My Journey of Service
by Dave Landymore
Taken from The 6th Branch Blog

I enlisted in the US military out of high school for just one reason; I wanted to serve. I wasn’t particularly drawn to the flashy uniforms, or the promise of travel to far-away lands, or money for college. Not to say that those things didn’t sweeten the deal, but the initial motivation was a simple sense of service.The only real notion of military service that I had growing up came from two cousins who had both enlisted in the Marine Corps, but that didn’t really appeal to me. All I had heard about the Marines was that they brain-washed everyone in boot camp and turned them into robots. Of course I learned a little more over the next year or so and wound up joining the Marine Corps, and of course the Marine Corps satisfied that sense of service over the next five years.

When I left active duty in 2006, I moved back home and started going to school full time at the local community college. It didn’t take long to feel like something was missing, however. That need to serve, to be useful, remained, and for the first time in a while I found myself without an outlet for it. So I had to go looking. Having grown up near Annapolis, I was naturally very fond of the Bay and was aware that it was in fairly bad health. So it became my duty to do what I could to help, and I began volunteering at the Chesapeake Bay Foundation’s Oyster Restoration Center in southern Maryland. We created hundreds of artificial oyster reefs out of concrete, which we dropped into certain tributaries in strategic locations that had shown to be conducive to growing oysters. The oysters were thenplanted among these concrete habitats, which deterred predators and allowed the oysters to grow and propagate. It was all very rewarding work; I’ve always enjoyed physical labor, and it was important: The Chesapeake Bay needed more oysters in order to recover to good health, and I was adding oysters to the Chesapeake Bay.

The Oyster Restoration Center was, however, a seasonal thing, so during the winter I had to find another activity to placate myself. This I found at the Annapolis Lighthouse Shelter, working once, sometimes twice a week in the back, organizing the shelves full of non-perishable food donations that came in. Once everything became organized, food was then separated into grocery bags for the less fortunate to pick up and take home with them and stock their own shelves. This was also very rewarding work. Every day when I would leave at the end of the shift the shelves would be full of these grocery bags, and every time I came back they’d be empty, and I knew that all that food had gone to someone that needed it.

In January 2011 I transferred from Anne Arundel Community College to UMBC to study Environmental Science, and subsequently moved from Annapolis to Baltimore. Again at UMBC I sought out volunteer opportunities and was fortunate enough to be quickly linked in to the Shriver Center, an office founded by Sargent and Eunice Shriver with the mission of promoting “the integration of civic engagement, teaching, learning, and discovery on campus, regionally, and nationally so that each advances the others for the benefit of society.”

After serving during my first semester as a volunteer with the Refugee Youth Project, an after-school tutoring program for youth whose families had resettled in Baltimore City, I became the Service-Learning intern for the Shriver Center’s Choice Program – College Night. Choice is a youth and family empowerment program that serves at-risk youth who have been recommended by the Department of Juvenile Services. It is an intense advocacy program that aims to enrich the lives of the youth and prevent recidivism. One aspect of the Choice Program is College Night, which is a weekly after-school program that I run in which a group of student volunteers and I supervise educational and recreational activities for these youth. We’re able to reinforce the concepts that the youth learn in school, and at the same time serve as positive role models for them and push them towards the realization that, yes, they are capable of escaping their circumstances and yes, they, too, can make it to college, and succeed.

It was at the beginning of the Fall ’11 semester that a Service-Learning Coordinator at the Shriver Center turned me on to The 6th Branch. She knew that I was a veteran, and was aware of the organization through conversations that she had had with Jeremy Johnson, our Director of Public Relations. She told me some of what she knew about the The 6th Branch and Operation: Oliver, which was then in its infancy. I found the website that night and immediately e-mailed Executive Director Rich Blake to see how I could get involved. A few days later he and I met at the Americana and the rest, for me, is history.

Finding The 6th Branch and being a leader in Operation Oliver has been life-changing. I’m fairly certain that I’ve finally arrived at the end of my “journey.” Now it’s just a matter of doing it. I’ve found a new opportunity to serve. I’ve got a new mission, and it’s one of the most important yet. All together we’re going to accomplish it.

I am honored to feature Stephanie Workman’s photography on this site.  An amazing woman, artist and advocate  her dedication and work  has a huge impact  so many in the veteran community.  I am delighted to share her site and her work. Please take a moment to read her bio, Stephanie is truly an inspiration to me.

Stephanie Workman began her journey with Family Of a Vet, Inc in 2008, when she found them in her desperate search for understanding in a world riddled with combat PTSD. Her then-husband had been in Iraq in 2003 during the Battle for Baghdad and his struggle with combat PTSD & TBI was, up to then, an unknown condition. Finding the resources at Family Of a Vet, Inc would prove to be a pivotal moment in Stephanie’s life.

