Lisha Taylor, 60, from Ferny Creek, Vic shares her true life story:
I gripped the phone tightly as I processed what my son had just said.
“Mum, did you hear me?” Jason, 21, said. “I’ve been placed on a tour of Afghanistan.”
They were the words I’d been dreading since he’d enrolled in the army nine months earlier.
I was a single mum, and we were incredibly close.
After school, he’d joined the army to try to make a difference.
I’d been supportive but was terrified of the danger.
Now, my fears were being realised.
He was going to a country riddled with terrorism and violence with danger on every corner for six months.
“It’ll be just fine, Mum,” Jason said bravely.
Me and my baby boy
A week before he flew out, he came home to say goodbye and we had a big dinner with all his extended family.
When I dropped him at the airport, it took all my strength not to be a blubbering mess.
“Love you, Mum,” he said.
After that, I counted down the days until he came home.
He called each week but couldn’t tell me much about his work.
“It’s like being in the dark ages,” he said. “There’s no running water and we’re all cramped in the base.”
It wasn’t until he came home and I wrapped my arms around him that I could breathe properly again.
Straightaway, I could tell he’d changed. He’d always been full of fun, but he seemed quieter and withdrawn.
I tried to get him to talk about the horrors he’d seen, but he wasn’t ready.
Instead he spent a lot of time on his own, the poor boy.
Two years later, he was sent to Afghanistan.
I didn’t know if my nerves could take it again.
“This one will be safer than last time,” he reassured me.
I knew he was lying to make me feel better.
A few months later I was at the shops when my phone rang.
It was Jason.
“I only have a couple of minutes,” he said quickly. “You’re going to hear about an incident. I want you to know it’s not me.”
I dashed straight home and turned on the news.
An Australian soldier had been shot and killed.
I burst into tears.
Somewhere, a family was living the nightmare I’d feared.
I found out it was Jason’s mate, Robbo.
When Jason came home two months later, he eventually opened up.
Jason when he first joined the army at 19.
“Two weeks after Robbo was killed I was on a night mission,” he said with a shaky voice. “This Taliban soldier was 10 metres away from me and opened fire.”
He explained the shower of bullets had missed him by a hair’s breadth.
“I dropped to the floor,” he continued. “A bullet tore through my shoulder strap but it didn’t get me.”
He’d shot back at the man, killing him instantly.
“I should be dead, Mum,” he whispered.
He was so traumatised that he’d taken a life and had requested to speak with the chaplain, but his commanding officer had simply told him to harden up.
I was furious.
My son was risking his life for his country – he didn’t deserve to be dismissed like that.
A few days later, Jason called me in tears.
“I’m not fine, Mum” he said. “I want to kill myself.”
My heart skipped a beat as he told me he’d admitted himself to the army hospital.
I caught the first plane from Melbourne to Sydney the next morning and found him on his bed.
He had completely shut down.
It broke my heart.
“We’re going to get you better,” I soothed, hugging him.
He was admitted to a psychiatric hospital and diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.
For six weeks he attended therapy and then he came to live with me.
Jason during his first deployment.
He was in a bad way.
If I woke him suddenly, he’d lash out, thinking danger was imminent.
“You need to be away from my arms in case I accidentally punch you,” he warned.
He was extremely depressed and turned to alcohol and cigarettes to numb the pain.
Two years after returning from his last tour, he was officially discharged from the army on the grounds of permanent incapacity.
That only further rocked his confidence.
His spiralling mental state terrified me.
One night, I came home from work to find the house shrouded in darkness.
I walked up the steps to the verandah and noticed something on the ground.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I made out the shape of Jason’s leg.
I shook him, but he didn’t move.
Panicking, I checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Please help me,” I begged the triple-0 operator.
I started CPR.
Soon, the ambos arrived and took over, giving him a shot of adrenalin.
Jason and me doing the Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb.
They were still going 20 minutes later, but I knew it was too late.
My beautiful boy was gone.
I couldn’t let myself cry because I knew I’d never stop.
I just sat with him, telling him how proud of him I was.
He looked so peaceful, like he was just sleeping.
Days passed in a blur until his funeral.
Jason’s dad and I decided not to have a military service.
It just didn’t feel right.
“I stand here with a heart shattered in a million pieces,” I told the hundreds of people who’d come to say goodbye.
The coroner ruled he’d died of a heart attack but he didn’t have a heart condition.
Jason couldn’t cope with his trauma and it was the vices he’d turned to that hurt him in the end.
If he’d received more help from the army, then maybe he’d still be here.
I’m calling for a royal commission into the Department of Veteran’s Affairs and how they support returned soldiers.
Our vets sacrifice so much for us and then they’re discarded.
They deserve more than that.
Where to get help
If you or someone you know suffers with anxiety or depression, contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or visit www.lifeline.org.au.
