By Betsy Eves, 2017 Dole Caregiver Fellow, DC and Virginia
The thing about war is that it never really ends.
It lingers in the spaces between conversations, in the way my husband grips the steering wheel too tight, in the way my father’s eyes drift off when he thinks no one is watching. It is in the stories they don’t tell, the weight they don’t put down.
I have spent my life watching the men I love carry war home with them. My husband, a combat-disabled veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, wears his battle scars in ways the world cannot always see. My father, Chief Petty Officer William T. Jimerson, United States Navy and United States Coast Guard (Retired), and his brother, Sonar Technician First Class Donald V. Jimerson, United States Navy (Retired), carried theirs quietly—two brothers who served in Vietnam, never speaking of the ghosts that followed them home.
I am an Elizabeth Dole Foundation Fellow, a caregiver, a wife, and a daughter of war—not by choice, but by love. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: we don’t just carry the people we love. We carry their stories, too.
Last year, I brought my father and uncle together at Rock Island Farm for two weeks—two brothers, side by side, given the rare chance to simply be. Before he arrived, I learned that my uncle had never visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He had spent decades thinking about it but never made the journey.
So, I took them.
We started the day with a White House Garden Tour, a moment of celebration and beauty, before making our way to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I watched them walk slowly, their Vietnam veteran hats perched on their heads, as they approached the black granite wall where over 58,000 names are etched into history.
My father, one of only 8,000 United States Coast Guardsmen who deployed to Vietnam, worked along the shores of Qui Nhơn, ensuring ammunition ships were unloaded safely. My uncle, stationed on the USS Albert David (FF-1050), played a vital role in anti-submarine warfare, using sonar technology to protect those very same supply ships as they moved through treacherous waters.
They never served in the same place, but their missions were inextricably linked.
As they stood before the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, I saw something shift in their faces. People stopped to thank them. Some shook their hands. Others simply nodded in understanding. And for the first time in my life, I saw a piece of the weight they carried lift, even if just for a moment.
Because war never really ends. But sometimes, recognition can offer a kind of peace.
Caregiving in the Shadows of War
Caregiving is often seen as something tangible—managing medications, scheduling appointments, handling daily tasks. But there is another side to it, one that is quieter and harder to define.
Caregiving can also be about holding space.
It is making sure the stories that were too painful to tell are finally heard. It is creating opportunities for healing, even decades after the last battle. It is honoring the sacrifices that were never acknowledged.
I do this every day for my husband, just as I have done for my father and uncle.
Vietnam veterans did not come home to parades. They were not greeted as heroes. Instead, they returned to a nation that wanted to forget the war they fought. Many of them carried that rejection with them for the rest of their lives.
But the thing about caregiving—about love—is that we can still try to make things right.
Because We Can Still Get This Right
Vietnam Veterans Day is not just a date on the calendar. It is an opportunity—a second chance for a country that did not get it right the first time.
So, if you know a Vietnam veteran, ask them about their service. Listen to their stories and give them the space to show them that their sacrifices did not disappear into history.
Because honoring a veteran is not just about looking back. It is about making sure they feel valued now.
For my father, for my uncle, for my husband, and for every veteran who never got the welcome home they deserved—this is your moment.
We see you.
We remember.
And we honor you, today and always.
