thousands of troops. Most were Army Soldiers under the age of 25, and more than half had never been outside of the country before this. I knew the places they were going because I had been there before. I’d watched these young men go to battle whole and healthy, then come back beaten and tattered, if they came back at all. I always wondered if they really knew what they were up against, or if they took the stories of their mentors with a grain of salt as we young men often do with things? How many of these same Soldiers would come back on stretchers, or in boxes draped with the American Flag?

Again fast forward a couple years, and many more trips around the world for missions ranging from war in the Middle East, to humanitarian airlifts in various locations, to flying supplies in and out of Antarctica for the National Science Foundation. It’s now 2011, and my favorite pastime is kayak fishing with a very select group of friends. A few of us were either prior service, or currently serving on active duty. Two guys in particular, Dino Abulencia, and Roland Abiva were always looking for ways to give back to those who gave all in defense of their country, and they decided it was time to found our own chapter of Heroes on the Water (HOW).

Heroes on the Water is a national nonprofit organization founded in 2007 by Jim Dolan. HOW rehabilitates disabled veterans and public servants such as police officers, firemen, and paramedics through the therapy of kayak angling. Between the people in our group we had just about all the gear needed to get this chapter off the ground. Dino took the lead as our chapter director, Roland as our co-director, and the rest of us would assume key roles like mine as Safety Coordinator, and we would all guide. By late summer that year our North West Chapter was up and running.

This was an exciting prospect to me. Very few of the injured men and women I had been loading onto our jets all these years had signed up due to a proud military heritage. Most, like myself landed there after enlisting for their own selfish reasons. When I could, I would always talk with the injured about where they were from, and what landed them in the armed service. The answers I got were all the same as my fellow enlistee acquaintances back at MEPS. Only now it wasn’t over a game of football, or while being herded from station to station. Now it was in a medical holding tent, as I helped carry their litter into the back of an aircraft, or as I flew with them to their next stop. Many were missing limbs, or had broken bones. Some were superficially injured, but since they were no longer fit to fight until healed, they would escort the remains of other fallen Soldiers back to their home station. Needless to say, these conversations weren’t light and innocent like the ones carried on before.

On top of those with obvious physical injuries, there were countless thousands passing right under our nose who were suffering from a traumatic brain injury (TBI) or post-traumatic stress disorder that wouldn’t be discovered for weeks to years after being integrated back into society. These are the people who really benefit from our program.       Initially our events were small with only a few participants, and there was little gear owned by the actual chapter.

We were essentially operating on our own dime as volunteers. Luckily, Dino and Roland owned 5-6 kayaks, I had 5, and the rest of the guys at least two. The real problem was having enough fishing poles, life jackets, paddles, and other gear of that nature. When the weather turned bad that fall, we all gathered at each other’s houses and discussed how we could make this thing bigger and better without bankrupting ourselves in the process. We began reaching out to various stores in the community with little to no support, so it was back to the drawing board. It was late November/early December by now, and a couple of our group inquired about the annual Sportsman’s Show in Puyallup. Dino contacted the agency responsible for contracting the booths, and we all dug into our pockets to chip in on the entry fee. We were in! Booth #165 in the Showplex building!

See, the way we conduct these events is: The How team arrives 1-2 hours prior to set up and prepare breakfast. As our participants begin to show, we feed them, and outfit them with immersion gear, life jackets, and fishing equipment. While socializing with them, we try to match the personality of our HOW guides to those of our participants so we can establish a good fit. Then a quick safety brief and off to fish. Around noon we bring them back in, feed them, and clean their catch. It’s entirely up to them if they’d like to go on the water again. Then at the end of the day, the HOW team breaks everything down, and take all our gear back to it’s storage locations only to spend another couple hours cleaning. It makes for a long day.

It’s now January of 2012, and the booth was a success! Dino and Roland are fabricating masters. They built an amazing set of stands from Bosch aluminum where we had kayaks on display all decked out with fishing gear, along with pictures taken during our prior events. People were signing up as participants and volunteers as fast as we could get pens in their hands. Both the cash gear donation bins were soon overflowing, and the word of the HOW Northwest Chapter was buzzing around like a live wire!

