A Man of His Age
Author: Wesley Russ
It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had been talking to our friends, Dick and Brenda David and they invited me and dad down Florida way for a visit. It’s January, hum lets see, January in the “land (Maryland) of the chosen frozen” or January in Venice Florida. Florida won so I called dad. Hey dad let's go to Florida. At 96, go is still my dad's middle name. So I’m thinking in my mind where I sometimes think, let’s go to Destin for a week and visit my sister then on to Venice –sounded like a plan to me.
Our week by the Gulf was great until it wasn’t. I’d noticed that dad hadn’t been sleeping very well. I woke several times during those nights to dad calling out while thrashing about turning his bed cloths into knots. When I woke up on Friday morning, dad was sitting in his walker crying and wringing his hands. “Dad what is wrong?” He said, “Son I didn’t want to kill those boys. They told me I had to shoot them. I didn’t want to do it.” Shocked is putting it too mildly. Dad what are you talking about? “Son, they were just little boys—they threw their bodies on carts—I can still smell their burning bodies. I tried to comfort dad by telling him he was only doing his duty as a soldier. Reason never trumps emotion (what I later learned was PTSD) and dad finally said he should go home.
In all the years after his service in the Army during World War Two, dad had never talked about the carnage of the war. He would tell stories of his buddies. Dad would tell of the nice people he met along the way, but never any mention of the fighting—that is until seventy-five years later. We know from history, even though that demon possessed Hitler knew Germany’s attempt to establish his “Thousand Year Reign” was a lost cause, Hitler threw teenage boys into the fray. I hate to think of anyone going to hell, but I can make an exception for Hitler.
The days that followed were a living nightmare. Dad would rant and rave on minute and the next would tell me I should get back to Maryland and my ministry. Talk about verbal whiplash! My brother and I took dad to the Dublin Georgia VA where dad was no stranger. He was assigned to the “Green Team” and often spoke about how kind and compassionate these doctors and nurses were to him. When the “team” finally saw dad they were shocked. They said Mr. Ned what is happening? Before I knew it, an ambulance team arrived to take dad to a community hospital. I told the doctor that I could take dad but they said dad was too “fragile” and needed to be transported. Finally, I thought, dad will get treatment. Boy, talk about naïve. It took a day or two for it to sink in, but if these VA doctors had wanted to have my dad treated for PTSD they would have transported him to a VA Hospital—not dumped him at a Community Hospital. When we met the doctor at the emergency room, among the first words out of his mouth were, “A man of his age.” It became painfully obvious that these people had no intention of properly caring for dad. They were not going to waste precious resources on a 96-year-old man. With the first shot of ativan, these hacks signed my dad’s death certificate.
In 1973 black robed justices who are not supreme, out of whole cloth made up a new law—the right to privacy—and signed the death certificates of now some 60 million unborn babies. Talk about “one-upping Hitler! A shame and disgrace that was the subject of the sermon I preached the Sunday after this miscarriage of “justice” became law. I am sure the congregation was shocked at some of the statements I made. Some probably thought I had put too much sugar in my tea—some probably mused, what is wrong with this boy. I am sure some thought I was angry. I call it righteous indignation. I told the church that the day will come when you will see the government killing old people. They looked at me as if I had four heads. For me, it was perfectly logical. If we will not value life in the womb, what chance will old people who do nothing—have to be spoon fed—and whose only accomplishment is soiling their diapers. On a “Right to Life” Sunday I decried the “Right to Death” that was becoming law in several of our states. As one of out nurses told me passive euthanasia has been practiced for years. The drum beat for a “culture of death” marches on . . . .
About a year ago, as my doctor was finishing up my visit and said to me, “Mr. Russ, considering your age, you are in pretty good health.” The floor shifted under my feet. Hold the phone Jones, I am only 74—I wanted to say—you consider my health and I’ll consider my age.
The words that I heard to describe my father sounded my ears. I realized that one good (or bad) illness could qualify me as a “Man of His Age.”
PS. Think I’m over stating the point? A few years ago, our president said that after age 80 one should be given pain meds and not expensive procedures or treatments. A presidential candidate said recently–not to be out done—the age for pain meds and no treatment should be 70. Don’t look now, but we all are fast becoming “A Man of His Age.”
[Editor's Comment: Wesley Russ is my best friend. In fact, I have three best friends. I met them at 10-year intervals in the process of time:
Lonnie Rex -- the National Pentecostal Holiness Church in 1954, Washington, DC.
Wesley Russ -- Brownville Pentecostal Holiness Church in 1964, Near Evergreen, Alabama.
Leroy Baker -- the Chaplains Retreat at IPHC Headquarters in 1974 in Bethany, OK.
Both Wesley and I are widowers.
His father, the Rev. Mr. Ned Russ, died almost a year ago (died March of 2019). We thank the Lord that Wesley's father is now at peace from the war that was tormenting him. We bless the memory we have of Wesley's good father who loved Jesus and served Him as a preacher/pastor/church builder/friend.]
