When Vietnam Finally Came Home

How One News Story Led Me to the VA—and Finally Put a Name to the War I Thought I’d Left Behind

🪖 Brothers In Arms • Field Notes from Those Who Served

The Trigger

The news about Pat Tillman’s death hit me harder than I ever imagined it would.

When the military’s original story of heroic death by enemy fire began to unravel and “friendly fire” became the accepted explanation, something inside me snapped.

I had heard that phrase before.

I had lived through situations where the official story didn’t quite match what those of us on the ground believed had happened.

The Tillman case didn’t just make me angry.

It forced me to look backward.

I was about fifty years old by then, and for the first time I started taking an honest inventory of my own life.

Failed relationships.

A string of jobs that always seemed to end badly.

Sudden flashes of anger that came out of nowhere.

An almost constant state of hypervigilance, always scanning a room, always watching exits, always expecting something to go wrong.

For years I had convinced myself Vietnam had nothing to do with any of it.

When I enlisted in the Marine Corps, I never expected the government to take care of me afterward. Veterans didn’t talk much about PTSD back then. During my generation it was called “shell shock,” “battle fatigue,” or simply “war nerves.” Many people still remembered the famous scene from the movie Patton, where General George S. Patton slapped a hospitalized soldier suffering from what we now recognize as combat stress and called him a coward.

That was the culture many of us grew up with.

You sucked it up.

You moved on.

Or at least you pretended to.

My wife and several close friends had been urging me for years to go to the Department of Veterans Affairs and talk to someone.

Finally, I decided they might be right.

I walked into the VA with no expectations.

I wasn’t looking for money.

I wasn’t looking for sympathy.

I simply wanted to tell someone about the worst experiences of my military service and finally find out whether they had followed me home all those years ago.

“It wasn’t about getting rich. It was about finally being believed.”

Walking Into The VA

There was another reason I finally walked into the VA.

It wasn’t just the memories.

It was fear.

Like many Vietnam veterans, I worried about Agent Orange.

To be honest, I was terrified of developing cancer.

At the same time, I was almost more afraid of finding out.

So at the age of 50, in 2000 I took a deep breath and went to the VA in Phoenix.

I remembered accompanying patrols near the DMZ where a white, powdery residue settled on our jungle utilities. It carried a chemical smell, almost like the bug dope they gave us for the mosquitos. We rarely used it because the enemy could smell it a mile away and like most government issue, it didnt work as advertised.

At the time, none of us questioned it. We still operated under the assumption at the time that the military knew what it was doing.

In fact, most of us thought defoliation was a good idea.

If it stripped away the jungle, it made it harder for the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army to hide and ambush us.

Back then we trusted our government.

We believed they had done their homework.

Years later, we learned that wasn’t the whole story.

Agent Orange would become one of the most controversial legacies of the Vietnam War, leaving generations of veterans wondering whether the illnesses they developed decades later had begun in those jungles.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Admiral Elmo Zumwalt strongly supported the use of defoliants to protect American troops operating on Vietnam’s rivers. Years later, after his own son—who had served in those same river operations—developed a fatal illness believed to be linked to Agent Orange exposure, Admiral Zumwalt became one of the military’s strongest advocates for veterans affected by the chemical.

With all of that weighing on my mind, I walked into the VA for the first time.

My first stop was Eligibility.

Like every veteran, I took a number, found a seat, and waited.

And waited.

Eventually my name was called, and someone began going through my military records to determine whether I qualified for VA health care and whether I might have a claim for service-connected disability.

I still had no expectations.

I wasn’t there looking for a paycheck.

I simply wanted answers.

There Were Men Worse Off Than Me

One memory from that first visit to the VA has stayed with me more vividly than almost anything else.

As I sat in the waiting room waiting for my name to be called, I looked around at the other veterans.

Some were in wheelchairs.

Some were missing legs.

Others had lost an arm.

Many looked far older than their years.

It suddenly hit me how lucky I had been.

I had walked into the VA under my own power.

I still had both arms.

Both legs.

No obvious physical scars.

For the first time, I actually questioned whether I even belonged there.

Here I was applying for disability because of PTSD while surrounded by men who had sacrificed so much physically. It almost felt like a slap in the face to those who had paid a far higher price than I had.

I’ve since learned that was the wrong way to think about it.

The VA isn’t a contest to determine who suffered the most.

Every veteran carries the burden of military service differently.

Some wounds can be seen.

Others cannot.

That experience changed me.

As a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW), I later volunteered with the Military Order of the Cootie, an honor degree of the VFW whose mission is serving hospitalized and disabled veterans.

