And now the tears come, two and a half decades later. I ache for
    all we lost in Vietnam - our buddies, our relatives, our innocence.

    I’m no heroine. I joined the Army Nurse Corps to go to Europe; that’s what my recruiter promised me. I was 21 years old when I
    was ordered to Vietnam. I stayed 364 days. I cared for the sick, the wounded and the dying. I did the best I could. I am only coming to
    know that now.

    For almost 20 years, I never spoke about that time, that place - I buried my memories, my anger and a large part of "me" deep, so deep, just wanting to forget; wanting to feel peace.

    I only spoke to Sue about it because she was there too. Years later in the Army Reserves, once again in fatigues and combat boots out
    on field exercises, we’d turn to each other, never making the connection of physical circumstances. We’d tell each other funny
    war stories, and we’d laugh. Then one of us would remember, and share, and then we’d cry. It would be months or maybe a year before we would repeat the scenario.

    In 1982, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (The Wall) was placed in our nation’s capital. I saw pictures of it and the vets on television or in magazines, and it brought out emotions in me that went way beyond tears. And I, like many vets, knew it wasn’t over. We knew we had to go there. We didn’t know why, we just knew we had to go. The Wall was calling us home.

    It took me five years to answer. Sue and I went together. At first, we stayed far away in the trees. "Tree -Vets," we’re called. Then a picnic on the grass behind. The Wall where we could see the
    visitors’ heads moving along as their walk took them deep into the V of the black granite. Our first frontal maneuver came at night -
    arm-in-arm, supporting each other, ready for retreat, we walked the length of those names, our tears camouflaged by the night. Even
    there, even then, we rarely spoke about the war, not even to each other. And we never wore anything or said anything that identified
    us as Vietnam veterans.

    1992 was the 10th anniversary of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Sue couldn’t come, and I did two things I’d never done before - I went alone and I went in uniform. I wore my current dress uniform with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, and all the insignia, medals and decorations that tell a very specific story to those who know how to read it. I could never have anticipated what happened to me there. I wrote Sue that night:

       I carried you with me when I went to The Wall. I had the strength to be there, but I didn’t feel the entitlement. I did put on a brave front. No raggedy remnants of faded fatigues or sun-bleached boonie hats for me. I stood
       heads above the crowd - proud (at long last) in my Class A’s. My chest of ribbons saying loud and clear, "I’m a vet, too. I was your nurse. Honor me. Reach out to me. Please, help me to heal."

       And they came. They were there for you Sue. Oh, I wish  you could have been there! You would have been so touched; and it was you who deserved what I received. God, but it felt so good to cry the tears that for so long we held, and covered with our laughter, and let the years
       bury so deep. They came, the 40-something vets looking so much older than their years. Some with the same eyes that we saw back then, the pain still very much with them. They hugged me and held me, and most smiled through tears as they tried to speak. They want you to
       know they remember that you were there for them, and they’re grateful. You saved some of them and cared for them and for their buddies. They love you. You were their nurse.

       I saw him hesitate at the edge of the crowd, then urged on by a friend the WWI vet came forward. With crippled and deformed hands, he stood as tall as his 86 years allowed and saluted me. I smiled as my eyes filled with tears and returned his salute. He was mortified that he
       might cry. I hugged him as his friend took our picture. He spoke volumes in the simple words, "Thank you."

       It was a strange deja vu. Remember when the GIs would always take our pictures? They still do. And all those eyes looking at us - how we learned to look right in them and say, "It’s okay, you’re gonna be just fine."

       It’s not so hard to see The Wall now, to be near it, to feel its presence, to feel their absence. We’re going to be okay. It’s time to heal, my friend ... to know that you did everything you could, and more; that it mattered that you
       touched those lives.

       Next year we’ll stand together when the Women’s Memorial is dedicated, and we can begin to forgive ourselves for our imagined slights and shortcomings and
       our human frailties.

       And we can begin the process of healing ourselves and coming to peace with our memories. I love you, my friend.

