Thank you for allowing me to speak here today.
Just by way of a brief introduction, my name is Sherri Elms. I am a pharmacist by profession, but because of the events of the last few years I've taken leave from my practice, and have gone back to school to pursue a Ph.D. at Queen's. I'm just completing my first year of study. I have two children: a son, who's 25, studying nursing at Trent, and a daughter of 23, who's finishing a B.A. in philosophy at Queen's University.
In addition to this, I'm also a client of Veterans Affairs Canada. I don't have this status because I served as a member of the Canadian Armed Forces but because my husband did. Today you are hearing about the transition from military to civilian life. My husband did not survive that transition. On November 3, 2014, while still a serving infantry officer, my husband committed suicide. He was at that time a captain with almost 35 years of service as both an NCM and an officer.
We were married seven years when he went on his first tour to Somalia. I remember how excited he was to go. I remember how excited they all were to go. They wanted to help rebuild a broken country. He came home a changed man, disillusioned and bitter, with persistent memory problems, frequent night sweats, and insomnia. In fact, in their determination, Veterans Affairs found that his original injury was sustained in Somalia and compounded by his other tours.
He was deployed three more times in his career, to Bosnia, Haiti and Afghanistan. In addition, he spent many more months away from home, here and there—somewhere in Africa, somewhere in Europe, somewhere in Norway, somewhere in northern Canada. This is the life of an infantry soldier. He never stopped wanting to do his job. He never ever stopped volunteering to go. I knew not to ask him to stay home. It was him. It was who he was. I cannot emphasize enough how good he was at what he did. Despite the price my family has paid, I remain proud of his accomplishments as a soldier.
I'm not sure if the military shares this pride. I could feel it after he died. Once the shock of it all settled, I could sense the uneasiness that the military felt at his suicide. Despite the presence of three generals at his funeral, one of whom would become the current CDS, there was perceptible shame.
The committee is interested in what contributes to making Canadian Forces members comfortable or uncomfortable disclosing their medical condition, and then you want to talk about interactions with VAC. I'll focus my opening comments on these.
My life in the years before my husband died was not easy. He was angry. He had a hair -trigger temper, and I could not predict when he would explode. He was never once physical with his anger, but his words cut to the bone, and they were directed at all three of us. He spoke to me of suicide often. I told him once that I was going to call the medical officer. He said, “Sherri, you can't use the 's' word, because if you use the 's' word I won't be deployable, and if that happens, I may as well be dead”. I remember a Valentine's Day card in which he referred to our life as a “roller coaster” and that although there were times that he would like to just step in front of a bus, he thought he'd just stick with the ride.
I encouraged him to seek help, and he did off and on. He was seeing a psychiatrist at one point in the years before he died, but he didn't like her. They didn't click. After he died, I recovered his chart from his belongings, and I read her notes. She wanted to see me, but he didn't tell me that, and he didn't bring me in. He just stopped going to her, and she closed the file, and nobody followed up.
In the six months before he died, our lives were a living hell. He drank more and more, and that, historically, was not him. He was my designated driver; I was the drinker. He was miserable. In the summer of 2014 our marriage fell apart. It was a traumatic split, and I was off work for six weeks. Things were awful in August of that summer, and my friends worried for my safety. I was sure he would not hurt me, but I was worried for his safety. I told his boss this personally. I told his physician this personally. No one believed me. I know that the padre spoke to him, but he denied suicidal ideation. He was good at that. He was a soldier. I felt dismissed, that people thought me to be a bitter ex-wife. I wanted to scream. I'm a health care professional. I am well respected. I worked in a family health team. I worked with physicians, and social workers and psychiatrists. We dealt with these things all the time. I knew what I was seeing, but nobody would listen. Summer turned to fall, and he continued to lose weight and to drink. He looked awful. He was in fact yellow. He spent the weekend before he died with us at home. He was crumbling before my eyes. I tried twice to take him to emergency that weekend, but he wouldn't go. He threatened that if I forced him to go or called 911, he would lie and be out in 24 hours and then just not tell me where he was.
That Monday morning he left before we woke. I woke up to a text. I called him. He took one last call from me. He told me where he was, at Kingston Mills, and when I said I was sending help, he hung up. That was it. He was dead within 10 minutes.
Appropriate treatment was not given. He certainly was not comfortable seeking it or really admitting that he needed it or knowing that he needed it. He was a trained soldier. He was trained never to stop. He could do nothing but that. He cringed at the suggestion that there was anything wrong with him. It was obviously me causing all the problems in our life.
I know that physicians and others can't read minds, but to believe him blindly despite the weight loss, the behaviour changes, and despite multiple warnings from me.... There must be some way to give some consideration to what families see and what they know to be true. Now I'm a widow and now I interact with Veterans Affairs.
I must say briefly that I have met some very helpful people. I met a very helpful lady from Newfoundland, who was living in Kirkland Lake, and she helped direct me through the system. I must say that the bureaucracy is soul-crushing and the paperwork is onerous.
I've tried to do as much of my children's work as possible, partially because the application for student benefits must be done in its totality every year. You just can't send proof of enrolment. They have to be totally redone, and it takes hours. It would be nice if this could be streamlined.
The last thing I will mention here—it may seem small—is something I think could be easily changed. When my children receive mail regarding their education benefit, the subject line always reads: “Subject: Regarding Deceased, Elms, Bradley Alfred”. That's how they start every single letter. That small clerical change would move some of the trauma associated with receiving that paperwork.
That's all I have for now.
I'd be happy to expand on any of this or answer any questions you may have. Don't be shy.