Buried a Hero

Two weeks ago, I buried a hero at Arlington National Cemetery. Her name was CPT Agnes "Irish" Bresnahan, SC, WAC, 1971-1977. Her death was due to wounds she received in combat. Her war was with the Department of Veterans Affairs. Irish was the only female, to my knowledge, who has ever been service connected for STATESIDE AGENT ORANGE. During her training at Ft McClellan, AL, Irish was exposed to Agent Orange.

The equipment that they used was from WWII. The seals were cracked, broken or non-existent. She inhaled the "gas" and immediately blisters appeared inside her mouth, arms and face. Her commanders sent her to the hospital for examination.

There the docs sent her to her quarters for 2 days and she then reported back to duty. For the next 6 years, Irish’s health diminished daily. While she was in Germany her CO sent her to Walter Reed who medically discharged her with the diagnosis of MULTIPLE CHEMICAL SENSATIVITY due to Agent Orange. Condition is progressive, terminal only treatment is for pain. For the next 38 years Irish suffered.

AO took this woman’s body but not her spirit. It took her ability to work and finally in 2006 she requested 100% disability from the VA and was told her case was in appeals. On March 9, 2009, Irish had her hearing before the BVA in DC. On Tuesday, March 10, 2009, Irish was admitted to the hospital for vomitting blood. The doctors at the hospital believe the generic medication the VA switched her to had eaten a hole in her stomach. She died on March 11, 2009.

Upon learning of her death the VA immediately dropped her case. Irish’s case would have set a precedent. Imagine–the VA actually getting something right and awarding this wonderful woman her due. But that was not to be. June 14, 2009, I went to DC for her funeral at Arlington. One song came into my mind while I was trying to find Court 8,Irish’s final resting place, Alan Jackson’s Sissy’s Song. Jackson’s Sissy’s Song succinctly put into words and music how I felt.

I was (and still am) mad with God for taking my beautiful friend away. Irish was an advocate who still ministered to veterans even in her height of illness. As she lay dying in her hospital bed with a tube in her nose to drain the blood that had collected in her stomach, she told me to go home and take care of "my people." At the time she meant my mother who was ill at the time.

But now I know she meant for me to take care of "my people" the veterans-the soldiers- those who have come home and those who are still waiting to come home. They are not alone. I, too, am waiting to come home.