We’ve got your back: just don’t break it

You know, used to be a time when veterans who served their country could always count on the Veteran’s Administration for a few core services, should they need them: a home loan, burial services, and medical care. This last one is a biggie. Huge! Granted, the VA isn’t a great first choice for many — bureaucracy like you wouldn’t believe and tales of experimental surgery abound — but as a last resort you always knew you had somewhere to go.

Apparently (and I’m not the least bit surprised here) this policy has been “re-evaluated” during Bush II, the sequel. Having recently lost heath coverage myself, I went online last month and spent the better part of an hour filling out the requisite paperwork for getting back into the VA’s system. (Gone are the days where you could just waltz in bearing a Social Security card and get seen by a doctor.)

It wasn’t long after that I received a prompt reply welcoming me back to the fold as a member of Priority Group 8g, and that more information would be forthcoming. Everything was falling right into place. I wouldn’t be able to run to the doctor for any old ache or pain, but in the very least I wouldn’t bankrupt my family the next time a car runs me off the road into a ravine. This all seemed too good to be true.

Then the other shoe dropped. Just yesterday I opened a letter that regretfully informed me of a change instituted several years ago: as of January 17, 2003, the VA is no longer accepting “new higher income veterans for enrollment”. Golly. Higher income? Hot dog! Why didn’t somebody tell me sooner? I’ll bet for all of last year I didn’t bring home a penny over $15,000. And to think all this time I’ve been living the “higher income” high life. Who knew?

To the VA’s credit, though, they will consent to treat me should I ever become “catastrophically disabled” (and that doesn’t sound good, no matter how you spin it), but only if I pay the customary fees for services rendered. Now, I don’t know about you, but what is the last affordable catastrophe you can think of? The irony of all this is that I failed to enroll for VA medical care before the deadline, when the Japanese government just so happened to be looking after my well-being. Now that I’m back on American soil it’s back to the ol’ crap shoot. Let’s just hope I don’t get in any serious accidents before I find a job with benefits.

God, this next presidential election can’t come soon enough.

Ghosts of former shipmates

While trawling around YouTube I came across this short clip of my ship, the U.S.S. Deyo (which now rests at the bottom of the Atlantic after having been decommissioned and sunk as a target by a younger vessel). This is the only video of Deyo I’ve ever seen; I certainly did not have a camcorder back in those days. There’s not much to see, actually: a couple of guys hosing down the fantail — yes, battling ice with water — and burning trash. (In my day we just threw it over the side…) The video was shot in Norway, 1995, so it’s possible there were still people I knew on-board at that time, but doubtful.

What’s more interesting is what happened after I left a brief comment. Not more than a day later I was contacted by LT(jg) Tompkins, a quiet but very likable guy who often felt more at ease chatting with the enlisteds than his own officer bretheren. The message was brief: remember me?, what are you up to?, this is what I’m doing, and that’s about it. Nothing special, but then YouTube isn’t exactly the place for rekindling old friendships.

You know, it’s funny: ten years ago I nearly gave up hope of ever reconnecting with any of my former shipmates (except Casey, of course). Then, as the Internet gradually became a part of our daily existence — yes, remember that? — I was actually found first (I think) by a couple of buddies from OD (my division: Operations / Deck).

It probably comes as no surprise that the virtual reunion was anti-climatic. Living and working on-board ship with someone creates true “had to be there”-type relationships: there’s often little to sustain them outside of the immediate context. Paco had found God somewhere along the way (which, in his case, probably saved his life) and for a while sent me a stream of “touched” email messages that gradually dried up altogether. Maybe he got the hint when I stopped replying. Frazee was still Frazee. Good guys, both of them; we just had our time and place on board a very special ship that now, fittingly, will never again be touched by human hands. I suppose Casey and I were lucky in that we worked to create new lives and stories together once our time on Deyo came to an end. It’s just a shame that we don’t get talk more these days, but that’s as much my fault as anyone’s.

Now, I’d better get that reply out to Lt. Tompkins, let him know that every thing’s OK over here.