2012 was a good year for us. After our success at the show, we began to network with lots of business owners, and military facilities alike to set up “Awareness Booths” during busy days. We were also able to purchase 13 new kayaks complete with paddles, life jackets, and fishing gear for our ever expanding chapter. With our new found popularity and funds donated through our booths, we could expand the size of our events and provide far better shore meals for our participants. This was also the year Anthony Schuman came into our lives, during an event early that spring.

Anthony was our first and probably greatest success story, a good friend, and a true testament as to why we persevere to make a difference. He was deployed to Afghanistan where he was repeatedly engaged in combat operations. Upon returning home, he was diagnosed with vaso-depressor syndrome, and PTSD. He was medically discharged early in 2012, and moved back to his home of Olympia, WA. His road to recovery started off rocky, to say the least. He often struggled with overwhelming feelings of anxiety, frustration, and depression. He even had repeated thoughts of suicide. This process of adjustment would often put distance between him, his wife, and two children.

Luckily for all parties involved, Anthony reached out to HOW, and we were quick to respond to his needs. Anthony had never been a big fisherman before. In all reality, he had only fished twice in his life. Anthony has a quick mind, and knew things needed to change, so he was looking into fishing as a positive outlet for all his negative energy in hopes to heal his soul trough the tranquility and peace we often find in the outdoors. After he went fishing with HOW for the first time, he was absolutely hooked on the kayaking aspect combined with fishing. This was a crabbing event off Solo Point near Dupont, WA. Along with another dozen or so participants, dropped crab pots into roughly 100 feet of water, then turned to jigging flounder off the bottom while the pots soaked, hopefully filling with crab. The fishing wasn’t exactly red hot that day, but he did manage a nice greenling amongst a small stack of flounder. The pots were productive, and the results were a huge crab boil right there on the beach for all the participants and HOW staff alike. He was tutored and mentored while on the water by the HOW team, and Dino proved himself a valuable resource and friend.

It was the experience that HOW was able to provide him as a wounded warrior that ultimately changed him forever. HOW showed him a new space to be himself in the outdoors while learning a new skill he could use to manage his anxiety and depression. Knowing that it was only you powering this boat with the hard work of paddling and balance required by kayakers to reach your destination, and it was all the effort provided a bounty of crab and fish, just makes you feel good and forces those bad feelings and injuries off the boat to be left behind. Anthony remains uncertain where he would have ended up without HOW, but his experience was so therapeutic that he went on to purchase his own kayak and continue fishing by himself. He soon found his way back to HOW, but not as a participant. His skills had improved greatly, and he joined our team of volunteers as a guide, and to share his success story with those we aim to help.  After graduating from The Evergreen State College in the fall of 2014, he was able to grow through these deep roots in the HOW community, and now has a paid regional director position with the program. To watch Anthony grow from a timid participant, through the ranks, and on to a HOW regional position shows me that we as a team are making a difference, that will continue for years to come!

Telling this story of Heroes on the Water, of how we came to be, is a bittersweet for me. I have a great passion for what we do thanks to the things I’ve seen and done over the last 13 years. Anthony’s story is a great one, really a home run for our chapter. The bitter part is I couldn’t bring you Dino’s story. As you’ve read, Dino is the heart of our chapter. I was going to interview Dino over a four day fishing trip on the Olympic Peninsula beginning 14 May 2015. The plan was that our HOW team would fish and play in the ocean all day, and I would sit at my computer transcribing these tales by night. Nobody could have predicted the tragic events that played out that morning.

You remember the name Roland Abiva? He was Dino’s cousin, and the co-founder/director of our North West Chapter. While paddling his kayak through the surf when we were initially launching that morning, Roland’s boat was capsized. He immediately stood up and began to retrieve his gear. This wasn’t a big deal, and was something he would have certainly been teased about over beers around the camp fire that night. Then another wave broke over Roland’s head. This too is commonplace for us when we fall out in the impact zone. It’s typically no big deal, and we wear dry suits to protect us against the hypothermic waters of the North Pacific, as well as a Personal Flotation Devices (PFDs), also known as life jackets, even though we are all strong swimmers. After the white wash cleared, Roland was nowhere to be found. Our team charged into the surf only to find him face down, kept afloat by his PFD. He was immediately rushed to shore where we were able to clear his lungs of water and began CPR until paramedics arrived. Unfortunately it was too late, and we lost a good friend, amazing man, and pillar of our community on the beach of Makah Bay that morning. May the seas be fair, and the wind always to your back, my friend. You’ll be sorely missed…

