Coping with PTSD--A Writer's Story

I went to hear author, Christal Presley talk about her experience of writing and publishing her first book.  The session was hosted by the Georgia Writer's Association and was billed as a time to:

Learn how Christal--a previously unpublished author--sold her book to a major publishing company, garnered international media attention, and made her book a bestseller before it was even published--all WITHOUT an agent (and while keeping her day job).  

The description was everything that I enjoy hearing from other writers; how they got started, how they marketed their book and their advice for others.  What I didn't know was that I was also going to learn about a topic I knew little about:  post-traumatic stress disorder, especially as it relates to Vietnam veterans and their families. I also learned an important message that should direct our focus as writers who want to make a difference in the world.   

Christal's book is entitled, Thirty Days with My Father:  Finding Peace from Wartime PTSD .  It is a healing story of a Vietnam veteran and his estranged daughter who had not spoken to each other in thirteen years.  When she left home to attend college and to escape her traumatic childhood, Christal thought that she could overcome her history by separating herself from her dysfunctional family.  Her childhood was a nightmare filled with a father who experienced  frequent episodes of extreme depression and out-of-control rage.  For the next thirteen years she tried to fill the void with everything from alcohol, to therapy and dysfunctional romantic relationships. Christal finally, upon the suggestion of a fellow writer, decides to confront and write about the two things that she fears the most: the relationship with her father and Vietnam.  In typical fashion, she asks her mother to propose to her father that he and Christal talk everyday for a month about the elephant in the room; his experience in Vietnam and how it shaped not only his life but the life of his family.  To her amazement he agrees and the journey begins.  The book chronicles thirty days of conversation and journal entries  which leads to a renewed understanding and most unexpectedly, a closer relationship between father and daughter.  I truthfully, could not put it down.

Until she began writing about the subject she routinely avoided, Christal was a wandering writer.  In other words she was a generalist who wrote about such a variety of things, she had no focus.  Once she zeroed in on the topic of her relationship with her father, she wrote with purpose and passion.  Along the way, she also not only connected with hundreds of others who had experienced the same problems, she gave voice to their pain and troubles by first starting a blog and finally an organization devoted the PTSD, Vietnam veterans and their families.  It is a group that has been too long ignored and shoved aside. A brave and vulnerable writer, Christal challenges us all to look within for the pain, the fear that we avoid, and write to heal those relationships and ultimately ourselves.  Absolutely a fabulous read!!

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A Life Well Lived

On July first 2010, John Urvan, my step-father passed away.  Married to my mom, April 29th 1984, he came into my life at a time when I was already grown and having children of my own.  My life intersected his on special occasions, family get-togethers and routine life events.  However, in the last year and a half as I helped him and my mom cope with the diagnosis and treatment of advanced prostate cancer, I came to know him much more personally.  I can truly say that he is someone who has left a lasting impression and a legacy to be remembered on my life.


Shaped by his forty-four years of service in the Marine Corp, he was man of structure and routine.  He was early (by hours!) for every appointment he ever had.  We used to joke about his need to make a 'dry run' before any new appointment so that he could measure the mileage, traffic conditions and length of time it would take to get there.  Even his leisure time activities, stamp collecting and crossword puzzles were evidence of his love of structure.  Prior to his death, he organized and labeled every document and phone number he thought we would need to take care of all the necessary details. 

He was self sufficient and independent to a fault.  He hated to ask for help of any kind.  When advised of the need for surgery for his prostrate cancer, he called to let me know the details.  I told him I would drive him to the hospital and take him home.  He was adamant that he would be able to drive himself  and only after his doctor advised him otherwise did he allow me to make arrangements.  He was most proud of his ability to undergo chemotherapy without any side effects of nausea or weakness.  When the cancer spread to his bones causing multiple falls at home, he refused to tell his doctor or agree to go to the hospital for evaluation.

He was generous.  Although he hated to accept help, he loved to give it.  He was handy around the house and made all kinds of repairs at my home.  He was always busy completing chores or a special project. He wanted to pay me every time I gave him a ride somewhere and he never forgot a birthday or special occasion.

He was an humble man of service to  his country.  In his forty-four years in the Marines, he fought in World War II, Korea and Vietnam.  He was a recipient of the purple heart.  Yet he never had a big ego or really even talked about his military career.  He will be honored on July twenty-third with a military funeral which will include a bugler, an honor guard and a twenty-one gun salute.  I can almost hear him asking me what all the fuss is about.

He loved life and lived it with gusto, making the best of even the worst situations.  Every meal I ever fixed him was "outstanding!" and he ate it all with relish.  His favorite breakfast?  Black coffee and burnt toast!  I guess that doesn't say much for my cooking...

He was social with a great sense of humor.  He generally charmed any new acquaintances and my kids still remember some of his favorite expressions.  "What do you think I am, chopped liver?"  he'd ask and my children would crack up even though they had no idea what he was talking about.  He would sing bits of old timey songs to them.  My daughter's favorite?  "I was walking along, minding my business under an orange colored sky. When flash, bam, alakazam, wonderful you walked by..."  They'd ask him to sing it over and over.  One of our favorite quips from him was during my daughter's wedding last fall when he surveyed the festivities and confided to  my other daughter, "I didn't know white people could have so much fun."

He had a great love for my mom through thick and thin.  They certainly were opposites and they had their ups and downs but his devotion never wavered. He always called her "my beautiful bride" and that was how he referred to her as we sat in the examining room of the hospital for what turned out to be the last time.  One of the last conversations he had with my sister was not to worry about the future because he would "take care of momma."  He certainly did fulfill his promises.

All in all it was 84 years of a life well lived;  a life of honor and integrity, a life of humor and generosity, a life of service and love.  He left behind a legacy of memories for everyone who knew him.   He will be greatly missed.