No One’s Coming to Save You: The Day the Military Broke My Faith

By Frankie — Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

I used to believe the Air Force was a family — that when things got hard, when life hit you sideways, your brothers and sisters in uniform would rally around you.
That we’d always take care of our own.

But the day my world crumbled around me, I learned the hard way that the military isn’t a family.
It’s a system.

One that will replace you in an instant, no matter how loyal, hardworking, or dedicated you’ve been.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

The day before it all happened, I was diagnosed with an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) in my brain — a rare and dangerous tangle of blood vessels that could rupture at any moment. One wrong movement, one bad day, and I could have a hemorrhagic stroke.

I remember sitting with that news, numb.
It felt like there was a bomb in my head, ticking.
I was in shock, unable to process the words “high risk for rupture.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t even think.
I just froze — hovering somewhere between disbelief and terror.

The next morning, I went into work like I always did.
I was a medic — an Airman in direct patient care, responsible for the health and safety of others.

But as I walked through the clinic, it hit me that I didn’t feel safe taking care of anyone.
I wasn’t even safe in my own body.

I tried to hold it together through my morning patients, smiling like everything was fine — because that’s what we’re trained to do: push through, show up, be mission ready.

But inside, I was falling apart.

When my last patient left, I sat there for a moment, shaking.
I knew I couldn’t keep pretending.

So I did what I thought was right: I texted my NCOIC but not before looking around for him.
I told him something like,

“I’m not doing well, and I don’t think it’s safe for me to see patients or be at work today. I’ve seen all my morning patients, and I have someone who can cover my afternoon ones.”

It wasn’t perfect communication — I could barely form sentences — but it was honest, responsible, and sent before I left.

What I didn’t know was that he wouldn’t see it until later.

The Next Morning

When I walked into work the next day, my NCOIC was in a panic.
He’d just found out that my Flight Commander was trying to charge me with being AWOL and issue an Article 15 for leaving early.

My heart dropped.
I hadn’t done anything wrong — I had followed procedure, covered my patients, and told my supervisor I wasn’t safe to be in patient care.

I had just found out I had a ticking time bomb in my brain.

He wasn’t angry with me — he was overwhelmed by the situation and scrambling to manage the fallout.

But I was devastated.

I tried to explain what had happened — that I had texted him, that I physically and emotionally couldn’t face anyone that day.

I wasn’t defiant; I was in shock.

And still, I was the one being treated like I’d abandoned my duty.

Hearing that I was being accused of dereliction of duty sent me straight into another meltdown.
I left and went to Mental Health immediately.

I was scared, confused, and broken — punished for being human in a moment when I needed compassion the most.

Fighting for Myself

After that, I did what I always do — I fought back the only way I could.

I went to JAG, requested letters of character from the doctors I worked closely with, and gathered every piece of evidence showing my professionalism, reliability, and record.

My NCOIC barely spoke to me after that.

The same people who used to call me dependable, squared away, and trustworthy now treated me like I had failed them.

Eventually, the Article 15 was reduced to a Letter of Reprimand (LOR) — but the damage was already done.
I had never been reprimanded in my entire career.
That single piece of paperwork erased years of service, dedication, and sacrifice.

Because of it, I was later ruled ineligible for my Meritorious Service Award when I was medically retired — just four months after my diagnosis.

Isolation and Double Standards

What cut the deepest wasn’t just the paperwork — it was the hypocrisy.

Around the same time, my Flight Chief received her own life-threatening diagnosis.

Everyone rallied around her.

The unit bent over backward to support her recovery, to make sure she had time and space to heal.

But when I was the one in crisis — when I was fighting to process the fact that I could die at any moment — I was punished.

It was as if because my condition was rare and invisible, it somehow didn’t count.

I wasn’t seen as a person in crisis.
I was seen as an Airman failing to perform.

It broke something in me.

I realized that my worth to the Air Force was measured only by my output — not my humanity, not my service, not my sacrifice.

Just what I could give… until I couldn’t give anymore.

The Aftermath

Within four months, I was medically retired.
I don’t remember much of that time — just flashes of fear, confusion, and grief.
My career was gone.
My reputation as a good medic, a mentor, a leader — gone.

I kept asking myself: What did I do wrong?
All I did was get sick.
All I did was tell the truth.

And yet, I was punished for it.

What I Learned

It took years for me to find peace with what happened.
The truth is, sometimes no one is going to care.
No one is going to fight for you.
No one is coming to save you.

The military will replace you in an instant — but you can’t be replaced at home.