 

 

 

 

This is one of my favorite memories of Roland I’d like to share. We had many adventures together on the ocean, and in the sound alike. Many even involving large predatory fish, and multiple close encounters with whales. This story still remains closest to my heart though…

My youngest of 3 kids Kimbra is a fruit junkie like most 2 year olds are. For some reason she would never eat citrus though. Berries, melons, apples, and things were like candy to her at the time, but she’d turn her nose up to an orange. Roland adored children, and loved my little girl. Anytime we were together he would scoop her up and play with her for hours. This one day we were at Salt Water State Park conducting safety day training with our HOW team, and my whole family came out to join in. Typical fashion, Roland scooped up Kimbra and they disappeared to walk on the beach, and play like normal. After finishing one of my classes on hook removal, I went to check on her. What I found was a huge pile of orange peel, and Roland stuffing wedges in her face as fast as she could chew and swallow. This almost made me laugh to tears, because a Floridian, citrus is a staple in our family diet, but not a single person could convince that little girl they were edible. Except Roland who would spoil her to both their hearts content. She has now made a 180 degree turnaround, and we can hardly keep citrus of any flavor in the house because she eats it as fast as we can bring it home.

 

 

Tara LaChance

June 1, 2015

Memory Essay final draft

 

 

 

My father’s parents both died before I was born.  My grandfather shot himself when my dad was 11 and my grandmother died of a stroke when my dad was 26.  My mother’s parents didn’t have much interest in spending time with or developing a relationship with their grandchildren.  They died a few years apart when I was in my 20’s.  They said they had raised their children and were done.  I have always had a very intense longing to have grandparents who would tell me stories about where they came from and my heritage, to take me places and spend time with me like I saw so many of my friends’ grandparents doing with them.  For this reason, I decided that I would seek out a person who I could ask the questions that I would have asked my own grandparents.  I really wanted to find someone who emigrated from Italy, since that was where my father’s grandmother came from, and I feel more connected to that side of my family (even though I never met them) than to my mother’s side.  But, as fate would have it, I came across a woman who emigrated from Germany, which, by coincidence, is where my mother’s grandmother came from.  This is her story.

I didn’t seek her out. Instead, she just happened to be sitting at the front desk of a recreation center for senior citizens that a friend took me to one day.  I went in with the intention of just asking if they had anyone there who had emigrated from Europe and would be willing to speak to me about it.  As I was asking the receptionist at the front desk if she knew anyone who may fit these criteria, there was a woman sitting with her back to me, maybe a foot away and had been talking to the receptionist when I walked in.  The receptionist said, “Well, she is from Germany and has a lot of great stories” and pointed to the woman sitting in front of me.  The woman slowly turned around and I said, “Great!  Would you be willing to speak to me?”.   “You’ve come right at lunch time”, she answered, “but I can talk to you for a few minutes.  Let’s go in the back room where it’s quiet.”  We walked down a short hallway, in to a room that has five round dining tables with four plastic and metal chairs around each table and sat down near a window.

I introduced myself and she did the same.  Her name is Hermine, and she was born in Berchthegargen, Germany in 1929.  She is about 5’2” with a round figure and an accent but very adept at the English language.  She has short, white hair that comes above her shoulders with loose, sporadic curls, pinned up on both sides with gold barrettes.  She wears a gold necklace with a cross, gold hoop earrings and small, frameless glasses, (also with gold accents), and a gold eyeglass chain attached to each side and falling around the back of her neck.  Her eyes are blue. You can tell that, in her youth, she was a beautiful woman.

She comes to this center every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, early in the morning and sets up the exercise room for the group exercise that she participates in.  She likes for things to be clean and for everything to be in its right place, she tells me.  “I am very particular about things,” she says.  We already had something in common, it seems.

Her parents were Austrian, she makes sure to tell me, but she was raised in Germany.  She is kind and open, willing to tell me whatever I want to know.  It seems as though she is happy that I am interested in hearing about her life.  Although her demeanor is not overly friendly I still feel an instant connection with her.  Maybe partly because the great-grandmother on my father’s side that I mentioned I had wanted to interview…her name was Erminia.  What a great coincidence!  (I don’t believe in coincidences)

Her mother died when she was 10 years old of ovarian cancer, and Hermine was put in to a foster home.  Her two brothers and one sister were put in foster homes a well.  She goes on to explain that her father died a couple of years later but she is unsure of how.  In the middle of this, she interjects, “And then the war happened.”  “Do you remember much about the war?” I ask her.  “I remember everything” she replies.  “Would you mind telling me about it?”

