War Trauma- Fatigue

Do we know enough about this disease? Well, this is a disease I named myself.
My dad got home from the war around 1945 or '46.
My parents would never say exactly when. We were all born between 1947 and 1952.
As we were growing up, my dad often seemed removed, especially if anything unpleasant
was happening.
If we tried to enlist him on our side for any sort of protection or bolstering, he'd become
prickly.
At times during our childhood, when something particularly awful was happening, friends would ask, "Is your dad alive?" There were five of us who were periodically asked this question. At least my
sibs related to me they got this question about as often as I did.
Then, when he turned eighty, he began to behave as though he needed to straighten out his
re-entry into regular society.
He finally told me about what happened the night he came home from Europe ( Germany and England) and the disagreement he had had with my mother and her mother, my grandma. It seemed he'd suddenly awakened.
I wasn't born when dad got back from Europe. I had to reassure him, "Of course mamma loved
you. She did all that was in her power for fifty-nine years to make things nice and fun for you two to be together."
He seemed calmed by that, yet still wanted to get into therapy. I had to make a thirty mile round trip for this therapy, and sit in the waiting room, while the sessions were in progress. It was the least I
could do after the ten years he drove me back and forth to piano lessons and waited those many interminable half hours reading waiting room magazines- even during times he was working two jobs. I did not miss lessons.
But because I had so many other responsibilities at home, and at several foster homes for one of my sibling's children, this was a hefty weekly addition to the life and times of a working woman. By then
thankfully, I at least was not still working two or more jobs myself.
I didn't breathe a word about being busy to him. I cheerfully encouraged him to continue his therapy.
Then one day he was satisfied. Everything was OK.
I pressed him to reassure me he was feeling better. I told him we needed to go back if he began
to have misgivings, because according to his own admissions, he'd been losing sleep.
My mom had been dead for at least two years. He wasn't so happy that his children had since
descended on him to be sure he didn't become too despondent. All we actually did was give him something else to droop about. We were such a pain, running in and out.
Then he began to tell me more about his army travels. And he told his granddaughter things he had never told us about how he grew up in the 30's and 40's.
Finally, he did seem at peace with things.
It took him fifty years.
We lost him a few years later, so I am glad for the tiny bit of peace I may have helped him find.