Seeking Help, Facing Harm

After eight months of desperately seeking medical care through the Veterans Healthcare System—specifically the G.V. (Sonny) Montgomery VA Medical Center in Jackson, MS, and the Natchez VA Clinic—I finally secured an appointment with neurology.

By this time, my condition was critical. A disc was fully embedded in my spinal cord at C5, slightly to the right of center. The reality was terrifying—I was waking up completely paralyzed, unable to move or feel my body. My bladder was failing, and mild oxygen impairment had already been documented due to an elevated right hemidiaphragm. As time passed, more issues emerged, including complications with my liver and bladder.

Despite these alarming symptoms, the VA refused to acknowledge that my condition was linked to cervical disease. Instead, they dismissed my symptoms as mental health issues—a misjudgment that nearly cost me my life.

The Doctor Who Fought for Me

Throughout this ordeal, I found an advocate in an emergency room physician—Dr. Jo L. Harbour. She believed me when no one else did, and she fought for me. I am certain that without her, I wouldn’t be here today.

Betrayed by Neurology

At one point, due to the horrible treatment I was receiving at the VA hospital, I started seeing the head of psychiatry. My goal was simple—I needed guidance on how to communicate with providers effectively so that I could get the care I so desperately needed.

Following his advice, I went to my neurology appointment.

I walked into the small office, sat beside the neurologist’s desk, and placed a piece of paper in front of him. As the psychiatrist had suggested, I had written down all my symptoms to ensure clarity.

But instead of listening, the neurologist immediately called in his superior—Dr. Ethel S. Rose.

Dr. Rose dismissed my concerns almost instantly, insisting that my life-threatening symptoms were caused by poor “sleep hygiene.”

I pushed back. I explained that I had an education in psychology and knew for a fact that “sleep hygiene” was not the issue. I described my symptoms over and over, hoping she would finally hear me.

She refused to listen.

Instead, she accused me of “seeking a neurological diagnosis.”

As if my suffering was nothing more than an inconvenience, Dr. Rose then announced that their clinic was over for the day and that I needed to leave—because another clinic needed the space.

I refused.

I begged for someone to acknowledge what was happening to me.

Her response?

She called security and had me escorted out.

Hopeless and Helpless

As security led me toward the elevators, I ran into my psychiatrist—the very doctor who had advised me on how to communicate with neurology.

He took me back to his office, where I broke down. I told him everything. By then, I felt completely hopeless and helpless. I knew my life was in danger, but I had no idea how to get help when I was being accused of nonsense like bad sleep habits.

Eventually, I ended up back in the emergency room.

That’s where I found my human angel—Dr. Jo L. Harbour.

She listened. She fought for me. She saved my life.

Just One Chapter

I’ll leave it here for now.

This is just one chapter in a much larger story.

Thank you for bearing with me as I piece it all together and share more of the puzzle.

Broken and Ignored: My Fight for Care

The Collapse of My Cervical Spine and the Fight for Care

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel no outside pressure weighing on me. Let me explain.

I thrive on productivity—I always have. Even as a child, I loved the satisfaction of completing tasks. As much as I hated chores, I also found a strange sense of fulfillment in them. That drive never left me. Even after my cervical spine began collapsing, over and over again, I continued chasing productivity. I refused to let my condition define me.

So, I decided to start graduate school.

God placed it in my heart that I would survive, and that how I used my time would be critical—not only for my survival but for the rest of my life. With that in mind, I took my educational journey to the next level. Given the severity of my health challenges, I chose an online program through Capella University. I completed all my coursework and earned a master’s certificate for my program. I even traveled to Chicago, IL, for my first residency, where I was initiated into the International Counseling Honor Society—Chi Sigma Iota.

That was August 2015. At that time, I had a chronic broken neck. I was progressively declining, and no one was listening.

The Night My Neck Broke

At the beginning of 2015, I suffered a catastrophic injury—I broke my neck at C7-T1, across both pedicles—just by turning over in bed.