She begins right away “We of course had the bombings.   I slept in my clothes for three years straight because you never knew when the bombs would start and you would have to go to the bomb shelters.  We had the black-out windows, all the windows blacked out.  And then it got to the point where we got bombed every hour, on the hour, at the end of the war, you know.  Sometimes we run for the bunker and if it was too late and they closed the bunkers up, then here we are out and the bombs are coming down.  Then we hit the ground and as soon as we got, we made a circle and we dashed to the next building which was a school house, down in the basement there during the bombing.  Bombing was hell.”  Her eyes become red and well up with tears, but she doesn’t allow them to flow out.

She lived in Munich, on the opposite side of the mountain where Adolf Hitler lived, she tells me matter-of-factly.  “Were you afraid of Hitler?” I asked and very quickly she says no.  In the same breath she goes on to say, “You have to belong to his party or you didn’t have a job.  People wanted to work.  My father and mother, they had four kids, they needed work you know.  But uh, I don’t know of anyone that got by not belonging to his group.  He held a Christmas party for all of the families with four or more children every year and we all sat at long tables and we each got a gift.”  She looked forward to attending that every year, being young and not knowing any better, she explained.

She saw Hitler in person once as he went through the town in a parade.  “We were all on rations, and the rations were very small.” She doesn’t show any emotional effect when I ask about Hitler, which I find interesting.  Also during my questions about Hitler she told me that her blood brothers, who were also sent to foster families when her mother died, both had to go in to the German army during the war.  I asked if they were forced to go in and her response was, “Well, they were 16 and no parents, what are they gonna do?  You join the army.”  She continues by saying, “One joined the SS because it paid more but not the kind of SS that was in a concentration camp he was in with a fighting troop.  He lost a lot out of his back and he lost a leg. The other brother joined in the fighting because that’s all he wanted to do.”  I asked if she ever spoke to her brothers about their experiences in the war, but she ignored the question and moved on to talk about her brothers and their families, so I left it alone.  She is the only one left out of her family now.

Outside of Munich was a concentration camp, she tells me, called Dachau.  “Did you know what was happening to people there?” I asked her.  “No, no, no, we didn’t know what happened inside of that until after the war. What the Americans said. But uh, I was supposed to have had an uncle in there but I never did find out who he was or what his name was, I never saw him after the war, so evidently he was one of them that…” She stopped there, right in the middle of that thought. After the war, she goes on to tell me, they went in and saw the “burners” inside of the Dachau where they burned the people. Also a tree that supposedly was used to hang 800 people a day.  She says that she saw it and it just “didn’t make sense” to her because there was not a scratch on that tree.  I had never heard of this camp so I Googled it when I returned home that day and found this information[i]  “Dachau Concentration Camp was the first of its kind opened in Germany by the Nazi government in 1933, and it served as a model for later concentration camps. Designed to hold Jews, political prisoners, and other ‘undesirables,’ the camp is now a memorial to the more than 40,000 people who died and over 200,000 who were imprisoned here during the Nazi regime. The memorial was established in 1965, 20 years after Dachau was liberated by American forces.”

She recalls how the school children in her town were given the rations to deliver to families in the area every week. They gave them the addresses and a package of what went to each family.  She spoke about how sugar was “almost impossible” during those times.  She wanted to bake a cake, so she saved up the sugar rations for three months in order to have enough.  While she was waiting for the cake to bake, bombs were falling, everything was rattling, but she wanted that cake so badly, she just stood at the oven and waited for it.  Her foster parents owned a restaurant so she said that she didn’t feel hungry during the war.  They had access to a garden and they were also able to go to other towns to get meat from butchers.  Her foster mother was very strict she and the three other children had to sit down right away when coming home from school to do their homework before they could play or do anything else. She describes her foster father as “really a nice guy.”  She gets the first smile on her face so far and remembers, “We used to get into trouble together.”  She describes her childhood as “beautiful”.