If you ever find yourself feeling used, dismissed, or broken by a system that was supposed to protect you, remember this:

Take care of yourself first.

Your worth isn’t measured by your rank, your performance, or your ability to keep pushing through pain.
I wish I had known that sooner.

Follow My Journey

If this story resonates with you — if you’ve lived through medical trauma, chronic illness, or the invisible fight to be believed — I invite you to walk this path with me.

You can follow my journey and advocacy work on Facebook and Instagram, where I share updates, insights, and reflections on life after survival  @thechronicallyresilient

And as always,

Stay Resilient❤️‍🩹

From Life-Saving Surgery to Lifelong Consequences: My Fight for Answers

By Frankie
Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

“I never imagined the treatment that saved my life would take so much from me.”

If you’re here, maybe you’ve been where I’ve been — sitting across from doctors who once saved your life but now can’t explain what’s happening to your body. Maybe you’ve searched for answers in medical portals, scrolled through research articles at 2 a.m., or wondered if anyone would ever believe you again.

This is my story — of survival, loss, and a slow, painful rebirth into a life I never expected to live.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

In December 2018, I was diagnosed with a cerebral arteriovenous malformation (AVM) — a rare, tangled web of blood vessels deep in my brain. At the time, I was an active-duty medic in the United States Air Force, thriving in a high-pressure environment where precision and strength were part of my daily life.

When the diagnosis came, it felt like a betrayal by my own body.

I wasn’t the patient — I was the healer, the one others turned to in crisis.

My AVM was too large for open surgery, and on January 31, 2019, I underwent Gamma Knife stereotactic radiosurgery, a targeted form of brain radiation designed to destroy the AVM over time. The doctors were confident. I was told it was safe — precise, effective, controlled.

And it was. Gamma Knife saved my life.

But no one warned me about what else it might take. 

“I went from fighting for the lives of others to fighting for my own.”

Within a week, I developed bilateral pulmonary emboli — blood clots in both lungs — triggered by my oral contraception. I survived that too, but my recovery was complicated and frightening.

A year later, my lungs failed me again. After months of shortness of breath and fatigue, I underwent a bronchoscopy and mediastinoscopy. The diagnosis: pulmonary sarcoidosis, a rare autoimmune disease that attacks the lungs and lymph nodes.

I was exhausted — but hopeful. I thought maybe this was just part of the healing process.

I was wrong. 

When the World Went Silent

In September 2019, while hunting, I suddenly lost hearing in my left ear. One moment, I was aware of the world — the sound of my breath, my heartbeat and the frost crunching under my boots — and the next, there was silence. I was hiking the rolling hills of eastern Montana chasing antelope with my husband when suddenly there was a high pitched ringing in my left ear followed by that muffled hearing you get after firing a rifle without hearing protection. Except, my hearing never came back…

Eventually, I lost hearing in my right ear too and now I wear hearing aids to accommodate for some of my hearing difficulties.

Doctors couldn’t explain it. They called it idiopathic (no known cause) sudden sensorineural hearing loss, and every test came back inconclusive (allegedly). Actually, initially it was blamed on an extremely rare complication of sarcoidosis, neurosarcoidosis, or sarcoidosis. of the nervous system which can cause sensorineural hearing loss. This didn’t make sense though because my MRIs were not consistent with neurosarcoidosis.

With my medial background I naturally began doing my own research. That’s when I discovered studies linking Gamma Knife radiation to hearing loss and even scarier, cognitive impairment depending on which brain regions were affected. Before ever experiencing cognitive decline I reached out to my neurosurgeon and radiation oncologist through my MyChart portal messaging in December 2019, asking if my hearing loss could be related to my gamma knife surgery, looking for validation of what I already knew to be true.

They didn’t reply in writing. They called instead. I remember the words clearly — “That’s not possible.” My husband remembers the conversation too too.

But I knew something was happening inside my brain.

“It felt like my mind was slipping away, piece by piece.”

By 2021, my cognitive began impacting my life and I didn’t even realize it.

I forgot tasks, misplaced simple information, showed up wrong place wrong time, lost my train of thought mid-sentence.

I had always been sharp — the Air Force medic who thrived under pressure — and suddenly, I couldn’t function. I lost my job as a clinical receptionist, something that had once come naturally to me and theoretically should be super easy given my past profession. It devastated me, embarrassed me, brought about shame and deep unsettling fear for my future.

I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t unfocused.

I had a brain injury — and no one believed me. 

