The Green Felt Pen

When we returned home from El Paso, we strategized how we were going to help Ry. I was winding up for a fight. It was a war that injured my son at it would be a war getting him home. I really had no idea what I was getting into. One doesn’t just walk into the Army like Moses did with Pharaoh and say let my people go: Although that would have been pretty sweet. This battle was new to me. I needed to hear Gods word and precise direction as how to battle in this new territory. On paper, the Army owned Ryley. However, Ryley was bought and paid for by the Blood of the Lamb and marked by heaven long before the Army “owned” him. This was the authority I would be walking in when treading on unknown ground and standing before high ranking officers and Generals.

We were in constant communication with Ryley. We planned my next visit a few short weeks later. Putting our ducks in a row, I took a leave of absence from my job and Joe would stay back and work as I began the long journey of advocating for Ryley and his care. This meant I would be alone wrestling the unknown.

Family pulled their resources and helped send me back to Texas. We were on such a tight budget; I packed food from home and lived on canned soup and apple juice. I flew into El Paso once again and settled into the Fisher House and then went straight to the hospital for a meeting. The timing of my first day was unexplainably divine. While I was at the hospital meeting with the patient advocate, I got word Ryley was being brought into the emergency.

I was terrified, I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to see. Ryley was wildly out of control and seemed to be having what everybody thought to be a mental breakdown. They brought him to a room and I followed along, gleaning as much information from his sergeant as I could. He was on constant 24 watch and all his superiors believed Ryley to be insane. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Everything seemed like a whirlwind. I then spoke up while the ER doctor was in the room. “Are any of you aware that Ryley has a head trauma?!” the room went quiet. I had there attention. I then explained to them what we knew and advised them to check Ryley’s chart. His TBI was documented but not all that is documented is read or even paid attention to, and I was finding this out more times than I cared.

I shared with his sergeant and the ER what Ryley informed us of when we visited him last time.

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The injury

While Ryley was deployed he was working on a truck when a large artillery shell fell, weighing what we were told around 60-90 lbs and hit him on the head. Ryley was working on the back tire when it fell. It cut his right front lobe and rung his bell, made him dizzy but did not knock him out. Therefore no incident report was filed. Shortly after the injury the seizures started as well as migraines and the personality change. Because he was told at the Kandahar hospital his problems were not due to a head trauma he believed he was going crazy.

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As they researched his medical records they saw the report of the head trauma from the MRI. This information would change Ryley’s care and the way they would view him.  They were treating him as if he was an uncontrollable soldier who lost his mind. My what a little research can do…

I was at a boiling point for my son but was not able to explode. You see, I was in the room with Ryley who was clearly not himself. I had to bring peace to the room. I was finally left alone with him while the doctors made phone calls and began to actually manage his care. At last I was able to pray like a mother, quietly of course. One of the hardest prayers of my life was releasing Ryley to God to take him home if it meant preserving his soul. My son was all over the board with anger, suicide, depression, fear and a confusion that was heart wrenching to watch.

I felt Gods peace fall in the tiny hospital room. As Ry calmed down, we chatted about little things, I drew on his arm with a green felt pen coloring in his tattoo, It seemed to quiet him. The room was finally still and the gentle touch of the pen along with my whispered prayer, ushered in the presence of God. It reminded me of the time when he was two and pulled a mirror down on himself and cut his chubby cheek. The nurses had to wrap him in a papoose where only his cheek was exposed. I had to get down on my knees so he could see me out of the corner of his eye. I sang “Jesus loves me” to calm his scared little toddler heart.

Well, here I was again on my knees, praying for God to calm his heart. And just like that time when he was little, Gods perfect peace spilled from heaven and comforted our souls.  

What seemed liked hours was really only 30-40 minutes when the doctor came back and asked me to meet with him. “Mrs. Ruddock?” “Yes” I said with hesitation. “We would like to admit your son to a neurological rehabilitation hospital.” I sat in the archaic army hospital chair trying to soak it all in. “What does that mean?” I asked. The answer: It was a rehabilitation center for soldiers with head traumas and PTSD. Could it be we were on the right track that was going to be the start of proper care? Only time would tell.