My town is full of bars for veterans.
Maybe they tell their war stories to each other, or maybe they just drink their whiskey and never need to say a word.
We ought to have this kind of tavern for people with chronic illnesses. We could drink in peace. There would be recliners instead of barstools. We would give each other recommendations of our favorite heating pads. We could brandish our empty pill bottles like combat medals – the pain pills no one will prescribe for us anymore. From our wheelchairs, we could play beer pong or throw darts at photographs of the doctors who had misdiagnosed us.
Instead of identifying ourselves as Nam 1970 or Afghanistan 2000, we'd say Anklosing Spondylitis 2015 or Post Herpetic Neuralgia 2017 or the ubiquitous Long COVID 2020, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25 and so on. The other person will nod solemnly, and nothing more would need saying.
We could wear ball caps or T-shirts lettered with the sites of our trials: Johns Hopkins, Mayo, Cleveland Clinic.
Every Saturday night you could find us at the Pain Bar, Post #1 for Veterans of Ongoing Suffering.
Right before closing time, we will show each other our scars.
Sharon Hoffmann is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications include The Hooghly Review, New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), and others. Awards include fellowships from Atlantic Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, and three Pushcart nominations.
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