Eight years ago, I was diagnosed with Corneal Fuchs Dystrophy, an eye disease that over time destroys the cornea. At present, the only cure is a corneal transplant in which the damaged tissue (either partial layer(s) or the whole cornea) is replaced. Without surgery, legal blindness will occur.

The estimated lifespan of a corneal transplant is from six- to ten-years. A lifetime daily regimen of prescription steroid drops (& other drops if prescribed) is required to sustain the life of the transplant as long as possible. Then, additional surgery may be necessary.

Both my eyes are affected. Apparently, this is an inherited disease and not caused by exposure to Agent Orange. Two weeks ago I had my fourth transplant. All surgeries were performed at DoD medical facilities in San Antonio through the VA/DoD sharing agreement.

My most recent surgeon is Filipino. She said, “We’ll do our best and let God do the rest.” I love that statement.

Also, after this last procedure, I was given a Donor Card. I didn’t receive a card for the first three operations. When I filled out the card, expressing gratitude for the gift of sight, it homed in that the cornea donation could have come from a person of any race, sex, or religion. It is humbling.

So, for all the “passed” and future donors out there…THANK YOU!

American Dirt, a novel by Jeanine Cummings (2019), puts a human face and gives voice to migrants trying to work their way into the United States, just as Woody Guthrie’s song, “Deportee” (1948), adds voice to migrants seeking a better life in the United States, just as Risking Death to Find Freedom—Thirty Escape Stories by Vietnamese Boat People, edited by Nguy Vu, Editor, and Richard H. Sindt, Consulting Editor, (2005), through thirty personal essays puts both face and voice to the Vietnamese boat people trying to escape Communism for a better life.

American Dirt is well-written and suspenseful. It is compelling. I found myself pulling for the legitimate migrants depicted in this story.

“Deportee” holds meaning not only because of the depth and haunting beauty of the song but also because Alan Lomax, the uncle of John Lomax III (my next door neighbor and childhood/adult friend, was prominent “in preserving and publishing recordings” (Wikipedia) of Woody Guthrie’s work, as well as other folklorists.

Risking Death to Find Freedom is meaningful not only because its stories depict the horror these people endured (not to mention the hundreds of thousands of deaths that occurred among those who fled South Vietnam), but because I and a significant number of OCS graduates from Infantry Officer Class 507-68 were assigned as infantry advisors to the South Vietnamese—many of us assigned to five-man mobile advisory teams (MATs) to work with South Vietnamese Regional and Popular Forces. While initially I didn’t want to be there, I adjusted my attitude (thanks to admonition from a crusty sergeant), worked hard, and grew to love the South Vietnamese people who were fighting for freedom. Our country (its politicians and the public) abandoned them–as well as America’s citizen soldiers and its warriors.

Carrots (© 1997)

“I am not a deserter.”

“Some South Vietnamese think you are.”

Silly reasons.

Just because we raised some hopes

of those who tried.

Just because we left them

a desecrated countryside.

Just because we left them.

Carrots.

Lots of carrots … yanked away

Silly reasons.

A day was a week. A week was a month. A month was a year. It took twelve years before the vague nuances from that year began to crystallize enough in order for me to begin to heal. A poem from Whirling Fire written over 35 years ago:

THE DREAMS

are not nightmares.
A bit of a thirst
for action and life?

A life so void
it must be filled
in sleep?

But the frustrations . . .
never a full uniform
weapons without ammunition
ammunition without weapons.

Familiar faces fill my screen
a yearning for kindred souls
we once were
never again to be.

Vagueness, incompleteness . . . haunt

THE DREAMS

continue
still not nightmares.

I begin to fight the need to go back.
I find weapons that fire
grenades that explode
. . . still no uniform.

Yet
I look forward
to the rapture of sleep
as I dream myself complete.

The following is an excerpt from my dad’s narrative. Interesting perspective about getting a bunch of bananas for a quarter and the meds given for those suffering from the 1918 flu.

“World War I came along about this time. I was always having to move from one family to another and while they were good to me, I never felt that I really belonged anywhere so decided I wanted to get in the army. Luther Powell and I saved enough money to buy a ticket to ride the Abilene Southern to Abilene and then the Texas Pacific to Ft. Worth.

When we went to enlist, they took Luther right away, but turned me down because I had flat feet. I tried the Navy and the Marines but had no luck. I went back to Abilene and tried there without success. I was really discouraged. Then I saw an ad in the paper from the El Paso recruiting station. I applied by mail – got a sheet of paper, inked my foot and put my footprint on the paper and sent it in. In return I was sent papers and the fare to El Paso. When I got there and went for my physical, they almost turned me down again because of my feet but decided against it since they had already invested money in me.

I was assigned to the 17th Cavalry at El Paso and had my rookie training there. Pancho Villa was active across the border and it was rumored he was going to invade El Paso, so we were called in and issued rifles even though we were not qualified. Nothing came of this, however.

            Also met a fellow named Snodgrass. He and I were shipped to Ft. Barrancas, Florida (Pensacola), the Coast Artillery Training Center. We stopped off in New Orleans and wandered down to the waterfront where we saw a girl selling bananas. Well, we’d never had all the bananas
we wanted to eat so decided to spend a quarter. When she kept putting bananas and more bananas Snodgrass finally said, “Hell, that’s enough.”

The barracks were about a hundred yards from the beach. They were old, built of’ stone and very cold. I was often on guard duty at night Sometimes it rained so hard you couldn’t see more than a hundred yards or so. If’ a guard fell asleep or wandered off he was court-martialed.

Shortly afterwards my unit was ordered overseas. I was ill in the hospital with the flu. The flu was deadly that winter of 1918. There were so many cases we were put to bed on army cots with a blanket to cover with. The only attention we received was a visit once or twice a day from a doctor or an aide who administered a dose of iron, quinine and strychnine. Bodies were hauled away from the hospital in trucks. From the window I watched my unit march to the waterfront and board ship. Cries of “Armistice, Armistice” rang throughout the hospital in a few days.”

J Lonnie Thomas

I doubt I’m the only one. And yeah, I’m aware of overreacting, but the corona pandemic and shutdowns remind me of the short-timer status in Vietnam. Am I going to catch malaria, get shot, trip a booby trap, get bitten by a viper, or screw up? 

I’ve got a 50% PTSD disability rating but overall consider myself fortunate. I’m so sorry for those who lost their lives or got maimed or took their own lives.