FRODO BAGGINS, THE WITCH KING, AND MY DOCTOR’S VISIT AT THE VA

I feel like Frodo Baggins. You know, when the Witch King stuck him with that ghost sword — torment that never heals. My skin breaks out, rashes crawling across my face and scalp. The doctor says it’s stress. But hell, I caught it in the jungles of Vietnam. A VA doc finally told me it’s an Agent Orange thing. It took 45 years to figure it out. What’s new?

My shoulders never worked right after the injury. The surgeon suggested a rotator cuff replacement. Yeah, right. Then there’s my right leg, still numb. “No nerve damage,” they say. “Maybe trauma?” While I know I’m a moron, they must think I’m stupid.

The migraines hit hard, the pain making me squint. “Take the meds,” the nurse says, like the concussion had nothing to do with it. Another X-ray, another prescription, and I’m off.

One clever doc asked, “So, Jerry, what Nam souvenirs bother you today?” I wanted to tell him, “Go turn yourself inside out and disappear,” or maybe, “Go F yourself with a fire hydrant.” But I kept my cool — no sense in ending up back in the psych ward.

Sometimes, I think lashing out would be worth the punishment. But it gets harder to stay calm. Just another day in paradise. Ain’t you lucky to be you?

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