    Veterans Day 1993, the Vietnam Veterans Women’s Memorial was dedicated in Washington, D.C. Thousands of women vets attended, and we were overwhelmed. We led the parade - the nurses, Red Cross workers, entertainers, women who worked in supply,
    administration, logistics and intelligence. The streets were lined with people applauding and crying. A vet sat high up on a tree
    branch yelling, "Thanks! Thank you!" A man in a flight suit stood at attention for over two hours, saluting as the women passed by. People handed us flowers and hugged us. One GI had a picture of     his nurse taken July, 1964. He was trying to find her.

    The women veterans find each other. We know, at last, that we are not alone, that we are not paranoid or crazy, but that we have a lot
    of work to do in order to heal. We talk to each other and find comfort as well as pain in our words and our tears. Now after so many years, the process has finally begun and we hold each other close and say, "Welcome home."

A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that read  "Puppies For Sale." Signs like that have a way of attracting small  children and sure enough, a little boy appeared under the store owner's sign. "How much are you going to sell the puppies for?" he
    asked.

    The store owner replied, "Anywhere from $30 to $50."  The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37," he said. "Can I please look at them?"

    The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the kennel came Lady, who ran down the aisle of his store followed by five teeny, tiny balls of fur. One puppy was lagging considerably behind. Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging, limping puppy
    and said, "What's wrong with that little dog?"

    The store owner explained that the veterinarian had examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn't have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame. The little boy became excited. "That is the little puppy that I want to buy."

    The store owner said, "No, you don't want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I'll just give him to you."

    The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the store owner's eyes, pointing his finger, and said, "I don't want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every bit as much as all the
    other dogs and I'll pay full price. In fact, I'll give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for."

    The store owner countered, "You really don't want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies."

    To this, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the store owner and softly replied, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone
    who understands!"

    My mother is the sweetest, most kind-hearted person you would ever want to meet. She was always very bright and articulate, and would do anything for anyone. We've always had a close and special relationship. She is also someone whose brain is being ravaged and whose identity is being stripped away slowly because of Alzheimer's disease. She has been slipping away from us for 10 years now. For me, it is a constant death, a slow letting go and a continual grieving process. Although she had lost almost all ability to care for herself, she at least still knew her immediate family. I knew the day would come when that, too, would change and finally, about two-and-a-half years ago, that day came.

    My parents would visit us almost daily and we would have a
    pleasant time, but suddenly there was a connection missing. My mother no longer knew me as her daughter. She would tell my father, "Oh, they are such nice people." Telling her I was her
    daughter made no difference at all. I had now joined the ranks of a "nice neighbor." When I would hug her good-bye, I would close my eyes and imagine that this was my mother from years ago. I would drink in every familiar sensation that I have known for 36 years - her warm comforting body, the squeeze of her arms and the soft, sweet smell that was hers alone.

    This part of the disease was difficult for me to accept and deal
    with. I was going through a rough time in my life and particularly felt the need for my mother. I prayed for both and about how much I needed her.

    One late summer afternoon while I was preparing dinner, my
    prayers were answered and I was taken by surprise. My parents and husband were outside on the patio when my mother suddenly jumped up as if hit by a bolt of lightning. She ran into the kitchen, grabbed me gently from behind and turned me around. With a deep sense of knowledge in her eyes that seemed to transcend time and space, she tearfully and with great emotion asked me if it was true, was I her baby? Overwhelmed with emotion, I cried, yes it was true. We hugged and cried and neither of us wanted to let go of this magical moment. I knew it could disappear as quickly as it came. She said she felt a closeness to me and that I was a nice person, but
    that it had come to her suddenly that I was her child. We felt relief and joy. I took this gift from God and savored it, even if it were to last just for that moment or hour or day. We were given a reprieve from that awful disease and we had a special connection again. There was a sparkle back in her eyes that had been gone for a long time.

    Although my mother's condition has continued to deteriorate, she remembers who I am and it has been a year since that sweet
    summer afternoon. She gives me a special look and smile that
    seems to say, "We are in on a secret that no one else knows about." A few months ago when she was here and we had another visitor, she started stroking my hair and told them proudly, "Did you know that she was my baby?"