Pair help Iraq veterans 'survive peace'

An Iowa couple's son killed himself while suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. 'We can't ignore the others,' they say.

By JENNIFER JACOBS
REGISTER STAFF WRITER

May 12, 2006

Grundy Center, Ia. — The secrets that troubled veterans confide to Randy and Ellen Omvig weigh heavily on their shoulders.

Their son, Joshua, a 22-year-old Iraq veteran, was so anxious to clear his mind of the trauma of war that he killed himself in front of his screaming mother. A Web site they created in his memory has become a whispering wall of sorts, a safe place where other soldiers confess their silent suffering.

"It's been hundreds a day - so many heartbreaking stories," Ellen Omvig said, holding on her lap the note her son left, explaining his own torment. "It's like the same story over and over again, just different names, different towns. A lot of them will make you cry, there's so much pain."

The Omvigs, of Grundy Center, will be at the State Capitol Rotunda today with Congressman Leonard Boswell and Gen. Wesley Clark, who will speak at 3:30 p.m. on the need for better services for troops with post-traumatic stress disorder, returning from Iraq and Afghanistan.

"You know the phrase you've got to be careful of?" Randy Omvig said. He paused, his breathing ragged. "When they say: 'I'm fine. I can handle it.' That means: 'I'm having trouble.' "

It took four months for the Omvigs, who are intensely private, churchgoing Republicans, to agree to share Josh's story publicly.

Randy Omvig, a wrestling coach with a rock-like stature and stoic personality, nearly skipped his son's funeral in December because, he told himself, he couldn't have everyone see him break down. His wife has been unable to work full time since a semi hit her car eight years ago, and these days she is even more fragile.

"The time to help Josh is over," Randy Omvig said, and this time his bass voice was unwavering.
"But we can't ignore the others. They're coming back here safe. We've got to help them survive the peace."

Messages of torment

The messages come in the dead of night, from insomniacs who tell the Omvigs that they nurse a deep need to be alone. They trust no one but their combat buddies. They can't kick the flashbacks and nightmares. They lose their temper at work. A few have admitted they expect to divorce soon. Some have lashed out with their fists. Some say getting drunk seems to be their only relief.

And some have felt the scratch of rope around their neck or the chill of a gun muzzle on their head.

"Instead of killing themselves, they'd rather re-enlist and get shot," said Josh's aunt, Julie Westly of Sioux City, who helps the Omvigs keep up with the 15 to 50 e-mails that arrive daily from soldiers and families in Iowa and elsewhere.

"They'd rather die with honor," Westly said.

That was Josh's plan, his family said. He thought diving back into the war zone would ease his restlessness - and spare some other soldier from being separated from family.

The kid known as the joker who cracked everyone up barely cracked a smile after he got home in November after 11 months of high-level security work north of Baghdad.

Josh, who was with the U.S. Army Reserve 339th Military Police Company of Davenport, said he felt honored to defend his country, and he knew why he had to do the things he did. But he was never able to recover from them.

"He'd say, 'Mom, I don't want you to hate me,' " Ellen Omvig recalled, her eyes red and tired behind delicate glasses. "I'd say, 'How could we hate you? You were in the war.' "

Every time he left the house, he hugged his parents fiercely and said he loved them.

Unable to sleep, he would work himself into exhaustion, pulling double shifts as a security guard in the skywalks of Des Moines before driving 90 miles to Grundy Center. Then he'd hide out in his bedroom, playing war video games with loud music in his headphones.

At least his hands had stopped shaking. For a while, he couldn't button his clothing or grasp items in his pockets. He'd see something on the side of the road and for a few seconds his racing heart told him it could be a bomb. He was startled by sudden movements, like a bird landing on a stop sign.

A final note

The shaking stopped, but the hyper-vigilance didn't. And his mood worsened.

He refused to go to counseling. He was certain the Army would find out, and that there would be repercussions. He figured that with his symptoms, his goal to be a police officer was ruined.

Four days before Christmas, Josh went out drinking. A friend whose car had slid into a ditch in Black Hawk County called him for help, and Josh was arrested for first-offense operating while intoxicated.

When he got home in the morning, he shaved, changed into his desert uniform, and told his mom the recruiter had asked him to tag along to meet some possible recruits.

Ellen Omvig detected nothing unusual about his behavior, and told him she was going to hop in the shower. Josh casually handed her a note, saying, "You can read it later," and walked out the door.

"Mom & Dad," she read. "Don't think this is because of you. You did the best you could with me. The faces and the voices just won't go away."

He's re-enlisting, she thought.

"... I will always love you. Josh."

She sprinted after him, figuring she could persuade him not to sign anything until he talked it over with his father.

And then the realization hit her, and she was yelling for Josh to stop, stop, stop, stop. She fumbled for the locked door handle of his pickup, grabbed the side-view mirror, pleading.

"Terry's coming," Josh told her. "He'll take care of it."

Ellen Omvig saw the handgun. As supervisor of his security crew, Josh was permitted to carry one.

She was screaming, and Josh kept telling her she didn't understand. His battle buddy had been killed, he said.

His parents aren't sure how he knew that. Maybe he got a letter. Neither parent has entered his bedroom since he died.

Josh kept repeating that he should have been there taking care of him. He had to be with him now. He said he'd been dead ever since he left Iraq.

"His eyes were just dark, and it was like he wasn't really there," Ellen Omvig recalled, her hands hugging her sides, not touching the tears sliding down her face. "I said, 'No! Your dad's counting on you to take care of me if anything happens to him.' And that's when he broke and the pain and the anguish was so clear and he said, 'How can I take care of you when I can't take care of myself?' "

Then a squad car rolled up, Ellen Omvig said. Josh had telephoned police officer Terry Oltman and asked him to be at the Omvig house in 10 minutes. Josh, a reserve officer and volunteer firefighter, knew every cop in town. "Go!" Josh ordered his mother.

Oltman was shouting for Ellen Omvig to get away, but she wouldn't leave her son, and Josh angled his head so the bullet's path wasn't aimed at his mother.

That was Dec. 22, 2005.

Helping the living

It never hit Ellen and Randy Omvig until later that Josh's problems were classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. After posting information at http://joshua-omvig.memory-of.com, they've heard from military families worldwide who say the problem is extensive.

"It's a terrible thing," Ellen Omvig said. "There are a ton of things that can be done so that people can live with it and at least put it on the back burner in their lives instead of letting it be the driving force in their lives and being permanently disabled."

The Omvigs think the U.S. military isn't doing enough to address veterans' mental health or to ease the stigma of getting treatment.

Officials with the Veterans Administration and Department of Defense said they have taken steps to offer more mental health services, but service members are not always receptive to that.

A Government Accountability Office report issued Thursday states that of returning troops found to be at risk for PTSD, 88 percent were not referred by government health care providers for further help.

"We're not political one way or another about should we be over there, should we not be over there," Randy Omvig said. "We hear they're on a 'humanitarian mission.' There must also be a humanitarian mission when they get home. We can't let another generation suffer the way the Vietnam generation suffers."

Now the Omvigs write to politicians and military officials, applying pressure. When Boswell's office called Wednesday, they agreed to come to the Capitol.

"I'm willing to talk to anybody I have to," Randy said. "This isn't going to end in a year."
Copyright © 2006, The Des Moines Register.

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