Stephanie was born and raised in Topeka, Kansas and the oldest of six children. From a very young age, she was very aware of her father’s service in the Air Force during the Vietnam War and that awareness developed into a deep respect for all those who have served in our Armed Forces. Childhood was difficult, however, as her father also suffered from combat PTSD but it went undiagnosed. The experiences with her family developed a strong foundation of service and advocacy in her life.

In 1997, Stephanie graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree in Park Resource Management from Kansas State University and went on to work in various Environmental Education positions. In 1999, she met a Fort Riley soldier and they were married in 2000. Her husband began his service with the US Army in 1993 served with the 1st Armored Division in Iraq in 2003. Soon after, he left the military and went on to a career in cellular telecommunications.

Currently, Stephanie is the primary caregiver for her three children and also advocates for the needs of our veterans as the Social Media Coordinator for Family Of a Vet, Inc. Stephanie also advocates for combat veterans and their spouses who are facing a separation and/or divorce, utilizing her divorce as a way to counsel couples and direct them to a variety of resources available to them.

Her site is http://pinterest.com/worky/worky-s-lens/

Angry Chair

By Kateri Peterson

http://damespaz.blogspot.com/2011/12/angry-chair.html

Chemotherapy

The sights, sounds and smells
continually plague me.
The machines with their IV’s

invite- me into your treatment
With their steady,
Drip, drip, drip…….

Beating to the rhythm of my heart
Becoming the lonesome ballad,
Intruder the Caregiver’s Song

There are ghosts here and
You dear, have become one of them.
I watch you resting in your hospital chair,

The nurse comes in
And you reach out your arm,
Both of you make small talk,

While all I can hear is the
Drip, drip, drip….
Of the machine

The nurse inspects your arm
Seeing which vein he will take
Sharpness, slight sting,

The needle starting the cycle again.
And then it comes, washing over me
I am greeted by

The stench of death and flesh,
Latex, chemicals, sickness
And your illness. I want to vomit.

I look over at you.
Your color, is tinged with yellow;
And reminds me of a stain on dirty bed sheets.

You look unfamiliar.
I steady myself, and breath in.
I look around grasping for familiarity but all I see

Are rows of perfectly shaped heads
Framing what is known as oncology.
All of them bald.

White, pale white, doughy white and
offset by sunken eyes, red rimmed,
Colored by the chemicals from the machines

Drip, drip, drip….
I wish I were braver.
I want to run away but I can’t leave you here.

You and the nurse
Shot the shit, as he
Administers the poison, they say is saving you.

I admire your strength and patience as
I tap my foot and notice
Its beating to the drip, drip, drip

Of the machine.
Hours have gone by and I know your treatment is almost over.
As you have grown tired now,

Wrappers of candy strewn around your chair,
Pale face, you whisper something to me that is inaudible
And I pretend to know what you say.

I am handed your check -out form.
I get a tiny card, confirmation we will be
Doing this again, unfortunately, too soon.

Drip, drip, drip…. We leave.
Tick, tick, tick
Time has a new sense of direction

You seem tiny now, a shell of the man I brought in
Me and you we make our escape.
We will meet here again

In two weeks. In our stench.
our unmistakable vulnerabilities,
in our naked realities,

We will hear again-the drip, drip, drip—drumming the pain further in.
We will meet here again,
Same place, we will fall silent

Unable to communicate
the differences this makes in our relationship
And I will add another verse to my song.

It is excruciating. I have never gotten use to it. Not the sight, smells or sounds. The machine and it’s steady, in and out and drip, drip, drip. It beats with my heart but my heart wants to stop beating. I take it in, I breathe it out. I want to vomit.

Everyone looks the same here. Everyone looks like death. I am not being hateful, but it’s true. Everyone is pale with a tinge of yellow, well; the exception being some have a green tint which haunts me more.

Nobody has hair. The eyes are red and sunken. Everyone looks uniform. There is no gender, there is no description, except they all have cancer.

There is no avoiding the aversion to the smell. The stench greets you and it’s a mix of illness, latex, newness and poison. Sometimes there is the hint of food and that is when my stomach, flips over and over; backwards forwards–flips. It continues to flip.

I come in to be the observer, the visitor in this disturbing place. I feel unwelcome. Not because these people don’t want me here but because I don’t belong. I have color. I am not sick. I do not represent cancer. My body isn’t poisoned. I feel like I should strip myself bare to meet you here.