The Diagnoses That Finally Named My Reality

In 2022, I underwent a comprehensive neuropsychiatric evaluation. The results were both validating and devastating:

• Major Neurocognitive Disorder

• Autism Spectrum Disorder

• ADHD

• Non-Verbal Learning Disorder

• Math Disability

During that same evaluation, the doctor asked a simple question that changed everything:

“Are you flexible?”

I showed him — the bendy joints, the stretchy skin I’d always joked about as a kid. His eyes widened. That led to a referral and, finally, a diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), a genetic connective tissue disorder that explained my whole life — my chronic pain, neurodiversity, fatigue, and joint instability. 

“Everything finally had a name — but no one had warned me any of this could happen and even worse they wouldn’t admit it could have happened.”

By 2023, a new MRI confirmed what I already felt: stable but permanent brain damage — areas of encephalomalacia and gliosis, meaning my brain tissue had been injured and scarred. It was described as a “chronic treatment effect.”

The damage is stable.

But it’s irreversible.

In June 2024, after years of monitoring, my AVM had finally shrunk enough to be surgically removed. The resection was successful, but I temporarily lost left-sided vision, which slowly returned after months of recovery as well as more white matter brain damage.

It felt like every victory came with a loss, although I'd do it all over again, to save my life.

Living With the Aftermath

Today, my daily life is a careful balancing act.

I live with permanent cognitive and sensory deficits — and a long list of conditions tied to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, including:

• POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)

• MCAS (Mast Cell Activation Syndrome)

• Chronic dehydration and hypotension

• Gastroparesis and unintentional weight loss

• Chronic pain, fatigue, and insomnia

• Spinal instability with bulging discs and synovial cysts

“Every day is survival disguised as routine.”

I rely on structure and technology to function:

AI tools to help me write and remember,

Shared calendars, reminder apps and detailed notes track my days an responsibilities,

and the unwavering support of my husband and mother to help me stay on track and accomplish what I need to day to day.

I undergo IV hydration therapy multiple times a week to manage chronic dehydration, POTS and hypotension.

I carefully monitor my diet and weight just to maintain enough stability to take my ADHD medication safely.

Every aspect of my existence is managed, measured, and monitored.

The Fight for Answers

I have spent years researching, documenting, and trying to understand how my brain — the same one I once trusted to heal and care for others — became the source of my greatest challenges.

When I reached out in 2019, I wasn’t looking to blame anyone. I was scared. I just wanted to understand.

But my questions were dismissed and I was denied timely and thorough diagnosis, treatment and resources that could have made the transition from able to disabled a lot less traumatic. I was made to feel it was “all in my head”, that I was creating stories.

Now, after years of rehabilitation following the triggering of my chronic illnesses, I’m finally strong enough. mentally and physically to ask again and to fight for the truth.

In November 2025, I’ll meet with a neurologist who is willing to review my MRIs and explore the possible connection between my Gamma Knife treatment and my neurological and sensory disabilities.

It will be the first time any doctor has truly taken my concerns seriously.

“Healing doesn’t just mean surviving — it means being heard.”

I’m not seeking sympathy — I’m seeking truth and understanding.

Because I believe every patient deserves to know the full range of possible outcomes before consenting to treatment as well as what their resources are for recovery, support and accommodation if the unthinkable were to happen.

I believe every medical record should reflect a patient’s communication attempts, even when the answers are uncomfortable or are the result of care that was meant to save their life.

And I believe that “rare complications” should still be discussed — not dismissed.

What I Want Every Patient to Know

If you’ve ever been dismissed, told “it’s not possible,” or made to feel like your pain is an inconvenience — please hear me: you are not alone.

Document everything.

Ask questions, even when it makes people uncomfortable.

Request copies of your imaging, lab work, and communications.

And if your instincts tell you something is wrong — trust them.

Because you are the one living in your body.

You are the one carrying its history.

“I am not broken — I am disabled. And I am still here.”

I am forever grateful for the surgery that saved my life. But I wish I had been told the whole story — the possibilities, the risks, and the lifelong adjustments that might follow.

I’ve had to grieve the person I was — the Air Force medic, the quick thinker, the multitasker.

Now, I am someone new: slower, softer, but stronger in ways I never expected.

This is my story — not of loss, but of reclamation.

Of finding strength in limitation.

Of turning silence into testimony.

And if you’ve made it this far, please know — your story matters too.

💬 Follow My Journey

If this story resonates with you — if you’ve lived through medical trauma, chronic illness, or the invisible fight to be believed — I invite you to walk this path with me.

You can follow my journey and advocacy work on Facebook and Instagram, where I share updates, insights, and reflections on life after survival.

➡️ @thechronicallyresilient

And as always, Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