At the time, I already had a titanium cage spanning C4 to C7. I was lying on my left side. When I turned to my right, I heard a loud crash inside my neck. I felt it, every bit of it. It was as if something had shattered and ground together, like metal being crushed. The sound was so loud I imagine it could have been heard from across the room.

I was paralyzed with fear.

The only thought running through my mind:

“If I move, will it kill me?”

We are always told that a person with a neck injury should never be moved unless their neck is stabilized. Yet here I was—lying in my bed, alone, frozen with terror. After what felt like an eternity, I forced myself to sit up, slowly and carefully. But the fear didn’t leave. It clung to me, promising to stay.

The next day, I went to the emergency department at the G.V. (Sonny) Montgomery VA Medical Center in February 2015. I arrived around 2:30 PM. Hours passed. It wasn’t until after 7:30 PM that I was finally called back—only to be told that the doctor wouldn’t see me because they wouldn’t do imaging that late.

I tried to explain what had happened. I knew something was seriously wrong. I was begging for help.

I was ignored.

Instead of being treated, I was told to leave. When I refused, still pleading for care, they called security and escorted me out. I was scared for my life. They told me, “If you’re not happy, you can just go to another emergency department.”

This was how the VA responded to a veteran with a broken neck.

A Fight for Survival

After being turned away, I scheduled an appointment with my neurosurgeon. But when the day came, I learned he was on sabbatical. His nurse practitioner ordered an MRI, but given that I had three levels of titanium in my spine, a myelogram should have been done instead. The MRI was practically useless.

I requested a second opinion from my neurosurgeon’s partner. When I finally saw him, he spent two minutes with me—he barely listened. At that moment, I realized I had to find another neurosurgeon.

I officially requested a new neurosurgeon in late spring 2015. By August, I was deteriorating fast. It was clear that my injury was severe, yet my referral wasn’t moving. I was in a desperate situation.

I emailed five different offices at the White House and contacted my Congressman. Only then did I finally get an appointment—in October 2015.

A myelogram was finally performed. Even then, the damage was underestimated.

And then—another delay. The VA kept messing up my surgical authorization. Months passed. It wasn’t until December 2015 that I finally had surgery.

The Surgery

During the procedure, my neurosurgeon placed two levels of angled rods with screws at C7-T1, underneath the three-level titanium cage already in my neck. He believed this would give me the best chance of stabilization.

When he opened me up, he saw just how bad it really was.

It was worse than he had expected—far worse.

Inside, there was nothing but two levels of black mush—necrosis. It was a significant injury. The trauma my body had endured was staggering.

The surgery required eighteen staples and led to a brutal recovery.

Abandoned by the VA

The veteran healthcare system failed me at every turn.

Even after surgery, the VA delayed physical therapy for six months, despite the fact that I could not walk for over nine weeks.

I had to go it alone.

My recovery was traumatizing. My body tried to curl up—I couldn’t walk straight for over nine weeks. I couldn’t even lay straight in bed for nearly a year. The pain was excruciating.

Then, six months into recovery, the injury became progressive, leading to severe dysautonomia.

Ignored for Two Years

In 2016, my neurosurgeon submitted a referral for me to see a physiatrist—a spinal cord injury specialist.

For over two years, the VA ignored the request. They never denied it. They never approved it. They just ignored it.

After repeated failures, my neurosurgeon stopped taking veteran insurance altogether—he was done being ignored.

This was one of the most traumatizing times in my life.

The veteran healthcare system failed me as a veteran.

I pray that anyone going through something similar has the support they need. Because I know what it feels like to fight alone.

I’ll leave it here for now.

Year 2005: The Beginning of My Cervical Disease

In 2005, I was on deployment orders with the Mississippi 155th BCT, preparing to deploy to Iraq for Operation Iraqi Freedom III.