I spent many hours at the Phoenix VA Veterans Home helping serve meals, organizing games and activities, and raising money to purchase items the residents needed but often couldn’t afford.

I came to know many of those veterans.

Some had survived multiple wars.

Some had endured injuries I could hardly imagine.

Every visit reminded me how fortunate I was.

It was also emotionally exhausting.

I eventually stepped away from the volunteer work, not because I stopped believing in it, but because each visit left me carrying a little more of the sadness those men lived with every day.

It was rewarding.

It was heartbreaking.

And it gave me a whole new appreciation for what the words “service” and “sacrifice” really mean.

My First PTSD Interview

It was several months before I received a letter from the Department of Veterans Affairs informing me that my first appointment had been scheduled at the Carl T. Hayden VA Medical Center in Phoenix.

On the day of my appointment, I drove downtown, only to discover that finding a parking space at the VA was almost as challenging as getting an appointment. After circling the parking garage for what felt like an eternity, I finally found a spot, boarded the shuttle, and made my way to the main entrance.

My biggest fear was being late.

Years in the Marine Corps had taught me that if you weren’t early, you were late.

As it turned out, I arrived with one minute to spare.

I quickly learned something else about the VA.

Arriving on time didn’t mean you would be seen on time.

After checking in, I waited another hour before my name was finally called.

The woman who interviewed me couldn’t have been kinder.

She was older, soft-spoken, and immediately put me at ease. She thanked me for my service, explained how the disability claims process worked, and asked me to tell my story.

Fortunately, I had come prepared.

Before the appointment I had written a detailed statement describing my military service, the blanket party, the threats against my life, the theft ring, the combat I had experienced, and the events that had stayed with me ever since Vietnam.

She sat quietly reading for several minutes.

Finally she looked up and said,

“My God… this is a manifesto.”

To be honest, I wasn’t even sure what a manifesto was.

But she seemed impressed, so I figured it couldn’t be all bad.

We talked for another hour before the interview ended.

Then she said something I’ll never forget.

“I’m recommending that you receive a 100 percent disability rating.”

I must have smiled because she immediately held up her hand.

“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “The VA almost never awards one hundred percent after an initial interview.”

She explained that she handled appeals as well.

“If they come back with a lower rating,” she told me, “appeal it. You’ll probably come back to me, and we’ll finish the process.”

I left the VA that day feeling hopeful for the first time in years.

A couple of months later, the decision arrived in the mail.

The VA granted me a 70 percent service-connected disability rating for PTSD.

Just as she had advised, I filed an appeal.

Several months later, I returned to the VA fully expecting to see the same woman.

Instead, I was told she had passed away.

I would be interviewed by someone else.

I walked into that second appointment believing I still had an excellent chance of receiving the additional thirty percent she had predicted.

The experience could not have been more different.

The new interviewer seemed impatient from the moment I sat down. He acted like he had somewhere else he’d rather be and hurried me through the interview as quickly as possible.

When it was over, he simply said,

“We’ll let you know.”

A short time later, another letter arrived.

My appeal had been denied.

It was a disappointing setback, but by then I’d already learned something important about the VA.

Sometimes the outcome depends not only on your service record…

…but also on the human being sitting across the desk from you.

The Long Fight

After my appeal was denied, I had a decision to make.

I could accept the VA’s ruling and move on with my life.

Or I could keep fighting.

I chose to fight.

Realistically, I knew convincing the VA to increase my PTSD rating beyond 70 percent would be difficult. That’s when I learned about another avenue available to disabled veterans: Individual Unemployability (IU).

Under the IU program, a veteran whose service-connected disabilities prevent him from maintaining substantially gainful employment can be compensated at the 100 percent disability rate, even if his combined disability rating is less than 100 percent. It required a previous rating to be at least 50 percent.

On paper, it sounded simple.

In reality, it was anything but.

I had to prove that my PTSD had made me essentially unemployable. Every failed job. Every strained relationship. Every episode of anger, anxiety, hypervigilance, and inability to function in a normal work environment had to be documented. Psychiatrists, psychologists, and other physicians evaluated me over and over again.

The process dragged on for years.

Not everyone thought I should continue.

Some family members and friends told me I ought to be satisfied with my 70 percent rating and the monthly compensation I was already receiving.

I didn’t see it that way.

What many people don’t realize is that reaching the 100 percent level isn’t simply about receiving a larger monthly check.