One time a plane was shot down in Munich where Hermine lived she was only maybe 11 years old.  She and several other children wanted to “see what he looked like”.  She thought that the pilot was an American.  They began to run towards the plane and they began getting bombed.  One of the other kids, a boy, yelled at her to run for her life, in a zig-zag pattern.  She didn’t end up seeing the pilot’s face but when I asked if the plane was, in fact, American, she told me it was actually British.

Hermine recalls one time that she saw a dead body in the street.  She was about 13 years old and was on her way to the train to go to the next town to get lamb for her foster parents’ restaurant.  There was a woman lying dead in the street.  She walked right past her, stopping briefly and looking down at her. “But what could I do?  I was just a kid.”  She had to keep walking and continue on with what she was doing.  “Some nights up to 400 people died in Munich from the bombs,” she says plainly.  I can’t help but think that this must have affected her on a deep level, but she is very even in her emotions while telling me her stories, almost unfeeling sometimes.

I enjoyed getting the opportunity to meet with Hermine and her openness to speak so candidly with me.  After all, I was a complete stranger to her and here she was sharing her life story with me.  So didn’t hesitate to tell me very intimate details about her life.  There were times when I actually felt uncomfortable with the details but she didn’t seem to mind.  Maybe that kind of willingness to share her story comes from the fact that she had a lot of struggle in her youth and she learned to just be open and free with her life.  Or possibly it comes from the fact that she grew up really without a tight family unit and like me, she longed to have someone who cared enough to ask.  Whatever the reason, I am glad that she is willing to share and I looked forward to our next meeting.

During our second interview together, Hermine carries a women’s magazine in her hand on our way back to the empty lunch room that me meet in.  I don’t think anything of it until we sit down and she opens it up saying, “I have these papers to show you.  I had to hide them in this magazine because the people around here are nosey.”  She grins at me like a young girl with a secret.  This is the first time that I have seen this side of her.  She pulls out several old documents among them are her temporary travel document in lieu of passport form German nationals, a magazine from the Alexander M. Patch ship that she came from Germany to the US on, and her citizenship paper.  “I am surprised I still have all of this stuff,” she says to me.  My eyes light up and I grab the stack with excitement and begin to inspect each one.  “Wow, you were really pretty”, I say to her as she smiles and goes on with another story about the war.

“When I was 15, we were in town in a big group and two German officers just came up to me, one on each side, and told me to come with them,” she explains.  “They took me to a nearby building to a second floor apartment and set me on the bed.  I didn’t know if they were planning on raping me, or killing me, or both.  But what could I do?  There was one on each side of me, holding my arm.  I looked around the room and thought about jumping out of the window as an escape when another officer came in with an interpreter.  He wanted to cut a piece of my hair.  He said it reminded him of his wife.  Of course I agreed.  After he cut a lock of my hair, he gave me a 5 pound bag of sugar and some money and told me to go home.  I still don’t understand what that was all about but I was happy to not have been harmed.”  I sit across from her, riveted by the story that I was sure would have a very bad ending, but thankful that it didn’t.  She goes on, “My foster mother told me that I was seen being taken by two officers and asked me if I had been raped. No, I said, he just wanted a piece of my hair.  My mother was so angry.  She said that she was going to take me to the doctor and have me examined.  I told her to go ahead, because I was still a virgin.”  She chuckles, “She was so angry.”  Her 86 year old hands, wrinkled and thin, are fiddling with the magazine that she brought in, smoothing down the middle of the open pages, making a nice crease, throughout her story.  Has all this questioning touched a nerve?  She seems nervous for a few moments, but continues on anyway.

I ask about her first husband, an American GI that she met in Germany.  They dated for two years before they got married, when she was 20.  She recalls the day that they went to the courthouse.  She clearly recalls, “They weren’t going to let us get married, because I was 20, not 21, and they needed permission from a parent for that.  I had a guardian assigned to me, which I didn’t even know about, who was ill and living in another town about 100 miles away so he couldn’t come and sign papers to allow me to marry.  I was so frustrated and angry, sitting there waiting to get permission to marry this man that I was crazy in love with.  I’m not sure why, but they finally decided that since I was only 6 months away from being 21, they would let me choose on my own.  They asked me if I wanted to denounce my German citizenship or keep in once I was married to the American.  I didn’t think that I would ever get divorced, and figured that I would have my US citizenship in two years anyway, so I said that I would give up my citizenship.  I left shortly after that to come to America.  We took the ship called the Alexander M. Patch, and landed in New York.  From the moment I got there, I felt like I had been here all my life.  I had never felt out of place, any place that I lived here in America.”