I can’t smile. I can’t find the happiness, as the odor penetrates me. I can’t find my soul, as I witness people lose theirs. I make myself smile, force myself to smile. It hurts but what hurts more is seeing you in that chair.

They all sit seated with IVs, TVs, guests, magazines, and there it is the persistent drip, drip, drip. And the machines—the beep, it screams at you; the machine it beeps and drips. And silently, I scream get me the hell out of here. Then I look at you, I see your life coming out in each beep, in each drip, in each one of my silent screams, I see the life beating out of you.

My heart swells with shame. I don’t want to be here and yet, it’s you that is stuck in the chair. I think of all the excuses that excuse me from sitting still. I can run an errand, get you a tea, or some candy; anything not to sit still, with the steady drip, drip, drip. I remain uncomfortable the entirety of treatment; unwelcomed, disoriented, a foreigner in this place that I have come to know too well.

I admire your patience, as you chat with the nurse. I admire your strength, as you put up a good fight. I don’t admire myself, as I see this selfish person—who can’t sit still, who doesn’t want to be inside this place, who wants to run away. I can’t admire me because I lack your bravery.

We make it to the end with the steadiness of the drip, drip, drip. The hours of our life, sucked away through an IV. My head lost in the screams that get stuck inside my throat, tightening the pain that gets stuck in my chest. I need a release. There remains none.
You are weaker now. It doesn’t even wait until we are gone to take you from me. It doesn’t even wait until we exit the building. It takes you and I leave a piece behind.

It never fails, I cry. I cry because I hate it! I cry because it challenges me! I cry because it’s unfair! I cry because I can’t take it! I cry because I wish I was braver! I cry because I lose my soul mate.

And then the guilt sinks in. God, the guilt sinks itself deep in me, sending me further in the dark roars of my cry, further into the abyss of my hurt. I walk past you. You walk past me.
T
here is now a ghost beside me. A shell of the man I knew. I draw in a deep breath. I wait, patiently. I become frustrated.
The ghost beside me reaches for my hand but never makes it over. You lay back. I drive.

It remains complicated. I remain silent, how can I rid you of this pain? The waves of how tos come, steady like the drip, drip, drip of the machine. The tears wash away my focus and we both surrender to the dance around each other that we have been learning to move to.

Cautiously, we dance, avoiding all the emotions, as if they might swallow us whole; as if, it might require something that neither of us knows.

We escape. We will meet here next time. In two weeks, as we do it all over again. As we avoid, what cannot be avoided and succumb to the machine. We will meet here again, in our stench. In our unmistakable vulnerabilities, in our naked realities, we will meet again-the drip, drip, drip—drumming the pain further in. We will meet here again, same place and we will fall silent unable to communicate the differences this makes in our relationship.

It is my pleasure to feature his bio on my page.  As well as tell you both books can be purchased on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/P.-W.-Covington/e/B004BNSOLY/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1322759186&sr=8-1 I believe P.W. Covington is a fine example of a leader. His work and voice are impacting change. Thank you, P.W. for your service to our country and your dedicated service to our veterans.

BIO:

P.W. Covington attended High School in the rural, South Texas community of Cuero. After four semesters of Junior College, he enlisted in the United States Air Force, where less that 6 months after finishing his initial training, he was deployed to the African nation of Somalia, with a joint-service rapid deployment force as one of the first handful US military troops on the ground in Mogadishu for OPERATION RESTORE HOPE. His military decorations include multiple awards of the SouthWest Asia Service Medal, the Liberation of Kuwait Medal, the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (Somalia), National Defence Service Medal, and two awards of the US Air Force Outstanding Unit Award, among others.

Covington’s experience throughout East Africa and the Persian Gulf region of SouthWest Asia feature prominently in his writing, as do the daily issues encountered as a Service-Connected Disbled Veteran in American Society.

After leaving the USAF, Covington lived a homeless lifestyle punctuated with periods of incarceration, willful isolation from society, and ex-patriate living in Mexico and Central America. He has driven trucks, worked the ramp for Continental Airlines, served with the US National Parks Service, worked as a zookeeper, and sailed as a Merchant Mariner on Tug boats and Oilfield re-supply vessels. He credits the VA’s excellent treatment resources for those affected with PTSD/TBI issues with helping him to “restore his life”.

He currently resides in rural Lavaca County, Texas where he works as a Peer Facilitor, aiding Veterans, Active Duty personnell, and their families with issues stemming from Traumatic life experiences. Covington also travels often, speaking, reading, and hosting writing workshops for Combat Veterans.

P.W. Covington maintains avid interests in Military and Civil Aviation, the outdoors, Veterans’ and Disability Advocacy, and Progressive Politics.