But the last delivery was a long PVC tube. Inside was a fishing rod with a fat, molded handle and a Velcro strap to lock it to his forearm.
“It’s just a piece of paper, Leo,” said Clara, his younger sister, from across the table. She had driven four hours from Richmond to help him. “The ILP. Individualized Living Plan. It’s not a white flag.”
They moved through the sections like defusing a bomb. Section C: Employment Goals. Leo left it blank. Section D: Community Integration. He wrote: Going to the VA clinic without having a panic attack in the parking lot. va form 28-0987
He pulled out a pen and wrote in the margin: Next goal: Teach Clara how to fish.
Leo’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have goals. I have a list of humiliations.” But the last delivery was a long PVC tube
“Question four,” Clara read aloud. “Describe your personal daily living goals. Example: bathing, dressing, meal preparation.”
The form sat on the kitchen table like a summons. Two pages, dense with government-issue paragraphs and blank spaces waiting to be filled with the ruins of a life. She had driven four hours from Richmond to help him
That night, he sat at the kitchen table and opened a drawer. Inside was a single sheet of paper. A copy of VA Form 28-0987, stamped in red ink.