Author: Wesley Russ
It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had been talking to our friends, Dick and Brenda David and they invited me and dad down Florida way for a visit. It’s January, hum lets see, January in the “land (Maryland) of the chosen frozen” or January in Venice Florida. Florida won so I called dad. Hey dad let's go to Florida. At 96, go is still my dad's middle name. So I’m thinking in my mind where I sometimes think, let’s go to Destin for a week and visit my sister then on to Venice –sounded like a plan to me.
Our week by the Gulf was great until it wasn’t. I’d noticed that dad hadn’t been sleeping very well. I woke several times during those nights to dad calling out while thrashing about turning his bed cloths into knots. When I woke up on Friday morning, dad was sitting in his walker crying and wringing his hands. “Dad what is wrong?” He said, “Son I didn’t want to kill those boys. They told me I had to shoot them. I didn’t want to do it.” Shocked is putting it too mildly. Dad what are you talking about? “Son, they were just little boys—they threw their bodies on carts—I can still smell their burning bodies. I tried to comfort dad by telling him he was only doing his duty as a soldier. Reason never trumps emotion (what I later learned was PTSD) and dad finally said he should go home.
In all the years after his service in the Army during World War Two, dad had never talked about the carnage of the war. He would tell stories of his buddies. Dad would tell of the nice people he met along the way, but never any mention of the fighting—that is until seventy-five years later. We know from history, even though that demon possessed Hitler knew Germany’s attempt to establish his “Thousand Year Reign” was a lost cause, Hitler threw teenage boys into the fray. I hate to think of anyone going to hell, but I can make an exception for Hitler.
The days that followed were a living nightmare. Dad would rant and rave on minute and the next would tell me I should get back to Maryland and my ministry. Talk about verbal whiplash! My brother and I took dad to the Dublin Georgia VA where dad was no stranger. He was assigned to the “Green Team” and often spoke about how kind and compassionate these doctors and nurses were to him. When the “team” finally saw dad they were shocked. They said Mr. Ned what is happening? Before I knew it, an ambulance team arrived to take dad to a community hospital. I told the doctor that I could take dad but they said dad was too “fragile” and needed to be transported. Finally, I thought, dad will get treatment. Boy, talk about naïve. It took a day or two for it to sink in, but if these VA doctors had wanted to have my dad treated for PTSD they would have transported him to a VA Hospital—not dumped him at a Community Hospital. When we met the doctor at the emergency room, among the first words out of his mouth were, “A man of his age.” It became painfully obvious that these people had no intention of properly caring for dad. They were not going to waste precious resources on a 96-year-old man. With the first shot of ativan, these hacks signed my dad’s death certificate.
In 1973 black robed justices who are not supreme, out of whole cloth made up a new law—the right to privacy—and signed the death certificates of now some 60 million unborn babies. Talk about “one-upping Hitler! A shame and disgrace that was the subject of the sermon I preached the Sunday after this miscarriage of “justice” became law. I am sure the congregation was shocked at some of the statements I made. Some probably thought I had put too much sugar in my tea—some probably mused, what is wrong with this boy. I am sure some thought I was angry. I call it righteous indignation. I told the church that the day will come when you will see the government killing old people. They looked at me as if I had four heads. For me, it was perfectly logical. If we will not value life in the womb, what chance will old people who do nothing—have to be spoon fed—and whose only accomplishment is soiling their diapers. On a “Right to Life” Sunday I decried the “Right to Death” that was becoming law in several of our states. As one of out nurses told me passive euthanasia has been practiced for years. The drum beat for a “culture of death” marches on . . . .
About a year ago, as my doctor was finishing up my visit and said to me, “Mr. Russ, considering your age, you are in pretty good health.” The floor shifted under my feet. Hold the phone Jones, I am only 74—I wanted to say—you consider my health and I’ll consider my age.
The words that I heard to describe my father sounded my ears. I realized that one good (or bad) illness could qualify me as a “Man of His Age.”
PS. Think I’m over stating the point? A few years ago, our president said that after age 80 one should be given pain meds and not expensive procedures or treatments. A presidential candidate said recently–not to be out done—the age for pain meds and no treatment should be 70. Don’t look now, but we all are fast becoming “A Man of His Age.”
[Editor's Comment: Wesley Russ is my best friend. In fact, I have three best friends. I met them at 10-year intervals in the process of time:
Lonnie Rex -- the National Pentecostal Holiness Church in 1954, Washington, DC.
Wesley Russ -- Brownville Pentecostal Holiness Church in 1964, Near Evergreen, Alabama.
Leroy Baker -- the Chaplains Retreat at IPHC Headquarters in 1974 in Bethany, OK.
Both Wesley and I are widowers.
His father, the Rev. Mr. Ned Russ, died almost a year ago (died March of 2019). We thank the Lord that Wesley's father is now at peace from the war that was tormenting him. We bless the memory we have of Wesley's good father who loved Jesus and served Him as a preacher/pastor/church builder/friend.]