My name is Brian Armstrong and this year marks the thirty-year anniversary of an event that radically changed my life, as well as the lives of my family forever. When my son was ten years old, he was allowed to go to a fishing spot near my home with someone I had known for quite some time. Unfortunately, what no one in my family knew was that this person had done some very horrible things as a juvenile that were no longer a matter of public record once he became an adult.

Upon arriving at the familiar spot, this individual sat with my son on the bank. At some point, when my son looked away, the man took out a twenty-two pistol and pressed it the back of son’s neck. The shot struck my son’s spinal cord and exited his neck, leaving him unable to move. As he bled out, the man sexually assaulted my son multiple times before carrying him in when he thought he was dead. The man lied, stating that a ricochet bullet had struck him, and my son somehow survived.

I was flagged down coming home from work and was told that my son had been shot and air lifted to Phoenix. I was met at County Hospital by two men from Barrow’s Neurological and informed that my son had lost a tremendous amount of blood, would have no quality of life and would have severe brain damage as a result. They suggested allowing him to pass away, and I demanded to at least see my son first before any decisions were made.

When I saw my son, he was completely aware and panicked, wanting to talk to me but couldn’t related to the tube in his mouth helping him to breathe. My harshest memories from that night were seeing my ten-year-old in a diaper, after having potty trained him, and realizing he would never move again. With the use of a letter board and hours of blinking responses, I eventually had to explain the same to my son when he asked me to untie his hands because he couldn’t move them.

This began a fourteen-and-a-half-year odyssey that had me learning how to take care of a quadriplegic on a ventilator and fighting with the state not only to take him home but also to eventually start to be compensated after a three-year fight to be recognized as his caregiver. I would later become a family advocate to help others in similar situations be compensated as well. I had given my son my word that I would care for him and fully intended to do so.

My care for my son included: suctioning his lungs for mucus, using cupped hands to strike his lungs to keep the secretions moving, bowel care, skin care, mouth care, hair care, trimming nails, breathing treatments, ventilator adjustments, changing out his traches in his throat, bathing, feeding, taking him to appointments, continuous turning to prevent bed sores and range of motion exercises daily to prevent his body from contracting and to lessen the muscle spasms that plagued him.

This all took a huge toll not only on my son, but on me as well. I had to sleep with a baby monitor in my room for the rest of his life and now cannot sleep deeply, no matter what I try. The other challenging circumstance was that anytime I used the respite available to me, the nurses and staff would end up either harming him by trying to show me that they knew more or would simply not turn him. This led to his skin breaking down related to being left in his feces, urine, or because he was in the same position too long. This would lead to his body reacting in an unhealthy way and leaving me with having to heal the problems.

I knew that this was taking a tremendous toll on me, not only from not sleeping but also just from caregiver burnout and not being able to trust what was available for me to rest. After fourteen and a half years, my son passed away very unexpectedly while being cared for by other family members. When I got the call that he was gone, something broke inside of me. I don’t know how else to describe it. Whatever had remained after all that time was radically altered, and I didn’t want to go on.

My second wife and I had just had a baby six months prior, and I remember her holding him out to me and begging me to go on for him. This made me realize how much I loved him and how my grief had blinded me. I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself, but I knew that the healthcare system was broken, so I decided to become a nurse and try to change it from the inside out. It took me three and a half years to complete my pre and co requisites and the nursing program. My sleeping was, and still is, broken at best, and it was a huge struggle as I no longer felt like the person I had once been, but I finished.

I kept my pledge over the next twelve and half years and always treated the patients with respect, along with their family members, giving the best care that I possibly could. I worked three and half years in a geriatric psychiatric facility, five and half years in a level one psychiatric facility and three- and one-half years as a medical surgical nurse. It was at that point that I noticed it was hard to find words when trying to communicate with others. I felt exhausted all of the time, and my heart started to either pound for no reason or would flip flop in my chest for hours at a time. I no longer felt able to continue and didn’t want to be unsafe.

I stopped working and felt horrible but literally couldn’t focus anymore when getting report from other nurses. My son, who was six months old, when I went to school, is now seventeen and an awesome young man. I have enough saved to get me to minimal social security but have a little over sixteen thousand in debt that I’m struggling to pay off. I truly feel like I’ve given all I have, and if there is anyone out there reading this that could help me with the debt that remains, I would be eternally grateful.