A permanent and total disability rating opens the door to benefits that can dramatically improve a veteran’s quality of life. Comprehensive medical care, prescription medications, dental treatment, travel reimbursement for VA appointments, additional support for families, and a number of other benefits become available that simply aren’t offered at lower disability ratings.

In my case, because my PTSD had made it impossible to maintain substantially gainful employment, my attorney encouraged me to pursue Total Disability based on Individual Unemployability (TDIU). If successful, the VA would compensate me at the 100 percent rate even though my underlying disability rating remained 70 percent.

I wasn’t chasing a bigger paycheck.

I was pursuing the full recognition and benefits that the VA had established for veterans whose service-connected disabilities had effectively ended their working careers.

That made the years of paperwork, medical evaluations, and appeals worth fighting for.

I wasn’t looking for charity.

I believed I had earned those benefits through my military service, and I wasn’t about to walk away from a claim simply because it was difficult.

Five years passed.

There were more examinations.

More paperwork.

More interviews.

More denials.

Finally Believed

Eventually, I hired an attorney who specialized in veterans’ disability claims.

By then I was living in the Philippines, but when the VA scheduled what would become my final interview, I flew back to the United States specifically for that appointment.

My attorney and I walked into the hearing with a carefully prepared strategy. We had organized the evidence, anticipated the questions, and were ready to make our case.

Then something completely unexpected happened.

Before either of us had the chance to say very much, the VA interviewer looked at my file and said,

“I’m awarding him Individual Unemployability. Three doctors have supported his claim.”

For a moment, my attorney and I just looked at each other.

We had spent years preparing to argue my case.

Instead…

It was over.

As every good salesman knows, once you’ve made the sale…

Shut up.

So that’s exactly what we did.

A short time later, the official decision arrived.

My compensation was increased to the 100 percent rate through Individual Unemployability.

Because VA benefits are generally paid retroactively to the effective date of the claim, I also received several years of back pay.

The money was certainly welcome.

But more important than the check was something else.

After years of fighting, someone had finally acknowledged what Vietnam had cost me.

It wasn’t about getting rich.

It was about finally being believed.

A Better VA

Around that same time, the Department of Veterans Affairs was coming under intense national scrutiny.

In 2014, news reports revealed allegations that some VA medical centers, including the Phoenix VA, had maintained “secret” waiting lists that concealed how long veterans were actually waiting for appointments. Whistleblowers alleged that veterans had waited months for care, that appointment data had been manipulated to make wait times appear shorter than they really were, and that performance bonuses tied to scheduling targets had created incentives to hide delays. The reports led to congressional investigations, major public criticism, and ultimately the passage of the Veterans Access, Choice and Accountability Act of 2014, which expanded veterans’ access to care outside the VA system.
I don’t know how much of that affected my own case directly.

What I do know is what I experienced.

By 2014, I had grown increasingly frustrated by cancelled appointments. After waiting months to be seen, I would sometimes receive a cancellation notice the day before—or even the day of—my scheduled visit and have to begin the scheduling process all over again. Whether those cancellations were related to the problems making national headlines, I can’t say with certainty. I only know they happened often enough to become discouraging.

Then something changed.

After all the negative publicity and the reforms that followed, I began noticing a completely different atmosphere at the VA.

The staff smiled.

They carried on conversations instead of simply processing paperwork.

They thanked veterans for their service.

Sometimes they even joked with us.

As I continued attending PTSD support groups and individual counseling sessions, the difference was unmistakable. The place felt less like a government bureaucracy and more like a hospital that remembered the people sitting in the waiting room were veterans, not just file numbers.

Whatever changes were made behind the scenes, I was grateful for them.

The VA that treated me in later years was a much better place than the one I first walked into.

Looking Back

The VA eventually declared me Permanently and Totally disabled. I no longer have to defend my claim or prove what Vietnam did to me. For years I took medications that helped steady my moods. Xanax. Sertraline. Eventually Venlafaxine, which I remained on for more than a decade.

If I’m being honest, the counseling never changed me very much. The support groups didn’t either. The medication helped, but I eventually realized that something else was changing my life.

I retired.

I moved to the Philippines.

I slowed my life down.

I found myself living with a Filipino family who treated me with kindness, respect, and genuine affection. For the first time in decades, life became peaceful.

In May 2025, at the age of seventy-five, I made another decision.

I stopped taking Venlafaxine.

Cold turkey.

Vietnam will always be part of me. PTSD doesn’t simply disappear because a doctor writes a diagnosis or the VA approves a claim.

But these days, I wake up looking forward to the day ahead.

At seventy-five years old, after a lifetime of searching…

I’m finally a happy man.

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