There’s something surreal about realizing you’ve officially reached the “replacement parts” phase of life. Fairly soon, I’ll be having surgery on my left shoulder—a full replacement. It’s not unexpected; I’ve been cruising toward this inevitability for quite some time. Still, even a “routine” major surgery is daunting when you’ve already been through a gauntlet of health issues these past couple of years.

 

Of course, I have the usual pre-op jitters. But beneath that anxiety, there’s a deep hope that this will finally reduce the chronic pain that’s become my unwanted companion. I’ve abused this shoulder for decades, starting way back in my Army days—oddly enough, playing volleyball. The first injury wasn’t catastrophic, but it was a harbinger of things to come.

 

The real damage came later during a training accident when my tank hit a berm, launching me into a .50-caliber machine gun. That’s a “1 out of 10, do not recommend” experience if there ever was one. Shoulders are workhorses—probably the most abused joints in the human body—and mine’s long overdue for some professional TLC.

 

Old Soldiers and YouTube Rabbit Holes

 

Last night, I fell into a YouTube wormhole and stumbled across a British documentary called Squaddies at 16. It follows young recruits in the British Army’s program for 16- and 17-year-olds. It stirred up a lot of memories from my own beginnings.

 

My high school had a Junior ROTC program, and I joined at 15. The day after my 17th birthday, I joined the Army for real. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I have no regrets. The people I served with were—and still are—some of the most remarkable individuals I’ve ever known. Many would still step up to help if I needed it.

 

Yes, bad things happened—both to me and to others—but bad things happen everywhere. The good far outweighed the bad, and I can’t imagine my life without that experience.

Pre-Op and the Tough Questions

 

Today was my pre-op appointment for Monday’s surgery. It was the usual checklist of forms, histories, and plans—pain management strategies, medication reviews, the whole nine yards.

 

One thing that stood out, though, was how thorough the VA is about mental health screening. One of the providers asked about my mood and suicidal ideation. That might seem like an odd question in the middle of a pre-surgery exam, but I respect the hell out of them for asking it.

 

After that infamous day in 2023, a lot of people wondered if I was suicidal. It’s a fair question—grief and trauma can drag you into some dark places. But I can honestly say I’ve never had that impulse. I’ve never wanted to “check out.”

 

Why I Stay

 

I can’t explain exactly why I’ve never been suicidal. The best I can come up with is this: I was ready to live again. After all the pain, the chaos, and the buildup to the divorce, I wanted to move forward. I wanted a life that was mine again—on my own terms.

 

That’s not to say there haven’t been dark moments. There was one particularly bad period—a perfect storm of his behavior, my work stress, and my PTSD spiraling out of control. I was close to the edge. Then Ranger, my service dog at the time, gave me a look that said everything I needed to hear. In about 30 seconds, I decided I wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Dogs have that gift. When Pax or Nala look at me, I know I need to stick around. Sure, there are people I want to stick around for, too—but the dogs always remind me first.

 

The Numbers and the Writing

 

Whenever I take the PHQ-9 depression questionnaire, my score’s high. That’s not something I’m proud of—it just is. But that final question about self-harm? It’s always a zero. My psychologist and psychiatrist both agree: I can be profoundly depressed and still have no desire to end my life.

 

Writing helps. Blogging gives me a place to pour out what’s been festering so it doesn’t rot inside me. Once I write it down, I don’t have to carry it around all day. I still think about things—the why’s and what-for’s of the past few years—but they weigh less when they’re out in the open.

 

The slower pace between posts is probably a good sign. It means I’m not stuck in that constant churn of grief and trauma anymore. Maybe the subjects are less “sensational,” but I’ll take mundane over misery any day. As Don Henley said, “We all love Dirty Laundry.” I’d just rather hang mine out in the sunshine now and then.

 

Still Here

 

I’ll keep blogging. I’ll keep processing. I’ll keep living the life that’s been handed to me. I don’t see a reason to stop—and I don’t have to.

 

I know my mom and my dogs would want me to keep being a good person, and I intend to honor that. I’m forever in their debt.