Good afternoon. My name is Tracy Lee Evanshen. I'd like to thank you for the opportunity to speak today and to give you a small glimpse into my life as the common-law partner of a veteran.
I thought the easiest way to explain who I am and what we go through is to give you a sample day in our household.
It's Friday and my boys are visiting for the weekend. We leave Belleville and take the 401 or sometimes highway 2 to the 35/115 and head north. Kevin won't take the 401 if he can help it. It is riddled with triggers and causes stress. He then insists on taking the 407 toll highway. I cringe at the expense, as we must take it to Brampton. Kevin proudly served as a medic, but he was also a paramedic for many years, with the 401 being one of his routes. The triggers are everywhere.
We pick up the boys and head home. A two-and-a-quarter-hour one-way trip can take anywhere from two and three-quarters of an hour to four hours. We get home. Kevin is both mentally and physically exhausted and he goes to bed.
It's Saturday morning. Kevin gets up and follows the same routine every day. He's up, so in his mind everyone else should be, too.
The kids wake up, eat breakfast and head back downstairs to play Call of Duty. One turns it up for the full experience. The other jumps up and turns it down. “Not too loud. Think about Kevin. It will trigger him.”
They give up and move to a movie. One turns it up and the other turns it down. “Think of Kevin. It will trigger him.”
While this is happening, Kevin goes back to bed. He's still exhausted from the drive the day before, so the house must be quiet. Our neighbours let the dogs out and [Technical Difficulty—Editor] talk to them and it doesn't really go anywhere. We call the police. They visit. The dogs stop for about 30 minutes and then they start again. Kevin loses it, gets angry, stomps around and threatens to go up there. I am the buffer. I try to calm him. I try to quiet his mind. I am the go-between. I talk to the neighbours. I talk to the police. Now, I'm mentally exhausted.
I ask my son to mow the lawn. He starts the lawnmower, it backfires and the smell of gas fills the air. Kevin jumps up. He panics at the sounds and the smells. You see, Kevin was on the first plane that arrived into Haiti after the earthquake. The smells he experienced will never leave him. The simple activity of someone else cutting the grass can send him into a tizzy for days.
My daughter puts a pizza in the oven. Cheese drops onto the element and starts to smoke. The smoke detectors go off. She panics, opens the windows and turns on the fans. Kevin freezes, panics and scrambles. The smell of burning sends his PTSD into overdrive.
All of a sudden, a multitude of weapons are being discharged. It's the same neighbour. Kevin tailspins. He panics. It truly sounds like a war movie. I call the neighbour and ask them to please stop.
They say that they have a farm and it's their right.
My clipped answer is that Kevin is a veteran with PTSD. This is a neighbourhood. There are homes with children and animals around them. They have acreage, not an active farm. I understand they want to have fun, but that's what firing ranges are for. It happened daily for months.
Kevin is absolutely done. My boys are confused. I am exhausted. My daughter heads to her friend's to get away from all the noise and the distractions so she can do her homework and attend her Queen's University classes in peace.
The same neighbour is now driving a super-loud dirt bike up and down the driveway. I make supper. We sit down as a family. That goes well until the dogs start barking again. Kevin does the dishes and heads to bed.
I go downstairs and play video games with my boys. The TV is on mute. We pop in a movie and watch it on low. The boys go to bed. I go upstairs and ask myself what I've gotten myself into. Honestly, the thought lasts less than a heartbeat. This man has given me and my children everything he possibly can.
I crawl into bed, but I don't fall asleep. This is when the night terrors begin. I don't want to sleep to ensure he's safe. The dreams start. He kicks, flails, cries out, screams, grabs and punches. You get where this is going. I don't sleep properly. He offers to sleep in another room. No, I need to make sure he's safe. It's time someone was there to protect him.
When he turned 65, his take-home monies went from $2,032 to $932. Let me repeat that. He now gets a whopping $932. At 65, 20% is supposed to be deducted from their pre-65 pay. I guess life ends for a veteran at 65. When they need help the most, they get thrown out with the bathwater. He was unceremoniously released from the military because he was considered old. Sixty is not old.
We are on the phone daily with VAC, the ombudsman's office and human rights to try and get straightforward answers. Those answers are rarely given. We receive responses that go in circles and by the end we are so confused and frustrated that we cave.
We are not uneducated people, but we feel that way each and every time we get responses and not answers, responses that seem to change like the weatherman’s predictions. When we need to make things easier, things are made harder—so much harder.
We have figured out that maybe, as a common-law partner, I am entitled to his VAC benefits but not his military benefits. How does that make sense? We found out that if a veteran is not married by the age of 60, any partnership after 60 will not be recognized. Once married, we have a year to submit this paperwork in order for me to be able to get his military benefits—i.e., pension—but we have to pay into it from what little money we now have coming in.
Veterans Affairs returns upwards of $150 million a year to the government. This money could be used to support veterans and their families no matter what the family unit looks like. They reduced the IRB by 20%, yet give back millions to the government.
I have reached out to groups for support, but I am not married or an active servicewoman. I am common law. I don’t count.
Please know that I am new to this life, and I wouldn't change it. It would be helpful if there was someone who reached out and said, “Hi. Can I help you with anything? Can I explain anything for you? If I can’t, I will find someone who can.”
Veterans have to chase people for help—but it isn't help. It’s more trouble. They give up. They are tired of being marginalized, cast aside and forgotten. As a common-law partner, for the most part I don’t even exist.
Thank you.