Between Christmas and New Year’s 2004, I was physically assaulted—an event that left lasting injuries. That story is for another time, but what’s relevant here is that the assault caused damage to my head and neck. My two front upper teeth were broken nearly in half, and my face was severely swollen, especially around my jaw and mouth. The next day, a local dentist repaired my front teeth, but I would spend the rest of my time before deployment, and much of my deployment itself, in and out of dental offices—both on and off base.

As the weeks passed, I began experiencing escalating pain in my lower jaw on both sides of my face. This was the onset of trigeminal nerve damage. At the same time, I started experiencing what I called my “nightly attacks”—episodes involving my diaphragm, kidneys, and bladder.

Let me paint a picture:

Imagine living in the back rooms of an abandoned building in the Iraqi desert (see red arrow in the picture—pointing at the female room). The only entrance is at the front, leading to a long central hallway with rooms on either side. There were only about six females, and we were placed in the last room on the right—a decent-sized space with an adjoining smaller room at the back. There was no flooring, just dirt. We set up our cots and made them as comfortable as possible.

A few hours after falling asleep, I would suddenly wake up gasping for air, struggling to breathe. A warm sensation would then move down my right side until my bladder filled with an overwhelming and painful urge to urinate. This meant I had to sprint through the building, out into the night, and across to the row of port-a-potties located outside.

Now, imagine this happening every single night—for three straight years. Imagine dealing with it while deployed in a war zone. Imagine enduring severe trigeminal nerve pain while trying to focus on a mission for an entire year.

Yet, despite these obstacles, I remained focused on my duties. I was honored with an Army Commendation Medal (ARCOM) for several reasons, which I will share in a later post.

This was the beginning of my cervical disease and lordosis.

Now, let’s add another layer to the story.

Throughout my deployment, I was exposed to burn pits and other potential toxins.

Within seven years of my initial injury, my cervical spine completely reversed and collapsed. Normally, cervical disease and lordosis progress at a much slower rate. The rapid deterioration raises important questions.

Another puzzle piece added—stay tuned.

I’ll continue assembling these pieces, so if you’re interested in uncovering the bigger picture, you’re in the right place.

Would you panic? God told me not to!

 July 11, 2023|Iraq Veteran, RRW VS VAMC, Veteran Healthcare

Robbyn Raquel & her daughter 2012

April 2012

Imagine sleeping beside your 12-year-old daughter when a seizure-like convulsion jolts you awake. You are conscious, yet you cannot see. There is only the most brilliant white light imaginable. And you cannot take a breath.

Not even the smallest one.

My diaphragm had stopped working.

It was paralyzed.

This happened while a cervical disc was entering my spinal cord at C5/6 in my neck. That disc would remain embedded in my spinal cord for more than seven months before I was finally seen by a neurosurgeon.

Immediately, I jumped to my feet.

I still could not see anything except brilliant white light. I still could not breathe.

Then I heard a voice.

“DO NOT PANIC.”

I will never forget the voice that saved my life.

In an instant, images flashed through my mind. I saw all the ways I had worked with breath throughout my life. I had been a runner. A swimmer. I understood breath.

And somehow, I knew what I needed to do.

I began trying to breathe.

At first, nothing.

Then again.

And again.

The breaths were so small they barely seemed real. But I kept trying. I was determined that I would breathe again.

Slowly, painfully, the air began to come.

A little more.

Then a little more.

Until eventually I could take a full breath.

As my diaphragm began to respond, my vision slowly returned.

Once my breathing stabilized, the reality of what had happened hit me.

I broke down in terror.

I called my mother.

I called my sister.

And I cried.

To be continued…

It is rare for someone to survive complete diaphragm paralysis. Respiratory failure is one of the most devastating consequences of spinal cord injury. I have known people with similar injuries who stopped breathing and did not survive.

Yet somehow, I did.

I believe I was spared for a reason.

For many years, I struggled to share this story. The medical trauma was profound, and this was not an isolated event. Healing enough to revisit these memories took time.

But I am here now.

And I am finally ready.

Thank you for walking this journey with me.

With love,

Robbyn Raquel Wallace