The journey on the ship took them 7 days from Germany to New York.  She doesn’t have much to say about it but she does offer me a copy of the ships newspaper that she has kept all of these years.  The paper is several pages, stapled together, in good shape for being from December of 1949. With only some numbers, presumably written by Hermine, in pencil at the bottom.  The newspaper is called The Newspatch, (Souvenir Edition) with a rough drawing of a globe with a dotted line from the vicinity of Germany to New York, a drawing of Santa Claus and a ship on the front.  It gives information such as the date that they left Bremerhaven and arrived in New York, what was happening on the ship and a log book of the journey which gives the days of travel, how many miles traveled per day, the weather and the position report, to name a few things.  It looks like it was typed with a typewriter and has spelling and other errors throughout.  The illustrations look like that were done by hand with a pen. Such a great piece of physical history that she has.  She allowed me to make copies at the front desk of all of her documents which I greatly appreciated.

Her first marriage only lasted less than 3 years.  She became pregnant only one time, when she was 23 and that only lasted three months.  She went in to the doctor and they told her that the fetus was growing in her fallopian tube and could kill her if they didn’t do emergency surgery that day.  She doesn’t seem upset by the fact that she was never a mother, she doesn’t dwell on that subject for more than a few seconds, so we move on.

When Hermine and her new husband arrived in America, things changed and he became “a drunk” and she couldn’t deal with that.  Along with her husband’s behavior, they had been sending money back to the states to be put in an account for when they arrived.  She remembers asking her new mother-in-law about going to the bank to get some money out and her response was that “there was no money”.  They had spent the money on home repairs before they arrived.  Hermine went from being madly in love and a citizen of Germany to the young wife of a GI in America with no family.

When she left him, she was faced with the grim reality that she had renounced her German citizenship, and had not applied for her American citizenship and was, therefore, a citizen of no country.  I asked her how she was treated by American’s when she got here due to the relationship with Germany and the war.  She said she was called a Nazi only once but she didn’t have any problems really.  According to her, “I was an attractive young girl.  No one really bothered me.”

Hermine had spent her childhood in her foster parents restaurant, so when she needed to go to work here in the states, she naturally went and became a waitress.  Her husband wasn’t pulling his weight financially when they were married, so she took it upon herself to get a job and she left him.  After her divorce, until 1957, Hermine lived in fear of not belonging to any country and what that might mean for her if anything ever happened.

I left the second interview slightly amazed at how much I have in common with this 86 year old woman.  She had two marriages, and two divorces, the same as me.  She is very particular and anal retentive, like me.  She is a strong independent woman and a hard worker, like me.  I kept finding myself saying, “That’s how I am too.”  Have I just met the grandmother I have always longed for?  Did I fill in any gap in her life as well?  I hope so.  This meeting has really been a true testament that age really doesn’t matter.  That you can be kindred spirits with someone no matter their age, gender or nationality.

She called me and asked me to come visit her at her house, just days after our second meeting, saying that she wants to tell me the story about why it took her so long to get her citizenship.  Of course, I went over as soon as I could.  I arrived at the trailer park where she lives, not sure of what kind of conditions it would be in.  She was standing on her small front porch when I arrived, leaning on the railing and looking over at a nearby tree.  She invited me in and as I stepped through the door I saw a bright, open floor plan, and a spotlessly clean home with photos of family on the wall, nice furniture, bright with sunlight.  She took me on a short tour of the trailer which was spacious and open, unlike any of the few dark and cramped trailers I had seen in my life until then.  Everything had a place, and there was nothing extraneous lying around.  I notice a Seattle Seahawks poster on the wall just as she says, “I like to watch football.”  Then I walk over to a photo collage of a young, handsome guy.  I ask her who he was, “Oh, that’s my great-nephew in Germany.  He won the gold medal for Germany for the luge during the last Olympics.  I wasn’t sure who to root for, the US or Germany, but I was happy for him when he won.”

