July 2005. In the years since my husband, Doug, an Army combat medic, was KIA in Vietnam in 1969, I wanted to visit The Vietnam Memorial Wall in DC. I was told it would help me heal. But whenever I made plans, or even thought about going, I found I was too terrified. I had seen pictures of vets and others and just by touching a name on The Wall they fell apart.
Then in July 2005, 36 years after Doug was KIA, I saw in the paper that the Vietnam Traveling Wall would be on display for five days in Goffstown, one town over. I knew I had a lot buried inside. The virtual wall was a smaller version of The Wall. Maybe its size would be something I could handle.
I waffled for three days, agonizing over whether to go. On the fourth day, I faced my fear, got in the car, and drove to Goffstown. It was a day that would change my life.
I saw a large gathering of Vietnam vets there that day. I found out later, The Traveling Wall is often escorted by the Patriot Guard Riders. They also attend soldier burials all over the country on their motorcycles. The parking lot was full of motorcycles all in neat rows and it was an awesome sight.
I knew it would be hard, but it was a small version of The Wall in DC. so I thought it would be okay, that I would be okay, but I was naïve. Grief ignores any difference in size and grief doesn’t have an expiration date when you’ve stuffed it inside instead of going through all of the necessary steps so healing can begin.
I went prepared to find Doug's name and make a rubbing. I also wanted to leave a few personal things that would be taken to D.C. Nothing could have prepared me for the emotion that hit me like a truck. It was soul crushing and as I approached The Virtual Wall across the wide lawn, it brought me to my knees. I had buried so much for so long, I was blindsided by the emotional flood.
I wanted to run and stuff it all back inside. I could handle it there, God knows I had for 36 years, but I couldn't stand, nor could I hold back the sobs that ripped me apart.
Then I felt myself being gently lifted. There was a man on either side, holding me under my arms and lifting me. They were crying silently, helping me to a chair near a line of tables where men with tattoos were quietly sharing stories. Someone put a paper cup of coffee in my hand, a box of tissues on the table, and I found I could breathe again. Without anyone saying a word, I knew, they knew.
No one here was going to tell me to ‘get over it’. Instead, the look on each face told me they understood. I was one of them. They had made it home and at last, so had I. Pain was pain and it hurt so much less on the outside, where I could see and feel theirs and I know they were aware of mine.
When I calmed down, they encouraged me to talk, and tell them my story. No one called me crazy. No one threatened to have me committed. They asked me to share why I was there.
If it hadn't been for the respect and integrity of the veterans, I never would have stayed, never would have found Doug's name, and most importantly, I never would have understood that I was part of something so much bigger than I had ever imagined.
Hell isn’t a place you feared going to after death. Hell is a place right here in life that no one will help you out of so you can heal. That’s what everyone there was all about. They were helping each other … and me … climb out of hell.
All those years, I had felt so alone, and they changed everything. I was hurting, but I saw so much more hurt in their eyes as they shared their stories and cried with me as I shared mine with no fear of retribution..
It was the first time I realized I was not alone. The Vietnam War bound all of us together forever. It destroyed a whole generation of our young. Listening to these men, I came to realize that through our forced silence, Agent Orange, the VA, and the government, the Vietnam War is still destroying our generation.
I made a promise to myself that day. I would do whatever I could to pay forward the gift I was given by those veterans. Eventually, through my blog, Memoirs from Nam, I created a safe, healing place where veterans could tell their stories, share their feelings, and voice their opinions with the world and each other through their writing with no fear of reprisals.
It was also time to educate the public —they were finally ready to listen. The vets were encouraged to write the truth about the Vietnam War, their friends who didn’t come home, and everything our generation had to bury inside, because no one wanted to listen,.
Once again, I thank the vets for their support and for sharing their truth. One day, I will gather the courage to visit The Vietnam Memorial Wall in DC.
When I do, I will know … I am not alone.
I'm so glad your warrior-angels were there for you and stayed with you as long as they were needed. I really think, even though it doesn't seem this way at all right now, that thanks to newsreel footage, private iphone recordings, the internet, TV reportage, and other sources of fearless outspoken people, war will very soon be an outmoded evil of the past. And you can be proud that Vietnam and the generation that was most victimized by it gave rise to this almost 60-yr anti-war movement. It has stumbled and been shouted down along the way, for sure, but it shows no sign of stopping until the goal of No More American Blood Will Be Shed Overseas Ever Again is met. There are better, saner ways of settling disputes, and people are finally seeing this. The tides of war ebb slowly, but ebb they will. Semper Fi and Hooah ~SP5 Carol Mercaldi 6 Jun 1966 - 6 Jun 1969 Fifth USArmy HQ, Fort Sheridan, IL