Thank you very much, and my profound apologies: The computer gremlins were smarter than I was today.
I would like to offer my sincere thanks, Madam Chair and members, for the work of your committee and for the invitation to appear today as a witness. My testimony arises from the suicide death of our son, Corporal Stuart Langridge, and of his struggles with inadequate medical care related to post-traumatic stress disorder.
When I met my late wife, Sheila, Stuart was six and, as he grew, we developed a true father-son bond. His biological father is deceased. At about 10, Stuart visited a military display at the Pacific National Exhibition. He came home with a Polaroid taken inside an armoured vehicle, and he was wearing a helmet and a huge grin. From that moment on, he knew he wanted to be a soldier. He joined army cadets at 12 and then at 17 became a reservist with the British Columbia Regiment. On three occasions he volunteered and stood with his rifle as part of the honour guard for Remembrance Day.
At 20, Stuart transitioned into the regular force and was posted to Edmonton with the Lord Strathcona's Horse. He fought wildfires. He deployed to Bosnia and Afghanistan. He was featured in an episode of the military documentary series Truth, Duty, Valour. He earned a position as a gunner with one of four tank crews sent to compete against American troops.
In Afghanistan, he served as a recce soldier and spent most of his time outside the wire, in the mountains, doing over-watch for the troops. He earned a commander's coin, and was described as having provided solid service. A model soldier, his last performance appraisal recommended promotion ahead of his peers.
Under medical care and on a supposed suicide watch, he hanged himself in a barrack room at CFB Edmonton. Stuart's death was indescribably crushing, especially as a seemingly preventable loss. We had braced for bad news during deployments, but thought he was safely home. I delivered his eulogy on his 29th birthday.
A year before, Stuart was training for promotion when he admitted in a survey that he suffered with chest pains. That triggered his immediate return to Edmonton, and he began treatment by the base medical unit. Stuart was prescribed cocktails of medication, but his condition only worsened. He attempted suicide five times. Suffering night terrors and sweats, he began to self-medicate with alcohol and marijuana. It is a remarkable twist of irony that marijuana is now a recognized treatment. Finally, in desperation, Stuart self-admitted to a psychiatric hospital. It was a relief when he took himself to professional help, but we understand now that, by so doing, he bypassed base medical, usurping their role.
As his 30-day commitment came to an end, Stuart asked to go directly from there into a treatment program, but was instead ordered back to base. A counsellor phoned Sheila and assured her that Stuart was under a watch 24-7, and was being kept safe. He was required to live in the defaulters room, leave the door open and report every two hours. It was an ad hoc version of defaulters discipline, and it shamed and humiliated him. Surprisingly, it is documented that those restrictions were in order for Stuart to “earn” further treatment.
When Stuart died, the decision had already been made that he would not be granted that treatment program. We believe that Stuart learned of this, and it precipitated his death the next day. His note to his family contained an apology that he couldn't take the pain any more. Access to medical treatment should not have needed to be earned. It was the right of any soldier.
A board of inquiry conducted at the base opined that Stuart could not have acquired PTSD patrolling in Afghanistan. The psychologist who had administered Stuart's testing wasn't called as a witness. He had tentatively diagnosed PTSD and recommended a meds review. The doctor's contract then ended, and I could not find any indication in Stuart's medical records that the follow-up was ever done. Testing was also conducted at the psychiatric hospital, and it too had pointed to PTSD. Stuart's care set a very low bar against which to measure efficacy of treatment. Our measure is that our son is dead.
At the time, the Canadian Armed Forces publicly denied that suicide was a problem. The culture was typified by the admonition of, “Suck it up, Buttercup”, and victims of PTSD were referred to as “malingerers”, “fakers” and “losers”.
After we went public with our concerns, Stuart was posthumously awarded the Sacrifice Medal, and his death was attributed to his service to Canada.
In the years that followed, Sheila and I were held close by the veteran community. On its recommendation, Sheila received the Queen Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee Medal, and we were both inducted into the Order of St. George.
PTSD is a very real injury, as evidenced now through brain scan technology. Informal discipline was no substitute for actual medical care. It is a comfort that since Stuart died, a complete paradigm shift has taken place in the recognition and treatment of PTSD. Our veterans, through the power of their peer network and by your work, have moved the needle. Every veteran has served, but of some we asked too much.
Stigma around PTSD was an impediment to treatment for many. It often precluded or delayed seeking help. The sheer number of victims, however, has brought the problem to the fore and marshalled resources and expertise. One form of stigma remains unaddressed. We differentiate fallen soldiers by physical versus mental injury. If they died overseas, even by suicide, they are honoured as fallen soldiers. In contrast, if they brought the war home and died later by suicide, they are discarded. Their names are not to be found on any granite memorials.
When Sheila was first asked to lay the Silver Cross Mothers wreath in Victoria, a public affairs officer told a journalist she didn't deserve that honour, and they maligned our family. The journalist also reported being admonished that if he didn't stop writing about Langridge, he would never have another interview with the chief of the defence staff. It was a surprise to learn that, because we had spoken out, the army was actively conducting a backroom smear campaign.
Since Afghanistan, much has been done regarding operational stress injury, but I believe we should take the next step. All our fallen wore the same uniform and took the same risks. They should be remembered with honour. By osmosis, that two-tier system stigmatizes PTSD victims who die back home in Canada.
I realize this concern is out of scope for the committee, but I hope you will shine light on the disparity and open and lead discussion on that topic.
The morning after the phone notification that Stuart was dead, I held Sheila as she cried. I told her, “Some good has to come from this, otherwise Stuart died for nothing.” I sincerely hope our speaking out has helped other victims who followed.
I recently read a fact sheet from the Australian defence force on the topic of veteran suicide. The numbers there are also disturbing. To paraphrase, every statistic represents a life once lived in service to this nation. They deserve more than remembrance. They deserve a system that works.
Thank you very sincerely for your support of our veterans.