She takes a seat in her single chair and I sat on the modern, firm, heather grey couch and she begins to tell me the reason why it took her so long to get her citizenship.  After her divorce, she didn’t have the money that she would have needed to do all of the things that were required of her to apply.  She also told me a story about when she went on a weekend trip with one of the other waitresses from her restaurant, her boyfriend and his brother.  The brother was playing pinball, which she said she had never played in her life.  He won two games in a row, winning $40 each time.  Something wasn’t right.  It looked as if he was holding something in his hand on the table while he played, so noticed.  The owner came out and wanted to watch.  The brother said to Hermine, “Here, you play” she played and won!  Beginner’s luck she speculated.  The owner shrugged and muttered something under his breath and then walked off.  “I must have had an angel watching out for me that day.  I was so afraid of getting arrested because I saw that he must have been cheating.  So, I ran out and walked for a long time, until finally I came to a truck stop.  I sat and had a cup of coffee and was crying.  They knew I wasn’t a citizen, I was so upset that they put me in danger like that.  A truck driver came up to me and asked me why I was crying so I told him my story and that I needed to get back to Philadelphia.  He said he was going that way and would take me.”  That situation made her feel an urgency to become a citizen.

After that incident she began dating a millionaire.  He was a nice guy that she met at her job.  After dating him for a while, he gave her the money that she needed to travel to the town she needed to go to take her classes, stay there for 10 days and travel back.  It was thanks to him that she became a US citizen on June 20, 1957.  She recalls studying the amendments on the way to take the oral exam and again says, “I must have had an angel watching out for me or something because they asked me about the amendment I had just studied.”

Hermine told me that she was married a second time, again for only a years, but she did not give any more information about that marriage.  She simply said, “I am a very organized person, I like things to be my way. I guess I am just not easy to live with. Maybe I am too fussy.  I figured that if I was going to be with someone who didn’t pull their weight, I may as well be on my own.”  She laughed and that was it for that subject.  Another thing she and I have in common.

Over the years she was not only a waitress but she was also a hostess in a nightclub and lived in many different states, such as New York, South Carolina and spent 27 years in Oakland, California.  When she turned 50 she got a job at a printing company, engraving stationary, where she worked until she was 65.  They didn’t offer retirement at that job and only gave three days of sick leave per year.  But she remembers that time fondly, working for her friends and enjoying what she did.

She moved up to Washington to be close to her only family here in the states, her niece and her two kids.  Although when she speaks about them, so seems disgusted.  Telling me that they really only come around to see her when they need money.  “My niece drives past my house every single day to go to work, but she never stops to see me.  Even when I ask for her help, she usually says she is too busy.  And those kids of hers, they are spoiled and ungrateful.”  I feel empathy for her.  She is such a sweet lady and has so many great stories to tell.  “It’s interesting,” I tell her, “some people have grandparents and family right here for them to be able to spend time with and they don’t take advantage of that.  And then people like me would do anything to have that and I don’t.”  There is an ease between us while we sit their together and talk openly about her past, her small family now and mine.  I feel as though we may be able to fill a void for each other somehow.  I make sure to tell her, “If you ever need anything, please just call me,” maybe too many times during our three meetings, but it’s what I feel like saying to her.

I ask how she likes living where she is now.  She says it’s fine and then tells me, “About a year ago, I was sleeping on my couch, here in the living room.  About 4 in the morning, a huge bang wakes me up and there is a man standing in my living room.  He had kicked my door in and had the molding in his hand with nails sticking out.  I just laid there, still.  He came over to me and put his face about 3 inches away from my face, put his finger up to his mouth and said, “Shhh.” I thought, oh God, he is going to hit me with those nails. But he just walked back in to my bedroom.  I got up, grabbed my phone and went outside and called 911.  I said, there is a man in my house, send the police.  They got my address and said, the police are already there.  No, I said, I am standing outside and they are not here.  Yes, she said again, they are already there.  No!  The police are not here, send someone now!”  I guess the police actually were about five trailers down from me, she said.  The man had robbed them and ran and they called the police.  The police were out looking for him.  “Just then, my neighbor yelled at me and said, ‘he’s on your roof!’”  Did they catch him, I ask, rubbing my hands together out of the anxiety that I had hearing her story.  “They found him later, he was on drugs I guess,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “It has been a year of going to court and dealing with this and it cost me $600 to get my door fixed and he never had to pay a penny.  He doesn’t work, he lives off of the state, and they haven’t made him pay me back.  They should make him do community service to earn the money, or go to jail, until he pays for the damage.”  I can see that she is angry. Understandably so.

“Aren’t you afraid of that happening again?  Do you feel safe here?” I asked, very concerned.  She shrugs, “I learned from my childhood not to be afraid of everything.  You don’t know what’s in other people’s minds.  Why worry about it?”  I guess after all of the things that she has seen and been through over the past 86 years, she has become desensitized to things like the threat of violence or death. Over the course of three interviews with her, she says several times, “You know, I’ve had good times and bad times.  Whatever is gonna happen, is gonna happen.”  Great, yet simple wisdom from a fascinating, lovely lady.

I find it so interesting that she was a part of that time in our history and I wonder how it must feel to be able to look back and say that you lived through all of those things that so many people want to know about now.  I also wonder how she feels being from Germany and being associated with Hitler and the atrocities of the Holocaust. I wonder a lot of things still and I hope that over time and the development of a relationship with her, I will be able to ask her more of the questions that I didn’t feel were appropriate so early on.    I also hope that this will be a relationship that goes beyond just a few interviews.

I only spent a few hours with her and was gifted with so much rich history, I can only imagine what else I will learn in the span of several more hours, days, weeks, months and years.  How many hidden memories will come up through the act of telling me her stories?  How many things will come up for her that she may have blocked or pushed out of her consciousness in order to protect her heart?  Once the memory has been aroused, what will it offer to the owner of them?  And what will that offer to the person on the receiving end of the sharing?  I find that I am left with more questions than answers at this point.  But without questions there would be no conversation in the first place.

 

 

 

 

 

[i] www.viator.com.

Tara laChance

June 7, 2015

Memory essay add-ons

 

 

 

(Insert page 8, 2^nd paragraph)

Hermine offered almost no details regarding her American GI husband other than that she was madly in love with him.  In the article, The Sexual Behavior of American GIs during the Early Years of the Occupation of Germany by John Willoughby, the author paints a not-so-pretty picture about the behavior of the American soldiers towards the Germany women.  He speaks of the policies of the Army at that time, quoting, “The policy is just to give the brass the first crack at all the good looking women.”  The first crack?  That doesn’t sound very respectful to me.  I wonder how the meeting between Hermine and her husband came about and if her age and naiveté factored in to her eventual marriage. Fraternization was frowned upon, according to the article, yet many American men came home with German wives.  How did that occur? More questions…

 

(Insert page 1, after “This is her story.”)

From the article, ‘You’d stand in line to buy potato peelings’:  German women’s memories of World War II, by Gail Hickey.  “More than six decades after the end of World War II, the dead cannot tell their stories; many remaining survivors are in ill health or are too traumatized to recount their war memories.”  I hope that my curiosity about Hermine’s past gives her a form of healing.  She doesn’t let on that she was traumatized by the events of her childhood during the war but I can’t imagine how she could not be.  She spoke about the fact that she worked in her foster-parents’ restaurant and it sounded almost like her saving grace because she didn’t have to experience hunger like other people of that time period.  But, like Hickey mentions, “The government counted on women ‘to make up deficiencies in diet, clothing and comfort brought about by war’.”  Hermine was a young girl, and those are big responsibilities for a young girl.  This is yet another thing she and I have in common.  My mother left my father when I was only 12 and I was left to be his counselor, companion and to grow up way too soon.  These roles are not meant to be taken on by young girls.  These are for grown women who have had the opportunity to grow up in due time.

 

(Insert page 6, after the second paragraph)

In the book, Behind the Lines, by Margaret Higonnet, she recalls a woman’s memory of the bombings, which she describes as having “a dreamlike quality”.  These defense mechanisms that are brain uses to create memories that are bearable for us to recollect.  It creates a sense of uncertainty in me, about the few childhood memories that I possess.  Are they valid, accurate? Does it matter?  Our mind attempts to protect us in order to keep us alive.  If changing traumatic memories into dreamlike recollections is what needs to happen for us to be able to function in our daily lives, then so be it. Whatever it takes.  Higonnet says, “Memories are constantly being recreated; there is no ‘original’ and therefore accurate memory.” (pg. 288) In my opinion, whatever comes up, and however it chooses to be expressed, is exactly the right thing in that moment.